Becoming Italian

Driving In Italy

2012-01-03T00:20:00.000-08:00

I first got my driver’s license when I was 17 years old. I remember the process being fairly simple---you would have to be illiterate not to pass the written test and it was common to not pass the actual driving test the first time because of parallel parking. I never imagined that at age 38, I would have to get my driver’s license again…but this time in Italian.

The rule goes like this: if your driver’s license is from a country outside of the European union, it is only good for the first year you are here. After that point, you have to take all the tests, just like an Italian teenager. Up until this point, not being able to drive here has not bothered me that much. With all the extra pasta and bread I now eat daily, I have enjoyed biking where I need to go. I feel like Julia Roberts in ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ with my basket on my bike (two actually—one on the front and one on the back), biking to the store to get bread or to the market to get fresh fruit. And if I need to go to Milan, there is a bus that takes me to the train and no one would want to actually drive to Milan anyway because of the horrendous traffic (not to mention impossible parking). But sometimes I have felt like a little kid, asking my in-laws to pick me up at the station because there is no bus for half an hour or maybe it’s late and my mother in law (god bless her) is texting me to tell her when I have arrived at the station as she is afraid something bad will happen to me while waiting for the bus. I am actually lucky that I have such caring in-laws while living in a foreign country but sometimes I can’t help but feel like I am back in high school.

This fall my husband and I decided it was time for me to start driving in Italy. Our family car at the time was a 10 year old Fiat Punto which ran fine but it had manual transmission. Like many good Americans, I have never properly learned to drive a standard in the 21 years I have had my license and honestly, I just don’t want to. My thinking is this: I have changed so much of my life to live in another country that I just don’t want to change this one thing: the way I drive.

I am not sure if you have been to Italy or seen them drive here but it’s crazy. Not only do they drive faster but Italians feel rules are more like ‘guidelines’ that can be broken when needed. Motorcycles and mopeds weave in and out of traffic so you need to always be watching for them. I can’t imagine trying to ‘watch out’ for the other drivers while also remembering to change gears. Many have told me that I could pick it up easily but I have just refused to try. So, we bought our first car together: an Alfa Romeo Giulietta with automatic transmission (just this year Italians are starting to see automatic cars).

So the next step was to get my Italian license. Unfortunately you cannot simply go to the motor vehicle department, complete the written test and then schedule your driving test, like in the U.S. First step here is to find a driving school. You then pay the driving school to teach you how to pass the 40 question true or false test. Then a month and a day after passing your written test, you can take your driving test. Sounds easy, right? I wish it was.

First of all, the driving test is typically taken with a car with standard transmission. In fact, people that get their license with an automatic car usually have a handicap. I was told I would have to get a license ‘with limitation’ which basically means I can only drive a car with automatic transmission. That wasn’t a problem as I really have no desire to drive a standard. So then I had to wait three weeks for the driving school to confirm with another school that I could use that school’s car for the exam because you cannot use your own car for a driving exam. You have to use a car equipped with ‘dual control’ so the instructor can stop the car or control the steering, if needed. Don’t ask me why it took three weeks with daily phone calls by me asking, ‘Allora? Abbiamo sentito qualcosa?’ (So? Did we hear something?) But it did. It’s Italy. What I have learned in the three years I have lived here is: things move slowly here. Especially things that are new.

In November I started the school. I was shocked at the costs. In total, for the registration for the school, books, price for the written and driving exams, the total cost to get your license in Italy is around 700 euros. And that is if you have no driving lessons. Oh yea, and if I don’t pass the written or the driving test the first time, I have to pay another 110 euros, per test, to retake them.

So wish me luck. I am hoping to take the written test this month which means I might have my license by March. Let’s just hope I pass everything the first time.

I Am Back

2011-10-21T12:26:00.000-07:00

It has been so long since I have written in my blog, I am sure people have forgotten about me and my stories from Italy. I do still sometimes have people mention my blog so that is inspiring. Recently I came into some spare time and so I decided to give it another try.

Italy continues to be wonderful to me. Most days I feel lucky to be here. I still find some things very funny but certainly not as much as before. I stopped writing for awhile because things just didn't seem as funny anymore...like: biking to buy bread in a skirt and heels is now normal; having the butcher cut my meat fresh in front of me is the only way and thinking a winter jacket by Armani for 450 euros is a 'good buy'. I have to admit I have changed. I hope for the better.

But the main reason there has been such a gap of time in my last blog entry is I simply ran out of time. I went from not working to getting a job, being on the Board of Directors for my women's club and still being super housewife. No more could my friends email me saying stuff like, 'what do you DO all day?' I think it started to bother my family a bit as well. I think they meant well...just a little jealous that I now had time to run, drink coffee with my friends and keep the house immaculate. But when I entered back into my old, familiar world of working, everyone felt better. I was a working woman again. Well part-time working woman (three days a week) but at least I was getting up at 6.30, dragging myself to the bus and squeezing myself into a train, like most other hardworking Americans should.

It was wonderful to finally be making money again, I have to admit. Our first year of marriage was stressful for us. All of a sudden we were down to one salary for two people. You can't have the same lifestyle and carefree ways you had when you were single. Plus not to mention how not working can play tricks on your mind ('What DO I do all day?'). So the two salaries were nice...and I got used to it. I started to feel like I was contributing alot more to the family. And that was nice.

Unfortunately six months later, I lost my job when the girl I had apparently been hired to replace, came back from a two year maternity leave. Can you imagine? Here in Italy, you can go on maternity leave for 2 years (being paid for most of that time by your employer and some contributions from the government) and then, go back to your job. Can you imagine that system in America and how nice that would be? Certainly better than returning to the office crying after having spent only 3 months with your newborn child. Anyway, good for her. For me, it was time to figure out my next step.

About a week after losing my job, I hopped on a plane to Mallorca, Spain to see my husband who was there for work. On the plane, I met some clients from my old company and we started talking and by the time the plane landed, they had offered me a job working for them. So now, I am a salesman for bijoux, selling costume jewelry to stores. It sounds nice but I haven't made any money yet as I work on commission and it's probably the worst time in history to be selling anything. But I have faith..and one day it will happen.

So that is my story. And now I am here with you again. I hope you can forgive me for the time that has passed. I promise to make up for it.

Where Everyone Irons Everything

2010-08-19T22:57:00.001-07:00

I don't know about you, but I never used to iron that much. When I was living in the states and working, I would iron a shirt maybe 5 minutes before I left the house.

So you can imagine my surprise when the first gift his family gave us when we moved here officially together was an iron and an ironing board. But not just any iron. This iron was huge (see above picture). It looks kind of like an ancient iron with its big attachment that you fill with water. And then there was the handle lined with cork (which I would find out very soon gave you blisters before your hands got used to it). I thought to myself, 'Don't they realize that there are now these new irons that are so nice and light?' Well maybe those irons haven't made their way across the Atlantic yet, I thought to myself. Note to self: must look for lightweight iron when mother in law is not around.

Well I soon figured out why a good, big iron is necessary here. Because Italians iron everything. And I mean EVERYTHING...from sheets to towels to yes, underwear. Well the underwear thing is a bit overboard but when I was dating my husband and visiting him here, I once noticed that his mom was ironing his underwear. Now how can an American marry an Italian and not live up to the standards he had grown accustomed to in the 32 years he had lived at home? Can you imagine the talk in the family? 'Allora, lui é sposato con l'Americana, e da allora i suoi vestiti non sebrano piu' stirati bene....certamente non come li stirava sua madre.' ('Well he married that American girl and ever since, his clothes just don't look very well pressed anymore...certainly not like his mother used to.') No way. That talk is not happening while I am alive.

Anyway, back to ironing. The reason for the need to iron everything is most Italians do not own a clothes dryer. The reason for this is the cost of electricity is much higher here than in the US. Couple this with the fact that Italian homes tend to be much smaller than American homes and you can see why people invest in a drying rack and place the drying rack on their balconies to dry their clothes.

It's a great idea because I was reading recently about a movement in the U.S. called 'the right to dry' where a group of activists are trying to pass legislation to protect the choice to use clotheslines. Apparently some HOAs think that clothes hanging on a line can bring down the property value of a neighborhood and therefore have prohibited the use of clotheslines in many condominiums and shared-living communities. Maybe if everyone invested $20 in a good drying rack and put it on their balcony/porch (where no one could see it but the homeowner) everyone would be happy. This could also save approximately 6% on your electricity bill http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1686822,00.html).

Okay, enough of that soapbox. I had to mention that movement because it was all over the news here one day. I think the Italian news reported on it because Italians think it's so weird that drying your clothes on the line has to be an issue in the first place. For them, drying clothes outside is just a part of everyday life. But for me, it was a big change.

Here's a question for you, have you ever tried ironing a sheet? I imagine (like me) it's not even a question you would think to ask yourself. But for me, it has become a reality. I tend to put the sheets off until last as I know it is going to be a huge task. First of all, the sheet is so big in comparison to the ironing board. You have to put a chair under part of the sheet to keep it off the floor while trying to iron every other section of the sheet perfectly (which actually is almost impossible unless you are Mamma G or Mamma G 's sister who apparently is even better at ironing than her). It takes me a good half hour just to iron the sheets only to have them all wrinkled the minute my husband lays on them to read the news on his computer. I just want to scream, 'Do you realize how long it took me to iron that sheet you just wrinkled in 5 minutes?' But then I think, 'It's a sheet, Jen. It's going to get wrinkled eventually. Get over it.'

I was actually surprised back in May how I reacted when the iron started to have problems and needed to be fixed. It was simply clogged with water residue and calcium so needed a good cleaning. But it was so clogged that just running vinegar through it wasn't working. So my husband had to involve his dad in the operation. This took a few days of me asking, 'Are you going to take the iron over to your dad's to fix it?' until finally he said 'Basta!' (enough!) and he stormed out and took the iron to his parent's house. He often thinks I am being unreasonable when I hound him about something for days but he doesn't realize that when it comes to the iron, if it's not working, there are no clothes to wear. I continue to wash clothes but they simply go into the 'iron pile' while I wait for the iron to be fixed. After a week of no ironing, you have such a pile that you know it will be a good 4-5 hours of ironing before your work is done. In the meantime, my husband is so laid back, he just grabs something wrinkled and throws it on. I react by shrieking, 'No, you can't wear that! It's wrinkled!' Of course years ago, I wouldn't have cared but now I live in Italy. Where everyone irons everything. And Mamma G has eyes like a hawk.

Anyway, back to fixing the iron. His dad loves this kind of stuff...taking stuff apart, looking at it, trying to figure out the problem...and for some reason, my husband and father-law like to do this process together. Although you couldn't tell that by watching them. Because during the whole time they are working on something together, my husband and father-in-law are yelling at each other. At first this completely shocked and stressed me out but I learned over time that they are not mad at each other...they are simply having fun arguing over the best way to do the task. They each think they have the best idea and it infuriates them in a matter of seconds if the other person disagrees. So finally, after hours of shouting and extracting great gobs of gunk out of the iron, the iron is clean and ready to go.

And five hours later, the ironing is caught up. All is right in the world again because everything is pressed. Right down to the underwear.

In the Pursuit of Air Conditioning

2010-06-14T06:54:00.000-07:00

I never knew how much I liked air conditioning until it was gone. I lived in Miami for 3+ years and never remember feeling that hot. Probably because I went from my air conditioned home to my air conditioned car to my air conditioned office. The only time I was actually outside was at the beach and then, I was in the water most of the time.

So when I moved to Italy, I was already feeling too hot by June. Last summer I remember saying to my sister-in-law, "Fa caldo" which simply means "it's hot out". To which she replied, "Aspetta agosto..non fa caldo ancora" (Wait for August...it's not hot out yet"). I just remember thinking, "Na, it can't get any hotter than this."

Then came August. The weather was in the 90's everyday and humid. And at night, it didn't cool down that much. We would go to bed and wake up almost every morning drenched in sweat. At one point I begged my husband if we could buy an AC unit for the house but buying an AC in Italy is a harder process than one would think.

First of all, Italians don't really believe in air conditioning. They think that cold air on your body makes you sick. Same goes for fans. I remember in Miami I used to have a ceiling fan in my bedroom and unfortunately I was never able to use it if my now-husband was visiting. He would look at me like I was crazy and say "Il ventilatore da soffito non va bene per te!" (the ceiling fan is no good for you). Something about the cold air on your neck giving you neck pain and of course, making you sick. Even though my husband is only two years older than me, he is very traditional about matters such as this. The is because the dangers of cold air is passed down generation by generation. And this is why it is not easy to change my husband's mind about something which is ingrained in not only his personal belief system but his culture.

Even before AC came along, they felt this way about a window that was open when there was a cold breeze. I learned this fact when I went to the sea recently with Cris' parents where they had been renting an apartment for a month as a vacation for the family. We were staying on a mountain behind the sea and every evening there was a wonderful cool breeze that came through this window in the kitchen. I would always open it wide, happily, letting the cool air in. Mamma G would always say, "Non hai freddo?" (You aren't cold?). And in my head I would think to myself, "Cold? How can I be cold? It's been in the 90's all day, I just walked up a mountain to get back to the house and we are cooking." But in reality, I would smile patiently and say,"No, non ho freddo. Il vento é bello." (No, I am not cold. The wind is wonderful). Mamma G would always look at me horrified...especially as I drank my water from the refrigerator. Yes, that's right, they don't even believe in cold water or ice in your drink...apparently it disrupts digestion. Ah, the pains of digestion. That is a whole other blog entry I will save for another time.

There is not even a reprieve in going for a long drive in the car because of course, we don't have AC in the car either. When we drive somewhere when it's hot, we simply roll the windows down and hope for not much traffic. Because nothing is worse than driving in Milan in the summer with no AC, stuck in traffic. It is like being in a sauna but on the highway as the car literally bakes on the pavement. One time, we decided to drive to the Armani outlet last summer with his mom which is about an hour away. We were stuck in traffic for the first half hour of the drive and I just yelled out, "Andiamo da Armani un altro giorno!" (let's go to Armani another day). For me to want to not to want to go shopping says a lot.

Okay, so I am starting to understand why Italians don't like AC but here's another mystery, what is the problem with screens on the windows? I posted a comment about Italians and AC the other day on Facebook and a friend of mine replied that he didn't know what was worse, dying of the heat or being bitten by mosquitos. How very true! I am not sure why Italians don't like screens...apparently they don't like how they look and screens tend to get dirty so require more cleaning. I have noticed that with some of the newer homes, they have screens that retract into the wall so that when you don't need the screen, you simply retract it and you don't have to look at it. So I guess it is about the looks after all which is funny since Italians hate being bit by mosquitos but I guess that's better than looking at a screen in the window.

But I have not given up on my pursuit of air conditioning. I will continue to beg, badger and insist on buying AC until we have one. In the meantime, I am escaping to Maine for a month where the night air is always cool, the stores are well air-conditioned and there is a screen on every window. God bless America and AC!

For the love of calcio

2010-05-23T09:30:00.000-07:00

It's been so long since I've written in my blog, I'm sure some have given up on me. But after viewing the Champions League final game last night, I have learned another lesson from the Italians and that is this: passion makes everything possible.

It all started last week when my girlfriends Rina & Yselle wanted us all to get together with our husbands. The one reason (among many) that we clicked is all three of us are married to Italian men. So often we would get together over coffee and share stories and we soon found out that 99% of Italian men are exactly alike. Anyway, we decided we should get together this weekend with the husbands as well. My friend Rina emailed Yselle and I and asked, "Do your husbands like soccer?" Well, yea. I think if you are Italian you are born with a love for soccer. So we decided to all meet up at Rina's for pizza, birra e una buona partita di calcio.

Yesterday was Inter Milan vs. Bayern Munich for the Champions League final and they played in Madrid. Inter is one of the Milan teams and they have had a very good year. In fact, the best year in 45 years. So the Duomo in Milan was set up with a big screen TV and by the time the game started, there were 100,000 people in the square. Luckily, we were going to Rina's house to watch the game, not the Duomo, so we thought we would be okay.

Well the only problem with this plan is Rina lives near the center of Milan and we live on the outskirts, in a small village. It's only a half hour by car but as we were driving in, we started to notice all the vendors selling Inter flags, horns, t-shirts and other items to be obnoxious with during and after the game. We started to notice the people with faces painted black and blue (Inter's colors) and we started to see crazy people dressed in black and blue lean out of their cars, blowing those horns in a can and yelling, "Forza Inter!!" to anyone who looked remotely like an Inter fan.

But we still didn't really get the hint that maybe it wasn't a good idea to drive into the city versus taking the train. We continued to drive, looking forward to good pizza, good company and a big, HD TV.

And the game was great. Or what I saw of it..mainly replays of the two goals Inter scored as us women were out on the balcony talking and drinking wine while the men sat inside, close to the television and watched in silent anticipation. They did exchange a few words, about the players or the coach or some play but for the most part, they were there to watch soccer. Not at all like us women who were discussing how we were going to escape the heat of Milan this summer or when was the next time we were getting together to do something fun.

So the game ended and Inter won. And we could hear the roar from the Duomo nearby. But we thought they would stay in the square and party a bit so that we would have a chance to get out of the city. No such luck. When Italians win a soccer game, they have to walk around in the street. And not silently. They have to blow their car horns or those annoying horns in the can. And they need to wave the flag of their beloved team. And they need to hang out of their car and scream while their friend tries to drive through a crowded street, filled with not only cars that can't go anywhere but often times crazy, excited Italians running around celebrating with joy. They bring their kids, their wives, their 80 year old mothers. It is a party-for the whole city. For Inter's home city is Milan. And it is the first time in 45 years they have won the Champions league. And they are happy. Passionate in fact. More than words can describe.

It would be have been amazing to participate with all the wild abandon of the Milanese. But my poor husband had to get up at 5:30 a.m. to fly out to his next assignment. So we weaved our way slowly through the traffic and ended up home 2 hours later.

So now I am inspired by by the passion of the Italians. For if they can be this passionate about soccer, I can certainly be more passionate about my writing in my blog.

My first real Italian Wedding

2010-04-18T00:52:00.000-07:00

Last weekend we attended what I like to call my first real Italian wedding. I can't really count our wedding as ours was held in Miami Beach. So NOT Italian to get married on the beach. His mom almost had a heart attack when she heard where we were getting married on the beach because in Italy, it is mandatory to get married in the church. Well it's not a law but it is severely frowned upon if you don't. But in the end, she thought it was beautiful which is a good thing- otherwise, we would never hear the end of it.

Anyway, back to my first real Italian wedding.

It all started when my husband's cousin, Federica, told us she was getting married. Mamma G proclaimed, "Dobbiamo essere molto eleganti!" (We must be very elegant). She wanted to wear the dress that she wore at our wedding but since this wedding was in April (much colder than Miami in September), she needed a jacket to go with it. Plus shoes to match. For all the ladies out there, have you ever tried to find a jacket to match a dress or pants AFTER you bought it? Not an easy task. We searched the stores and the markets for a few months, trying to find not only jacket and shoes that matched but at a good price. Finally, a week before the wedding, the mission was completed. And for me, well my husband had already declared, "Tu hai un bell'abito, vero?" (You have a beautiful dress, true?). I couldn't really argue as he had just bought me a designer purse for my birthday so I just agreed and said, "Si, si, non preoccuparti." (Yes, yes, don't worry).

The day of the wedding arrives and we all climb into the car promptly at 10:15. The day started at Federica's family's house. It is tradition for the bride to host a reception for her family and friends. This is where the eating began. There were pasticcini, prosecco, cioccolato. Of course, I had to try a little of everything. His sister just eyed me and said, "Stai calma" for this was just the beginning of a very long day of eating.

After the 'pre' reception we drove to the church. This is where I learned the difference between Italians from the north and Italians from the south. From 'our' side there were 30 people and from 'his' side there were 120. The biggest difference between Italians from the north and Italians from the south is how loud they are. And I'm not just talking the volume of their voice. It's also in how they dress. It's common to see the women full of tattoos, wearing very short dresses with lots of cleavage showing. The men tend to like to wear colored shirts with shiny jackets with jeans and pointy shoes. Northern Italians on the other hand tend to dress more conservatively and tend not to make too much of a scene.

After the service, we walked to the place where the reception would be held. It was an old building (500 years old) http://www.corterusticaborromeo.it owned in the past by the Borromeo family and it is now a type of catering hall. It was incredibly beautiful. The reception started with cocktails and finger foods. There was mojitos, prosecco, juice and water. So many different kinds of finger foods that of course you had to try each one. Then we went inside to start to each lunch. I say "start" because there are many courses involved in an Italian wedding. First course was actually two different types of pasta - trofiette con scampi e crema di basilico and risotto con pancetta croccante e rosmarino, mantecato al caprino di Montevecchia.

After each course, we would take a break and go outside to enjoy the sun and listen to the DJ. The DJ also had a karaoke machine so the Italians from the south went crazy, gathering in a circle and taking turns singing different Italian songs. It was actually very amusing and I had to admire them because it was obvious they were having fun and enjoying the day. Also, they were burning off a bit of calories from the first course to make room for the second! The picture above depicts perfectly the scene.

Then there was the lemon sorbet. It is Italian tradition to clean the palate in between first course and second course. Then we moved back inside for the second course of: tournedos di vitello ai pistacchi e lardo d'Arnad con patate fondenti. At this point, I knew I was in trouble because I was already full. Thank god not many of us at the table cared for the veal...it seemed a little undercooked so we didn't eat much of it and ended up going back outside for what else? More food and karaoke! Outside there was a cheese buffet of all the different kinds of cheese you can think of. So while the Southerners danced around and sang, the Northerners just sat back and watched.

Finally there was the cake along with a dessert buffet filled with more dolci e frutta. Of course I have to eat wedding cake. I think it's my favorite part of a wedding. Wedding cake is much different here, though. They don't use the frosting we use. It's usually a lighter cake filled with creme and topped with fresh fruit. And it was good. I had no problem eating that cake despite my full belly.

But once the cake was consumed, I think we all hit a wall. Food wall that is. It was 7 p.m. and we were starting to feel tired and all of us had a bit of a headache. We went home, took an aspirin, an antacid and promptly laid down.

Italian weddings are exhausting but I also learned something. Being an Italian from the south is not so bad. They may be loud and a bit obnoxious but they know how to have fun. They taught me that it's okay to eat and drink, as long as you also sing and dance. And whatever you do, don't be afraid to be loud.

Just say no

2010-04-06T12:30:00.000-07:00

Well it's official. I am finalmente on a diet. For real this time. I've been talking and complaining about it for a few months but now, e' il momento. Time to get serious. It's time to say "no" to dolce.

Remember panettone? For those of you who don't remember, panettone started to be served in early December, in honor of the various feste, leading up to Christmas. Well it didn't end at Christmas. It kept going through March. And not really because there was a festa, but because it was on sale. And Mamma G. can't say "no" to a sale.

In February, I made a pact that I was going to give up sweets for quaresima (better known as "Lent" for all those Catholics out there). Mainly because Mamma G. kept promising we would give up sweets for this holy time. I must say, I am Catholic (I joined the Catholic church in high school) but I became a Catholic drop-out in college, when I started realizing that maybe I didn't agree with everything they were preaching. But here in Italy, everyone is Catholic. There are no other churches besides the Catholic church. So whether you believe or not, you follow the Catholic holidays. And this means, for the most part, that you eat alot on days that celebrate particular saints or events in the Catholic history.

So quaresima started and I thought, "Good. Now no one will be eating sweets." Nope. Mamma G kept serving dessert after lunch and I would look at her confused and say "Come mai?" (How come?) And she would look at me and say "Eh...era in afferta." (It was on sale). Like it was perfectly normal. Well needless to say I soon learned that quaresima was just something you said and not something you actually did. After 7 days of no sweets, I caved in. Mamma G. was just like, "Non preoccuparti. Non sei ingrassata - solo qualche kilo. Non e' niente." (Don't worry. You are not fat. Just a few kilos. It's not anything). Yea right. Try telling that to my spring pants which are now tight.

Then I thought, "Well after Easter, I'll start dieting again." Mamma G. confirmed this affirmation also with a "Si, si, basta dolce dopo Pasqua." Eh...famous last words. So what happened? The day after Easter Zio Giuseppe brought over a colomba that had gelato in it and was covered with fresh cream. What is colomba you might ask? Well it's like panettone except it has big pieces of sugar and almonds on top. And you only eat it on Easter. Well you also eat it leading up to Easter and of course after Easter when there are sales, but who's counting?

So of course I can't say no to having a piece. It would be rude because Zio Giuseppe paid a lot for this huge colomba filled with gelato and topped with fresh cream. Plus Mamma G. kept screeching, "Che bella!" And then when she tasted it, she was like "Che buona!" So, I ate a piece....and it was delicious. For once, I wish something here didn't taste good.

So after lunch, we decided to go for a bike ride. Thank God, because I need some aiuto (help) to burn off this massive amount of calories I just ate. The bike ride was long too- like 2 hours but the whole way Mamma G. kept asking me, "Vuoi un gelato?" Like we hadn't just eaten another huge meal AND dessert. I kept saying, "No" but it didn't matter.

So today, April 7th, is the first day with no sweets. I am hoping soon the cravings will go away and so will these 9 extra pounds I have gained since moving here. Maybe if I make my efforts public I'll find the courage to say "basta" to all the wonderful food here.

Easier said than done in a country where food is not just a source of energy, but a way of life.

Big Al

2010-03-26T09:44:00.000-07:00

Today my grandmother Althea would have been 93. We lovingly called her 'Big Al' because she always seemed to think she knew everything. And most of the time, she did.

Big Al did almost everything a woman could do in one lifetime. She owned every business possible from a hotel to a restaurant to a toy shop and finally a magazine in Maine for tourists. Come to think of it, she was pretty progressive for a woman from her generation.

When I was a kid, we used to come to visit her and my grandfather every year in Florida. They lived in St. Cloud, which was close to Orlando so we used to go to Disneyworld too while we were there which is always a blast for a kid. My grandfather Harold was a character. He would get grumpy over little things and throw his cards down in a fit of rage during our Jacobs card playing-ritual if he was losing. My grandmother never seemed to get too upset about it though. She would just chuckle and keep playing cards. Winning was important to her.

When I was in high school, I was never very close to Big Al. Maybe because she had this air of being successful that she didn't feel like a loving grandmother to an insecure teenager. Or maybe it was because my other grandmother Dolores (on my mother's side) was the complete opposite. She was an assistant art teacher her whole life and instead of focusing on a career, just focused on doing things for family - taking care of people, sewing, painting and cooking. Two very different women but as I realized over time, two very wonderful grandmothers.

My relationship changed with Big Al after writing her a letter when I was at the University of Maine. I was honest with her for the first time in years and wrote how I never felt like she cared about me that much. I was surprised to receive an immediate response, detailing how she always felt like I didn't love her- that perhaps I loved my other grandmother more. And from that day forward, I put more effort into sharing my life with her, through letters and through visits....through walks on the beach and long talks. In the past 15 years, I got to really know Big Al and it was nice to feel the love from two grandmothers, instead of just one.

What I loved about her is she believed in me no matter what. She believed in me when I decided to leave Maine to work in advertising in New York City; she believed in me when I lost my job one year; and she believed in me when I fell in love with a man from another country and decided to leave the U.S. For that's what grandmothers do. They believe in you no matter what.

So when she told me I would figure out a way to make money here in Italy, I started writing this blog. I'm not sure what it will turn into- something my friends and family read to keep up to date with my life here in Italy or maybe someday a book about one Maine girl's adventures in Italy.

But whatever it is, this one is for Big Al.

Festa Della Donna

2010-03-08T08:10:00.001-08:00

You have to love Italy because Italy loves its women. That is, as long as showing that love is not too expensive.

March 8th is considered the Festa della Donna- International Women's Day. It is an international holiday celebrated almost everywhere...except the U.S. As an American, I had never heard of it before moving here.

First, a little history on Festa della Donna. Because I can't tell you how many times my dear suocera Savina has asked me why Americans don't celebrate Festa della Donna. "Come mai?" (Why not?) she'll shriek with wide eyes, as if I just told her that no one in America eats pasta. According to Wikipedia, "among other historic events, it came to commemorate the 1911 Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire." This event was "one of the largest industrial disasters in the history of New York City, causing the death of 146 garment workers, almost all of them women who either died from the fire or jumped from the fatal height. Most women could not escape the burning building because the managers would lock the doors to the stairwells and exits to keep the workers from taking cigarette breaks outdoors during their shifts." To my American friends- did you know this bit about our history? Sometimes I feel like I must have not paid attention in school because bits of history like this about my own country have either completely slipped my memory or I wasn't taught it.

What started out as a political holiday has simply turned into a holiday for men to show their appreciation of the women in their lives. They do this by giving their special woman a mazzo di mimose. You can see this flower pictured above. So how is this holiday different from Valentine's Day you might ask? Well, I have a theory on that.

I did an informal poll with all the Italian men I encountered around Valentine's Day this year. I asked each one the same question: "Che cosa hai fatto di bello per tua moglie per il giorno di San Valentino?" (What good thing did you do for your wife for Valentine's Day?) The responses I received were surprising. One of the older guys I run with, Carlo, said, "Le ho dato un bacio." (I gave a kiss). He apparently doesn't believe in St. Valentine's Day. The men at the store where I frequent everyday for bread said they didn't believe in St. Valentine's Day either because apparently San Valentino wasn't a real saint. Well, that is, he is not recognized in the Catholic calendar of saints. Yea, okay, good excuse. And then my suocero....well he bought a cake for Savina after my sister-in-law told him too.

Please note my husband is not included in the above survey. Lui e' bravo. He is one of the few Italian men who embraces Valentine's Day. Probably because I start reminding him a month in advance so he realizes how important it is to me. I even start suggesting gift ideas. Because I know, it's a commercialized holiday- yes. And I know roses and chocolate tend to double in price close to Valentine's Day (what a rip-off). But you know what doesn't double in price? VESTITI o SCARPE o BORSE! (CLOTHES or SHOES or PURSES!) Celebrating love is important so why not say "I love you" with clothes? Or a nice purse? Last year he bought me a beautiful maroon purse from Furla. This year, a beautiful, black wool coat. But according to my informal survey, he is the exception and not the rule here in Italy. Io sono una moglie fortunata (I am a lucky wife).

So my theory is this: although it's not an Italian holiday, Festa dalla Donna has become very popular in Italy. I think the reason it is popular is because Italian men try to avoid St. Valentine's Day celebrations at all costs. So by the time March 8th rolls around, their wives are pretty mad. As a result, Italian men embrace la Festa dalla Donna with open arms and run out to their nearest supermercato or fiorista to buy a bel mazzo di mimose for the woman in their life. And why not? A bunch of mimose cost 2.50 euros while roses cost 4 euros EACH on Valentine's Day.

So Italian men have learned how to save money- deny St. Valentine's Day exists and embrace la Festa della Donna. Hopefully for the sake of American women this holiday will stay on this side of the pond.

Ladies That Lunch

2010-02-28T10:01:00.000-08:00

Making girlfriends when you are in your 30's isn't easy. Throw into that equation a new country, a completely different language and no job and you have a recipe for a lonely American.

So when I was finally able to get around on my own, I stumbled upon a club called "Benvenuto Club." It's a club for women who have moved to Milan from other countries and the main language of the club is English. I was pretty excited about the English part. Can you imagine trying to make friends in a country where they don't speak your language? First of all, if you are a woman over the age 21, it's hard enough making friends. In college it's easy - you are friends with the girls in your dorm or in your classes or on your sports team....but in the working world, women are all of a sudden in competition with one another. A woman may seem like she wants to be your friend when in fact, she really wants your job....or your man. So somewhere along the line, we started to be weary of women instead of wanting to share a drink with them and laugh.

Well in this club, all the competition that can sometimes exist in friendships between women has disappeared. For the club consists of women whose husbands have moved to Milano for work. No one wants your job for the club consists mostly of rich women who don't need to work and instead are solely looking for friendship and a way to past the time.

So what we do you might ask? Well we drink a lot of caffe'. Almost any day of the week you can either meet at a bar or someone's house for coffee. We also organize trips to museums, events, trips to other cities in Italy, apertivo (kind of like happy hour in the U.S.) and cooking classes. There are older women, younger women and even Italian women who are interested in having someone to speak English with. I was amazed at first by the fact that Italian women were a part of an English-centered club. Can you imagine your grandmother joining an Italian club in America, just so she would have someone to speak Italian with? Everyday I am amazed by how much Europeans like to expand their knowledge of other cultures.....much more so than us Americans who barely leave our own country in our lifetime. There is something for everyone in this group so that is probably why the club boasts over 300 members.

One coffee in particular sticks out in my mind. A woman I know from New Orleans, Victoria, hosted a lavish breakfast at her house. Victoria lives in the center of Milano in an area called Moscova. Her and her husband rent a huge 2 bedroom apartment. It was truly an American breakfast. There was everything from frutta fresca, to torta (cake), to fritelle (yummy fried dough you eat for Carnavale) and of course AMERICAN COFFEE. Big giant carafes filled with American coffee...and more brewing in the kitchen. It was a dream come true for an American in Milan.

So we ate, we drank coffee and we talked. Then the music came on and we moved into the living room. And around noon, I heard the popping of a champagne bottle. Yes, champagne at noon! I had to laugh because it reminded me of the early years in advertising when drinking at lunch was as common as coffee for breakfast. After a few glasses of champagne we headed to a restaurant for lunch where we ate an amazing lunch. In Italy for lunch you can eat a menu fisso for a fixed price and it includes primo, secondo, vino, e acqua. Half the table ordered soup and a bottle of wine. But after 2 glasses of champagne, I need something a little more filling than soup. The lunch winded down around 2:30 p.m. and so then what did we do? Go shopping! Ah, what else do women do if they don't work?

So piano, piano, (slowly, slowly) I am making friends here in Italy. It's never easy but the rewards of friendship are worth the effort.

Mail

2010-02-16T12:35:00.000-08:00

I am molta pazza for mail. I love choosing the card or stationary, writing it, decorating the envelope, mailing it and of course, peeking in my mailbox to see if I received a letter or card in return. So you can imagine my horror when I first got to Italia and realized the post office here actually makes the postal system in the U.S. look like a fine-tuned machine.

Let me preface something first. I have received every letter and package my family and friends have sent me from the U.S. But there is really no telling when I will receive it. For instance, my friend Erica sent me a package the week of Christmas. She would email me occasionally to see if I had received it and for 6 weeks, the answer was, 'No, but I'm sure it will arrive soon.'

Then, this week, I finally received it. Unfortunately, it was stuffed into my mailbox although it didn't quite fit but the postal guy decided it was va bene cosi' (okay like this). See picture above for more details. Could I go and complain about this? Si, si, certo but you know what they'd say? 'Tu hai ricevuto il pacco, si'? Allora?' Which basically means, 'you got the package, right? So?'

The post office here is a funny place. At first I was so scared to go, I used to try and get my husband to go with me. I was scared they would ask me something in Italian that I couldn't understand and the people in line behind me would know I was American right away and start whispering, "Lei e' Americana...lei non parla italiano ancora' (She is American....she doesn't speak Italian yet). But my husband would just give me that blank stare and say, 'Vai, vai all'ufficio postale. E' facile." Eh, si'. Facile. The truth is, my husband hates going to the post office more than I did when I first got here. For him, all the post offices in Italy could shut down one day and he would just nod and say 'Bene' (good).

Why is the post office a funny place you ask? First of all, it is the only business in Italy (besides the bank) where there is a lot of security. And for good reason because many people in Italy go to the post office to pay their bills. So you are basically talking to someone behind what I imagine is bullet proof glass. Second reason: no organization whatsoever. When you enter Poste Italiane, you will notice there is a line for paying bills and a line for mailing cards or packages. Usually the lines are close together and you can't tell where one ends and the other begins. And some post offices will have a number taking system but if they do, 9 times out of 10 times, it isn't working. Then often times, someone who is paying a bill ends up going to the counter where the person is selling stamps. Paying bills is a long process here in Italy. A person could bring anywhere from 5-10 bills with them and each one has to be processed separately and of course you pay in cash. So the person has to look up the bill in the computer, count the cash and provide a receipt. Takes much longer than just buying a stamp. This leads to reason #3 of why the post office is a funny place: there is always a line. Please see reason #2 to clarify why there is always a line. You need to make sure you budget at least 1/2 hour in your day when you go to the post office.

After one year in Italy, going to the post office isn't scary anymore. And so far, I've had more luck with receiving mail than I had in Miami Beach. So maybe the system isn't so disorganized after all...like everything else here, they are just more relaxed about structure.

Linens & In-Laws

2010-02-06T01:40:00.000-08:00

My husband is a very patient man. He often tells me: "Stai calma. Lasciali fare quello che vogliono fare" which means: Stay calm. Just let them do what they want to do.

This is in reference to linens & in-laws, of all things. In Italy, having adequate linens for your house is very important. In a way, it is sign of the success of the family and of course how good the casalinga (housewife) is.

When I arrived from America with my 3 suitcases containing all my belongings (aka: mostly clothes because the rest of my "stuff" I either sold, threw away or stored with family). Of course the first thing I did was put away my clothes in the armadio (closet). Keep in mind we have a small one bedroom apartment and in that bedroom is 2 closets- one for me and one for my husband.

You can imagine my shock and horror when I realized I had to share one shelf of my closet with towels and sheets. I couldn't believe how many towels were in the closet. I think since I've lived on my own, I've owned at most maybe 4 of each kind of towel. There must have been at least 10 of every kind of towel imaginable. So I asked my husband, "Where did all these towels come from?" To which my husband responded (like any good Italian man will): "E' meglio non chiedere" which in English simply means: it's better not to ask.

Well for those who know me well, it's impossible for me to not ask why. So one day I ask Mamma G. where all the towels came from. She then explained to me the tradition in Italy of how when a couple gets married, it is the responsibility of the parents to buy linens for their children. But not just one of everything- the magic number is "12." I'm not sure why yet it's "12" and not say "10" but that is a lesson for me to learn on another day.

The most amazing part is some Italian families (like my husbands') actually make some of the items, versus buying them. This tradition is not only to save money but to get the best material for the best price. I later found out that the 12 dishtowels were all hand made. Do you know how much work that is? Americans go to a store like Bed, Bath & Beyond and just buy what they need...maybe finding something cute that matches the kitchen or something on sale. That is the most effort I have personally put into dishtowels. But I don't think I've ever heard of anyone making a dishtowel.

Well then one day, came up the subject of tovaglie (tablecloths).

I think in America, I used a tablecloth twice a year - Thanksgiving & Christmas. The rest of the year, I just placed my dishes on the bare table. But here, an Italian wouldn't think of eating on a table without a tablecloth. To them, that would be like a meal without pasta or Christmas without panettone...you just don't do it.

So one day Mamma G. said, "Hai bisogno le tovaglie. Andiamo al negozio per prendere il materiale." So off to the store we went. How hard could it be make a tablecloth? Looking back, I had no idea.

First, we had to look for the fabric. So we went to a shop one afternoon that sold beautiful fabric at good prices. I picked out two fabrics I liked. The next step was for Mamma G. and her sorella, Maria, to come to our apartment to measure the table. Then, they had to wash the fabric first (in case it shrunk). Mamma G. left the fabric with me to wash but I really wasn't sure at that point what was going on so after 2 days of her asking if I had washed it yet, she took it back and said she would wash it. Next, Maria sewed the tablecloth but then had to bring the tablecloth back over to make sure the length was correct before adding the border. Then we had to go to the market to buy the lace for the border. There are many types of lace to choose from so this process alone took 20 minutes. Maria then sewed on the border and then we had to facilitate one more visit to our house to see the final tablecloth in place.

Of course the tablecloths are beautiful and we use them everyday but the American in me just wants to scream, "Let's just go to the store next time and buy one!" But I guess this is what they mean when they say it's more about the journey than the destination.

Natale in Italia

2010-01-16T11:44:00.000-08:00

You haven't really experienced weight gain over the holidays until you have spent Natale (Christmas) in Italy. You would think it was one, maybe two days of non-stop eating when in fact, the festa lasts about 4 weeks.

I first decided to go on a diet around the beginning of December, in order to prepare for the weight gain I knew was looming on the horizon. Mamma G. was shocked- "Impossibile!" she cried for in December is when there are "tante belle cose da mangiare" and also many holidays in which eating is actually mandatory. There are 8 holidays for Christmas, starting on December 8th with L'Immacolata Concezione (Immaculate Conception) and ending with La Festa dell'Epifania ("The Epiphany" also known as "Bafana").

Each holiday is celebrated with the family getting together to do what else - MANGIA! Probably the most famous food at Christmas is panettone. When I first came here, I didn't know what panettone was. I couldn't even describe it to people. I asked my husband how he would describe it in English so I said: "It's kind of like a bread but sweet like a cake, vero?" And he said, "No, panettone e' panettone." Oh. Of course.

For those of you who still aren't sure what panettone is, think the American version of fruitcake except much, much lighter. You can get versions with the candied fruit in them, without candied fruit, with almonds on top, without almonds, with chocolate on top...and each one is called something different. And, of course, each one has a lot of calories.

I knew I had eaten too much panettone when one day I was running and a older gentlemen I say buon giorno to in Masate said something to me in Italian and all I could pick out was the word "panettone." So of course I thought "oh no, he's telling me I ate too much panettone and I am fat." I'm not sure what else he could have said to me that contained the word panettone other than maybe he asked me if I ate a good panettone this holiday? No, he was definitely telling me I gained weight...sigh, that's another thing about Italians. They have no problem telling you if you gained weight. I guess that is why the women here are so thin. Everytime they gain a pound, someone points it out.

I was so full (and fat) that by New Year's Day, I was starting to feel sick. My husband actually called his parents to tell them I wasn't feeling well so we couldn't come over for the big family lunch on New Year's Day. Should we save some food for you, in case she feels better later? No, no, we cry, we'll be okay. But by 1:30 p.m., I was feeling better and craving some good Italian cooking. I was also thinking maybe the big lunch would be over and we could just eat a little and not eat tutto (everything). Ehh....no! We arrive at 2:00 and they are actually only on the second course and they saved some of the first course for us. Because in Italy, you don't just eat in silence....you talk about current events, issues in the family and, of course, calcio so each course takes some time. You also talk about the food and how it could have possibly been cooked better (this is when the conversation can get heated so I tend to stay out of this part).

Now that the holiday season is over, the whole family is on a dieta. Or so they say. I arrived home from Rome a few days ago and what had his parents bought? Panettone! When I asked why they bought it, Mamma G. said "Era in vendita!" (It was on sale).

Oh dio...non e' facile (it's not easy).

To Market - Part I

2009-12-13T23:20:00.000-08:00

When I talk to my friends back home, many have the same question: "What do you do all day?" I used to be a bit of a workaholic, always on my blackberry to now, wondering what I am going to cook for dinner while I hang up the clothes to dry. But what I realized is this: everyone can be busy, if they decide they want to be. For me, being busy means shopping.

There is something amazing here that America doesn't have. It's called il mercato. It is an open air market where you can buy everything you can think of. From fruit, to fresh fish, to cleaning products and yes ladies CLOTHES. And there is a market everyday. The market moves around to different villages everyday.

For me, the market is a lot of fun. You walk around, you look at everything and if you go to the same market every week, people start to know who you are. And Mamma G is pazza (crazy) for the market too. In her mind, it is not possible to buy anything at a store that you couldn't buy cheaper at the market. And what I have learned since I've been here is that she is right. I now buy everything at the market and must admit I am a little obsessed- to the point I am in a bad mood if for some reason I can't go to the market and I have to go to a supermarket instead.

So we go to the market together every Monday and Friday. Every Monday, the market is in Cambiago, where Mamma G. lives and Cris grew up. Here we have a strict routine. It's not just walk to the market, buy what you need and leave. Sei matto? (Are you crazy?) Going to the market is a job. We leave the house at 9 a.m. which means I have to wake up at 7 in order to shower and look my best (for those who know me well, I am very slow in the morning and need at least 1-2 hours to prepare for anything). My husband thinks I'm crazy as the alarm goes off so I have time to shower, drink my coffee, eat breakfast and do my hair.

But the preparation is important. For you can't go to the market in jeans. Jeans are for ragazzi (young people). If you are married and going to the market with your "suocera" (mother-in-law) you need to be dressed nice with good shoes (preferably heels) and a good jacket. Many women wear skirts and dresses here which is actually kind of nice as you do feel more feminine. But being a lady isn't easy. And then of course I have to be at Mamma G's on time- by 9 a.m. And then it's off to market we go.

Probably the best thing about the market is walking away feeling like you got a "deal." Mamma G is brava per questa. The first step is to establish a relationship with the person that runs the bancarella. This is accomplished by frequenting the bancarella when possible, establishing it is worthy (good quality, good prices) and then asking for a discount, if you find an item you are interested in. A typical discount is enough to buy a cup of coffee (1 euro) or if there are 2 of you "un caffe' per me e per lei" (a coffee for me and for her). The amount of the discount can increase over time, depending on how much you spend at the bancarella. So instead of coupons or sales like in America...there is relationship-building and a bit of bantering. But in the end, you walk away feeling accomplished- like you just purchased the most beautiful thing in the world for the best possible price.

Can you tell I like to shop? I think this is the best job yet.

Dinner With the American

2009-12-10T13:18:00.000-08:00

This past weekend my husband and I went out to dinner with four of his friends from high school. I was a little nervous as although I speak Italian now, it's not perfect and it's always hard to speak a different language with new people. Everyone has a different speed and accent when speaking.

So we get to the restaurant and there are eight of us in total. Little did I know, Italian men like to sit together- away from the women. My husband is like, "Don't you want to sit at that end of the table with the women?" To which I responded with a big, fat American "NO. I don't even know them."

Don't get me wrong, I am not shy. It's actually been said that I can talk to anyone, anywhere. In fact, I met my husband on a plane! But the thought of sitting with my husband's friends wives while they asked me questions about my life in Italy, made me nervous. What would we talk about? They all have kids so are they going to ask me when I'll have kids? Or where do I shop? Or how often do I go for facials? Because FYI, Italian women have amazing skin. I guess I am not really a "girly, girl."

So there I stayed, with the guys, and tried to follow the conversation the best I could. But in case you didn't know, dinners in Italy are LONG. There is antipasto, primo piatto, secondo piatto, dolce e caffe'. You take your time even when you order. You don't order the second dish when you order the first dish...no, no! Are you crazy? You order the first dish...wait to get it....eat it....and then you order the second dish. In America, we order everything at once and then we tap our foot and wonder why the food is taking so long.

So after 3 1/2 hours, we were ready to order dessert. At this point, I had a headache from trying to follow the conversation and I couldn't wait for some coffee. So when I ordered my crema catalana, I asked for coffee as well. I thought the waiter was going to fall over and the men were like "Cosa?" ( "what?"). Little did I know, you can't drink coffee with your dessert. Coffee is always last e sempre da solo (and always alone). One of his friends actually joked about sending me back to America...then of course a conversation about Americans ensued. How all we eat is burgers and fries and how we don't really cook that much. I always defend the American way of life for I will always be American and proud. But when it comes to food, Italy has us beat.

So the Italian lesson for the day is this: take your time when you eat and don't think about what you are eating next. Think about what you are eating now...and savour it. Ogni morso (every bite).

And for heavens sake, whatever you do, don't order coffee with your dessert.

Sunday Lunch

2009-11-22T12:34:00.000-08:00

Lunch on Sundays is a big deal in Italy. It is traditionally the day where the family gathers at the table to enjoy a big meal insieme- together. Kind of like Thanksgiving in America except it happens every Sunday.

There is one big rule though- don't be late.

My husband is notorious for being late for Sunday lunch. He has never been late for work one day in his life but getting him to la casa della famiglia in time for Sunday lunch is a job in itself. For some reason, he likes to lay in bed until about 11:30 (please note lunch starts promptly at noon and it takes us 10 minutes to get there- door to door).

Why should I care, you might ask? Well I am the wife of an Italian which in itself is a big responsibility. You have to make sure your husband is fed, his clothes are clean and well-ironed and that we are never late to family affairs.

He also is notorious for spending a lot of time in the bathroom. I don't ask what he is doing in there but I know that it takes at least 1/2 an hour.

And I just hate to walk through the door late. Cris just walks through the door smiling with a sing-song "Ciaaaooooo!" His mom glances up from her plate as she is eating and asks, "Perche' sei in ritardo?" But it's a question that never has the right answer. Soon voices are raised and there is a lot of yelling in Italian (not always can I understand it) and before you know it, his mom is serving the pasta. Like nothing happened.

For no matter what the issue is, eating food when it is hot is key to a good meal. And no issue is more important to Italians than a good meal. Especially on Sunday.

And Then There Was Coffee

2009-11-20T12:41:00.000-08:00

I never thought it could be possible to be so excited about coffee. But in the land of espresso, finding caffe' Americano is like finding $10 in your pocket on laundry day - complete joy because it is completely unexpected.

So you can imagine my delight while browsing through the coffee aisle at Esselunga with Mamma G., I found American coffee- and even better- it was flavored! Because nothing with me is easy- I don't just want American coffee- it has to be FLAVORED American coffee. There is nothing better to me than a cup of hot, flavored coffee in the morning. But not flavored with those sicky, sweet syrups some coffee bars put in the coffee- the flavor has to be roasted with the bean. I know- AMERICANS! That is my husband's response on this topic.

What a process it has been so far to even have it on hand. For my birthday in March, I asked my dad to send me some. And he did but it cost $40 to ship (costs more for the shipping than the coffee) and the supply was gone in three short months. Then came the frantic call to my mom to ship me some coffee....once again, gone in a few months. I then tried stocking up while in the U.S. this summer but I didn't estimate correctly how much I would need to get me through until the next trip to America and alas, that stock was depleted by September. At which point we were in Greece and I did find American, flavored coffee but again, I didn't buy enough. You would have thought I would have learned by now to stock up on supplies like I did when I lived in Miami during hurricane season but.....no.

They say it's the little things in life that bring the most joy. Now, meno male (thank god), I have found coffee in Italy.

From Miami to Masate

2009-11-18T13:11:00.000-08:00

It is day 4 now of no sun in Masate....nebbia actually which is the Italian word for fog. Welcome to "autunno" in Italy. I have lived here almost a year now with my wonderful husband who grew up only 3 miles down the road in Cambiago. It's amazing how Italians never move far from home. For the first 6 months we lived here, his mom mentioned at least once a day that he made a mistake buying a home in Masate and not Cambiago. To the point where eventually he had to say "Basta!" In America, if you moved 4 hours away, you were considered close.

It was around this time last year we decided it would be best I quit my job and come to Italy to live with him. We were, after all, married so it made sense but the thought of living in Italy seemed so huge to me for I had lived in the U.S. my whole life. But here I am...from Miami to Masate.

Masate is a small village about 30 minutes east of Milano. It is a typical Italian village- just enough shops to get by: two small stores to buy groceries, one pharmacy and 3 coffee bars (cafe' e' molto importante in Italia!). At first I didn't know what to do with myself- where was the big grocery store where I could buy everything? And then I discovered the beauty of buying food everyday - FRESH.

After living here for about 6 months, I finally got up the courage to go to the store here by myself. Right away they knew I wasn't Italian. The American accent is like a flashing light on your forehead. But they now call me by name and hold my favorite bread for me daily and going there has become my religion.

So I have found the beauty here in Masate...a beauty I could not find in 3 years in Miami. E' una bella vita.