For the Love of Coffee

I have a secret that I am shy to admit and it is this: I now like espresso more than American coffee. I know, I need to have my American citizenship taken away from me. My father has already said that I am not American anymore. How did this happen you might ask? I have been religiously drinking (flavored) American coffee out of my high tech Braun coffee maker since moving here almost four years ago. My in-laws were nice enough to buy it for me for my birthday the first year I moved here because I was panicking without a way to make my favorite coffee. And then my parents and my best friend started sending me my favorite coffee flavors so I could continue to enjoy a tradition of drinking coffee that I have been practicing all my life. Then one day, I guess it was about a few months ago now, I finally admitted to myself that I like espresso more than American coffee. American coffee now tastes weak to me.

A good strong espresso with a touch of hot milk now seems 'normal'. I have a cappuccino in the morning (espresso with a bit more milk and lots of 'froth'), a 'macchiato' after lunch (an espresso with just a small amount of warm milk) and now sometimes after dinner, I will have a 'caffé normale' (regular espresso without milk, and a little bit of sugar). I read somewhere that Italians believe that espresso 'closes' the stomach after a meal. And I believe that too now. After I have had my espresso, I feel like I am done eating...like I can turn the eating machine off and just relax. This comes in handy when I am dieting and trying to avoid dessert...I will just order an espresso. Of course if we are out in a group, I will order my espresso after everyone else has finished their dessert because Italians, if you recall, do not think you should drink your coffee WITH your dessert. I think this has something to do with the 'closing of the stomach' belief for how can you close your stomach while you are simultaneously shoving food down it?

After awhile, things start to come together and make sense or maybe it's just me? Am I slowly becoming Italian...one espresso at a time?

The Written Test

The big day finally arrived. After almost 3 months of attending classes three nights a week and studying daily for at least one hour, I finally felt ready to take the exam on February 7^th,. Believe it or not, I am not talking about studying for a college exam—I am talking about the Italian written driver's license test (esame di teoria).

Why did it take me so long to prepare you might ask? Well the written driver's test in Italy to get your permit is actually much harder than the written test in the U.S. It does not consist of simple questions like 'What do you do at a stop sign?” One American friend of mine who took the written test in Italy swears that the point of the test is for you to fail. I didn't really understand what she meant until I started taking practice tests and was failing them. It is a 40 question true or false test. But the questions are worded in a tricky way that one word in the sentence could throw off the meaning of what appears to be a straightforward question.

After about two months, my husband started to push me to set a date for the test. I was scared to set a date as I still did not feel ready and if you fail the test, you have to retake it which costs another 110 euros. Finally I set a date as I thought perhaps it would push me to get to that point of being 'ready' if I had a date in mind. I paid for the exam and the secretary at my driving school gave me specific directions on how to get to the department of motor vechicles for the test. “Prendi la metropolitana fino Molino Durino. Esci dalla stazione e gira a sinistra. Guardi per il chiosco si chiama 'El Sombrero' e aspetti lì. Devi essere lì per le 8.00” (Take the train until Molino Durino. Exit the station and turn left. Look for the kiosk called 'El Sombrero'. You must be there for 8.00 a.m.”

In my mind I knew what a kiosk was...it's the same word in English. But I was picturing something 'official' for the department of motor vehicles like the Peanuts cartoon that says 'doctor is in' but in this case would read, 'wait here for written driving test'. When in fact the El Sombrero kiosk is the picture you see above my blog – a bar where you can get coffee, brioche and other beverages. Nothing to do at all in fact with the Department of Motor Vehicles other than it is located in front of their offices. Of course that is where I wait...Italians cannot do anything without having a coffee first. And we wait. And did I mention it's winter in Milan? Finally at 8.45 a.m., they let us in the building...into the waiting room that is.

The waiting room consists of no furniture except for a few not-so-stable looking chairs. It is a bare room without any decorations and two vending machines. It could actually be mistaken for the lobby of a jail. After about half an hour of additional waiting (and last minute studying), they call us by name into a room where we take a seat next to the computer that is assigned to our name. A woman walks around the room, yelling directions on how to take the test. There is a specific manner in which you must scroll through the questions and advance to the next one. I try to keep up as everything (of course) is in Italian and I am nervous so I don't always understand all Italian spoken to me if I am nervous. Shortly after directions are given, we are told we can begin. When we are sure we have answered all of the questions, we raise our hand and the instructor will come around to your computer and submit your exam and you are free to wait outside for the results.

One by one, we all then go back to the bare waiting room where we wait again for our results. There is a representative from each driving school there and when our representative comes out to tell us who passed, my heart dropped because I thought I did not hear my name. So while most everyone is jumping for joy, I shyly ask

'Jacobs'? To which he answers, 'promosso' (passed). I am relieved and thrilled beyond belief...I passed the Italian written test!

What I have learned about Italians is the process might seem like a mess along the way, but much of the time, it works. I learned more about the laws about driving in Italy in this three month process than I ever knew after driving 20 years in the U.S. Un saluto caro, Italia (a sweet greeting, Italy).....you did me good.

Driving In Italy

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

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

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

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

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.