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.

My first real Italian Wedding

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

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

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.