Archive for 2007
quantifying weirdness
Shelley of At Home in Rome modified the famous “Six Weird Things About You” meme into the “Six Weird Things About Your City” meme. I’m an overachiever, so I’ll tag myself with both. Anyone who would like to play along, feel free and then come back and leave a link in my comments so I can find you in all your weirdness.
Let’s start with me:
1. I have neither set foot in a Starbucks nor drunk their coffee. Ever. I don’t have anything against them, but we just never crossed paths before I left the U.S. Now I’m quite proud of this, so I will spend the rest of my life purposefully avoiding that caffeine-pushing Siren out of sheer stubbornness. Lucky for me, in southern Italy, this is quite easy to accomplish. I crack easily when it comes to coffee.
2. I arrange my silverware drawer in a very particular way and get upset if someone goes in there and moves things around. Of course all like items are together in slots, but the most important rule is that the bigger ones face up and the smaller ones face down (talking mostly forks and spoons here). And they are stacked, not willy nilly all over the place. Sharp knives all together *in their sheaths* as I don’t need to be slicing myself reaching into the drawer. The rest of the knives congregate in another slot and wallow in their dullness. Don’t worry, if you’re ever a house guest, I won’t ask you to put away silverware. In fact, I’ll probably ask you not to.
3. I can recite all of the Presidents of the United States in order. Wanna hear? Washington, John Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, John Quincy Adams….OK, I’ll stop. We had to learn this when I was in 11th grade to recite every week to our teacher as a quiz, and what can I say? Some things in my brain just won’t give up their prized positions. On that note, sorry if I forget your name. There’s only so much room up there.
4. I can tie a cherry stem into a knot using only my tongue. This has more value in the real world than most scholastic accomplishments, so, kids, get practicing!
5. I used to have an intense fear of fire, as in fear that my house/apartment would burn down. I can’t say it was irrational because my family’s house did burn down in 1971 (before I was born) and so THE FIRE was always part of our lore. On the other hand, seven years of college and apartment building 3 a.m. fire alarms only fanned the flames, so to speak. I’m getting past it now that I live in a stone house, but the fact that people burn off their land still freaks me out. A lot.
6. I have two different sets of 4 cups each.
The narrow, flowered ones are for coffee and the wider ones are for tea. In the morning, first I choose coffee or tea (usually coffee), then I pick the mug to match my mood and/or my outfit. Yes, my doggie is the only one who sees my morning routine, but this process grounds me. Get it? Coffee? Grounds? I’m here all week folks!
Moving on to the second half, which I’ll call “Six Weird Things About Southern Italy (although some may apply to the entire country).” Now, to be clear, I’m not necessarily complaining, just observing. And remember, this is all from my experience, so if yours differs, do share in the comments:
1. The whole wedding process. This includes but is not limited to: (1) hand-delivering all invitations; (2) inviting 500 of your closest friends; (3) the fact that only women actually enter the church except for the groom, best man, fathers (maybe), altar boys, and priest; (4) as a guest, being expected to give an envelope full of money–anywhere from 150 euro per person on up is the norm; and (5) having to get married in the comune even if you have a church wedding. This last one might or might not be Italy-wide although I’m not sure.
2. Another general Italian thing–milk in boxes, unrefrigerated and on normal shelves. I’m used to it now, but it’s just an odd concept to get used to when you’re used to a big ole plastic container in the refrigerated dairy section.
3. Southern Italians’ proficiency with knives. I don’t know if this is country-wide or not, but man, down here, even children are adept with knives. Maybe part of it is because they peel all their fruit, and I’m not just talking about oranges and lemons (which, incidentally, is also done with a knife). Apples, pears, really anything with a skin. Even potatoes get peeled with a knife as opposed to a potato-peeler.
And if you’re ever in southern Italy up in someone’s campagna, you’re bound to see each and every man pull out his own pocket knife to cut up bread, salami, and cheese. Seriously, this is the go-to utensil, and when it comes right down to it, it is rather hard to argue with the logic; you can poke things/hold them in place like you would with a fork, scoop things like you would with a spoon, and of course cut. Weird but kinda genius.
4. The fascination with the wind. Shelley wrote about how people are always concerning with taking in the wind, you know, getting sick, and yes, this is true here as well, but I’m talking about the actual wind. The scirocco and tramontana are the biggies. At any given moment, someone is ready to tell me that the weather is all due to whatever type of wind blowing, and, for instance, whether or not I should take my laundry off the line because the scirocco is blowing up odd pink ash from Mount Etna that I’ll never get out of my clothes no matter what I try. Weird but kinda cool, actually. I love the wind.
5. Female friendships. I’ll probably get some flack for this one, but I’m going to say it: it’s difficult to form friendships with many Italian women. Some are closed off to the possibility, others have far different interests than your average Western woman, still others are just worried we foreigners are just man-stealers. In their defense on that last one–show of hands! How many expat bloggers are with Italian men? Uh huh.
Anyway, it seems to me that many Italian women just have a different mentality regarding female friendships–that they are formed very early on in life, and after that, it’s tough to break into the circle. Not impossible, especially where there are open-minded, curious Italian women, but difficult nonetheless. Weird and sad.
6. The strict adherence to the coffee routine. By this I mean the fact that coffee may be drunk in the morning, around 10, after lunch, and possibly after dinner. A cappuccino may only be drunk sometime before 10 a.m. as far as I can glean, and never, ever after meals. I know many of us expats have written about this one, but it’s so weird and so prevalent that it bears mentioning yet again.
Come on, share your weirdosity with the world!
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[tags]weird things meme, memes, calabria, italy, life in italy, life in calabria[/tags]
recovering, regrouping
Had another round of the Hiring Process: Italian Style this morning. Amazing how three weeks have passed and yet so little has changed. It’s nothing too awful or discouraging, but I’m still mentally recovering.
The regrouping time isn’t helped by the thought of two entirely different bureaucratic experiences that I have to face tomorrow–one in the morning and one in the afternoon for a full day of fun!
So I may get around to writing something coherent (wouldn’t that be fun for a change?) later today, but for right now, I’m turning to Old Faithful:
She feels my pain.
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[tags]dogs, italian bureaucracy[/tags]
a considerable amount of nothing
Busy morning today without accomplishing anything whatsoever.
First P pointed out to me that “la tempesta perfetta“ just might be brewing over the Ionian Sea.
Those clouds looked more ominous in person, I swear. If only I had a more powerful camera! I know. I’m never satisfied.
Then, sporadically throughout the morning, one of my neighbors (who normally lives in Hawaii) and her visiting friend delivered many perishable food items, and I’m not complaining. They’re off for Rome, so all that good stuff would’ve only gone to waste/be thrown away.
I think we’ll be eating a lot of cheese today and tomorrow. And again, I’m not complaining. I love me some cheese.
In addition, I also received some beautiful pink and white gigli. Of course since I’m oh-so-cultured, they are now in a big ole glass jar that I’m quite sure is meant for salami or something else to be submerged in olive oil.
In a past life in my house, though, the jar also temporarily housed a lizard that P brought home for me.
And you thought that he only brings me flowers. Hah! Clearly P knows that nothing says love like lizard.
Here are the lilies:
Also during this action-packed a.m., my full-time neighbor you all know and love stopped by to ask me to check on whether her Coca-Cola has expired. Her eyes aren’t as good as they used to be, so she has trouble seeing those little numbers. So do I many times, truth be told, especially when they’re coded in with other numbers and letters. These manufacturers sure can get tricky when they want to.
Anyway, I’m sure Anna Maria actually does want to know this information, but mostly it’s a ploy to give me a bottle of Coca-Cola. Or a bag of coffee. Or a container of milk. Or a can of tuna. You get the picture.
It all works out well because now I’ll pass along to her some of the goodies I received this morning.
Circle of Life–southern Italian style!
And then came P’s mom bearing the bread that P likes. Yes, they sell bread up here in the village, but it’s not baked in a wood-fired oven or by his friend in the Marina–two facts that make said bread inedible (according to P). So every few days, Mamma brings up a kilo of the good stuff just for her baby.
Mammone you say? Actually he’s not at all, but, you know, an Italian’s bread is not something you want to mess with. It could get ugly.
In other exciting news, I received my law school transcripts in the mail today. Those translation job people keep asking me for proof of my degrees, so I figure this will have to do for now since I don’t have my diplomas with me.
They’re big on this proof thing here, by the way. Guess a lot of Italians would (gasp!) lie about their credentials if they didn’t have to prove them. Or this could simply be the Italians’ love of documents rearing its (with any luck) paper-cutted head again.
The transcripts also have little stamps and seals, so that should even further satisfy them. Italians *love* stamps and seals, you know (although they prefer the kind you have to pay for).
I graduated law school 6 years ago (oh my goodness, I’m old) and, um, there are classes listed that I honestly don’t remember taking–and I did well in them! I’m talking about you, Trusts and Estates. I scored an A, which means it must’ve been an easy exam because right now I’d struggle to define even the most basic concepts about a trust or an estate.
Probably a good thing that I don’t practice, eh?
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[tags]law school transcripts, weather, stormy weather, clouds, lilies, flowers[/tags]
sunday scribblings: fantasy
I first saw Sunday Scribblings at Bella’s and the Bongga Mom’s blogs. Sunday’s always a slow day, so it’s perfect to have a built-in writing prompt–today’s is fantasy. I can’t say how future prompts will go, but this one went in a decidedly fictional direction.
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I sit under my favorite tree everyday now. Mommy told me that it’s a hemlock, and that it’s our state tree. I don’t really understand why a state has to pick one tree when it has so many different kinds. I wonder how the other trees feel, standing around being a part of our great state but not being picked. I think they must feel like the last kid picked for kickball at recess. Thank goodness that’s never me.
I’m not the most athletic girl in my class, but I’m tall and that seems to count for something in kickball-picking. I’m about six inches bigger than most of the boys and a lot of the girls, too. Mommy said the boys will catch up, but to tell the truth, I don’t want them to. I feel powerful when I can look down at the top of someone’s head and know whether they have dandruff.
I didn’t used to spend so much time under this tree. I used to be what everyone would consider a normal kid, I think. Used to play with the neighbor kids, ride our bikes, play school in the basement when it rained. But ever since my tenth birthday, about two months after Mommy died, I just haven’t felt like it. I don’t mean that suddenly I woke up on my tenth birthday an adult or anything, but that morning, I don’t know. It just felt childish to do those things.
I looked over at the bright red numbers on my alarm clock that morning and when I saw that 6:12 staring back at me, I knew it was time. Time to get up and be an adult. I looked out my window and saw that it had rained overnight, but now the sun was making everything sparkle just a little.
I threw my pink comforter decorated with huge lips off of me and put on my most adult outfit: a black skirt with little white flowers and a white button down sleeveless shirt, tucked in. Then I put on white socks that stop at the ankles and an old pair of black sneakers because I couldn’t find anything more adult to wear. Besides, Mommy wore sneakers sometimes too.
I brushed through my long, straight brown hair just like Mommy taught me, from the very top all the way to the very bottom, and all the way around. I decided to not put it in a ponytail today. I think maybe ponytails are for little girls.
I walked downstairs quietly, so I didn’t wake Daddy, just like that old board game I used to play when I was a kid. “Don’t Wake Daddy!” Do you know it? It really was a stupid game, but I guess there are some things you just don’t know until you’re big.
I went into the kitchen where our cat, Hermione, was waiting for her breakfast. No matter what time you get up, that cat’s always waiting for food. I guess you might notice that she’s named after a character in my favorite group of books. The one with the “Goblet of Fire” is the best one, if you ask me, but my best friend Loris would argue to the death about that. She says she likes the original best, but to tell you the truth, I think she’s only read the first one.
I put Hermione’s food in her dish and got down the Frosted Flakes from the cupboard. I don’t even have to use a chair anymore. And I never spill the milk anymore either. I’ll never forget when I learned that saying about not crying over spilled milk. One morning when I woke up first, I had done just that, spilled the milk and stood over it crying like a baby. Mommy must have heard me, because she came in and told me straight out, “Don’t cry over spilled milk,” and then she explained that sayings are sayings for a reason.
After that, she taught me to hold the bottom of the gallon with my other hand a little bit, and just like that, no spilled milk anymore. So really, the whole thing has never come up again, but I still like the saying.
It’s little things like that I think of when I’m under the tree. All the things Mommy used to do that I know no one else could ever do like her. And while I’m there, I like to pull out my drawing paper and colored pencils and pretend I’m a kid again, just sitting under my favorite tree without an adult care in the world.
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[tags]writing, fiction writing, short stories, flash fiction, sunday scribblings, fantasy[/tags]
making rainbows and answering age-old questions
How’s that for a lofty post goal?
Let’s start with rainbows.
It is often said that if you’re coming to Italy and want to blend in, you can’t go wrong if you bring a lot of black clothes. Are Italians afraid of color?
In clothes, perhaps, but I present to you this morning’s vehicle rainbow in the piazza:
There is actually a woman who has a purple car, but she must have gone out this morning.
The nerve!
Now if the rest of you will pardon me for a moment, I have some things to say to two people who found my blog while searching for answers that weren’t previously to be found here:
(1) To GoogleIsOurFriend#1: The Parthenon is Athens was built between 448-432 B.C. The Pantheon in Rome, if that’s per chance what you meant, was built from 118-126 A.D. Rome’s Coliseum was built between 70-82 A.D. That would make the Parthenon the oldest, followed by the Coliseum, and then the Pantheon.
Bravo for your interest in ancient history (or the fact that some teacher somewhere made you find this)!
(2) To GoogleIsOurFriend#2: I can’t imagine that there would be particular negative side effects (please note that the proper spelling is with an “e”) to smoking basil leaves other than the usual, general smoking ones, but I’m certainly no doctor so don’t take this as medical advice.
To be clear, I’m against smoking of all kinds, but I noticed you’re in California where you can buy medicinal marijuana. Maybe that’s an easier and more well-tested route? And call me an Italian herb purist, but I’m thinking the basil might just be of better use in a caprese salad or a nice pesto. But I don’t judge.
Bravo for your ingenuity!
Let it never be said that I don’t support my inadvertent readers and their quests for knowledge.
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[tags]cars, european cars, rainbows, parthenon, pantheon, coliseum, smoking basil, basil[/tags]
Michelle Kaminsky is an American attorney-turned-freelance writer who lived in her family's ancestral village in Calabria, Italy for 15 years. This blog is now archived.
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