Archive for the ‘love’ Category
A Pre-Valentine’s Day Chuckle
Some classic male/female humor leading up to San Valentino.
Read on...village games
I moved here three and a half years ago, but I still haven’t discovered even half of the gorgeous, unique, and interesting nooks and crannies of the village.
How can I be so sure?
Well, every time I find something simply amazing, P nods politely and tells me exactly where it is I’m talking about.
He rather enjoys bragging about how well he knows his medieval village. And know it he does–understandable as he has lived here all of his 28 years. Plus he’s a guy, so you know that most of those years were spent exploring the most obscure and likely dangerous spots.
So I’m taking him to task, calling his bluff, and pulling out every other cliché in the book (hah!) as we institute a little game I like to call “Dove cazzo è?” The clean version would be “Where the heck is it?” and it works like this:
(1) I roam the village taking random shots of things.
(2) He has to tell me where I’ve found them–all of them.
(3) Loser cooks dinner and cleans up afterwards.
Here are this round’s pictures:
This is not one of the famed door knockers as you might think. It’s actually a fancy place to hook up your donkey outside the house. This was the easiest of the photos, as it’s not too far from P’s house.
But then I turned up the heat:
A random orange in a random tree. Somewhere. Right? How could one pinpoint it?
Close-up of a door. In a tiny alley. A good distance from where we live.
So? How’d we do?
Tonight I’m making that artichoke dish from last week’s What’s Cooking Wednesday if anyone would like to join us. I’ll even let you dry the dishes. (But not put away the silverware.)
And then we’ll go out and find much more challenging pictures.
Just wanted to give him a false sense of security for the first go-around.
————
[tags] calabria, donkey rings, oranges, life in calabria, wooden doors, wood[/tags]
Love Thursday: Flowering Surprises
During my first date with P, he disappeared for a few minutes while snipping a miniature rose off of a nearby bush. Keeping his reputation safe as village flower thief, the other day when he took the chicken photos, he also showed up with something else for me–our first mandorla blossom this season. This wasn’t technically thieving, though, as the tree is ours.
FYI, usually February brings these dainty flowers, but I suppose the temperate weather has fooled them.
In the sunshine:
And at sunset:
Happy Love Thursday everyone!
—————
[tags]love thursday, mandorla, almonds, almond blossoms, blossoms, flowers[/tags]
Post-Christmas Wrap-Up
No, this picture hasn’t technically cleared the censors (P), but, in true holiday spirit, I’m going to do what I want and then hide the results. The real reason I’m posting this photo is to announce that I now have my very own digital camera!
Babbo Natale was extra generous this year, although he did require that I brave the nasty two-days-before-Christmas weather of driving rain and wind in order to earn my prize. But it’s all good, folks–
We’re here and we’re taking pictures!
Nothing in Italy is ever easy though, folks (fellow expats, can I get an Amen?), and neither was acquiring my brand new Acer CS-6530.
After arriving in the town where I’d be shopping (half hour away), I walked into the store I had, weeks before, secretly chosen as my vendor of choice. In the window interspersed with various available photography-related products were lots of wedding portraits, but even that didn’t stop me from attempting to buy there.
So what did stop me? The clerk.
Rude? No.
Unhelpful? Sort of, but not exactly.
The real reason I didn’t end up buying from this store was because this guy wouldn’t sell me anything! I shuffled into the store after shaking off any excess water that had gathered on the brim of my baseball cap (worn only in the heaviest rains here), the hood that was over the hat, and my rain jacket. As I wiped my feet on the benvenuti mat, I asked the clerk to see the Fuji camera in the window.
The following exchange ensued, translated for your reading pleasure:
Cute elderly man: Oh we don’t have Fuji, but we do have Sony, Canon, Acer….
Me: But I saw a Fuji in the window.
CEM: Oh, really? Well this is my son’s store. I’m just filling in for him.
Me: That’s nice of you. Can I see the camera?
CEM: I don’t know anything about the cameras. My son’s the one that can tell you about which one you’d need, how to set it up, the warranty. I’m just a 70-year-old man. I don’t know about these things.
Me: Right, but I know a little about cameras myself, and I know which one I want.
CEM: But I can’t sell you one without my son here.
Me: I see. Will he be back soon?
CEM: Tomorrow.
So that was my first attempt to buy a camera. Now, granted, the guy may have been doing me a favor and doing the ethical thing by not selling me something he had no idea about, but since when am I looking for ethics in a commercial enterprise? I’m American, damn it! At the time I was just fearing that I wouldn’t find another option and I’d be without a camera (again) for Christmas.
The spirit of Babbo smiled upon me, though, and in the next store, the ever-important son *was* there. Mom was too, but Helpful Son explained the differences between the cameras they had, set up the date and language on mine, and sent me on my merry way.
So for the past couple days, I’ve been playing around with the settings and generally learning how to take advantage of all its features. Today was the first sunny day, so I haven’t had much opportunity to get out there in the field. I’m finding that it’s rather user-friendly, though, and I think that figuring out the lighting and closeness stuff will all become natural very soon.
But imagine how much more I’d have to learn if the Cute Elderly Man had actually agreed to sell me something. So, as it turns out, I am grateful to CEM for not selling me a camera. Think I should go back and tell him, or better yet, his son?
Anyway, that was/is my big excitement this holiday season. P didn’t feel well Christmas Eve, so instead of going out, we stayed home and ate Italian wedding soup (recipe to be tomorrow’s What’s Cooking Wednesday). Can’t complain there.
We spent Christmas morning in the piazza, offering up “auguri” greetings to one and all, and then had a quiet lunch, just the two of us, at home. We did linguine agli scampi (linguine with prawns), which just may be the dish next Wednesday. Oh the suspense!
We were invited to his sister’s house, but we reasoned that since P already didn’t feel very well, hours of screaming children probably wouldn’t help. So, aside from eating, we spent a lot of the rest of the day on the phone talking to his brothers and sisters and their families spread around Italy and France.
I had spoken to my family on Christmas Eve, so the evening was free for movie-time. P made popcorn old-fashioned-like on the stove, and we watched The Italian Job, which was one of his Christmas gifts. Neither of us had ever seen it before, and I have to admit that I kinda loved it. A lot. I can’t wait to watch it in English when he’s not around.
Then we watched what is perhaps the least appropriate Christmas flick of all time–Legends of the Fall. I kid you not, this is what Italy’s Canale 5 featured last night for the family to gather around.
Has anyone ever seen a more depressing movie that didn’t include the Holocaust? If so, please let me know so that I don’t happen upon them either, particularly on Christmas.
I had never seen Legends, and let me tell you, I can’t imagine a circumstance in which I’d ever want to watch it again. If only the children had died gruesome, violent deaths, too, it would’ve really instilled the Christmas spirit deep within.
By the way, I hope I’m not spoiling anything for the one other person out there who hadn’t seen it as of yesterday.
Legends aside, though, we had a lovely Christmas. And around sunset, the pink in the sky told me we’d be having a sunny day today, finally, so, like I said, it’s all good:
And finally, Happy Saint Stephen’s Day to those who celebrate (like us in Italy) and Happy Boxing Day to our friends in Canada, Britain, Australia, and New Zealand, but let’s all take a moment to remember the victims of the December 26, 2004 tsunami.
My Move to Italy and the House of Violets
The back of my house rests on Vico Fiore, loosely Flower Street, and so all the houses have (informally) been given flowery names. Mine is “Casa delle Violette,” or the House of Violets.
I’ve always loved violets and my favorite color is purple, but that’s certainly not what sold me on the house and living in Italy. Didn’t hurt though either.
I’m a believer in fate and destiny and all that stuff, and although I’m not one to wait for Signs From Above before I make a big decision, I do keep my eyes open for little clues that tell me I’m on the right (or wrong) track.
Looking back, it seems my path to Italy was, and is, paved in violets.
I came to Italy for the first time in the summer of 2002, eight months after the death of my Italian- American grandmother. Born in America to Italian immigrants, she had never even visited, and at that time, I was reaching deeper into our family’s history than anyone ever had.
And so, when I stumbled upon a falling down mess optimistically called the House of Violets in my family’s ancestral village, I was obliged to take a second look.
Anyone who knew her knew that my grandmother’s favorite color had been purple, which dotted her house even though the rest of the color scheme was firmly 1970s browns and rusts. I even wore a deep purple suit to her funeral because it had been her favorite of all my dreary lawyer-wear.
I had developed quite a fondness for the color over the years myself, going from my favorite pink as a little girl to blue as a young adult and now settling on a color that combined them–purple is as calming, solid, and safe as blue but mixes in pink’s playfulness and innocence.
After seeing the house the first time, I went back to where I was staying to record the day’s events in the journal my friend had given me before the trip. I laughed to myself as I saw what graced the textured lavender cover: a lone violet protected by a clear plastic, raised box.
So as the trip went on, I started to imagine what life might be like in a southern Italian village. I didn’t have very much time there on that trip, so I knew I’d have to return. And I did a few times before making the big move, which, to be clear, was not so big in my mind at the time–I was planning on a couple years tops.
But through all the thinking and evaluating, another incident stuck in mind. Upon returning from that first trip, I lugged my bags upstairs to my bedroom in my Philadelphia apartment. While I was gone, a friend took care of my cat and plants–yes, I’m anal enough that I drew a map of all the plants and a chart of watering frequency (thanks Sue!). All still alive downstairs (including Kudzu kitty), the last plant left for me to check up on was the one on my nightstand–my prized collection of African violets.
Well, to be honest, it was a collection of African violet leaves. Three Easters before, my Mom had gotten me three of them planted together in a flat, white basket. There were lots of pink and purple flowers when I got them, and although I had kept the leaves green and furry for years, I hadn’t seen a flower again after I snapped off the last dying one from its original bloom.
But there, upon returning from my first trip to Italy, with thoughts of transferring my life overseas floating around my mind, wouldn’t you know it? Three deep purple violets had bloomed in my absence.
The House of Violets.
Three rooms. Three flowers. Alrighty then. So here I am, probably pushed by violets (better than pushing *up* violets, eh?). And after living here for about a year and a half, I met P.
And just in case I was beginning to wonder whether life in Calabria is for me, whether I should be trying to talk P into moving to the States, a few months ago, P’s mom gave me…yeah, this is getting weird isn’t it? I saw the furry leaves one day at her house, and she told me that although the plant had flowers originally, it hadn’t bloomed since. So she passed it to me. I think the violets are happy here.
And for those who can’t get enough of this: the African violet is of the genus Saintpaulia. My grandmother’s name was Paulina. And a clever reader might take a stab on what follows the P in P’s name.
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.
Calabria Guidebook
Recipes
