Archive for the ‘why do they do that’ Category
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]
Malocchio: Conquering the Italian Evil Eye One Plastic Red Horn at a Time
The roots of the Italian superstition of malocchio (Evil Eye) are in envy, and its symptoms can include headache, excessive yawning, and a general malaise.
Read on...Navigating the Italian Health Care System
So I finally went and signed up for the Italian health care system. As expected, it wasn’t what I’d call a normal experience, but then again, it wasn’t awful, so I’m counting my blessings.
I walked into the local clinic, greeted by paint peeling off the walls. As an aside, I was told today that it’s a law in Italy that private service-oriented businesses must repaint their walls every year or risk fines/being shut down for a while. And come to think of it, I’ve never seen paint peeling off walls of bars or restaurants . . . but health care clinics and hospitals? Whole other story.
Anyway, there were two large rooms off of the main hallway (full of sick people), but only one of them had a person inside. Really far away from the door and at a really small desk. And he was wearing a rather bulky jacket despite the fact that it wasn’t even cold enough outside for it. Looked like he hadn’t quite settled in yet for the day, so he’d be in a good mood, right? I mean, it was only 10 a.m.
So I picked him for lack of any other choice.
I told him that I needed to register for the health care system. He merely raised his eyebrows.
I added that I had never been a part of the system because I just got my Italian citizenship. He asked where I’m from. Why that matters, I’m not sure, but I told him anyway.
Another three second pause and he said, “You need a certificate of citizenship.”
I told him I have an Italian ID card. FYI, this lists your citizenship on it.
“Codice fiscale?” he challenged. This is a tax code and like our Social Security number in the States.
“Got it.” Hah!
He told me I was going to have to have some pazienza and wait for his colleague to show up. Again, 10 a.m., so I’m not sure when we were expecting the mystery man. Any minute, I imagined, but the pazienza comment wasn’t very comforting.
So I sat down in the hall as far away from all the sickies as I could. I’m just shedding this nasty cough, so I’d rather not repeat the last two weeks. As I waited, two different people asked me questions about where to get some kind of receipts. Right. Um, I’m sitting in the hallway on a plastic blue chair. Maybe you should ask someone inside a room at a desk, mini as it is? But no problem. I took it as a compliment that I look knowledgeable. And not sick.
After just 20 minutes of clipping my fingernails to pass the time (I’m not lying; I forgot a book), the guy went out for a smoke, about 10 feet from me, glancing at me every now and again as if throwing subliminal messages to leave. At least that’s what I got through the haze.
When he finished, he came over to me, asked for my documents, and then took them and made photocopies. Note this verbal request because this is the last time this man spoke to me for a long while. Also note that this is the same man that told me I had to wait for his colleague who was nowhere in sight.
He motioned for me to follow him, and so I did. We walked down the hall past the sickies (I held my breath) and into another rather large room. Anyone who has ever been in an Italian waiting room of this sort knows the kinds of looks I got from the other plastic blue chair occupants. I fiddled with my ID card, stuffing it in and pulling it out of its plastic holder repeatedly to avoid the stares. I’m pretty sure they still hated me.
Two small desks inside this room. Not sure what the deal is with the mini-desks, but I imagine it has to do with funding issues. And the fact that Italy is the opposite of Texas, i.e., everything is smaller here.
He pushed out the visitor chair (padded!) and motioned for me to sit down. Then he typed some stuff into the late 80s model computer, wrote some more stuff on an application-like form, filled out a little card that I’d get to take with me — probably a good 10 minutes of complete and utter silence. The pen was broken off at the top so that the ink had leaked down the side a bit, and I couldn’t help but wonder why he didn’t just throw that one away and use one of the other 30 identical ones in a little cup on the desk.
Right. Funding? Are we sensing a trend?
He scared me a bit as he barked at me to choose a primary doctor; he literally only said “Dottore?” Luckily I already had a name ready. I hate to think I’d have had to ask for a list from which to choose.
A series of ink pads and stamps (bam! bam bam! bam! bam!), my signature (he pointed to the X), and I was holding my new (handwritten) health care card.
Then, I swear, the man gave me a little “ciao” wave like you’d give to a baby — scrunchy fingers, opening and closing rapidly. At least it wasn’t the backwards ciao, which would have been way too familiar for our relationship in my opinion. Although scrunchy fingers? Yeah, that was pushing it too.
So I left thinking that this guy maybe didn’t actually have the authority to do what he just did, being as though he wanted me to wait for his “colleague,” which I began to think was code for “boss.” But when I got home, I compared my card to P’s, and guess what? Same handwriting.
Guess it just wasn’t his turn to work, and he held out as long as could.
But then he must’ve felt sorry for me or something, so all is forgiven on my end.
And so I say, Signor Scrunchy Ciao: grazie mille! I am now free to injure myself.
Getting a Job in Italy
So remember when I mentioned a sort of interview the other day? When I was suffering from the flu (I’m mostly recovered now, thanks)?
Turns out that it was to be a kind of oral exam in front of a six-member commission. There were two candidates, another girl and me.
And I didn’t get the job. But neither did the other girl. Actually neither of us ended up even getting interviewed.
Have I mentioned that I love Italy?
Let’s start back at the beginning, about nine months ago.
My local health clinic called me with news that someone in the larger, regional agency needed some English translations. They were applying for European Union funding for a pilot project to help improve immigrant access to health care–and the application materials had to be in English. I had never done any translating, but the people at the clinic figured I was American, I knew some Italian, and they were desperate. I stepped in.
So I did the translation, and quite a few emails and letters thereafter, all gratis, as we say, with the understanding that if they did indeed receive the funding, I’d probably end up working with them–not so gratis.
Fast forward to October of 2006, and they got the funding. It was time to hire a translator/interpreter for the project. Well, since it’s a government-related job, they had to advertise the opening and do the whole interview process.
The people in charge happened to tell me about this the day before the materials were due. So I put everything together in an evening and was ready to go hand deliver the application packet to the Director of the health agency, a 45 minute drive away.
I stopped in the local clinic first, though, just to make sure I had everything, and Teresa, the woman I had been working with, told me that I could just send the packet the Italian equivalent of certified mail–that the postmark stamp would be enough. So I did.
You see where this is going right?
About a week after I sent the packet, I got a letter in the mail telling me to come for the oral exam/interview on January 3. So, last Wednesday, after making the 45 minute drive and waiting another hour and a half for the Director to show up, I was called inside the conference room. As I’m taking my coat off, they tell me not to bother, and explain that they can’t consider my application because it arrived after the deadline.
Hah!
I explained why that happened, but they didn’t much care. After all, why should I be able to rely on another person in their agency for correct information? That’d be a lot like the right hand knowing what the left is doing, and well, we all know that doesn’t happen much around here.
I was a little annoyed at this point, as you might imagine. It wasn’t so much the loss of the potential job part as the I felt like hell and then waited most of the morning only to find out they weren’t even going to speak to me part.
Um, why, then did you send me a letter telling me to come here? If you weren’t going to look at any application materials before we actually showed up, why not just tell us to just come and bring our things?
On my way home, I got a call from Teresa, and she told me that the other girl didn’t have the qualifications they wanted, so they didn’t end up interviewing her either. So on her behalf, I again ask why on earth we both had to go there to find these things out?
Talk about a huge waste of time!
But all is not lost. Teresa tells me that now we’ll do the whole thing again. They’ll advertise the post, I’ll send the stuff on time, and hopefully I’ll actually be interviewed this time. I’ll let you know.
And on the really bright side, on the way to the interview, I saw snow for the first time this year–on top of the Sila Mountains overlooking Catanzaro. Didn’t have the camera though. No room in my bag between all the nasty used tissues and cough drops.
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[tags]italian bureaucracy, bureaucracy in italy, employment in italy[/tags]
Operation Sky TV: Completed!
This morning I watched Will & Grace.
In English.
For the first time in three years.
Then I watched The Gilmore Girls, or as they call it here, Una Mamma per Amica. And now I’m watching some Ben Affleck Christmas film.
I’m finding that the voices I used to find so familiar now sound a bit strange.
Must be…all that English! Woohoo!
Now, is it wrong that I’m rethinking our New Year’s Eve plans because I’d rather be home with my Sky TV?
I know this probably isn’t very exciting for non-expats, but for those who have been or are in my shoes, you know what I’m talking about. I don’t plan on abusing my Sky TV privileges (after at least a few days of gluttony), but it’s nice to have choices.
To put this in perspective, let me describe what my television experience was like only yesterday:
There are 6 main Italian channels, three owned by RAI and three owned by the Former Prime Arsehole Minister Silvio Berlusconi. To say that these channels are overrun with game shows featuring scantily clad “dancers” is just the sad, offensive truth. And to point out that both sets of channels have extremely political slants as to what is shown on the news and other journalistic programs is a gross understatement.
There are occasionally decent movies, but a good six times out of ten they are blacked out so we can’t see them anyway. And then there’s the fact that they showed Legends of the Fall on Christmas night. But we’ve been through that.
Other programming includes political and soccer/calcio debating shows–sometimes together in the same discussion, always loud and obnoxious. The art of letting one person speak at a time and then waiting for a response is not practiced on RAI, Canale 5, or Italia Uno. And then there’s all the soccer games, many of which are blacked out anyway.
On the other hand, I must be fair. I do give props to basic cable’s travel and nature programs. They aren’t National Geographic or Discovery, but they’re not bad. I’ve learned about many little-known Italian locations and a lot of Italian history because of these. And Canale 5 does a few “fiction” shows that I like, such as RIS, which I mentioned yesterday.
But the biggest benefit to having only 6 channels all in Italian was that it *really* helped improve my language skills. Without Italian personalities like Paolo Bonolis and Maria De Filippi (oh, I’ll still be watching C’è Posta Per Te and Amici even though Maria kinda scares me), I just might be speaking Italian like Paris Hilton.
And let’s not forget that by watching only Italian-language television, I was truly immersed in a major part of the culture; I wouldn’t even know who Paolo and Maria are if I wasn’t forced by RAI and Berlusconi to bring them into my world. That’d be like an American not knowing Rosie O’Donnell from Oprah. Unthinkable, I know.
Quite honestly, without this invaluable cultural knowledge, I don’t think I’d ever truly feel a part of what’s going on around here. For better or worse, television plays a big role in many cultures, and Italy is no exception. In fact, television is often one of the only things around which I can build a conversation–especially with those who would rather discuss how to clean my stove than whether gay marriages should be sanctioned by the government.
Ah, bridging the great cultural divide one satellite dish at a time.
So, in sum, I don’t regret that I’ve gone three years without hearing Larry King’s voice (which I did finally hear this morning as CNN reran his interview with the late President Gerald Ford) as it made me the expat I am today. No doubt about it–drowning in Italian television helped me grow. But now I’m ready for Animal Planet, The History Channel, all the Fox stations, and, oh, so much more.
Welcome to my world, Sky TV. Baby girl’s all grows up.
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[tags]sky tv[/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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