How Little We Know

I can't resist commenting on the cultural differences that leave me astounded and often helpless as I trek through this strange new world. There will be more, I am sure.

Toilets have no seats--ladies, think about every time you have drunkenly sat on a toilet seat that some inconsiderate male before you has forgotten to put back down. You know that sensation that you're about to fall in? Now imagine that every time you go to use the loo. Terrifying. Sorry Mom, but those super handy toilet seat covers you insisted I bring need actual seats in order to be useful. But they do make beautiful origami swans.

On the upside, every restroom has a bidet! Just kidding that that is an upside. I cannot for the life of me figure out how they are used. Even less so do I have the desire to. I am certain, based upon the way they are structured, I would only succeed in squirting the water everywhere but where it is meant to go and ruining yet another pair of pants. But the mental image of people using them is worth it.

You can park anywhere you like--meaning on the sidewalks or facing opposing traffic. You can even stop your car in the middle of driving it down the street, with no warning to drivers behind you in traffic, if you suddenly decide that you absolutely cannot CONTINUE without an espresso right at that moment. The resulting chaos is no concern of yours.

You can smoke hash anywhere--all right, those of you who live in Venice Beach probably believe that this is already being done. But I don't mean covertly, while your eyes dart to and fro on the lookout for roving cops, and a weed-induced paranoia destroys your high. I mean, you can smoke it while dining on the patio at an outdoor cafe, while sitting at the dinner table when you're invited to dinner, while on the job at the local restaurant in town (in the back room, where I assume they believe the smoke will remain unnoticed by the patrons). I have yet to discover if you can roll a joint in broad daylight. But if I had to venture a guess...

Stoplights and stop signs are a nuisance--And in some places, like Napoli, they actually seem to be optional. Drivers also must score extra points for mowing down pedestrians. The irony is that there don't seem to be any traffic accidents. Maybe because the drivers aren't talking to their agents, while checking emails on their blackberry, while being consumed with the mistaken belief that they are the only person on the road who has somewhere important to be. A funny thing also is that you can drive your Vespa on the sidewalk, which I don't think is really allowed, since the drivers always seem to be in the WORLD'S BIGGEST HURRY to get back on the road. However, this makes scoring extra points for vehicular manslaughter exponentially more likely.

Sinks in public restrooms are operated by foot peddle--this was very confusing for me. In the States, when a faucet has no handle, you assume its one of those fancy automatic ones. Which, on more than one occasion, has left me with sticky, soapy hands waving frantically at an imaginary sensor, and desperately trying to determine how to say in Italian, "how do you make the sink work?" without feeling like the world's most pathetic idiot. Fortunately, I have discovered the secret of the foot peddle. Which in truth, makes a lot more sense if you are attempting to conserve water than the auto sensor sinks which seem to never actually be able to sense your hands, and the auto flush toilets that flush AT LEAST a hundred times during one pee.

Elevators require you to feed the meter--THIS was amazing to me. I stood in the elevator for a full two minutes until I realized that nothing was going to happen, at which point I noticed a machine on the wall with instructions written only in Italian. Fortunately, after a month here, I know how to deduce when something is asking me to insert 10 cents. But what about tourists who come for a week and know nothing? How do they survive?! Nevermind if you are laden with luggage and your hostel happens to be on the 7th floor. Or if, as happened to me, you have barely managed to drag your ragged, exhausted, having walking 500 miles all over Naples self to the elevator, dreaming of siesta, only to discover that within the 3 pounds of euro coins you have lugged around all day, you have not one single 10 cent piece. I mean really.

It ain't kosher--If you have an aversion to pork, you might as well cross a visit to Italy off your list of things to do before you die right this instant. In Italy, pig is the drug of choice. I have to laugh when I go to order a panino and my choices are mortadella, proscuitto, parma, or salame, all of which are kinds of pork. In many restaurants you can get myriad types of pasta in wild boar sauce. I am certain that animal-flavored sauces are something that I have not yet worked up to. Especially when we're talking swine sauce. And don't think you can escape the pork police by ordering fruit--your pineapple will come draped in delicate layers of...you guessed it, pork! Before I had even noticed this trend, I stopped and took the accompanying picture because I thought it was so funny that a store that specialized in making ceramic miniatures of things--people, elves, wee villages--had an entire bowl of tiny ceramic hamhocks.

Things That Make You Go Hmmm...

Would anyone like to venture a guess as to what this means? Note the pervy expression on the duck's face before forming your conclusion.

The Philosophy of Affection

Palermo is an electric city—gritty, raw, and frenzied. As with Naples, it was love at first sight for me because it evokes everything that there is to love about New York. It stands in stark contrast to Syracuse, the sleepy seaside town, recently reconstructed and thusly pristine; a town that so profoundly appealed to my peace-seeking, introspective side. In Palermo, on the other hand, I knew the party girl in me would have no shortage of entertainment.

Unfortunately, constantly moving to a new city every few days, sporting bruised shoulders caused by a heavy backpack, and having no time for the important things (like writing) or the mundane (like doing laundry), wears on you eventually. And it was here, in the city with the most exciting “to do” list that I hit that wall.

The night I arrived, it was already dark and raining, and I succeeded only in having my worst meal yet (see "Beef Feet" post) before bedtime. The following day, the allure of free wi-fi in the privacy of my room kept me in doors until lunchtime, when I was forced to go do laundry by the prospect of not wearing any underwear for the next few days. Which, as a point of fact, is all the motivation I need. I was annoyed to discover that my tiny pile of clothing would cost 10 euro to wash and dry and that the restaurant next door that proclaimed “Pizzeria” on the sign, was out of pizza, which was all I was in the mood for. Add to that the fact that I was being especially timid with my Italian today, so everyone was looking at me as if I was speaking Martian. By the time lunch and laundry were completed, it was siesta and all the tourist sights that I particularly wanted to see were closed. Having reached my aggravation threshold, I resolved that the only thing that would make me feel better was a giant bottle of beer and an even larger bag of homemade Sicilian pastries. Armed with these items, I went back to bed.

Come evening, however, I knew that a cabin-fever induced leap off my third story balcony was impending. I cheered myself up with the idea to go on a citywide search of a few specific Sicilian delicacies I especially wanted to try. I would set out for a certain restaurant which I happened to know served one of the items and read every menu along the way, in search of the others. The restaurant with the greatest number of offerings on my list would be the winner. The location of my final destination, however, was not well researched and was therefore about a minute and a half away from my hotel. And after having traversed a very dark backalley in a city not well known for its safety, I decided I had better stay put.

Outside, there were only two diners who, within moments of my arrival, insisted I sit with them. Giovanni spoke maybe 100 words of English. Giuseppe spoke none. They had already ordered their starter and there was a mountain of mussels on their table. Mussels were not on my list, and I’ve never been terribly fond of them anyway. It wasn’t ideal. But to be truthful, I wasn’t in the mood to be alone.

Sometimes when you are forced out of your comfort zone, you make amazing discoveries. The mussels were spectacular. And when there’s absolutely no alternative, I speak pretty decent Italian. I’d say we had about 40% comprehension. Not bad considering I have never not been within shouting distance of someone who could translate. As it turned out, the guys were friends of the owners, so at any given moment we had one of them, or for that matter, any number of passing locals at our table, helping to make a dent in our prosecco. We were also joined by Marcello, the middle son of Andrea, the proprietor and namesake of the establishment. At 13, it was easy to see that Marcello will grow up to be a heartbreaker. He kept telling me how beautiful I was. In fact everyone kept talking about how beautiful everyone was. Giovanni asked again and again if I thought Marcello was “bello.” Marcello explained, completely unprovoked, that his older brother was very handsome. He also wanted to know whom I believed to be the best looking of the three of them. I whispered in his ear, that I thought he was (which was actually 100% accurate).

It occurred to me as I watched all of this unfold that affection is a tangible entity in Italy. The fact that male twenty-something’s greet one another with a gentle touching of cheeks is heart-meltingly endearing. They grab each other around the back of the neck and are simultaneously pulled into a momentary embrace. A legitimate bodily connection. None of this puffed-chest, back-slapping, pseudo-hug nonsense that a society that has yet to overcome homophobia has instilled in us as the norm. This philosophy of affection is painted all over the country like a cheerful fresco, from the couples making out with unabashed fervor on a park bench to the tender way in which children are handled. Although unrelated, Giovanni held Marcello’s face gently in his giant palm and playfully chatted with him about school. And Marcello, for his part, didn’t flinch, and was as giving of his warm hugs with Giovanni as he was with me. It felt overwhelming, this pervasive love that can capture anyone in its tantalizing net; anyone, that is, who takes the time to notice, to appreciate, and to succumb to it.

After a beautiful four-course dinner, Andrea opened a bottle of the most delicious substance I have ever tasted. It is a dessert wine called Braghetto, produced in-house and not available for sale anywhere else. Made from Muscat grapes and amarena cherries, it is sweet, make no mistake, but I could sip a small glass of this every night for the rest of my life. Without even asking the price, I insisted on buying a bottle.

Although I was clearly basking in the glow of this warm display of human nature, graciously accepting Umberto the waiter’s insistence that I spoke wonderful Italian, and nursing a glass of this sweet ambrosia, I was keenly aware of the flipside of all this loving behavior. The side that we American girls, about to embark on a solo backpacking jaunt to Italy, are repeatedly warned about. In a society where so much man-handling is the norm, clear lines never seem to be drawn in the sand about what is an acceptable amount of touching amongst strangers. The boys, who had hardly let me pay for anything, despite the fact that I had bought a bottle of wine, had already asked me to join them at the discotheque. I was loathe to get into a car with two strangers, and I made certain that our destination was not more than a short cab ride away. To be clear, it is nearly impossible to judge someone’s character when you can only understand 40% of what they are saying. So I had to decide based on other factors.

The pros: (1) They knew everyone in the restaurant, men who were terrifically kind, accommodating, and not at all creepy, and who even knocked 30 euro off the bill. (2) They also knew everyone on the street, people who seemed eager to stop with a smile and say hello. Although I suppose this could also have meant that they were drug dealers. And (3) the way they were with Marcello was so loving and gentle, and he seemed so keen on spending our entire meal with us, that I became enamored with this perceived inherent goodness.

The cons: (1) Within moments of my sitting down, Giovanni had asked if I had a boyfriend. (2) At some point he said something along the lines of I should open my home in LA to him, the way he was opening his home in Palermo to me. When I said “I don’t understand,” he said, “You don’t want to.” Hmmm.

Fast forward. Suffice it to say, I survived the evening. But not without experiencing first hand just what the can happen when this philosophy of affection kicks in to high gear. Never mind that this affection is clearly (in your perspective, anyway) unrequited. Never mind that no matter what enormous sum the man is willing to blow on yet another round of tequila shots, you are on your guard—aware of where your belongings are at all times—and how quickly you would have to run to reach the exit before he notices, so under no circumstances are you getting drunk. Never mind that you have asked everyone in the club who speaks English what they think of these guys in an attempt to save yourself if they are, indeed, the local salesmen of vital organs on the black market. Never mind that at some point it all becomes like bad slapstick when Giovanni takes your face and squeezes it like a vice so that you cannot escape his kiss, while your limbs flail like a cartoon character and you pry him off by pressing the entirety of your upper body strength into his nose—HARD—with your fist. In the States (and if it were not happening to me) this would be the making of an evening of hilarious entertainment. In Italy, no one laughs. No one even seems to notice. Perhaps they have just become immune to the sight of female tourists struggling to come up for air. But the icing on the tiramisu was that after Giovanni’s repeated amorous failings, Giuseppe, who’s baby being born that day I could swear we had been celebrating at dinner, had to try his luck. Evidently, nearly punching a friend in the nose is no deterrent for an Italian man on a mission. 

So I think it is safe to conclude that in the subject of procreation, Italian men, exhibiting no fear of humiliation, ethical obligation, or physical pain, get an “A” for effort.

Rosario Macaroni

I’m told Taormina is beautiful. Especially in the summer. And probably also in the light. I wouldn’t know because due to a little directional snafu, it was dark when I arrived, and pouring rain. Fortunately for me, the town has a wonderful little restaurant frequented by locals despite its very un-Italian name—Cafe O’Neil. The owner, Salvatore, will see to it that you try the amazing, locally produced almond wine, and perhaps, if you chat him up for a bit, even a free dessert.

Taormina also is home to an ancient Greek Amphitheatre that is also purportedly spectacular—when it’s visible. But considering that my few hours in town in the morning were spent sprinting through sheets of torrential rain, and trying to take pictures through a drop speckled lens, I wouldn’t really know. But the other thing Taormina has is Rosario Macaroni, an abundantly friendly little old man, who wouldn’t leave my side. I met him on the way to the bus and he insisted on driving me to the site of the ruins. When he turned on the car, Welcome to the Jungle sprang forth from the radio at top volume.

On route, we had to stop for a cappuccino. But we had to make it quick, because Rosario Macaroni doesn’t like to pay for permits to park legally.

Rosario spent our time together trying to get me to cancel the next leg of my trip, and offering to let me stay in his home for as long as I liked. He walked me to the ruins, so that he could hold the umbrella, which meant that I had to walk hunched over while the umbrella pressed firmly against the top of my head, or risk being decapitated by it. I finally gave up the awkward hunchbacked ambling and put on the ridiculously over-sized poncho that my mother insisted I bring. Rosario took one look at me and cracked up.

At the end of our time together, Rosario Macaroni dropped me off at the train station after sadly explaining that he was going home to cook for himself, after which he would watch tv by himself, and then go to sleep by himself. I realized that perhaps he thought his meeting me might have the potential to change all the “by himself” parts of that story. I smiled, promised to call him, and walked away wondering, yet again, if a plague wiped out every male born in Italy between 1970 and 1980.

But despite the fact that they all seem to be 20, 55 or 70, the size of their hearts is the same.

Beef Feet

In Palermo, Sicily, I had my worst Italian meal ever. I hope. I didn’t take any pictures, nor do I remember the name of the restaurant. I’m trying with all of my will to bury the memory deep within the folds of my brain, where my most embarrassing moments and most horrific illnesses also reside. A place from whence this particular moment in time will, optimistically, never reemerge.

In all fairness, it wasn’t any fault of the restaurant. They offered a three-course meal for 13 euro, and I jumped at the opportunity to have a lot of good, cheap food. For the appetizer, there were many mouth-watering offerings. But for some reason, I was feeling adventurous, and asked instead, for the chef’s choice. This caused the waiter to get curiously flustered, as he tried to explain something to me about what it entailed. The one word he said in English? Beef.

“Ah beef! Si. Mi piace.” (Ah, beef! Yes. I like it).

What arrived was an array of pickled vegetables and some strips of, I guess beef, along with a delicious eggplant involtini, and what looked suspiciously like a stuffed, rolled sardine. One of the vegetables was an unidentifiable thing, kind of an opalescent, whitish-yellow with a soft interior, like seeds inside a cucumber. I popped it into my mouth, but it was nearly impossible to chew. It had the texture of undercooked pasta—I thought maybe it was some kind of fibrous root vegetable that was, well, undercooked. Regardless, it was far from delicious.

The funny thing about my comprehension of the Italian language is that I always figure out what people are trying to tell me. About five minutes after the fact. So as I was scrutinizing the alien vegetable and thinking to myself, “Is that hair?..” it dawned on me that what my server had been saying was “piedi.” Feet. His mistake was saying, “beef,” which caused my brain to go in to English mode and disregard the rest. So I had just eaten a very large, foul-textured piece of beef foot, or cow hoof to the layman. For any of you who have ever had pickled pig’s feet, I imagine that this is quite similar. For those of you who are normal, you can understand that this was a revolting revelation. Which left me, after eating the non-alien vegetables, and the eggplant thing, with a piece of extremely fishy fish (after all, sardines are the fishiest there is) complete with skin and bones (I don’t even eat the crispy skin on chicken); the meat, which was very fatty, flavorless, and eerily tender; and a pile of hooves.

Now it was starting to sink in than in addition to saying “piedi,” the server had also been gesturing to his face. I couldn’t remember the word, but I figured it was something like “cheek,” or “tongue,” or worse, “brain.” I think I’ve had beef cheeks before, and I had tongue a few weeks ago, and it was actually quite good. But I really had reached my threshold for risk taking so I practically held my nose and slid the rest of the meat and the sardine down my throat. Mom always taught me to clean my plate. The hooves however, were not going anywhere.

My second course was mushroom ravioli in a sauce of three tomatoes. Not too scary, I figured. The three types of tomatoes appeared to be sun-dried, cherry, and heirloom. But the sauce was brown and tasted odd. I wondered if it was flavored with beef stock. And the mushrooms were pungent, and tasted almost like…fish. It was practically like eating fish ravioli in beef sauce. But perhaps I just had fish and beef on the brain.

The best part of the whole experience was the three hours of sardine burps afterwards. I recently heard a Sicilian man say, “A day without sardines is like a life without sex.” I’ll let you eat some fish bones and burp for three hours and then decide which is the worse evil. I know my answer.

If Capri Isn't Heaven...

Nope. You're gonna have to wait for the book on this one...

The Enemies of Fun

These little demons may stand in the way of your expectations of a fabulous island getaway, a mud bath, and a little torture.
By torture, I am referring to Ischia’s Museum of Torture, located in the Castello Aragonese, which is reason number one that I decided to visit the island. Reasons two and three were the purported beauty of the destination and the abundance of mineral springs and mud baths available to all who desire to make use of them.
However, I had not counted on a cast of characters and circumstances conspiring to make my relaxing visit more on par with stabbing white-hot pokers into my eyeballs while being serenaded by the sound of children throwing temper tantrums. I urge you to keep an eye out for these pesky villains throughout your own adventures.

The Charming Swindler—He Will Make You Miss The Boat

I made one last stop in Naples, determined to catch the one tourist-y thing I had yet to do—the Duomo (chapel). I’m grateful I did, because it was the single most stunning piece of architecture I have seen in my life to date. I did not, however, plan on being accosted by a very charming, very handsome, slightly older Italian gentleman who offered to give me a tour. I had sort of planned to pop in and pop out, since I was on a tight deadline to catch the hydrofoil to Ischia. But of course, with so generous an offer from such a cute guy, I said yes, and proceeded to be led around by this very knowledgeable and VERY patriotic Neapolitan. I got way more out of being guided by him than I would have otherwise. And then, after about 50 minutes more than I had planned on staying, he held out his hand. I smiled, batted my eyelashes, and shook it, thanking him profusely in Italian. Then slowly I realized, when he didn’t go away, that he wasn’t looking for signs of affection, or my phone number. He simply wanted the money that I was so jealously guarding during my days in the expensive big cities. And I was a sucker.

The Union—It Will Leave You Stranded

When I arrived on Ischia, two hours later than planned, I was rarin’ to go. However, the nice man at the tourist office informed me that my hotel was really, really, really far away from the main harbor, and that the only way to reach it without paying through the nose was to take a bus. And the bus drivers were on strike. For the next four hours. And since the idea of wandering the island with my entire worldly possessions on my back did not appeal to me, I settled for having a cappuccino and planning the rest of my day, thinking that the first bus out would be at 2:15.
But the 2:15 bus evidently leaves at 2 every third Tuesday in all months ending in “y.” And waiting for the 2:30 bus seems like a good idea, except for when it is, in actuality, a 3 o’clock bus, as was the case today.

Hidden Hotels—And Cheshire Cat City Planners

Elsewhere in Italy, each bus depot lists all the stops the bus makes, so that you can determine exactly where you need to get off. In Ischia, however, they only list final destinations. So when I saw two signs for my hotel in the span of a minute, I figured I must be very near. I was wrong. From where I got off, I still had to walk 1.5 km to reach my destination. Up the world’s steepest incline. With 40 lbs of crap on my back. And in my arms. And around my waist. As I got closer to the hotel, the directional signs disappeared. There were no maps, no further signs with my hotel's name on them, and nothing was open so that I might ask someone, seeing as it was siesta at the moment. The street my hotel was located on appeared to be a tiny alley, hidden from mainstream society in a back corner that any logical person would completely overlook. Which is ironic considering that I booked the hotel through Expedia.com. Baffled by this directional inconsistency, I half expected to encounter a sign that said Hotel Internazionale, under which lay two arrows pointing in opposite directions. This seemed perfectly reasonable, considering that though the address was #33, it came after numbers 7, 9, 13, 45, 30 and 37, in that order. I determined that if I did everything that was counterintuitive, I would survive this island.

The Misguided Concierge—He’s Far Too Busy Playing With His Beribboned Poodle To Be Bothered With Your Needs

At dinnertime, I asked for a non-touristy restaurant where I could get pasta, and was told by the man at reception that I should head to the docks and eat at a place called Mezzanotte, or midnight. I should mention that the docks are just about the only place where the tourists are certain to be, and that the restaurant, which was closed on this particular night, every week of the year, only served pizza. I should also mention that he told me that the last bus back to my obscure part of the island left the station at 12 am.

I waited for the bus to the docks in the town square for at least a few centuries. In the rain. With an Italian girl who was simply furious, and kept barking angry questions at me in Italian. Each time she did this, I repeated, “I don’t speak Italian,” but she continued to hurl her contempt at life and the aggravating bus situation in my general direction. I was relieved when we finally got on the bus, and the driver became the target of her very focused tantrum, which lasted the full thirty minutes back to the marina. When they parted ways with a flirty, “ciao,” and a kiss, I realized that this is just how Neapolitans sound when they are conversing, so perhaps the young lady had not confused me with the person responsible for causing all the buses to be an hour and a half behind schedule.

The Dead Battery—Only Happens When You Need It Most

I found a lovely restaurant that was practically empty, overlooking the bay, and absolutely devoured a pizza and a half bottle of wine, reasoning that the nearly unbearable trek up the side of a mountain justified eating every last bite. I headed back to the station at around 11:20. At which point, I made the discovery that the last bus to my part of the island left at 11:05, as it does every night of the year, and not at midnight. Also, evidently, it is the only bus all day in all of Ischia, which leaves promptly when it is scheduled to leave. In my annoyance, I decided to call the proprietor of my hotel and demand that he come pick me up. But the cell phone I am borrowing from Sue and Ross was dead.

Fortunately, another driver on a different route took pity on me and let me off at a stop not officially on his route. He looked apologetic as he explained that I still had a ten or fifteen minute walk, and it was up a rather steep hill. I looked out the door of the bus, looked back at the driver, and grinned. I recognized it. By now I was a pro. It would have been nice to have had a mud bath when I got back, but I think I fell asleep with my shoes still on.

I figured I might still catch the Museum of Torture (which I now believed to be quite apropos of the island) early the next morning before embarking for Capri. After a terse scolding to the concierge about the bus schedule and a refusal of the coffee I so desperately wanted, out of fear I might miss the bus, I had the pleasure of waiting two hours for it to arrive. This was because the buses were labeled differently than it stated on the sign, and differently than they had been the night before, so I let two go by without realizing that the CS bus also traveled the F bus route (because it’s perfectly obvious, isn’t it). I reached the marina just in time to catch the one and only boat to Capri, and to bid Ischia goodbye, and good riddance.

But perhaps only by journeying through hell, are we truly able to appreciate heaven. And if Capri isn’t heaven, then I refuse to die.

More Than Boiling Water

Old Italian women who make pasta from scratch like nimble, little, gray-haired Tasmanian devils are worthy of mad respect. They have muscles that we pretty little city kids can never even dream of having. I discovered this the hard way...

Sue and I decided to undertake the culinary adventure of making pumpkin filled agnelotti, known in the States as tortellini. Because I had no idea what this entailed, I was thrilled to offer to help. We started by making the dough, out of flour and egg. That's it? Boy, was this going to be easy! As she measured the flour, Sue explained that in older, poorer times, pasta was made from flour and water, with egg pasta reserved for the wealthy, or for the poor masses on special occasions. Once the ingredients are mixed you must knead the dough by hand until it is thoroughly combined. I volunteered to do the honors.

Considering that the amount of liquid is almost negligible, kneading pasta dough by hand is on par with trying to manipulate cement that is mere moments from setting. It took me about twenty minutes of hand-cramping agony before Sue deemed the pasta dough "good enough." During the process I commented that I now understand why pasta making machines are such a godsend. She merely looked perplexed and commented, "Oh. They're really just for help with the rolling." Clearly she considered this the easy part. Hmmm.

While the dough was resting, Sue made an amazing savory filling of pumpkin, parmesan, oregano, and salt. It was so delicious that I could have eaten a bowl full of it all by itself. It is important to note that pumpkins here are closer to gourds than they are to the softer, apparently flavorless kind that we so gleefully carve into whimsical or scary expressions at Halloween. This means that cutting into one takes a team of three men, or perhaps, a machete. Peeling off the skin will involve at least an hour of your afternoon and in the aftermath, will render your potato peeler completely dull and useless. Then you must cook the pieces over low heat for at least half a century until they can be mashed or blended into a smooth paste. Plan a day, send the kids on a play date, unplug the phone, and grab a bottle of vino.

Bottle of vino in hand, we were now ready to begin the fun part. Ahem. Here's how it sounded.

Sue: "Now we roll the dough into a thin layer."
Me: After many minutes of what I believed to be a prime example of rolling pin mastery, "Done."
Sue: "Thinner."
Me: More rolling. Big grin. "There."
Sue: "Nope, thinner."
Me: More rolling, at a much slower speed. Small smirk. "Now?"
Sue: "Almost there."
Me: More rolling, if you can call it that. I was a bit distracted by trying not to cry. Slightly pitiful eyebrow raise.
Sue: "Perfect. Now (that your forearms feel like soggy noodles--my words, not hers) fold the dough over and do it again."

After a repeat performance, this time accompanied by whimpering and vigorous massaging of my arms and hands, I was told to do this one more time. The good news was that after this final agonizing effort (if you think I'm exaggerating, just give it a try some time), we got to fill them and shape them into tiny crescent shapes. This had to be done very quickly, before the dough got too dry to work with. Which essentially meant that my reprieve from rolling was extremely short lived. After a couple rounds of this arduous process, we took a break. I think maybe I just got really busy doing something very important when it came time to return to our project later in the day. I'm not sure, but I think that's what happened.

Because we used such a flavorful filling, we (which really means Sue, because again, I was busy with very important matters) decided on a simple sauce of sage-infused browned butter. It was delectable. I took the photo above to remember the meal in all its aesthetic splendor. I also wanted to document Sue's look of glee as she anticipates the first delicious bite. It really was worth the effort, and I must say, it is mighty gratifying to create something that requires so much in the way of blood, sweat, and tears. It definitely makes the meal taste even better. (I also highly recommend starting the project so that you can lay claim to the end result, and then busying yourself with important projects for the remainder of the afternoon). The down side to working this hard is that while I can usually take constructive criticism of my cooking, in a case such as this one, if you casually mention that you don't like pumpkin pasta after tasting it (as Sue's dad did), you're likely to end up with a lap full of it. Just so you know what you're in for should I ever be so ambitious as to attempt homemade pasta again, and you happen to be on the guest list. I wouldn't want you to have to wear your dinner home. I'm really looking out for you here.

GOOOOOOOHHHHHHLL!

Smile like you mean it. Sorry, Zippo.

So one of the things on the agenda while I was in Italy was to see a soccer (futbol) game. Carlo, a bartender at the local bar generously agreed to take me to Rome to see his favorite team, Lazio (the region for which Rome is the capital), play Lecce (who cares where they're from, they're going DOWN). When I arrived at the bar at 11 am I was promptly handed a blue Lazio logo team scarf--and complemented on my decision to wear all blue (how serendipitous that it was the only thing I had that was clean). We hit the road to pick up Alessandro (aka Zippo, like the lighter) in the next town over, and then make our way to Rome.

It's probably important to mention that Carlo had never spoken a word of English to me. I had been feverishly studying my Italian flash cards so that I might be able to communicate the basics--I'm hungry; I have to pee; I need tequila immediately. As soon as we got in the car, I realized that Carlo had a much better command of English than he had ever let on before, which is a good thing, because, just like when you cram for a test, I had retained absolutely none of what I had attempted to learn. I HAD suceeded, however, in creating new words that do not really exist, as well as combining the Italian pronounciation with the Spanish pronunciation for the same word, rendering the words I was saying unintelligible in any language. I also was not aware until this very long day of not being able to communicate properly (this is hard for a person who likes to talk as much as I do), that accents and emphasis can mean the difference between communicating like a reasonable person and making a complete and utter fool of yourself. At one point, I attempted to say that I had kickboxed for one year (anno, prnounced annn-no). What I DID say was that I had kickboxed for one asshole (ano, pronounced ano). By the end of the day, my brain had turned off. I think I probably spoke 150 words in total. That is a humbling experience.

On the way to pick up Zippo, I was able to discern that the match didn't start until 6 pm, which meant we would be arriving in Rome about 5 hours early. I was unclear as to why this was the case, but who am I to ask questions (even if I could have)? Things became clearer once Zippo got in the car. He lit up a cigarette, glanced at me and said in broken English, "we go horses."

And so we went. To bet on the horses, before we ever even left town. (Its very funny, by the way, how horse races are conducted here. The jockeys don't actually "ride" the horse. They sit in a little cart, chariot-style, and then they bludgeon the crap out of their respective horse with a whip. Seems a little twisted that they don't have to do any work at all). I figured Zippo regularly followed the horses and perhaps had his favorite running today. Nope. The boys had absolutely no method to their madness--they simply asked me to pick a horse, and then they proceeded to drop large sums of money on my selection. No pressure. Then, whilst awaiting the results, Alessandro used me as a human shield while he reached around behind the nearest slot machine and rebooted it, the whole time explaining that it was okay, he works here. When he turned the machine back on, he immediately hit the jackpot.

This pattern was repeated all day. When we stopped for sandwiches and beer, Zippo trolled around looking for a slot machine. When we got to Rome, we intermingled our jaunts stopping in and grabbing a quick shot with a desperate search to find slot machines. Zippo dropped literally hundreds of euros in a few short hours. I smiled, said something that made no sense and probably offended everyone around me, and took another drink.Zippo playing the slots. Again.

After endless hours of the highly enjoyable task of watching an addict succumb to his addiction, we arrived at the stadium--late. Well. One is not late to futbol. We could hear the shouting from inside the stadium walls, which prompted a veritable stampede of multiple generations of Italian men as they sprinted at full force towards the stairwell. I didn't get it. I don't run to my seats if the Dodger game is already in its 2nd inning when I arrive. I stop, grab an $11 beer and a dodger dog, and mosey to my seat. I, evidently, don't know the meaning of the word "fan."

You don't sit at a futbol game. You stand (or jump, or stomp, or run around), usually ON your seats or as close to the field as you can squeeze, where you remain standing for the entire hour and a half. You don't eat or drink, or heaven forbid pee, at a futbol game. Actually, I take that back. You can buy, from a roving vendor, little plastic shot-sized bottles of a syrupy sweet liquor called Borghetti, that tastes like Kahlua and ensures a headache the next day for even the hardiest of drinkers. Especially when you buy 20 of them. I'm not really sure what drinking 20 of these things is meant to do, since it's certainly not meant to give you a buzz. Perhaps it is to alleviate the desire to know what it would feel like to drink an entire bottle of maple syrup in under an hour.

You don't talk at a futbol match. You sing. Any number of at least 100 songs, most of which, ironically enough, consist of Italian words sung along to an English/American melody. I am fairly certain I heard a rendition of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow," in which the words were "Lazio, Lazio, Laziooo-oh, Lazio, Lazio, Laziooo-oh."

To say that an Italian man is passionate about futbol is to not really do the sentiment justice. A true fan will yell and/or sing at top volume for nearly two hours just to insure that his player has no doubt of the fans' faith in him. That is, until said player screws up. At this point it might appear to the untrained eye that this player has just brutally murdered every single one of that particular fan's family members. The looks of dismay, disappointment, and disgust on the fans faces in these moments might leave one wondering if after the game there will be a giant bonfire of gargantuan blue flags and coordinating team scarves. And at the very instant that one is contemplating this, the ostracized player will do something wonderful, which usually involves knocking down a member of the opposing team, and preferably causing immeasurable bodily harm. Then you will again see the sheer, unadulterated joy on a sea of faces, chests puffed up with pride and bellowing with song. And so this pattern will continue.Ooooh. A fight!

I'm disappointed to say that our game was not very exciting. Lazio has an amazing offense, so most of the game was played near Lecce's goal, but the underdog team managed to maintain a steady defense for nearly the entire game.

And then, five minutes before the game ended, it happened. Lazio scored. And this one moment made the entire day of eating almost nothing, drinking maple syrup, and traipsing around in the frigid drizzle so that Zippo could indulge his vice, all completely worth it. I truly believe everyone leapt into the air at once, a moment that seemed to hover in time for a perfect, breathless, instant before the world came crashing down in ecstatic bedlam. The roar from the crowd rivaled that of a sonic boom. Grown men launched themselves into each others' arms, and onto each others' shoulders, and at each others' feet. Everywhere there was hugging, kissing of cheeks and foreheads, hearty backslaps and general blissful chaos. Someone I didn't know from somewhere in the midst of the delirium folded me into a brain-popping hug. It seemed to go on for hours--this mania of glee and love and pride, and it was contagious and wonderful to behold.

On the way back, cold from the rain, and exhausted from the intense emotion of the day and trying to speak Italian, we still managed to squeeze in a stop to...play slots. I am quickly learning that there is nothing that Italians do just a little of. But I suppose six hours of watching someone else lose his shirt is a small price to pay for sharing even a moment of that amazing, staggering euphoria. I plan to become a futbol fan.

Cast of Characters

Sue: from Ireland, although she hasn't lived there since she was 18, when she left to attend school in Scotland. There she met Ross, on a bus, on his first day of vacation. The two of them did something called WWOOFing, which is a world-wide program that allows you to live at, eat at, and learn about an organic farm in exchange for working as a farmhand. Because of this program, they got to see many regions of Italy and made many friends, before deciding to settle in Bugnara, where they bought the charming four-story fixer upper that I have called home for the last month. The woman is amazing. She knows something about everything, has made an invaluable tour guide, and speaks better Italian than most Italians. She not only willingly took me sight-seeing all over Abruzzo, she helped me with and corrected my Italian at every turn.

The best thing/s she says: "Bollocks!" (Usually in response to me saying that I am leaving the bar soon)

"Bastard!" Which she calls everything from the cat to the toaster. She's such a sweet person that it makes her using these expletives unbelievably hilarious.

And speaking of cats...
Seamus: He's the little demon spawn who keeps me highly entertained and prevents me from missing the Chat too much. He has acquired this term of endearment because he will destroy anything he has access to, despite all attempts at discipline. I truly believe that he's laughing inside as he steals the fresh fillet of uncooked chicken off the kitchen counter and makes off through the house with it. There's a gleam in his eye that lets me know that he knows he just got away with something naughty. He bites my feet (and hard) when I'm trying to sleep. He cries outside my door at 7 am. The living room is currently buried under a blizzard of shredded magazines. It seems that we have all resigned ourselves to accept him as he is and love him anyway. Because when he wants to love you back, he will climb into the chair behind you, stretch up until his paws are resting on your shoulder, and then fall into a contented slumber so deep that he feels like a lead weight. He's too endearing to stay mad at.

Ross: A Kiwi of Fijian decent. He plays Rugby, works as a plumber/electrician, and worships Fridays, because it means he gets to "drink too much tonight and sleep in late tomorrow." It also means that Fridays usually get a little out of hand. Especially when he and Sue agree to let a natural instigator share their home with them for a month. In a former life, Ross did stem-cell research, so he's extraordinarily intelligent, and interestingly, very involved in American politics. He can debate the merits and flaws of Obama's economic plan in a way that makes me look like the foreigner.

The best thing he says: "VE-NER-DI! VE-NER-DI!" (This means Friday in Italian and its a chant I hear at the start of every debaucherous weekend).

Katharine: An English teacher from the UK. I love her speaking voice. I'm simply addicted to it--the cadence with which she speaks Italian, even the wonderful little idiosyncrasies of her own language. I've started unconsciously saying everything the way she does. In my head, I hear her accent, not mine. I no longer end questions with question marks. They are now statements, as anyone who can hear a British accent in her "mind's ear" can comprehend. The other day, I actually said, "I think on Monday all the shops are shut." Of course, I meant closed.

Katharine is the mastermind behind the Bugnara Halloween party. Anyone who as ever participated in the holiday (ie. all the expats) is mandated to attend in costume, and the more virgin Italian souls whom we can convince to share in the foolishness, the better.

The best thing/s she says: "I'm a bit daft!" And "FAHHb-byo!" (her boyfriend's name)

Which brings me to...

Fabio: One of the sweet Italian men I have met, he runs one of the local bars in Bugnara. He's the one who let me bartend on a few occasions, to the entire village's detriment. He speaks English better than I speak Italian, but is equally shy about it, so we often just resort to our own butchered version of Spanish in order to communicate.

The best thing he says: "Oh-kayeh (okay)." Short and staccato. Try to imagine Mr. Bean saying it.



Happy Tony: He's a bit older. To protect the not so innocent, I won't say how old. But he's living proof that age in relative. This is the guy who is dancing with abandon when everyone else in the room, who is in their 20's and 30's is sitting on their asses. I can't think of a better moniker, but perhaps that's because his parents knew what was in store when they gave him the name Felice Antonio, which literally translates to Happy Tony. He's a bit of a perve, but in every way lovable, good-hearted, and generous. He and I fell in like with each other over the fact that we are both cancers and village instigators "one" and "two." He is the cause that pals around with my headache-y effect many a blurry-eyed morning. I think he's accompanying me to Bologna, where he has friends who run restaurants. Mi dio...

The best thing he says: Pretty much everything--it's all funny. But primarily, "Ma che cazzo me ne fregga!" (Which is wildly inappropriate to say in front of the in-laws, so learn it immediately! And it must be said with the obligatory Soprano's style fingers-to-chin gesture).

Alberto: He's the sweet, shy, artistic Italian man I wrote about in a previous blog. He spends nearly all his free time reading, but only the classics--we're talking Homer and Ovid here, with a special emphasis on Dante Alighieri. He loves to write, but refuses to do so on a computer--it must be pen and paper, and for all I know, by candlelight. He has no desire to be published, he simply writes for his own pleasure. He knows absolutely everything there is to know about Bugnara and Abruzzo, and has made an excellent tour guide, explaining the local architecture, history, and culture. When I asked him if he would like to earn extra money giving tours professionally, he responded simply, "I have enough money." I don't think I've ever met another person in my life who could say that. It makes my soul grin.

He is also responsible for forcing me to try all the delicious regional specialties. I say forcing because an afternoon with Alberto usually means I have to eat, in entirety, about 25 different things. But the benefits far outweigh the fact that I now have a cute little round belly, just like a Roman statue. I've made some amazing culinary discoveries. Like, for example, it turns out I like lamb on a stick.

Pompeo and Giovanna: This is the adorable couple that owns the local farm where I will participate in the vendemia (the grape harvest). Giovanna is stronger than ten men and works tirelessly on the farm all day, while somehow also managing to prepare all the meals to feed her husband, her two children, whatever WWOOFers happen to be living there at the moment, and me. Pompeo, who is too ill to do much hard labor, still presides over the household as the unquestioned patriarch. He usually begins to drink homemade rose at lunch and carries on into the late afternoon. This means that by sundown, he is pinching the cheeks of the female houseguests and lovingly threatening to leave Giovanna for one of us. His role tends to be stern supervision of the daily farm tasks, albeit of the slightly tipsy variety.

It is these beautiful people who comprise my loving, doting, hard-working, fun-loving, and inspiring new Italian family.

New Slideshow

Hello all. I know I've been away for a while but I blame spotty internet access, and the fact that posting a slideshow is terrifically difficult, rather than taking any personal responsibility.

As you can see, the slide show is in the right hand side bar. If you click on any of the photos, it will take you to Flickr, where you can sign in and read my comments. If you view the photos as a slideshow on Flickr, be sure to click "get info" so that you have an explanation of what you're viewing.

Enjoy!

Tiny Bits

When will they learn?

The bartenders in foreign countries have GOT to stop letting me behind the bar to "see what I can do." Learning how to make a shamrock in the head of the Guiness behind the tiny bar of an Irish pub was harmless enough (or was it...).

But Jaegerbombs at 3 am are only going to make all the locals curse my name in the morning.

Or propose...


How do you say...?

I just happen to think this is hilarious. I discovered it while rummaging around in the kitchen of the bar above, and perhaps it's humor lies in the fact that it was dicovered at 3:05 am, after a round of Jaegerbombs. But I'll give it a go anyway.

This is a squeeze bottle of ketchup (Mato Mato, naturally) with the word "squiz." I think that may be the cutest word ever. Espcially when its being exclaimed by a beanie-wearing gangsta tomato.

What's even better is that it's pronounced, "skweetz."


Awestruck



Um...

This is a piece of the wall from the ruins of a Roman home that can be found right outside Bugnara, the village I call home.

The home was built B.C. My guide was not certain exactly when, but that makes it over 2000 years old, at least.

There is nothing in the world like the feeling of holding a piece of the soul of an ancient civilization in your hands.

All I can say is, wow.


And on the stupid side...


Pronounced ow-toe-greeel.

This is the Italian version of Denny's. With much better food. Proscuitto cotto and bufala mozzarella on an assembly line.

The splendor of Italian delicacies combined with road-side, diner-esque convenience.

Could this be heaven?

Deconstructing the Italian Male--Part I

The Rule

Okay, be forewarned that I am about to make broad generalizations about the male gender of an entire nation. Those who are easily offended or have a distaste for folks who judge books by their covers should probably not read any further. By no means is this meant to apply to every man in this entire country. Just every single, solitary, male that I happen to have met. Which, in my humble opinion, leaves the chances of there being one for which the following observations are NOT true at about the .017th percentile. Let us commence...

Italian men can cook. They can cook in a manner that puts my own culinary wizardry (which I legitimately thought I had) to shame. They can produce multiple course meals that are amazingly fresh, spectacularly indulgent, and which warrant spending entire afternoons consuming--while imbibing bottle after bottle of incredible, locally produced wine, sitting in front of a cozy wood-burning stove, and determining that this luxury surely should be reserved for royalty alone. For this reason, ladies, you will fall madly in love with them. Until you discover that they embody the following qualities in equal measure. You will discover all of this while you are high-tailing it back to your temporary room in your tiny village home at 3 am with one of them in hot pursuit...

Italian men are cocky. That have been brought up from childhood by their oppressively doting mothers to believe that they can do no wrong. Therefore, it is expected that you will welcome their advances because they are, after all, the finest examples of the species on the planet. Not welcoming their advances will be received with confusion that will rapidly turn into desperation, because surely this is a mistake! Can't you SEE how lucky you are?!

Italian men are stubborn. This means that they will keep trying long after men from other nations would have thrown in the towel. I guess "no" or "not now, maybe later" or "I need time" or "I'M NOT INTERESTED" gets lost in translation in Italy. This also means that while you are desperately trying to learn the language so that you can communicate with them during the soccer match they have invited you to (and so you can say, "I will not be spending the night at your house this evening," in a way that leaves no room for confusion), they are still chattering away in their native tongue, as far from speaking even the bare-bones minimum of your language as they were on the day they were born.

Italian men are intense. "Would you like to take a walk?" turns into, "would you like to go for a coffee?" which becomes, "will you join me for dinner?" which ends with, "how about another coffee?" Presumably this is because they think you have spent the last 30 years of your life gazing wistfully out the window longing for this magical day, the day that you have met them, so that your life may begin. Certainly you cannot have things to do, or people to meet, or a job or an itinerary that doesn't leave room for spending 16 hours in a row with the same person. And if you are so brave (or foolish--tomato, tomahto) as to give them your cell number, expect them to call seven times within five minutes of your leaving. If they know where you live, they will come knocking at three in the morning to see if you would like a nightcap. Evidently, this is normal.

Italian men like to wear women's clothes. At least the highly fashionable ones do. I spent the better part of the afternoon sneaking sideways glances at, we'll call him Henry, to determine if, indeed, his shirt was meant to be worn by a teenage girl. I decided that what with its elasticized neckline and capped sleeves, and the fact that it would have provided a lovely view of underage cleavage as low cut as it was, that there could be no doubt that it was bought in the Italian equivalent of Charlotte Russe. Later, Henry explained that his pants were, in fact, women's pants, because "they fit much better" than men's (which translates in English to "tight as all get out"), and therefore he just alters the tapered legs to make them a touch more boot cut. To be worn with the high fashion, fiercely pointed, snake-skin boots, the thick leather wrist band, and the strategically positioned, barbed-wire tattoo.

Italian men are JEALOUS. They are jealous of men they don't know. They are jealous of ex-boyfriends you haven't spoken with for years. They are jealous of their cousin Tony, who clearly is up to no good if he tries to use the restroom at the same time you have just left to go use it. They are jealous of every other man in the bar, even if they have known them their entire lives, and even if they have only known you for six hours, with the extent of your relationship being that you have agreed to possibly have dinner with them at some vague point in the future.

Italian men will say horrendously embarrassing things to your English-Italian friends for them to translate to you. Things like, "Why won't you kiss me? Is it because you think I'm ugly?" To those of you for whom this isn't immediately obvious, let's analyze how this is awkward. A) Because I, like most of you I'm sure, adore my private life being made public. B) Because now not only do I think that is the saddest sounding question I have ever heard, but my friend and I will be discussing it over cornettos and cappuccinos tomorrow morning. C) Because he just attempted said kiss directly in front of said English-Italian friend.

Italian men will chase you home if they get drunk enough. They will honk the horn loudly in your little village at ungodly hours in an attempt to get you to reconsider the invitation to get into the car with a highly intoxicated person and drive down the dark and windy roads into a town that you are not familiar with so that you may innocently sleep in the "guest room." In a house which you happen to know has no guest room.

Not that excessive flattery from Italian men is a bad thing. It's just what one needs after a break-up. But if you are predisposed to being overly flirtatious--as I am--you are bound to get yourself into a sticky situation now and then. You CANNOT scoop up your adorable, pint-sized friend "Max" in a warm embrace without him asking you, not ten minutes later, when he can come sleep at your house. To which you then reply, "never--you understand?" To which he then nods yes and asks, "but when?" You CAN'T complain incessantly to your older (as in, your father's age) friend "Anton" that Italian men won't ever take no for an answer, and that you're so glad that he is your friend and he "gets it," without him sympathizing and moments later offering to let you spend the next two months living with him rent free. Which you momentarily consider until he tells you that when he was 50, his girlfriend was 21, which makes huge age differences insignificant--you know, theoretically, for people in general, not anyone specific or anything.

So to those of you who claimed that I would be married and the mother of four by the time I got home in December, I'm sorry to disappoint. For now I just consider myself on safari--appreciating the beauty of all the strange, savage beasts in their natural habitat, while making sure that I snap that photo from a very looong way off.



Disclaimer: Okay, okay. It was bound to happen. After I wrote this, I discovered that there ARE some nice ones. Even some downright sweet ones--who are shy and softspoken and artistic, and desperately trying to learn English. In the interest of being fair, this blog entry mandates an addendum about those rare gems who defy the conventional stereotype. I seek only the truth (in technicolor), and you will have it. There will always be an exception. But the rule is what makes the exception so fantastically...exceptional.

Ode to the Simple Life

I thought I had a grasp on what the simple life was. I knew it was not a reality show starring a vapid, misbehaved socialite. I knew that it blended with New York City the way oil combines with water. And I thought that it might be similar to the "quiet" little suburban town I grew up in, where the pace of traffic slows by half, where you can smell the orange blossoms in spring, where the biggest draw to the "mall" is a 24-hour Sav-On.

The thing I've come to realize is, pared down doesn't mean simple. Slowed down doesn't mean quiet. Suburban isn't rural even if you have fruit trees in your backyard. And we can't begin to grasp how easy it is to be content with far fewer choices until we pluck ourselves out of the chaos, and plop ourselves into the middle of nowhere (literally, the Frommer's Guide to Italy didn't deign to even mention the region of Abruzzo, despite the fact that it houses the oldest National Park in Italy, and the birthplace of the ancient poet, Ovid).

What then, IS the simple life? The simple life is calling down from your balcony to Pietro, the proprietor of the bar next door, that you are out of eggs so that he will bring you some fresh from the farm tomorrow morning. The simple life is mentioning that you would love some potatoes, only to have Cesidio arrive with a plastic milk crate overflowing with them, that is so heavy that you must leave it in the entry way of your home, rather than carrying it upstairs to your kitchen. It is going up to your rooftop terrace and picking the fresh herbs that you want to sprinkle over your salad of fresh heirloom tomatoes and olive oil, that you then dine on while soaking up the Abruzzan afternoon sun. It is explaining sheepishly to your new houseguest from LA that you have no television. It is closing up shop between 1:30 and 4 every day for a siesta. It means that clothes dryers are non-existent, and the colorful banners of balcony clotheslines are as much a part of the landscape as the mountain ranges. It means that IKEA is a two and a half hour drive away.

I think I've always believed that happiness only exists where there is an abundance of choice. That I would be devastatingly bored without the option of at least 100 different things to do, watch, or eat at any given moment. But perhaps in America, we mistake calm for boredom. Contentment for lack of ambition. After all, a typical day's to do list here usually contains the number of things that an average, efficient human can actually achieve in a day. I never imagined that crossing everything off your list at night was an attainable reality, or that some people go to bed without feeling guilty that they didn't get to each and every task, and awaken without that overwhelm that today won't be any different. People here aren't stressed to the degree of having debilitating medical conditions. They own homes, have three-hour dinners with their close friends, take midday naps, and laugh a lot. They don't watch Lost or Family Guy, but I'm not sure they know or care what they're missing.

I think I'm gonna like it here.


Disclaimer: Ok, let's not get crazy now. My version of the simple life includes BitTorring the hell out of Family Guy...

Dry Rot, Scorpions, Tarantulas, Oh My!

Today I met a tarantula.

We've all seen them before. On tv. Or inside thick glass boxes. They're creepy looking, what with the hairy factor and all, but harmless, and we intuitively know this. This innate knowledge, however, changes when one is suddenly six inches from your foot.

I was on my way back from meditating in the field of a nearby farm. He was moseying home from a hard day at the plant, crossing the road from wilderness back to village life. He stopped. I stopped. We looked at each other with a mix of fascination and revulsion. (I imagine that I am just as hideous and terrifying to him as he, with his quarter inch thick legs and enormous mildewy-green body, is to me). I briefly contemplated getting out my camera with my fantastically trembling hands, but decided that perhaps part of this journey's lesson for me is to stop making idiotic decisions at the eleventh hour. With the luck I've been having lately, he would have been a rare breed of poisonous jumping tarantula, and stopping for any period of time longer than what it takes to figure out how to pass while giving him the widest berth possible, would have resulted in instant death. Or perhaps simply some unforeseen destruction of my last pair of pants.

Its this same sense of responsibility that prevented me from really exploring the old castle that stands at the top of the hill, shadowing the village of Bugnara. It is wonderfully creepy and dilapidated, covered in overgrowth and crumbling at the foundations. There are enticingly eerie, seemingly bottomless caverns where I found myself hovering at the entrance. Spiral stairwells are interrupted by places where the roof has caved in. I started to walk across a second story archway that led to the overgrown garden, but then noticed all the decay and thought the better of adding my 140 lbs of dead weight to the mix. In some of the empty chambers there were clothes, newspapers, and remnants of wine bottles, unsettling reminders that I might meet someone or something I wasn't prepared for. So, I took a bunch of exterior pictures and wandered through the main courtyard where there was no roof to potentially fall on my head. An explosion of blackberry bushes tempted me, so I popped a few in my mouth. They did not however, taste like the blackberries I am accustomed to (or delicious in any way for that matter) so I decided that maybe, like exploring the abandoned castle, I wasn't meant to be eating them, and promptly spit them out. Upon returning to the house and telling Sue and Ross of my wanderings, they decided to inform me that the one "pest" you really have to watch out for in Italy are scorpions. And that they tend to like wild areas (like creepy overgrown castles) more than populated ones. Hmmm...could I perhaps be getting wiser? Could sacrificing my adventurous spirit in favor of a longer life be a sign that I am evolving? Hooray for progress!

I wonder then, what it means that today when I passed by the castle again, I stopped and thought long and hard about whether I could get over the wire fence covering the entrance to the back (quite sturdy looking) stairwell and whether bringing a flashlight might be all I need to protect me from anything creepy and crawly catching me by surprise...

I Think My Ass Is Bleeding

It takes true talent, I believe, to end up in the back of a police car by day three in Italy.

So I drank a bottle of wine at dinner, something I do often and can easily handle. Or so I thought. I caught my bus to Termini station, and then the connecting bus to my monastery. In my superior confidence in my navigational abilities, I put on my headphones, zoned out, and started the trek home. I'm not exactly sure at what point I noticed that I had missed my stop. The thing about missing your stop on the bus routes of Italy, is that it usually means that you can get off and walk your way back. Unless the road you were on is a freeway. Where the only way you can avoid being absolutely mowed down by passing vehicles is to get off the main thoroughfare by climbing over the railing, scraping the hell out of your ass, and ripping your pants in two. If you know me well, you know that I may have a tendency to exaggerate, but I need to make it clear that in this case I was complete and utter bare-assed to the world with pieces of pant tatters flapping in the breeze. The terrain into which I had climbed was the wilderness (unbeknownst to me, there IS a wilderness in the outskirts of Rome), and became more and more treacherous as I attempted to claw my way back towards anything that resembled civilization. I fell into one hole after another, often up to my waist, and had to fight my way out through thorn-covered vines and gnarled brambles. In chaos and confusion, I found myself screaming, "really? REALLY?!" to no one in particular.

When I finally spotted something resembling human colonization (ie. neon lights at a gas station), a huge, barbed-wire fence (are we sensing a pattern here?) stood between it and me. With no thought to the fact that climbing over things not meant to be climbed had not served me so far, you'd better believe that my dirty and exhausted, half-drunk, bare-assed self managed to heave myself up, and sort of "fall" over it. To say "climb" would be giving myself far too much credit. I then emerged like the swamp monster, covered in foxtails and weeds, and begged the station attendant in broken Italian, while sobbing, to call me a taxi. Followed by a wait of exactly one hour, while I shivered (I lose all my heat through my ass, of course), and learned how to thank the nice man (via translation book) for looking after me. This is all because I thought he was calling me a taxi. So when, an hour later, the cops arrived, I tried very hard to find "You suck," in the translation book. It wasn't there.

The cops spoke no English. Of course. They asked me for documentation, which I promptly discovered I had lost, along with both of my credit cards and about $70. Of course. The fact that I was covered in dirt, and that my pants were ripped meant that it was next to impossible to convince them that I had not been beaten or mugged, but was merely a drunken idiot who had gotten lost in the wilderness, coincidentally had lost all of my important documents, and was now tearfully, desperately, in need of my bed. The story wasn't even convincing to me, and I had lived it. Not to mention that the only relevant word I could say in Italian was "lost" and the only word they could say in English was "attacked." That and "boyfriend," which they kept asking me if I had. I'm still not clear as to whether this is because they thought it was he who had beaten and left me for dead, or if they were sussing out the potential for a date. One thing for sure is that they could not believe I was traveling alone. I explained that I had only been here for three days, and that I planned to stay for three months, and perhaps it was that I had exhibited such stupidity in such a very short period of time that prevented them from comprehending that such a thing was possible. Who let this unlucky, navigationally-challenged, half-naked American girl with a drinking problem wander around a foreign country for three months?!

I finally came up with the idea to give them the number from the guidebook for the restaurant in which I had dined, thinking that perhaps they could solve the mystery of where my credit cards had disappeared to. Instead, we got a VERY pissed off, English-speaking waitress on the phone, whom the officers then used as a translator. She merely wanted to know why I had the cops calling her establishment, and whether or not I had been robbed, which she then communicated to the officer in Italian, and hung up. Of course. So I was still no closer to resolving whether they had found my missing documents.

When they put me in the back of the car, I had to take it on faith that I was going home and not to Roman jail to spend the night with Roman prostitutes and Roman crack whores. Fortunately, we shortly arrived at my monastery. Unfortunately, both officers demanded to be let in to see my passport. So picture this. I'm not allowed to bring boys home, and I stroll in at 1 am with two polizia in tow. Of course. So I let them in through the huge gates and up the pitch-black stairwell to my room, praying that they would be quiet. They weren't remotely, of course. But by now, perhaps out of relief that I was near my warm bed, and not on my way to a foreign holding cell, I started to see the humor in this situation. Now we were snickering, pushing each other into walls, while I scolded them to be quiet, and we continued to use charades to communicate with one another. I kept asking if I was in trouble, because I couldn't figure out why they needed to see my passport, and because one of the guys had been on the phone with god knows whom for the entire ride home, repeating my name and "California" over and over again. When I repeated the question to his partner, the only way I could communicate it was to hold my wrists out in "arrest me" pose. At which point, the officer pulled his handcuffs from his pocket. I nodded. He then pointed to the headboard of my bed. Giggled. Literally giggled. Endearing and wildly disconcerting at the same time. Then the first officer, while still on the phone, noted that I had a pair of jeans drying on the window sill, pointed to my bare ass, and suggested with a grin, that I change.

They say truth is stranger than fiction. And the truth is that if ANYONE after three days could have a run-in with non-English speaking police who don't believe a word you're saying and end the night making fun of you and being suggestive, that person would be me. But it occurs to me that I got a good story, a free ride, and an excuse to buy some Italian fashion out of all of this. If there is a silver lining, I will find it. Of course.