A Few Questions

A while back (I won't' tell you how long because I will be thoroughly embarrassed) my Aunt sent me some questions. I am finally getting around to answering them. I am probably giving her (and everyone else reading them) too much information, but I really want to remember the answers to these great questions. So here are the first three:

What is your favorite thing to drink? For my first dinner in Italy the family took me to a nice restaurant in the center. I will never forget that night. The buildings were unlike anything I had ever seen. The traffic was unlike anything I had ever seen. The statues were unlike anything I had ever seen. We walked to the Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountian, and Piazza Navona. People were everywhere. Along with trying to soak in the city I was trying to make sure the girls didn’t get lost. My eyes flickered across the buildings, unable to take anything in. My ears were flooded with sounds. People pushed past me and I dodged cars. I amazed by the depth and extremeness of culture that surrounded me.


The whole night was a blur, except for one thing: my first taste of water with gas. It was dis-gus-ting. It took all of my energy to keep that water in my mouth. And for the rest of dinner I didn’t take a single sip. I was thirsty, but there was no way I was going to drink that.

Five months later? It’s my favorite thing to drink. When I go out to eat, I make sure my water is with gas. Each time I buy a water bottle it is acqua gasata. I can’t get enough of it. Over Christmas Break I told Marie how much I was going to miss my acqua gasata. And her reply? “Oh don’t worry, they sell a package of it at Costco.” So this summer when I am missing Italy and want to treat myself, you can bet I will be heading to Costco.

What is your favorite place to visit so far? This is a hard question. One of the great things about Rome is that there are so many places to visit depending on what you want to see. When I want to marvel at architecture, art, and feel so small I go to the Vatican. When I want to dive into history and wonder at the past I got to the Colosseum and Roman Forum. (Speaking of the Colosseum…I have noticed that there are two spellings of the word: Colosseum or Coliseum. My travel books use both….which is really the right spelling? I prefer Colosseum because it looks grander than Coliseum and is closer to the Italian spelling. But if you have an answer let me know.) But the places I could (and almost do) visit everyday are the Pantheon and Piazza Navona.

The Pantheon surprised me. Before I came to Rome I didn’t really know what it was or what it was built for. I remember watching a movie about the building of the Pantheon in my World History class, but there was no way that video could have portrayed the true grandeur and majesty of the building. The building is massive and commanding; it contains an authoritative aura. And the inside is filled with works of art and striking marble. I go to the Pantheon frequently just to look at the paintings, the statues, the cupola, the structure and the floor. The Pantheon, one of the places I was not so excited to see, is now one of my favorite.

Piazza Navona is only a short walk from the Pantheon and is just as magical. This Piazza is the home of three amazing fountains and, in my opinion, the most beautiful church in Rome. The Four Rivers Fountain by Bernini is the most famous of the statues in the Piazza and thus the other fountains are unfortunately often overlooked. My favorite fountain is not the Four Rivers Fountain but instead Fontana del Nettuno. This fountain is quite small and contains many little carved statues instead of the one massive work of art by Bernini. It shows the struggle between a man and an octopus. If you saw this fountain you would see that the marble is bursting with life and passion. The man has the octopus tightly wrapped around his leg but his face shows no fear. Instead of panic, courage and confidence shine as though he has prepared for this moment and knows he will overcome. I love this fountain. Often (maybe even too often) I sit on the bench in front of Fontana del Nettuno and write or read poetry. Piazza Navona is a little haven for me.

What's your favorite Italian word? Right now I am in love with salve. Salve is the sweet and formal way to say hello. This word just rolls off the tongue and dances in the air. I think it’s magical. And, I may shock some of you, but I do not like the word ciao. In fact I am even going to say (please don’t get too angry…) that I think it is the second ugliest word in the Italian language. To me ciao is a harsh sounding word, especially when said quickly and bluntly. Salve is a much better option.

Christmas Around the World

The Wasem family came and picked me up from the airport on their Christmas Day. Nope, I didn’t fly into Germany on the 25th of December, I flew in on the 24th.

The Christmas in Europe is so different from Christmas in the states that I barley recognized it as the same holiday. Here are the two differences that really surprised me.

In Europe there is a special day designated to put up the Christmas tree. In Italy, the Catholics decorated their tree on the 8th of December which is the national holiday called 'Immaculate Conception' which of course celebrates the immaculate conception of the Virgin Mary. In Germany I was told that most families put up and decorate their tree on the 24th of December, not a day before. Before this date the tree is kept outside or in the garage. For both Italy and Germany the tree is not taken down until the 6th of January which is the day that Santa comes to Germany and a witch named Bufana comes to Italy to give the children candy in stockings and wrap up the Christmas season.

In Europe Christmas is celebrated on the evening of the 24th. On that night, an angle or Santa (depending on the country you live in) comes into the living room while the family is at church and puts gifts under the tree. The children do not receive stockings on the 24th only presents. Stockings are reserved for the 6th of January.

The European children are spoiled with two Christmases: One for presents and one for candy in the stockings. Just imagine growing up with two Christmases. How cool would that be?

A Breath of Fresh Air

It was so different::Switzerland is truly a whole other world::I can’t believe it shares a border with Italy.

I have never been to two such opposite places: one where chaos rules, litter abounds, and a pleasure filled life is one’s only pursuit, to a country where perfection resides, cleanliness, clarity, and silence penetrate. It is the most interesting experience to cross the border and within a twenty minute drive already see the stark contrast. For me, and all the other Italian for that matter, it was a breath of fresh air.

Switzerland is exactly how you imagine it: immaculate roads, trains and train stations without graffiti, perfect house all looking similar (a color of white or beige with green, red or blue shutters). Unlike the Italians the Swiss are quiet, multilingual, and sweet as can be. I didn’t hear a single car honk their horn. Little children played out in the street. Sometimes I would walk on a neighborhood street and not see a single person to be seen.

But the most astonishing thing of all was the train. The trains are soundless. In Italy the wheels screech against the tracks, people beg for money by playing accordions in the cars, and loud voices blare the next stop. In Switzerland I didn’t realize the car had even begun to move. The outside and inside were amazingly clean, lacking any sign of age. No one spoke in the cars and a soft German voice announced the next stop.

Besides the temple and the chocolate, what was my favorite part of Switzerland? My friend Jeffery said it perfectly, “I feel like royalty when I come to this country, because cars actually stop for me to cross the road!” Each time we prepared to cross the road my Italian friends would say, “Watch this!” or “We are going to do it again!”

I am killing myself trying to describe the country perfectly. You must feel, hear, and taste to truly understand. It was really a breath of fresh air just as I was beginning to go crazy with the Italian driving, post office, and ‘leave it for later’ mindsets.

But Switzerland gave me an appreciation for Italy. For the passion and life that exists here. For the love and generosity. For the courage. For the confidence. For the importance of friends and family. Switzerland may seem perfect. But when it comes to what really matters like family, joy, laughter, and pleasure, Italy’s got it down.

My Feet Hurt

Yesterday I decided to be completely Italian for the day and wear heels. (The beautiful brown heels Gramma Bear bought me for my 16th birthday that I still wear and love! Thank you Gramma!) I felt classy and on top of the world as I walked to school with the tapping of ancient stones accompanying my step.

My feet began to hurt a bit as I walked to Termini where I was meeting a new friend who was going to speak with me only in Italian. I was hoping we would find someplace to sit a chat, but he had planned a tour of his favorite sites. We spent the next FOUR HOURS walking all around Rome. I won’t go into much detail. Partially because you would be bored with all the street names I would throw at you and partially because the pain is still too fresh. I just wanted to cry. It was difficult to speak and think in Italian as my feet throbbed with every step. The stones I had once loved where now my enemies, as each step was dangerously treacherous. Each stone so small; so bumpy; so angled. I just kept praying my feet and ankles wouldn’t give out.

After the tour it took me twice as long to get to the train station because I had to stop about every ten steps and suck in the pain. I would have gladly taken off my heels and walked barefoot if it hadn’t been for the nice pair of tights I was wearing. Biting my lip and holding in tears I slowly limped to the train station and slumped into the first available seat.

At home I sat on the edge of my bed and found my feet covered in five blisters; one blister as big as a nickel. And my feet started bleeding. It was not a pretty sight. I cared for my feet and then winced in pain as I pulled my tennis shoes on over two pair of socks. Walking to the car to pick up the girls and driving to school was painful.

As long as I live I will never forget about yesterday. It will be a while before I do that again.

Hot Chocolate on Display

I love the hot chocolate in Italy. It is thick and luscious. Delightfully warm.

When I tasted my first Italian cioccolata calda I was shocked by the thickness and intense taste (no wonder they gave me a spoon along with the cup).I will admit it took a while to get used to the thick richness, but now I can’t imagine going back to the watered down American version (otherwise known as hot water with a sprinkling of coca). Here is Italy a small cup of perfection is more than enough to satisfy one’s taste buds, whereas in the states we buy a 16oz drink and are sad to see it finished.

Each time I find myself in front of a cioccolata calda I am still amazed. Amazed heaven is in my mouth. And each time I treat myself to a cioccolata calda I spend the first few minutes just looking at it. Trying to comprehend its perfection. Soaking in its beauty. And then I eventually take out my camera and look like a total dork by taking a picture. So I am going to humor myself now and hopefully end this silly obsession by displaying my cioccolata calda. Ti prego. Please, enjoy.

An Italian Play Kitchen

At the girl's school there is a fairly large "store" set up for them to play in. The girls rave about how much fun they have shopping there. The other day I had some time to peek into the "store" as school was ending and just smiled at my findings:

8 different kinds of pasta filled the shelves
3 kinds of cheese each in a different package
3 kinds of bread (french, rolls, thinly sliced)
olive oil


If I remember correctly none of the kitchens or stores I ever played in as a child were stocked with multiple cheeses, breads, and pastas, or olive oil for that matter. I don't even think I knew what olive oil was when I was eight. And up until a few months ago I thought white cheese and yellow cheese were enough.

Imagine a life where you are taught from a young age the importance of food. The plethorua of options. The beauty of taste. The names of dozens of pasta shapes.

Oh the fun of being Italian.

Gusto

gusto. that’s my favorite word. roasted chestnuts. delightfully warm. mozzarella. sitting in a bowl of olive oil. spiced with black pepper and salt. and maybe garlic powder. delicious. the perfect salad: fresh lettuce, sun ripened tomatoes, corn, olive oil, petite mozzarella balls, croutons. simple. beautiful. to die for. and parmesan. i prefer mezzo. just cut a slice. then savor it. who knew there were so many different kinds of cheeses? and noodles for that matter? pasta verde. pesto. the kind that makes your mouth dance. my favorite. basil. rosemary. my new world of spices. how I have learned to love biscuits and tea. the perfect way to start every morning. nonna’s homemade biscuits. beautiful. and croissants in the morning. maybe even with a chocolate inside. and pizza. thin crust. minimal red sauce. mozzarella di bufala. eat it warm. dripping with delight. pasta and beans covered in a delicious red sauce. bread. so many different kinds. al dente noodles. the true way to eat pasta. and shakshuka. i know it’s not italian but it is among my favorites. eggs cooked in a red sauce. use bread to eat it. out of this world. rice cooked with peas. who would have thought it tastes divine? no ‘pam’ spray to be seen here. everything cooked with olive oil. pasta arrabiata. pasta rossa. not caked with the red sauce. just lightly covered. with halves of cooked red cherry tomatoes. and garlic. and olives. and olive oil. and sesame seeds. bruschetta. only the italians can give a name to a piece of bread and slice of tomato. but toast the bread. give it a flair of garlic. olive oil. slice of tomato from campania. bellissimo. then boneless fish with olive oil. covered in tomatoes and olives. green olives. need I say more? not soft and squishy like the black ones. almost with a crunch. delectable. smoked scamorza. simple. luscious. maybe eaten with a cracker. and to top it off gelato. oh italy, how I will miss thee.

this is the way to shop for shoes

And yes, I did look like a total idiot taking pictures of the display cases. But I desperately had post these pictures to give everyone a taste...and give Aunt Stacy some extra motivation to visit me. I didn't make it to Bata Shoes but I got close.

Bello

Expensive jeans that fit perfectly. Earrings to match. Striking suits over ironed dress shirts. Heals that catch one’s eye. Belts that add class. Polished shoes.

When I took the girls to school I got my true first taste of it. I have spent much time in the historic city center wholly engaged in watching the glimpses of Italian life that I see, but today I saw the real thing. There were hundreds of true Italians dropping their children off at school and my eyes just couldn’t keep up. Each one held themselves in such a self-assured manner. Each one perfectly dressed, and knowing it. Men arriving to the school in perfectly ironed suits. Women looking as though they were taking a quick break from modeling shoots. Mothers and Fathers wearing the latest style parked their motorina, lifted their children off the back, and helped them unbuckle their helmet before taking the child’s hand and walking off with complete self-assurance.

My eyes bounced back and forth trying to take in all the style, the autumn colors, the shoes, the accessories, the perfection. And although these women looked like they were stepping out of a Prada, I had to remind myself that they were ordinary middle-class Roman women. This was a public school. These families weren’t loaded with money. But, Italians know the importance of looking nice and they are willing to spend any amount in order to meet that standard. I would venture to say that they are less inclined to be caught in the street naked than they would be to be caught in sweatpants, a T-shirt, white socks, and tennis shoes

At church, a woman in her late 50s particularly caught my attention. She was dressed in a black knee length skirt with a pin striped white and black button up shirt, black earrings, and tall black heels. In the states we might say that the woman needed to dress more her age, but here in Italy is was perfectly acceptable and not looking the least bit out of place. In fact she was looking good.

This culture loves beauty. The people depend on beauty. They’re addicted to beauty. The word bello is used to describe everything: clothes, apartments, buildings, attitudes, performances. It means fantastic, good job, amazing, and you did it.

Italy is beautiful. The language is beautiful. The people are beautiful. The buildings are beautiful. The food is beautiful. Italy glows with beauty. It’s just bello.