Differences: The Breakfast of Champions

Before I come home and forget all this stuff I wanted to write about a few more difference between living in Italy and living in the United States. So, let’s talk about the cereal aisle in supermarkets.

Now, in the U.S. the cereal aisle is exactly that. A full aisle loaded on both sides with a veritable cornucopia of every kind of cereal that could be invented by man. You’ve got your Cornflakes; Bran Flakes; Rice Checks, Raisin Bran; and Life. You’ve got your Count Chocula; Sugar Smacks; Franken Berry; Captain Crunch; and your Lucky Charms. You’ve got your Kashi Go Lean; your Kashi Good Friends, your Fruit and Fiber; and your various brands of Granola. And let’s not forget about the instant oatmeal in individual packets; rolled oats in the silo shaped cardboard box; Farina Wheat; powdered breakfast drinks; breakfast bars; granola bars; and last but not least… Pop Tarts.

In my first two trips to the grocery store in Rome I could not even find the “cereal aisle.” The reason being they didn’t have one. What they had was a small area of cereal (and I mean small) located near the tea and coffee section that provided four options; one granola based cereal that offered a choice of granola with chocolate chunks, or dried fruit. And the other which offered the choice between plain corn flakes, or corn flakes with chocolate chunks. I’m not kidding, four choices; two with chocolate chunks. In the U.S., with the exception of maybe Cookie Crunch cereal which seemingly makes no apologies for blatantly adding chocolate into a child’s first meal of the day, you don't generally find chocolate chunks offered in a cereal.

Of course, since my first foray into an Italian supermarket in October of 2009, I have found more of a selection in the cereal aisle, but nothing like it is in the States.

A large part of why the cereal aisle is so sparse is because the staple “breakfast of champions” for Italians is a tiny cup of scalding hot espresso and maybe, just maybe, a pastry. Cereal is just not consumed here like it is in the U.S.

In fact, when I was offered a bowl of cereal after spending the night at my boyfriend’s home, I asked in surprise, “You have cereal?” He promptly explained that the cereal in his house was only consumed by his nieces and nephew, all under the age of 10. “Oh.” I said with pursed lips and a prolonged “o” sound. then I unashamedly added, “Yeah, I’ll have some cereal.”

Color me childish, but I’m not embarrassed to admit I need a little more than 3 sips of super strong coffee to get me through the morning. After all breakfast IS the most important meal of the day!

Un Tavolo Per Due (A Table for Two)

“I would like to accompany you to my home and show you where I live,” announced Bartolomeo, my dreamy Italian boyfriend.

I know this invitation is no small thing, as I’ve been told many times, by many different people that Florentines don't open their homes to just anyone.

Because homes are so expensive in Italy, they are usually passed down from generation to generation. This is why so many Italians live with their parents throughout their adult years. Homes then become part of the history of the family; not just a place to live. Many homes in Italy are older than America itself. Italians appreciate what they have and they take care of it the best way they can. The home, no matter how grand or how humble is a source of pride.

After an almost 20 minute car ride into the hills of Tuscany, Bartolomeo opened the iron gates to his family home, and pulled his car under a flower encrusted gazebo. Typical terracotta pots of varying sizes full of colorful flowers were scattered about the front patio. After opening the front door, (wrought Iron and glass of course) a gauzy orange-colored curtain greeted us. The curtain, no doubt, was used to keep the hungry bugs out and let the cool air in.

The inside of his home was in the typical Tuscan Farmhouse style. A large stone staircase with wrought iron handrails on either side greeted us. To the left was the door to the kitchen. The kitchen was quite big with wood-beamed ceilings; a marble-topped farmhouse table; and a wood-burning oven that is still used for cooking in the winter. The floors throughout the house were lined with terracotta tiles and antique pieces of furniture flanked many of the room’s walls.

At the completion of my tour Bartolomeo brought me back to the kitchen and started boiling some water. By this time it was late, after 9:30 at night and I was not expecting dinner. I sat at the farmhouse table in the center of the room while he weighed some pasta in an antique scale, and salted the water. We made small talk, he with his broken English and me with my non-existent Italian, while the water came to a boil.

When the pasta was completed Bartolomeo motioned for me to follow him into a room I had not seen earlier. After walking into the seemingly dim-lit room a dining room table, dressed with perfect simplicity, was revealed. The table, lined with a classic white linen table cloth that had delicate blue-thread detailing, displayed a bottle of red wine; two wine glasses; two small water glasses; two forks; and at least 20 glowing tea light candles. A larger vanilla scented votive candle anchored the center of the table.

“Wow,” I thought to myself, “I wasn’t expecting this.” I turned to Bartolomeo with a somewhat confused look. His face showed a small but proud smile.

He opened and poured the wine, first for me and then for him, and then left the room only for a second to bring in a carafe of water and the bowls of pasta. He grated parmesan cheese on both bowls and sat down to toast the meal.

“Oh, I forgot something!” He said, as he popped out of his chair and squatted down at the TV cabinet that sat in the corner of the room. A few seconds later he pulled out a record, placed the needle on the vinyl and sat back down.

“Do you know Louis Armstrong?” he asked.

“Louie Armstrong? Umm yes, of course I know Louie Armstrong. How do YOU know Louie Armstrong?” I say in response.

“C’mon” he replies with his beautiful deep voice and Italian accent. “My father and I listen to these all the time.” He points up to reveal hundreds of records sitting on a shelf that lines the top of the dining room wall.

“Oh my god,” I think to myself, “How does a man with so few years have this much depth? How did I get so lucky?”

I can’t help it. A huge smile spreads across my face; my head tilts a little to the left; and my eyes move to a dream-filled gaze… you know the gaze little girls get when they imagine the man of their dreams. As I sat there starry-eyed thinking what a wonderful night this turned out to be Bartolomeo cupped the side of my face with his hand and pulled me to meet his perfectly full lips.

We made a toast, and started to eat. The pasta was simple, shaped like spaghetti but with a hole in the middle of the tube. It was served plain, with just a little salt and parmesan cheese. Dinner was good, but it was late and I could barely finish what he served me, so I offered him what I had left. He ate it while we talked for a few more minutes and then he announced he had to get the secondi.

“There’s a second course?” I ask in surprise.

“Of course” he replies.

Bartolomeo arrived back to the dining room with a full plate of cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto. I didn’t even have to ask. I knew he prepared it himself. It was delicious and the combination of salty ham and perfectly chilled melon was a refreshing relief from the sticky night air.

When he left the table a final time I was not surprised when he returned with 2 small glass bowls of Tiramisu which he prepared himself that day. He used the same recipe he uses at the restaurant in which he works (a personal favorite of mine) with the exception, he admitted, of using different ladyfingers because he didn’t have the ones they used in the restaurant. Different ladyfingers or not, the dessert was amazing. Again a huge smile came to my face and true joy filled my heart.

“Thank you for this evening,” I say to him.

“Prego” he replies to accept my appreciation, but I know he does not really understand the full extent of it.

How could he? How could he know that a simple dinner together in his home or that any of the little things he’s done for me over these last 4 months have not only provided me with fantastic memories, but have helped me open myself up again, to trust again, and in some ways has restored my faith in men?

He couldn’t know of course, but I’m sure the smile I have on my face every time we are together provides some insight to him that I am happy and he is a part of that happiness.

Differences: The Naked Truth

This blog is the first in a series I will be doing regarding the differences between the American and Italian cultures.

Italy, like many European countries, is much less uptight about showing the human body in advertisements or storefronts than in the United States. It is quite common here to see bare bottoms, bare breasts, and, if it’s artistic enough, full frontal nudity in advertisements.

The ads here would never fly in the U.S.!  We're way too uptight for this much skin!  This cracks me up because in America many people have no problem with violent movies or video games where one person blows the head off of another without shedding a tear, but show an ad with some nipplage and you'll hear about it on the evening news! 

Note, the ad below is for coffee.  The people have been painted on arms and hands, two of which are holding a coffee mug.  I don't know what this naked jumble has to do with selling coffee, but it's quite artistic, no?

In fact, I’ve become so accustom to seeing nude women in ads or seeing nearly naked mannequins in storefronts that when I came upon a large tour group huddled outside of an underwear store pointing and giggling like 12 year old girls, I could not figure out what they were fussing about.  That is until I heard one of the women say while pointing to a mannequin displaying a pair of thong undies, “Oh my gosh, why would they show that? That’s so weird!”

“Oh that’s right!” I explain to my Italian friend who was equally as confused as I. “We don't really have shops like this in the United States that display their, ahem, “stuff” like this.”

He was surprised by this because in Italy they have at least four national retail chains that sell only underwear, socks, and pantyhose.  Because America has superstores that sell everything from pancake batter to guns, I don't think these little (non-high end) stores would survive.  Sure we’ve got the Victoria’s Secret at the mall, but it's different from these stores and we certainly don't have four national chains thriving on selling only underwear and socks!

I think it's great that people here find beauty in the human (and naked) form.  I find it refreshing, and I will miss the freedom of it when I return to the United States.  We could probably do better worrying less about nudity and worrying more about things that really matter.

No Pride in Prejudice

Prejudice:

1. An adverse judgment or opinion formed beforehand or without knowledge or examination of the facts.
2. A preconceived preference or idea.
3. The act or state of holding unreasonable preconceived judgments or convictions.

I’m lucky. My parents did not raise me with prejudice. I have long felt that not carrying these preconceived notions about people has allowed me to expand my horizons beyond those who are limited by pre-judging those they have not met. Prejudice and racism are things I have had exceptionally little tolerance for throughout my life. As Austin Power’s dad said in Goldmember, “There are only two things I can’t stand in this world; intolerance for other people’s culture… and the Dutch!”

Italians are prejudice against African men. Notice I didn’t write African American men. I wrote African men. I say this because many, if not most, of the black men working in Italy are from Africa. Unfortunately, a very large number of these men make their living by selling tourists counterfeit goods on the street.

Without obtaining the necessary permits, these men display their illegal wears on large white bed linens so they can scoop up the ends in a Santa Claus-esque sack and make a mad dash from the Italian police whenever the police decide to enforce the anti-counterfeit laws.

While traveling around Italy and Europe I noticed this trend in many tourist destinations; black men with white bed linens on the ground displaying designer purses, wallets, and sunglasses. It’s impossible to miss. They approach you on the street and can be quite assertive in their sales pitch depending on how direct you are about saying no.

This selling of illegal designer goods has not done much to encourage the Italians to open their arms to those from Africa. Quite the contrary; it has caused resentment, distrust, and in some cases flat out hatred. But unlike the U.S. where we have a large and diverse population, Italians do not. It’s hard to convince someone they cannot judge an entire country based on a few, when their only experience with this culture has been witnessing the African male selling illegal goods on the street, while diligently avoiding the police.

As much as I hate to admit this, for the first time in my life I understand how people could form these opinions. Before, I would just write people off as closed minded, or afraid of anything unknown or different, but now it’s not that "black and white" to me.

To understand this prejudice you have to understand certain aspects of Italian culture. For one, Italians are a bit of a closed society. They have a deserved and understandable, albeit extreme, pride in their own history, in their own traditions, and in their own products.

With obvious exceptions, Italians don't mix up the nationalities as much as other countries do when it comes to marriage and making babies (Maybe this is why so many Italians are vertically challenged. Perhaps if we cross-bred the Italians with the Dutch we could stop this shortness epidemic!).

To over simplify, Italians like Italians.

Additionally, Italian design is a source of extreme pride throughout the country. Ferragamo, Gucci, Fendi, Prada, Dolce and Gabbana… so many of the world’s most elite designers are Italian. Unlike other parts of the world where everything is manufactured in China; a large quantity of apparel and leather goods are still made in Italy, by Italians. Selling fakes on the street that were made in another country weakens the brand, takes jobs away from Italians, takes money away from the shop keepers who are selling the legitimate pieces, and reduces the amount of sales tax collected by the government which reduces the amount of money available for public services.

To many Italians this practice not only shows disrespect for something they take great pride in, it threatens their way of life. This explanation is not to say that I condone this view. I’m only stating I understand where it stems from and I can see how it would be hard for an Italian to not think that way.

Living in a foreign country has also opened my eyes to my own capability for prejudice that I had no idea I had. I have come to the realization that I have formed my own prejudice against… Italians.

I know how this must sound. I live in Italy. I’m dating an Italian man. I have a few Italian friends. Still, I have formed opinions of Italians based on my interactions with them and I find myself assuming things about them that I have very little basis for.

For instance, I really do believe a large number of Italian men cheat.  I really do think it’s a larger percentage than in the United States, and I really do believe that I could never marry an Italian man because of it. I have NO statistical proof of any of this mind you. I just believe it based on what I have heard and my limited experience here. On a less negative note, but just as unfounded, I also believe that most Italian men are wildly romantic and fantastic lovers. Again, I have no idea if that is true, but it is my belief.

I’m also not that fond of Italian women. I’m not sure why. The few Italian women I have actually met have been kind enough. My roommate in Rome (an Italian woman originally from Naples) is one of the most lovely people I have ever met, Italian or otherwise. The few women who have spoken to me at the gym seem fine, and the girlfriend of my boyfriend’s best friend was friendly, charming, and welcoming.

However, I find myself thinking that most Italian women are stuck up, have no sense of humor, and are only concerned with their appearance. Again, I have almost no basis for this feeling. I shouldn’t judge all Italian women by those who have felt it necessary to tell me off because I was riding my bike on a perfectly large sidewalk that gave each one of us ample room to pass, or for placing my umbrella too heavily on the ground when entering a building, or for coming into a yoga class without introducing myself first, or for constantly asking me to walk more softly in my own apartment which happens to be above hers.

I know I’m being ridiculous. However, if you make me join a queue in Italy, I’m gonna automatically have my arms on my hips, elbows back with my right leg extended a bit behind me to block the inevitable Italian woman who I just KNOW is going try to cut in front of me in line and not think twice about it.

I’m not proud of this realization about myself, but to deny it would be a lie. And to not address it would be a dishonor to all that my parents taught me and to all of the great people I could befriend. I’m hoping this realization keeps me in check. I hope it keeps me looking at things from a position of empathy and keeps me questioning why I think the way I think, and why I feel the way I feel.

I’m not perfect. I have many flaws that I want to learn to accept, but intolerance is not one of them.

Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock

On August 7th I will turn 40. Although I find I talk about age quite a bit, I have never worried about it. I have never been one of those people who panic about becoming the big “four-oh”. In fact, two years ago I started telling people, “I’m almost 40.” As I recall, my entire adult life I have volunteered my age.

Surprisingly to me this admission has subjected me to several lectures from various girlfriends over the years (including those younger than I am) about how I shouldn’t discuss my age. I didn’t understand what the issue was. I was proud of my age. I didn’t feel like I acted or looked my age. Why not talk about it? It’s just a number. But as that significant “number” draws nearer to being MY number, I find myself with more dread than happiness or anticipation. And for the first time in my life, I am seriously contemplating shaving off five years after the big day.

Maybe I’m feeling this way because everywhere I turn I see an article, or have a discussion, or get an email about how much the body starts to degenerate with age; how it’s significantly harder to lose weight; how all of the hair on your body starts thinning; how you stop producing collagen and elastin; how it’s harder to heal from an injury; how your ability to reproduce slows down; how your sexual drive slows down; etc., etc.

OH MY GOD! Too much information! I don't want to know this stuff!

For the last few months I have been dating someone who, let’s just say is significantly younger than I am. Significantly to the point that I won’t even tell you how much younger. One might think this is a good thing; a testament to my young spirit and looks. But dating someone a lot younger isn’t all “Demi and Ashton” glamourous.

Don't get me wrong, in some ways I feel like a total rock star that I can hold the attention of a gorgeous younger man. But, lately, it’s also making me feel more self conscience and aware of my age than even before. I’m noticing every wrinkle on my face that is not yet on his; every extra pound that is harder to shed; every sag here and every bump there.  These are my own insecurities.  I know every person has them.  But knowing that every person has them is not lessening my own burden of having them.

Maybe it’s not so much that I am worried about becoming 40 as the dread I feel about time zipping past me without any way to slow it down. I can’t believe that I have been in Italy for nearly 8 months now. I can’t believe that I only have 2 months left. The first 20 years of my life seemed to take forever, and the last 20 have careened past me like a high speed train running late for its on-time arrival.

Remember when, as a child, a day seemed to last an eternity? And if you were looking forward to something two weeks away it felt like you had to wait an entire year?  I’d like that feeling back please.  Could someone please figure out a way to slow down time?

Turn and Burn Baby!

When one thinks of dining in Italy one may conjure up romantic notions of 2-hour long dinners spent with great friends out on the piazza enjoying mouth watering courses of Italian food and wine served with precision and care.  Well, after living here for 7 months, I now know “one” should think again!

The reality is most Italian restaurants have no idea what customer service really means. I find this strange because Italians are so concerned with quality and customer service when it comes to other industries, like apparel, where it’s considered rude if I select my own shoe box from the stack of boxes on the floor because it’s the job of the staff to pull that box for you and place that shoe on your foot… daahhh!

Let me warn you now, if you come to Italy expecting the kind of restaurant service you get even at a Denny’s in America, you might as well just ask the pilot to turn the plane around right now, because you’re not gonna get that kind of service in Italy my friend!

Most of the time Italian waiters have severe tunnel vision. There is no such thing as working a section of tables rather than one at a time. In Italy waiters get to you when they get to you; can only manage to take a drink order during their first visit to the table (mostly because ordering your meal at that same time doesn’t make sense to them. You order your meal when they come back with your drinks… about 15 minutes after you ordered them); and disappear for what seems like an eternity after the meal has been served.

You know how it gets really annoying at some American restaurants when the waiter or the manager continually comes over to see if everything’s okay at the table? Yeah, well you don't have to worry about that here because NO ONE would bother to ask you how your meal is because they’re not going do anything about it anyway! For reasons that are still unknown to me, the wait staff will pass by your table of empty dishes for 20 minutes without clearing any plates.

But here’s the absolute kicker for me; on 3 separate occasions my friend Christine or I have been asked to leave a restaurant. Yep, someone on the wait staff actually came over and said, “I need you to go soon.” One time Christine was asked to leave after only being at the restaurant for 30 minutes. She was still nibbling on her dinner plate when the waitress said she needed the table!

I’m sorry, you can talk to me about cultural differences all you want, but there is nothing as off-putting as being asked to leave a restaurant while in mid-sip of a freshly poured cup of tea! Especially when you’re not being loud, you have not stayed there without ordering an appropriate amount of food, and there is no wait at the door!

Oh Italian restaurants, if you could just adopt this one little habit from the United States, just this one little concept called restaurant service, I’d be the happiest gal on the planet!

For Stephen

If you were still here I could share with you all the insignificant things that only you and I would understand and appreciate.

If you were still here I could tell you how sorry I was for being so judgmental when we were married.

If you were still here I could wish you happy birthday, on this day, which would have been your 40th.

But you are not still here.

You left this life 1 year, 5 months, and 18 days ago.

You left this life before I could forgive you.

You left this life before we could be true friends again.

Today, I say to you what I said to you on our six year wedding anniversary when we did not know if we would stay married.

Today, I say to you what I whispered in your ear when you were dying.

Today, I say to you what I think to myself every time I become overwhelmed by your death.

Stephen, my heart is always with you.

But today I also add, I forgive you and thank you for all you have taught me.

Letting Go

If you know me or if you’ve read my blog profile you understand that I’ve had quite a lot going on over the last 5 years. Some things fun, many things not so fun.

I have often wondered why these things happened to me. What did I do, or who did I piss off to make this bad karma come my way? After a while, difficult events became so commonplace in my life that bad news didn’t upset me anymore. So in January of 2009 when I was called back into my doctor’s office (10 days after we buried my former husband) and was told I had a suspicious lump in my breast that needed to be investigated more thoroughly, I actually laughed out loud. I remember thinking to myself, “Are you kidding me? What else could possibly be thrown my way?”

Eventually, I noticed I found an unexplainable satisfaction in telling my friends yet another story about something crazy that happened to me. I had this weird need to talk about my sad story even with people I didn't know very well. I think most people would keep these things to themselves. After all, some of my stories are kinda humiliating. Why would anyone want to tell anyone, especially relative strangers about it?

I recognize of course that part of why I talk so much about things others would not is because this is how I process things. Others in my family are more cerebral. They think their way through things and don’t take action or even talk about it before their thought process is complete. I’ve tried to be more like this; to think more and talk less, but I can’t do it. It’s just not the way I’m made. I’ve got to talk things out or I literally feel like I’ll explode!

I’m also positive a large part of me needed validation from those around me. I needed to hear that I did not deserve these bad times; that I was a good person, that I deserved better.

The talking helped. The validation helped. But what also happened was I became defined by these bad events. I wrapped them around me like a security blanket and I found a strange kind of comfort in the, "Don't you feel sorry for me?" role.

The problem is when you hold on to pain, or resentment, or self pity it’s hard for the events that caused these emotions to become part of your past. It's hard to move forward.

But taking this time for myself; to think, to write, and to just “be” me has brought me to a place where I am ready to move on. I am truly ready to forgive. I am ready to throw away the security blanket and let go of my precious pain.

Yeah, some tough stuff has happened to me over the last few years, but that is not who I am. That is not how I want to be defined. I want to be defined by the woman I have blossomed into; confident, happy, goofy, and content.

The Sounds of Italy

I am sitting by my open window sending emails to friends and absorbing the sounds floating into my new home. The sun is shining. A church bell is chiming in the background. The smell of fresh flowers and an occasional cigarette from my neighbor's window is filling my nose. Italian is being spoken by the construction workers in the courtyard below.

When I can simply listen to Italian, without the pressure of having to understand what is being said, I am reminded of the absolute beauty of this language. I hear the music of its cadence, and I get lost in its rhythm.

Of all the major Romance languages, Italian retains the closest resemblance to Latin, which was spoken by the Romans and forced upon Italians during Rome’s reign of power. Until the 19th century Italy had no national language, but was filled with local dialects. It was common that Italians from the North could not communicate with Italians from the South (or any other region) because the languages were completely different.

Italy’s unification in 1861 produced profound transformations including mandatory schooling which caused an increase in literacy and resulted in the adoption of the national language, based on Tuscany’s dialect, with less native dialects. As a result, the modern and beautiful language of Italian was born.

Okay, the construction workers have started to speak again. The echo of their words are rising up through the courtyard of my building. The church bells are once again chiming; time for me to get lost in the sounds of Italy.

Embracing Home

For months I felt off kilter here; definitely not like myself. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t happier. This was my reward for my last 4.5 years of hell. I was supposed to be living my dream, but there was an underlying uneasiness; an underlying sadness that I could not shake. Insecurities I had hoped were gone forever came back to me. I felt ugly. I felt out of place. And maybe hardest of all for me was I felt invisible. “Ugh,” I thought to myself more times than I'd like to admit, “After all I did to get here, I made the wrong decision! I gave up too much, and the “prize” wasn’t worth it.”

I arrived in Rome on October 11th. By December 5th I wanted to come home. I almost did come home for good, but my friend Nat convinced me not too. She didn’t say, “Don't come home,” she just asked a lot of good questions about motivations, frustrations, and personal goals. Nat understood where I was coming from because she moved from her home country to live and work a foreign country and had to essentially start her life from scratch. She understood where I was in my head. Truly, if it were not for her, I don't know where I would be living at this moment.

By early-March I was still not feeling like me, and then my friend Sherrie came to visit. She was just what I needed; a slice of home, a kick in the ass, and a reminder of whom I really was. The day she left something inside me switched back on, and I felt empowered. I realized that my destiny was not to live in Italy. I stopped fighting the desire to go back home and set a date to return in August of 2010. I felt back on solid ground again. I felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders AND my heart.

This decision allowed me to relax and enjoy the ride much more than I had been. I’m smiling more. I’m laughing more. I’m flirting more. I’m dating more. I’m speaking more Italian, and I’m forgiving myself more for not being better at speaking Italian. Life is good, but it’s funny where life takes you. The day I decided to move back home is the day I felt the most comfortable in Italy. I’ll tell you what though, learning that your real life is better than your dream is a fantastic lesson to learn and a lesson that, I believe, was worth moving to Italy for!