Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Perche'?
Why can't I run my heater at night?
Why are Italian carrots so much sweeter?
Why are bright colors reserved for walls, both interior and exterior, and deemed unacceptable in clothing form, with the exception of old men's yellow pants?
Why are European egg yolks orange?
Why do I wake up to a rooster crowing when I live downtown?
Why can't I dip my bread in oil like I was taught to at Johnny Carino's?
Why does it take 3 Italians 4 appointments to change a lightbulb?
Why are my 18" stone walls thick enough to block good wifi/cell reception, but not thick enough to muffle my neighbor's alarm clock?
Why doesn't Hulu/Netflix work overseas?
Why do some shops only accept exact change?
Sunday, January 27, 2013
I knew this day would come.
It finally showed its ugly face.
The Sunday morning when I was just too lazy to get all dolled up to step outside for 3.2 minutes to let my dog do his business in the cobblestone alley next to my building.
So there I am, yoga pants and reeboks, this hot mess makeup-less monstrosity, steppin' out amongst the full-length fur clad Italian ladies with their primped hair and high heels click-clacking down the covered marble walkway outside my front door. I'm sure a sign that reads "no dignity" is strapped across my back as I walk my scruffy cowdog to relieve himself, his tail wagging wildly all the while, completely oblivious to our deserved shame.
Good thing I showered and fixed my hair first.
I'm not a monster.
The Sunday morning when I was just too lazy to get all dolled up to step outside for 3.2 minutes to let my dog do his business in the cobblestone alley next to my building.
So there I am, yoga pants and reeboks, this hot mess makeup-less monstrosity, steppin' out amongst the full-length fur clad Italian ladies with their primped hair and high heels click-clacking down the covered marble walkway outside my front door. I'm sure a sign that reads "no dignity" is strapped across my back as I walk my scruffy cowdog to relieve himself, his tail wagging wildly all the while, completely oblivious to our deserved shame.
Good thing I showered and fixed my hair first.
I'm not a monster.
Friday, January 25, 2013
The one about downtown livin'.
I moved into my downtown apartment nearly 2 months ago.
It was a character-building experience that I'm only just writing about because I've only recently had my internet hooked up. But that is another story.
This story is about the most important lessons learned about downtown Italian livin'. Americans preparing for downtown livin': please learn from my mistakes. Spare yourself the humiliation. And the fines.
There exists an
invisible force field around an Italian city center that magically knows you are crossing
its boundary when you take a sharp right turn into a narrow alley in your
desperate attempt to avoid accidental collision with oncoming traffic because
you accelerated to avoid a fender-bender with an Italian driver who you frustrated by only doing 30 kph over the speed limit, which is not speeding - it's just expected, and now you can’t turn around in this narrow alley because it's
one-way and the crazy Italian driver who was already mad at you is not only
right on your tail, but he is even more angry because you pumped the brakes when you
realized you were about to cross the boundary of the magical force field, and
now he is honking at you and leaning out his window so that you can hear him
yelling his Italian curses and see him shaking his Italian fist, and all the
Italians walking down the street are looking at you and shaking their Italian
heads while muttering their Italian two-cents at no one in particular, so you just continue to drive into the force field
even though you don’t have the magical “permission” and you know that a traffic
ticket is going to magically appear in your mailbox.
This magical phenomenon is known as the ZTL - zona traffico limitato (limited traffic zone).
And this is the Italian way.
La bella vita!
But on a positive note, my neighbors were suuuper excited to
meet me.
One even came over to introduce himself to me on my second
day in the apartment. Our exchange of
pleasantries went a little something like this:
*buzz*
Me: What the-? Koda,
what is that sound?
Koda: woof!
*buzz* … *buzzzzzzzzz*
Koda: woof woof woof!
I followed the unfamiliar sound to the entry hall and picked
up the phone hanging on the wall.
Me, speaking into the phone: Hello?
Voice outside my door, not on the phone: Ehmm, hello!
Oh. I hung up the
phone and grabbed my keys from the table.
I struggled to unlock the door, turning the old key around three times
before I heard the dead bolt click and pulled the heavy door open. A young-ish man stood outside.
Me: Hi…
Me: Oh, yes, I’m
here. I just moved in yesterday.
Man: Ohhhh, oh oh oh ohhh, okayyyy.
Me: Do you live here?
Man: Yes, I live just there (he points to the adjacent
door).
Me: Oh! Ok, so we are
neighbors. Hi! I’m Brynn! (I stick my out my hand).
Me: Piacere! It’s nice to meet you.
Me: (confused) Um…no, of course not…?
Cristiano: Ok…because we hear the noise.
Me: Well, I mean, I have my heat on, of course, because it’s
so cold.
Cristiano: Ohhhh, so you have the heat on (he points to the
radiator).
Me: Well, I have the radiators on, yes, but I have the
heater on as well. You know, the hot air
(I point at the small heater mounted at the top of my wall – a real score in
Italy and one major reason I chose this particular apartment).
Cristiano: Oh…you use this AND radiator?
Me: Um…yeah, I use both.
I mean, it’s so collllld…(I rub my arms for emphasis).
Cristiano: But, you use at night?
Me: Yeah – umm, yes, I left it on last night…?
Cristiano: Because the engine, we can hear it on. Maybe you don’t turn it on at night?
Me, in disbelief: You can hear the…the “engine”…of this…tiny,
wall-mounted…heater?
Cristiano: We hear it at night. Maybe you don’t turn it on at night.
Me: Um…O-Ok, I guess…
Cristiano: Va bene.
Allora, ciao!
And just like that, Cristiano My Neighbor the
man was gone.
Later that night, I relayed this story in disbelief to some
of my Italian friends, like, can you believe the nerve of this guy?
“But, actually, you shouldn’t turn on the heater at night.”
Wait…wait, what!?
But it is SO COLD!
“Actually, I don’t even turn on the radiator at night. I just use a lot of blanket.”
And this is the Italian way.
It’s all wine tastings and gondola rides over here.
La bella vita!
Monday, December 17, 2012
La bella vita
Moving to Italy is not as romantic as it sounds.
I mean, I knew that. They told me that. And I said I understood. Yeah, I know, I said. It's not vacation, it's real life, I said.
Just like you. You, who are reading this. Of course it's not vacation, you'll say. It must be soooo hard for you, living in ITALY.
You'll hit what we call, "the wall," they said, in about three months, give or take a few weeks.
Not me, I said.
You'll find yourself sitting on the living room floor, they said, with your head in your hands, asking yourself, "why did I ever come here?"
No way. I'm a wanderer, a free spirit, a gypsy soul, I said.
But don't leave, they said.
It will get better, they said.
It won't bother me. I've always been independent. I'm used to doing things myself. I'm strong, I said. Stronger than most.
Being here is like being a child again. Simple tasks are new and frustrating. You have to learn everything all over again. You will beat your head against the wall trying to buy gas with a credit card, turn the electricity back on when it goes out once a week, connect the water to your washing machine, or freaking turn on the oven. You're no longer a self-sufficient adult. You're an ignorant foreigner. You can't manage your personal affairs by yourself. And you ask really, really stupid questions.
There will be really high highs and really low lows. It will be an emotional roller coaster, they said.
I'm sitting here on the edge of my bathtub, 10 weeks in, with one shoe on and one shoe off, after having had my most reliable credit card denied at the grocery store for god-knows-what reason, putting some dents and scratches in my rental car and wondering how much that is going to cost me, opening my dishwasher only to find that it took some of the finish off my dishes for lack of enough "dishwasher salt" (what?), learning that I will probably not have internet or the use of my oven until January, having an old man sternly scold me and my dog in Italian on the street for reasons unbeknownst to me, taking freezing cold showers for the last three days, and waking up to a flooded laundry room.
It will get better, they said.
Just hang on, they said.
I mean, I knew that. They told me that. And I said I understood. Yeah, I know, I said. It's not vacation, it's real life, I said.
Just like you. You, who are reading this. Of course it's not vacation, you'll say. It must be soooo hard for you, living in ITALY.
You'll hit what we call, "the wall," they said, in about three months, give or take a few weeks.
Not me, I said.
You'll find yourself sitting on the living room floor, they said, with your head in your hands, asking yourself, "why did I ever come here?"
No way. I'm a wanderer, a free spirit, a gypsy soul, I said.
But don't leave, they said.
It will get better, they said.
It won't bother me. I've always been independent. I'm used to doing things myself. I'm strong, I said. Stronger than most.
Being here is like being a child again. Simple tasks are new and frustrating. You have to learn everything all over again. You will beat your head against the wall trying to buy gas with a credit card, turn the electricity back on when it goes out once a week, connect the water to your washing machine, or freaking turn on the oven. You're no longer a self-sufficient adult. You're an ignorant foreigner. You can't manage your personal affairs by yourself. And you ask really, really stupid questions.
There will be really high highs and really low lows. It will be an emotional roller coaster, they said.
I'm sitting here on the edge of my bathtub, 10 weeks in, with one shoe on and one shoe off, after having had my most reliable credit card denied at the grocery store for god-knows-what reason, putting some dents and scratches in my rental car and wondering how much that is going to cost me, opening my dishwasher only to find that it took some of the finish off my dishes for lack of enough "dishwasher salt" (what?), learning that I will probably not have internet or the use of my oven until January, having an old man sternly scold me and my dog in Italian on the street for reasons unbeknownst to me, taking freezing cold showers for the last three days, and waking up to a flooded laundry room.
It will get better, they said.
Just hang on, they said.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
The Italian Way
Before I expatriated, I attended an Italian culture training that was intended to make the assimilation process a little smoother. As the Italiani say (often), I learned a little about "the Italian way."
La famiglia, the family.
It's allllll about the family.
"Theeees ees the Italian wayyyy-eh."
OK. Va bene. Got it.
And you can see this played out everywhere, real-time, in both personal life and work life. Not that the two are separate and distinct. Because in the same breath you can talk about your mission statement and your date last night. It's the Italian way.
It sometimes makes me anxious to take caffe' breaks with Italians. There are at least two breaks a day that are at least ten minutes long. An American coffee break lasts as long as it takes to walk to the coffee pot, fill your cup, and walk back. Italians gather around the cappucino machine and gab like they haven't spoken to each other in ages.
It kind of reminds me of "Friends," in "The One Where Rachel Smokes." Even though she's not a smoker, she has to join her coworkers on their smoking breaks so she doesn't miss out. She eventually succumbs to the pressure and smokes a cigarette.
I am the Rachel of Italian coffee breaks.
Sure, I frequented Starbucks back in the States, where, for only $2.95, I could get not only a cup of coffee, but also, an absolutely defining sense of self.
Tall, skim, caramel macchiato, no whip for Bry-... Br-...ummm...Bryan?
But, I'm not a caffe' drinker. An Italian Caffe' (espresso) is strong enough to put hair on Justin Bieber's chest (much love, Biebs...I ain't mad atcha).
And, like Rachel, I have given in. I only drink a cappucino before 10 a.m., and I'm even starting to enjoy my macchiati (it's NOT what you're thinking of, if you're thinking of Starbucks). I have at least two coffees a day. And, like Rachel, I may "feel a little shaky and a little weird," but "I HAD to, I HAD to do it for my career!"
It's the Italian way.
Want to know what else is the Italian way?
Using the same phrase to mean a gazillion different things.
Like, "allora," which is THE MOST COMMONLY USED PHRASE in Italian.
There is absolutely, positively, no way that you can make it through an entire conversation without hearing this phrase. I dare you to try to find out its literal translation by asking Italians. They will all tell you something different.
"Well,..."
"So,..."
"Ok,..."
"Oh well,..."
"Then,..."
"Now,..."
It just depends on the context in which it's used. Normale.
Donnie Brasco explains this concept perfectly:
It's like that, only less vulgar.
Somehow, it just makes perfect sense.
Allora...
La famiglia, the family.
It's allllll about the family.
"Theeees ees the Italian wayyyy-eh."
OK. Va bene. Got it.
And you can see this played out everywhere, real-time, in both personal life and work life. Not that the two are separate and distinct. Because in the same breath you can talk about your mission statement and your date last night. It's the Italian way.
It sometimes makes me anxious to take caffe' breaks with Italians. There are at least two breaks a day that are at least ten minutes long. An American coffee break lasts as long as it takes to walk to the coffee pot, fill your cup, and walk back. Italians gather around the cappucino machine and gab like they haven't spoken to each other in ages.
It kind of reminds me of "Friends," in "The One Where Rachel Smokes." Even though she's not a smoker, she has to join her coworkers on their smoking breaks so she doesn't miss out. She eventually succumbs to the pressure and smokes a cigarette.
I am the Rachel of Italian coffee breaks.
Sure, I frequented Starbucks back in the States, where, for only $2.95, I could get not only a cup of coffee, but also, an absolutely defining sense of self.
Tall, skim, caramel macchiato, no whip for Bry-... Br-...ummm...Bryan?
But, I'm not a caffe' drinker. An Italian Caffe' (espresso) is strong enough to put hair on Justin Bieber's chest (much love, Biebs...I ain't mad atcha).
And, like Rachel, I have given in. I only drink a cappucino before 10 a.m., and I'm even starting to enjoy my macchiati (it's NOT what you're thinking of, if you're thinking of Starbucks). I have at least two coffees a day. And, like Rachel, I may "feel a little shaky and a little weird," but "I HAD to, I HAD to do it for my career!"
It's the Italian way.
Want to know what else is the Italian way?
Using the same phrase to mean a gazillion different things.
Like, "allora," which is THE MOST COMMONLY USED PHRASE in Italian.
There is absolutely, positively, no way that you can make it through an entire conversation without hearing this phrase. I dare you to try to find out its literal translation by asking Italians. They will all tell you something different.
"Well,..."
"So,..."
"Ok,..."
"Oh well,..."
"Then,..."
"Now,..."
It just depends on the context in which it's used. Normale.
Donnie Brasco explains this concept perfectly:
It's like that, only less vulgar.
Somehow, it just makes perfect sense.
Allora...
Monday, October 29, 2012
language not-so-barriers
I've heard people say that the best way to learn another language is to watch television in that language.
But after two episodes of C.S.I. - Scena Del Crimine, I remain unconvinced.
I would, however, be interested in hearing Darth Vader dubbed in Italian.
"Luca, io sono suo padre."
Last night, I met two of my Italian friends downtown for a "chocolate." I accepted this invitation on good faith, not really understanding what a "chocolate" was, and I'm still not sure after having ingested one.
Ingested is a gross word, but I'm not really sure if I ate the chocolate or drank it, so it's the best I can come up with at this late hour, that SHOULD be 10:15pm but instead it's actually 9:15pm because of stupid un-daylight savings time. Don't get me started on that.
Today I was complaining about un-daylight savings time at work, and someone said something to the effect of, "that was my favorite part of the Bush administration - he extended daylight savings time."
And it just struck me funny that that was the best part.
But, I digress.
A "chocolate" is somewhere between a melted Hershey's bar and a cup of hot cocoa, served in a cup but eaten with a spoon. Think microwaved chocolate pudding, except way more classy, of course, because it's all Italian and you eat/drink/take it in a quaint Italian cafe and you have to do everything the Italian way including pay with exact change, because God forbid they have to break a bill (--huh?).
I've been working on teaching one of my Italian friends all of the most important American idioms, phrases, and concepts that are an absolute necessity for her to get by in life, such as:
-baby mama drama
-Italian stallion
-easy cheesy, lemon squeezy (this happens to be her favorite) (she especially likes the ones that rhyme)
-on the prowl
-[it costs] an arm and a leg
(Italians have something similar: un occhio della testa, which means, "an eye of the head")
-See ya later, aligator / After while, crocodile
She has a no-kidding American idioms spreadsheet where she keeps track of such phrases that she started learning from a previous expat, and I have taken it upon myself to continue his hard work and sound tutelage.
Just trying to help an Italian gal out.
Also, it's hilarious hearing her toss out these ridiculous phrases at random times in conversation with thick Italian accent, all non-chalant as if it is the most natural thing in the world to say.
No way, Jose.
But after two episodes of C.S.I. - Scena Del Crimine, I remain unconvinced.
I would, however, be interested in hearing Darth Vader dubbed in Italian.
"Luca, io sono suo padre."
Last night, I met two of my Italian friends downtown for a "chocolate." I accepted this invitation on good faith, not really understanding what a "chocolate" was, and I'm still not sure after having ingested one.
Ingested is a gross word, but I'm not really sure if I ate the chocolate or drank it, so it's the best I can come up with at this late hour, that SHOULD be 10:15pm but instead it's actually 9:15pm because of stupid un-daylight savings time. Don't get me started on that.
Today I was complaining about un-daylight savings time at work, and someone said something to the effect of, "that was my favorite part of the Bush administration - he extended daylight savings time."
And it just struck me funny that that was the best part.
But, I digress.
A "chocolate" is somewhere between a melted Hershey's bar and a cup of hot cocoa, served in a cup but eaten with a spoon. Think microwaved chocolate pudding, except way more classy, of course, because it's all Italian and you eat/drink/take it in a quaint Italian cafe and you have to do everything the Italian way including pay with exact change, because God forbid they have to break a bill (--huh?).
I've been working on teaching one of my Italian friends all of the most important American idioms, phrases, and concepts that are an absolute necessity for her to get by in life, such as:
-baby mama drama
-Italian stallion
-easy cheesy, lemon squeezy (this happens to be her favorite) (she especially likes the ones that rhyme)
-on the prowl
-[it costs] an arm and a leg
(Italians have something similar: un occhio della testa, which means, "an eye of the head")
-See ya later, aligator / After while, crocodile
She has a no-kidding American idioms spreadsheet where she keeps track of such phrases that she started learning from a previous expat, and I have taken it upon myself to continue his hard work and sound tutelage.
Just trying to help an Italian gal out.
Also, it's hilarious hearing her toss out these ridiculous phrases at random times in conversation with thick Italian accent, all non-chalant as if it is the most natural thing in the world to say.
No way, Jose.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Name Game
"Brrrrreeeeeeeeeen!" Frederico exaggerates how Italians pronounce my name in a sing-songy voice with a big smile on his face as I walk in the door to the hotel. "Like a very old telephone, uh?"
Ciaoooo, Frederico.
"No, no, no, it's FADE-UH-RRRRI-CO." He writes it down for me: FEDERICO.
I guess if I'm going to correct how he says my name, he should probably correct me, too.
I told Gianni a couple days ago that I wrote about him in my blog. Apparently, "blog" translates, so he wanted the address. I asked Federico if he read it, as well.
"Yesterdayyy, Gianni ask me to read-eh your blog to heeeeem, buhhht, it is very hard for Italians to read, so I say to Gianni, 'I am too tired,'" [he pretends to yawn for emphasis], "and I go home, and I-" [he whistles as he pretends to flip through a book], "so I can see some of these words, and todayyy I read it to heeem!" Federico is extra lively today, and I'm loving it.
Later on that evening, I walk downstairs to take Koda outside.
Ciaooo, Gianni!
"Ciao, Brrrrreeeeeeeen!" he laughs. Gianni has a great laugh. Just the way you would imagine an Italian would.
I guess you read my blog.
"My name, you say 'Jee-YAWN-ee'...but is just...'Jyanni.'"
Oh.
Welp, now I know.
He laughs again. "I liiiiike that you say we sounds like very old telephone with your name."
What I think they liiiiiiiiiiiike is that I wrote about the way they sounds like at all.
All cute and Italiany.
Ciaoooo, Frederico.
"No, no, no, it's FADE-UH-RRRRI-CO." He writes it down for me: FEDERICO.
I guess if I'm going to correct how he says my name, he should probably correct me, too.
I told Gianni a couple days ago that I wrote about him in my blog. Apparently, "blog" translates, so he wanted the address. I asked Federico if he read it, as well.
"Yesterdayyy, Gianni ask me to read-eh your blog to heeeeem, buhhht, it is very hard for Italians to read, so I say to Gianni, 'I am too tired,'" [he pretends to yawn for emphasis], "and I go home, and I-" [he whistles as he pretends to flip through a book], "so I can see some of these words, and todayyy I read it to heeem!" Federico is extra lively today, and I'm loving it.
Later on that evening, I walk downstairs to take Koda outside.
Ciaooo, Gianni!
"Ciao, Brrrrreeeeeeeen!" he laughs. Gianni has a great laugh. Just the way you would imagine an Italian would.
I guess you read my blog.
"My name, you say 'Jee-YAWN-ee'...but is just...'Jyanni.'"
Oh.
Welp, now I know.
He laughs again. "I liiiiike that you say we sounds like very old telephone with your name."
What I think they liiiiiiiiiiiike is that I wrote about the way they sounds like at all.
All cute and Italiany.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
