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?

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 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…

Voice outside my door Man: Ehhm, hello, ehmm, we heard some sound in the apartment, and we want to make sure that someone is here...

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).

Man My Neighbor: (shaking my hand hesitantly) …ehh…Cristiano.

Me:  Piacere!  It’s nice to meet you.

My Neighbor Cristiano: Piacere.  Sooooo, you have on your air condition?

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!