Americani

72 hours in country, and I'm loving it.

I went casa/appartamento hunting on Mercoledì with Andrea.  I enjoyed myself to the hilt, as he gave me many good "advices" about day-to-day life in Italy, bought me my first delizioso Italian pastry, and told me that I was the queen (winner, winner). 

He also tried to teach me how to be more Italian, as I've noticed many Italians do as a favor to we Americani.

"We have a joke-eh about Americans-eh," he said.  Italians don't know how to end a word with a hard consanant - MUST. ADD. EH.

"An American-eh came to an Italian supermarket-eh.  He pointed at una mela and say to the grocer, 'what is this-eh?'  And the grocer say, 'that is an apple.'  And the Americani say, 'in America, the apples are THIS BIG,'" stretching his arms apart to show the size.

 "And then the Americani points at a - ehmm, how do you say, ehm," he turns to his Italian counterpart, "Come sei dice la lattuga in inglese? ...Ahh, si, si... he points to a lettuce-eh, and he say to the grocer, 'What is this?' And the grocer says, 'This is lettuce.'  And the Amercani, he laugh and he say, 'In America, lettuce is theeees beeeeg,'" he stretches his arms wide again. 

"Then, a truck of watermelons-eh drives eh-by, and the Americani say, 'What is this?'  And the grocer turns to him," Andrea shrugs his shoulders, "and he say, 'These?  These are just peas.'"  He throws his head back and bursts out in laughter at his own joke.  I am as much amused by his delivery as the joke itself, so I join him in merriment.

One of the things that distinguishes Italians the most is their lack of any sense of urgency.  This can be either extremely charming or irritating, depending on the situation, but you just have to accept these cultural differences at face value.

It's not better, it's not worse, it's just different.

I happen to find this "tomorrow...normale" attitude delightful (I am told that after a few months, I won't find it quite so charming anymore, but I prefer to be optimistic, no matter naivete).

On my first day of work, I had to wait at the gate to get my photo badge before entering.  Upon approaching the guardshack, I peaked in the open window and saw 3 men gathered around another gentleman, who I would later learn to know and love as Franco, while he played and sang a rendition of "Volare." 

Volare!?  Are you kidding me?  Could this BE any more perfect??

He acknowledged me at the window by a nod of his head without wavering from lyric or missing a note.  He played for another minute or so, finishing with a smile as he reached his arms out, directing an Italian phrase at me that I could only assume meant something like, "what do you think?" or "not bad, huh?" while the other guards applauded and looked to me for my response.  I clasped my hands together and cried, "bellissimo!" which I gathered was the proper reply from his cheerful reaction.

Franco, 60 years old and harmless, has taken a fast liking to me, and I must admit that I fancy him in return.  He speaks Italian to me every day, fully cognizant of the fact that io non capisco.  Today, as I was leaving, he held up traffic behind me at the gate in order to "chat."  He came prepared, dragging along a younger man who spoke a little English.  The young man apologized for not being able to understand me very well, as he had been out of school for a while and was out of practice.  Franco waved at the car behind me to pull up alongside me.  He asked the man if he spoke English.  When he replied, si si, Franco cried, "Ah! Bravo!" rolling his "r" extra long for emphasis and holding his hands out toward me as if we had both won.  The man translated an exchange of pleasantries before ending with Franco's appeal for me to learn Italian, saying (apparently), "you live in Italy now, you must learn Italian."  I assured him that I was trying to learn, if only to enable me to speak to him.  With this, he smiled and nodded, seemingly satisfied, and sent me on my way, along with the lengthy line of cars that had formed behind me, bidding arrivederci.

The one about the boots.

3 seventy pound suitcases.

That's it.  That's all I get for the next two-and-a-half months.

So for all of you who asked if you could come stowed away in my suitcases and I laughed as if I hadn't heard that before ever from anyone and responded with something like, "haha, that's funny Ted, I'll let you know..."

The answer is no.

Because then I wouldn't have room for my steel-toed boots.

...yep.

Since I spend most of my days in 6 inch heels in a work place where the majority of people wear tennis shoes, you can imagine how horrifying the steel-toed boot shopping experience was for me.  Let me tell you, there is a market out there for ladies' decent looking work boots. 

After much online shopping and a failed attempt at purchasing one pair not quite as bad as all the rest (out of stock), it took two cowboys and a full hour to sell me one pair of ugly boots. 

This was, of course, after much scoffing when I inquired about the possibility of adding the steel toe element to a pair of  cowboy boots that I already own.

Me: Can't you just put a steel toe in my Old Gringos?

Cowboy 1:  Lady! Did you even hear what you just asked me?!

Me: ...sooo...yes, then? That means yes?

It meant no.

Cowboy 2 had a better approach.

Cowboy 2: Ma'am, are you telling me you're gonna be wearing these boots in Italy?

Me: Yes.

Cowboy 2: Around Italians?

Me: Well, Italians and Americans, yes.

Cowboy 2: With all due respect, ma'am, no one's gonna be lookin' at your feet.

SOLD!

8 days

 

I was going to title this post in Italian to showcase my preparedness for this post’s namesake, but that would have required a trip to my newfound favorite website, freetranslation.com, which I have become well acquainted with over the last 6 months and a stack of immigration paperwork about 6 inches deep.  Only otto days away from my move date, and I admittedly do not even know the Italian word for “days.”  I’ve been kinda busy, alright?  It’s amazing what you unearth while sorting through boxes of crap you haven’t seen in years, including my trusty ol’ college keg tap that saw me through many finals weeks.  And look at me now!

So, needless to say, I haven’t hit the Rosetta Stone as hard as I would have liked.  In fact, the only real sentence I can string together off the top of my head is “gli uomini portano delle scarpe,” which I only remember because I like the way it sounds – all Italiany – so I filed it away in the ol' memory bank in order to dazzle all you non-Italian-speakers when you asked me how my language lessons were coming.  And you were all impressed, because you didn’t know that it meant “the men wear shoes” in the simplest form possible.  So, if I step off that plane and someone asks me what those guys have on their feet, I’m golden. 

As long as they ask me in English.

It's official.

First of all, I would like to say that I went straight to the "create new post" button without having to search for it, which, if you read Saturday's post, you would know is a great feat.  At least I accomplished something today, never mind the 3 piles of dirty laundry on my floor. We need not talk about them.

Second, but more imporantly, it's official.  I received my work permit today.  Well, what I really mean by "received" is that I was notified of it's issuance and given a tracking number because the original copy is officially in the mail.  Yep.  That nulla osta is on its sweet little way to my hot little hand in Fort Worth from Milano.  Yeehaw, y'all! 

I'm totally going to say things like "yeehaw" and "y'all come back now, ya hurrrr?" in Italy.  I'm going to milk it for all it's worth.  I'm going to tell them I'm from Dallas and they are going to ask me if I know who shot JR and I'm going to say yes, of course I do, I'm from Dallas.  It is going to be sooo much fun.

I once wore a Texas A&M sweatshirt in London and as soon as I stepped off the bus a man leaned out the window of a car that was driving by and yelled at me, "I love you!" except it was in a British accent so it was more like, "oiay lowve yeuw," and much more charming than I can possibly convey via blog.  And it was sort of the perfect beginning to a wonderful trip, because I'm pretty easy to please like that.

Back to the matter at hand.

The next step is to buy my one-way (eek!) ticket.  The destination: Milan-Malpensa.  The date of departure: October 8.  The time: ...to be determined.  Don't rush me.

I'm trying to decide if I'm going to live in a more rural area, where I could get more bang for my buck and probably have my own private garden where my puppy can run and play and pee on things freely and I won't have to carefully and awkwardly walk behind him at all times with baggie and pooper scooper in hand.  Another pro is that if I live in a smaller town, it is sure to not be as "touristy," and, in my experience, the locals of a small town are much more friendly and interested in getting to know you, which is kind of what I'm going for.  It's also super close to work.

Orrrrrr...

I could live in a quintessential Italian city in a second story apartment with window boxes full of flowers and walk out my front door into the Centro Storico where there are shops on my left and cafes on my right and if I want to go get a pizza, I can walk there, or if I'm more in the mood for a cappucino, I can walk there, too. 

How am I to decide??

Luckily, I have [up to] 2 months in a hotel to figure it out.  Maybe, just maybe, I will have an Italian friend or four by then to give me some advice.  For now, I'll continue to dream of Centro Storico...

44 days left in the US of A

Currently watching "Julie & Julia," which is inspiring me to both write a blog post and master the art (and joy) of french cooking, but since I'm not a huge fan of french food, or the french, for that matter, I'll settle for the former.  Not to mention I couldn't flip a crepe in the air by hand and skillet to save my life.  But I digress.  As I've had this blog for a number of years, and this is only my 25th post, I know as much about blogging as I do about flipping crepes.  In fact, every time I want to create a new post, I have to search for the "create a new post" button (it's at the top left, for all you other forgetful ENFPs).  I'm going to try to blog more regularly, if only to document for my future self the events of my Italian adventure. According to Julia, you've just got to practice, much like cooking.  And playing the piano. 

"You've just got to have the courage of your convictions."

So, only 44 days left in the good ol' US of A.  At least, that's my best guess.  Technically, I haven't received my work permit yet, or applied for my work visa, and no, I haven't yet bought my ticket, but I feel verrry sure that October 8th will be the day of my departure because I want it to be so badly! 

I have a tonnnnn of things to do before the move (read: as an ENFP I don't really know what I have to do because I can't [won't] function with to-do lists so instead I will remain unnecessarily stressed out because I can't possibly get a grip on everything there is to be done if I refuse to identify those things...breathe...somebody get me a brown bag...Meryl Streep is the best actress of all time...Julia Child is a freakin' hoot...what was I stressing out about again?), the most important of them being to secure one of these amazing custom leather luggage tags, and then, of course, win the lottery so that I can afford this $7000 Louis Vuitton piece.

Did you get that, people?

Seven. THOUSAND. Dollars.

For a single suitcase.

I need a minute.

...

Ok.

Since I don't have the lung capacity to hold my breath that long, I did a little searching for some affordable yet fabulous luggage.  And lookie here what I stumbled upon! Purchasing a set of this chic vintage luggage would allow me to travel out of my suitcase instead of being forced to live in it.

Isn't that convenient.

Almost one year ago, I wrote a post about how I should like to live in Cinque Terra.

(sigh)... Italia.  Images from "Under the Tuscan Sun" float through my memory.  Diane Lane in that fabulous white dress on the shores of Positano ("ladybugs, Catherine, ladybugs").  Market day in Cortona, where "the piazza is an ongoing party and everyone is invited. Clichés converge and you almost want to laugh, but you can't help feeling that these Italians know more about having fun than we do." 

And here I am, one year later, anxiously awaiting my Italian work permit.

Eek!

Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.