Ho Ho Ho!

With the Christmas season approaching and not being in proximity to our friends and family, combined with the warm temperament and lack of snow in the quasi-Mediterranean climate that is Rome, I have had to put some real effort into getting into the holiday sprit this year. I think my hard work is paying off though, a few days before Christmas and I am feeling no less spirit than Mrs. Claus herself.

In fact, last weekend, I was Mrs. Claus for a few short hours. The American Women’s Club that I belong to sponsors a few local orphanages during Christmas; we bought gifts for all of the children and hosted a party at their home. I had volunteered to help work on the project and subsequently got so carried away with my newfound Christmas spirit, that I enlisted Josh’s help as well. I volunteered him to play the role of the good Saint Nick at the party! It took a bit of time before he would believed what I had actually signed him up for, but if you know my good hearted-husband, you know that he wouldn’t have refused anyway, so what is the different if I asked or not!?

We had a fantastic time, when Josh walked in as Santa Claus, or as the Italian tots say, Babbe Natale, the place went nuts, I think he was bigger than Jim Tressel walking into a dorm room on South Campus. He was immediately mobbed, hugged, pulled and kissed! Lots of the usual questions were asked, like where does Santa live, and how does he know their names, etc etc. We did our best to try to answer back in our broken Italian, but the kids didn’t seem to mind too much, if at all, they were just happy that we were there, never mind the gifts and pounds of sugar that we brought. In fact, I think I might seek out more 2 year olds for conversation, I can hang with them, you know. We stuck to the "how old are you" and "I like cookie", I could totally be an Italian toddler.

We had a moment thinking that our cover was blown, when one small boy walked up to Josh and said, “Non sai babbe natale” (You are not Babbe Natale). “No?”, Josh answered. “No”, he replied knowingly, “Parli inglese, sai Santa Clause” (You speak English, you are Santa Claus). What a little wise guy, there is one in every bunch; it might be cute this year, but if he keeps this up, he may be finding a lump of coal in his stocking sometime during his adolescent years.

We left the orphanage with our hearts full and a good feeling, although after further discussion we figured out that “Ho Ho Ho” in Italian, is the first person singular (“I”) form of the verb essere, “to be”, so Josh probably walked around all morning much to the confusion of the Italian kids saying “I am I am I am”! They are still pondering what Santa thought he was. Oh well, if they bought into the awful fake beard he was wearing, they probably didn’t think much about it.

Rest and Refrustration

Last weekend Josh and I headed to Switzerland on a quest for some peace and quite after a whirlwind of a few stressful weeks here in the Eternal (as in eternally hectic) City. Being married to an architect is tricky business or perhaps it is just being married to Josh. Somehow, anywhere we ever travel, we end up trekking somewhere odd to see a building (usually by a dead architect) that, after awhile all seem to look like the other buildings (by dead architects) that I have viewed on previous “vacations”. This trip was no different, however, hugely interesting to me. This time we were going to see a boring old building, but inside it was a thermal spa! I love architecture!

Seeking nirvana and inner peace is a tricky business and to be sure to make our rest well deserved, we decided to take TrenItalia to get to Switzerland. After hours of hard work squinting at train schedules, a few trips back and forth to the train station and lots of waiting patiently for our turn at the ticket counter we thought we had a pretty safe plan of travel. We bought tickets to take the overnight train to Milan on Saturday night, switch trains in Milan early on Sunday morning and continue on a Swiss train to Zurich. From Zurich we would take a local train to Ilans, change to an even more local train to Chur and then hop a bus to Vals…this concocted itinerary itself should have alerted us to trouble. We excitedly left the house on Saturday evening (just before both WVU and Missouri lost to secure our spot in the NC) to catch the 11:00pm train. I had never taken an overnight train before and we decided to splurge for a good nights sleep by buying tickets for the sleeper car. This was my last pleasant memory of our train ride through Italy. When we arrived at our assigned car, instead of a sleeper car, it was a 2nd class coach car, a dirty one at that. Instead of a private little cabin with a bed, there were a series of cramped cabinettes, three seats on wall with three seats facing them. When the car was full, you had to sit up perfectly straight not to knock the knees of the person across from you. Not only was this not what we envisioned, it was a disaster. Most people didn’t have seat reservations and it was already night, so people were wandering around the cars aimlessly trying to find a seat, while others in the darkened cabinettes were stretched across all three seats asleep clutching all of their belongings. Other seedy characters were pacing up and down the corridors eyeing any luggage that wasn’t being looked over or clutched for dear life. Our compartment mates consisted of a Italian man who smelled like beer (and was in fact drinking a beer). A women with a huge suitcase that wouldn’t fit in the overhead shelf, so instead she left in the middle of the already cramped compartment, a pregnant lady and her husband, who did not have seats reserved, but instead bullied their way into the compartment by speaking very quick and terse Italian to the rest of us. They were compartment squatters; ownership is 100 percent of the law in this case.

After taking a look at our tickets, we decided that we must have purchased the wrong tickets from the ticket counter the day before, something must have lost something in translation. After a few passes by the purse snatchers and a burb from the beer guy, Josh decided to try to find the conductor to see if perhaps we could upgrade to a sleeping compartment…there was still hope. After about a half hour of true terror for me, as I sat wide eyed guarding all of our bags, Josh returned with the news. Like a lot of situations in life, there was good news and bad. Good news, there were sleeping compartments available. Bad news, instead of buying an actual seat on the train, we purchased a 6Euro RESERVATION for the seats… we in fact, had no tickets for the train which was now well on its way to Milan. No wonder the tickets were so cheap! After a few bad experiences with Italian train conductors on previous trips we decided to go to the conductor immediately, pay any necessary fines for having boarded a train without a ticket and purchase tickets for a sleeper car. It is now midnight and we load up with 4 heavy bags, my purse and a bag of snacks and sway and swing while walking up about 10 cars to the front of the train where the sleep cars were located. We found the conductor, settled into the sleeper car and went to settle our bill. A lucky break, we found the only nice train staff in Italy and the head Captain was willing to only charge us for the trip to Milan from the last station the train had passed, a pretty significant discount and a heck of a nice thing to do. As Josh was working out the details of the transaction, I chatted with his junior colleague. "So you are married?" he asked, "Yep" I told him, "Five years". "So... when are you having kids?" was his reply. SERIOUSLY? Is it in the middle of the night on a train to nowhere and I am AGAIN (see below post) being interrogated by an Italian man about motherhood!? Just when it looked like sleep would be ours, the total amount for the tickets added up to a bit more than we had in cash. As both of our credit cards were denied Josh and I both were recalling a conversation we had just 3 hours ago in front of the ATM machine at the train station. “Honey, should we get more cash out for the trip”, “No, lets not, I don’t like to carry a whole lot with me on the train”, “yes dear, that is true, lets wait until we get to Switzerland so we can get SwissFrancs instead of Euros”, we’re so smart…

After a series of painful failed attempts both of us, redfaced and barely awake, dug through our wallets hopelessly trying to find enough cash to make it work. Josh found a 50 US dollar bill tucked into the back of his wallet (don’t ask me why, I have no idea) and after some negotiating and figuring of the current exchange rates, it was determined that we had enough cash to buy two seats in a four person sleeper compartment, located 6 more cars up the train. We would have to buy them there though. So we packed ourselves up again and trudged up swinging and swaying to the designated car. Finally, at a little past 1am, the conductor determined that, after all, he could not print a ticket for this and we would have to go back to our seats, some 16 cars back with the pickpockets and drunks. To tired, frustrated and astonished to argue, we took our euros, dollars and newly purchased tickets and walked sadly back to the hell that is the back of the train.

Always the girl scout and ready for anything, I found a sleeping pill in my purse and knocked myself into oblivion, sleeping most uncomfortably on top of suitcases and backpacks in the stench of human filth until we arrived in Milan the next morning at 7am. Relieved to be off the train and breathing fresh air, we headed for our connection to Zurich. This is when the conductor outside the train pointed out that our tickets were for yesterday and therefore were not valid for today. Indeed, upon closer examination, the extremely helpful woman at the ticket counter had sold us tickets for the wrong day. And indeed, in the wonderful system that is the “Italian way”, despite 45 minutes of arguing at the Milan ticket counter, these tickets were not valid and we had to purchase two new tickets to board the next train to Milan. We may be living the Italian way, but our American selves wrote a very strongly worded complaint at the customer relations office! That should show them. Finally after this disastrous night, we arrived in a heavenly place. It is called Switzerland. The trains were clean, the people nice, things ran on time! The conductors instead of being scary and sneering, actually made sure we knew how to make our connections and told us to have a nice day. It was the opposite of everything we have come to know and expect from our adopted mother country. From here the trip was wonderful enough to make up for its ominous beginnings and we ended up having a wonderful time and a relatively uneventful trip home.

The thermal spring of St. Peter is located deep in the Swiss Alps in a tiny little mountain town, Vals. Besides the bottled water facility, and goat farms, the thermal bath seemed to be the main attraction in Vals, a town of about 1000 residents (not counting the goats). Once we arrived, the trip was everything we could ask for and more. The town was a little cluster of chalets at the base of the mountain, the spa was wonderful, both inside and out. My skin is glowing from the mineral water treatments and my mind was soothed by tall glasses of red wine in the piano bar at the adjacent hotel. A snowstorm moved in on our first night and we woke up to a winter wonderland on Monday morning before gorging ourselves on an organic buffet breakfast that would make anyone forget that they were about to spend the day in a bathing suit! It continued to snow throughout the day and Josh and I experienced the wonderful feeling of swimming in the snow. The air was so cold it was breathtaking and the water so hot that you could barely see through the steam, it was in fact, the best architecture experience I have ever had!

I could have stayed the whole winter, if I didn’t prune so easily.

Tacchino!

What is a Thanksgiving Feast without the traditional honored guest bird, the turkey?

With our first guests coming into town, I was determined to make a dinner that grandma would be proud of. The first major obstacle was where to find a turkey. The meat counter here barely has enough turkey to slice for sandwiches, and there is no such thing as a freezer case, so lets just say that the Butterballs aren't lined up here like they are in the states. I was told that I would have to special order one from the butcher. Now, being a culinary novice and in a new town, I wasn't even sure where the butcher was, I knew the vegetable lady and the deli stand guy, but I did not have a butcher, or machellaio, in the Italian Rolodex. Since he seemed to at least dabble in the art of meat, I thought I would start off by asking the deli guy. After explaining why I wanted a whole turkey and not my usual supply of thin sliced turkey breast, he was quiet for a minute or two and then slowly leaned over the counter and said in a low whisper that he knew the butcher of the "presidente della republica"! In fact, this presidential butcher was right in my neighborhood, what luck! I wonder if the president of the republic ever likes a nice whole turkey. I wound through our little neighborhood a few weeks before Thanksgiving to find the special butcher and put my order in for a nice little Tom. Surely there would be other crazy Americans out and about demanding poultry? I found the little shop which I must have walked by a hundred times. I am not sure how I missed the window, as I noticed with a shiver 6 or 7 dead naked birds hanging in the window along with some other parts that looked eerily like they once belonged to something alive. It was certainly the right place for meat.

I had been forewarned about this process by some seasoned expats so I came with my list ready. You cannot simply order a turkey here in Italy. Here is what I ordered: Una tacchino interna, con ossa, e pello, senza testa e pulito, sensze interiora abbastanza per quatro personi. Basically, I had to specify that I wanted a whole turkey, with skin, without feathers, without a head, with the insides cleaned out, and enough of it for four people. I encourage all of you to try to order your turkey like this next year and see how much you look forward to biting into him when the time comes. It is truly a wonder that all Italians are not vegetarians.


With the turkey ordered I moved on to other necessities, I spent a large portion of three days trying to find a can of pumpkin (ironic after the Halloween pumpkin search), cranberry sauce and a potato masher. I wound up with two out of three and still no ideas on where to find a potato masher. By the time our friends Jamie and Wade arrived the day before Thanksgiving, I had an admirable collection of American food stuff. Then, a bit of Italy came seeping back into my red, white and blue day dreams. There was a mix up with the butcher. He was not able to a small turkey. He had a few birds in the creepy window display that were large enough to lead a foul revolution, but certainly too large to fit in my tiny oven. Disappointed and confused at his rapid fire Italian, we compromised and I walked out of the shop with my new Thanksgiving tradition: a Turkey Breast Roast... who eats the dark meat anyway?


In the end we had a wonderful holiday. Jamie and I hit up the local market to buy all of our ingredients fresh on Thanksgiving morning! We ended up with quite a feast. A rughetta, pear, walnut and pomegranate seed salad, fresh bread from the baker, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, asparagus and of course a pumpkin pie... which actually turned out to be more of a pumpkin torte. We still ate it. The best part of Thanksgiving in Italy... the men do the dishes!

Everything's Coming Up Roses!

It has been a truly exciting two weeks! All good things happening here in Rome, except for my lack of blogging. I will attempt to make up for this by posting numerous blogs in one night. Pretend that you read the following a over the past few weeks.

Ohio State beat Michigan which makes all well with the world. We have been showing our pride (and trying to bother the neighbors) by proudly flying our flag. So far, we have received only one comment on it, our neighbor wanted to know which squad it was for and guessed that we were football, as in soccer, fans. Our Michigan fan/guest for the game was very well behaved, as was Josh. There was much peace and harmony to go around. I attribute most of this to Ohio State winning and that Josh and I are probably much better fans than any one who rooted for Michigan could be. Josh showed his graciousness through a floral arrangement.

Forza Buckeyes!

Our first M*ch*gan week abroad. I spent a good portion of the week gathering the necessary materials for what is now a long standing tradition in our house, making candy Buckeyes for all of our friends in preparation for the big game. After many failed attempts in asking for paraffin wax and confectioners sugar, I took matters into my own hands and decided to improvise. I bought a variety of products that I thought looked similar to those I was familiar with stateside and let my taste buds to the rest. Josh even took a break from work to come home and participate in the tradition!


















After a lot of sampling, i.e. eating the batter, to get things exactly right, our results were pretty accurate to our favorite Buckeyes recipe from Aunt Terry. Luckily, we still had a good supply of Jiff peanut butter from our last trip to the states. I'm not sure that the Italian version of peanut butter would have stood up to the test. We packed as many as we could in our tiny little fridge and carefully transported them to our offices the next day. I thought it was hard to explain what a candy buckeye was in Philadelphia! Try explaining to the Italians that your team is a bunch of killer nuts, but here, would you like to taste one? There was also much confusion about the peanut butter, a PB&J simply isn't a part of the Italian diet. Most of my Italian colleagues are convinced that I had somehow sweetened chestnuts, a very popular roasted treat here, to make the inside of the Buck's eye. I didn't even try to explain the part about the buckeye looking similar to the ocular of a strange four legged forest creature.





Although our traditions remain the same, this year in our new European digs we are having quite the global Michigan week, our influence reaching far and wide. Despite our absence from Philadelphia, my beloved friends kept our tradition alive by making their own candy buckeyes in our honor...thanks Kristin and Megan! Much to my dismay, their buckeyes turned out MUCH prettier than mine!

In the true spirit of globalization we are celebrating this game day in an unheard of way... we are going to watch the game with a Michigan fan, along with a couple of Italians who would rather be watching soccer (I refuse to call it football until the season is over). We'll see how it goes, this could be an important step to cultural acceptance and world peace.

Thanks to all of you who have emailed and called this week to show your spirit, Jessie, please promise you won't watch the game. Kristen, thanks for making the buckeyes! Jamie, good luck with trying to knit, drink and watch the game! In honor of new friends and old rivals, here is a little something that my very dear friend and fellow OSU alumnus, Matt sent me this week, the second verse to our school's fight song:


"We'll scatter to the east and west,
When college days are done,
And memories will cling around
The dreams of everyone;
We'll play the game of living,
With head and shoulders high!
And where in wear the spirit of
The Buckeye Battle Cry!"

"Ciao Darwin" - If This is the Evolution of Man, I'd Rather be a Monkey

Last night I was feeling a bit under the weather, a bit of a stuffy head and runny nose, so I decided to call it a night early (relatively anyway). I made myself a hot cup of tea and crawled into bed. I thought since I was being such a slug I would at least practice my Italian by watching some local TV. I flipped through some channels before I came upon one of my guilty pleasures, and found what looked to be like a beauty pageant. A perfect thing to snuggle down and watch when a girl isn’t feeling well, I can at least watch others be pretty and glamorous. I soon found though, that this was NOT an Italian beauty pageant. It was some sort of variety/show with two teams of competing women. Two women would be dressed up in different “costumes”, they would catwalk and strut across the stage in these costumes and more often then not strip down to some very skimpy skivvies by the end of their stroll. This was disturbing enough, then I realized that the audience was full of men with voting machines and after this display by the women, they were voting on which one they liked best. If that wasn’t enough to make me question Italian culture, I then realized HOW the women were divided into teams. There was a team of “donne bianche” and a team of “donne nera”… they were divided into black women and white women!! I had never seen anything like it, but the worst part was, I couldn’t stop watching!!

Still disturbed when I woke up this morning, I decided to look up the atrocity to see if I could find out more information. Here is what the show has to say about itself:

“CIAO DARWIN...the survival of the fittest! involves 100 contestants split into two equal teams of common stereotypes such as 'Fat vs. Thin', 'Daughters in Law vs. Mothers in Law', or 'City vs. Country'. Surrounded by a high-energy studio audience of the opposite sex to that of the contestants, the celebrity captains guide their teams through hilarious challenges testing bravery, style and talent. With interactive possibilities this fun-filled, primetime format has a proven track record as a ratings winner in the Saturday night broadcast battle.”


I also found a small clip of the show, be warned though, you may not want to open this at your desk, it is a bit…racey (pun intended), not to mentinon offensive and totally disgusting . I am not sure who is at greater fault, these women, the men, the television channel, or myself for watching it longer than 10 seconds.


http://www.video.mediaset.it/video.html?sito=ciaodarwin&data=2007/09/18&id=88&categoria=sfilate&from=email

I would say that I have jumped off the deep end...

EXCEPT I HAVE NO WATER.



Two blog posts in one day, an unprecedented treat, but I simply had to share how this nightmare continues. The two workers toiled, sweated and cursed at each other (I have been learning a little Italian) from 9am to 1:30pm. Finally they declared their work finished after asking me for one of my kitchen pans to put beneath the big new tank because it is leaking, "solo una po'acqua senora" the men assured me, it was only leaking a little, surely this baking pan would do just the trick. My 80 liter tank would be warmed up and ready in just one hour. After they left with their two buckets of tools and dusty boots, I surveyed the damage, I have two holes in the bathroom wall. No worries, they did a fancy job spackling them and discarded the leftover spackle in my bathroom sink to dry and crack. It will be a nice project for me later to scrape it off with my bare fingernails. There is dirty water everywhere as they used every drain, including the toilet to dump the old rusty water that was in the broken heater. Finally I have a nice sprinkling of plaster, paint chips and dust (some of it was there before) throughout the entire apartment. There was only one thing to do... leave. I could hope that when I got back it wouldn't be as bad as I imagined.

I went out to lunch and returned an hour later. It was as bad as I had thought. In the meantime, it looks like Charlie has managed to walk through every pile of dust and now there are paw prints trailing in and out and on top of every visible surface. There is only one thing to do, start scrubbing. So, I drag out the sweeper and promise myself a reward of a nice, long, steamy hot shower after I am finished. This is when I think that it might be a good idea to resoak the plastered sink in hopes to remove it in a weakened and wet state. I flip on the faucet and out rushes a hiss and a few drips of water. It is then and only then that I remember seeing something posted on front door of our building, so I trot downstairs with a sinking feeling, because I know that I know what it says. Sure enough, it is a warning that the water will be turned off to the entire building for the entire day.

At least the lights are on and I can see that the house is dirty and that I am now filthy and that the water is not even a stream.

And God said, "Let there be light," and there was light.

And light there is in our humble home. What a luxury. After one day of living like a Pilgrim, you would have thought I was without electricity for a year. I am a material girl living in a material world, and I need appliances and electrical comforts! Now that we have switched back from daylight savings time, dusk and darkness arrive promptly on the Roman skyline at 5:00pm. I had the romantic notion that I would by candlelight but 45 minutes later a was on the same paragraph with a monster headache. I then remembered smugly that we have a gas stove, I wasn't ruined yet, I may have to do it in the dark, but I could still make food! Who needs a toaster or a microwave when you have the power of gas! Again 30 minutes later, a raging headache, and now I had wet feet. I had opened the refrigerator to take inventory of what wonderful things I might make, only to be shocked with the gushing of freezing water all over my socked feet. My refrigerator had spend its day without electricity defrosting itself and slowing creating a mini hoover dam in my crisper drawer. Finally I had enough, patted the cat on the head to wish him luck (he can see better in the dark after all) and left the house to go forth and enjoy someone else's sweet electricity... I went to the movies.

Our electricity was restored on Monday, but only at the sacrifices of another important modern comfort, our hot water heater. Apparently our boiler exploded sometime during the wee hours of the morning on Sunday, knocking out our power completely. After a good hour of fumbling around and sticking screw drivers into sockets and making a general mess of plaster as he knocked about on all my walls, my friendly building technician delivered the bad news. Our hot water heater died a brilliant death and could not be fixed. Sure enough, I spotted a tale tale water spot in the ceiling where the poor boiler had made his last stand. We would need a complete replacement, which would take at least two days. So after this experience of what life must have been without electricity, we now know that the Pilgrims must have had an awful stench, no one wants to take a cold shower in the middle of November!

The two maintenance men are now in hour two of project "acqua calda" and so far no old water heater has come down from its perch, let alone the new shiny one gone up. I am starting to get the feeling that they intend to just leave the old one to rust in its former home until the end of time. In the meanwhile, they have been hammering large holes in the wall knocking plaster and bits of paint everywhere.

This morning as I longed for a hot shower I amused myself with prose:

Ode to Water Heater

Without you we shiver in the cold dark marble,
I miss the sight of your glowing red light to match my glowing red skin.
The dishes are left shuddering after their chilly bath.
Nothing is the same, without you.
Oh, Water heater.

In the Dark

...literally. We awoke this morning to find we had no power in our apartment. Of course there is no emergency line to our landlord. There is certainly no way any bonafide Italian utility would actually answer the phone, much less fix the problem. We spend the mid morning and afternoon out at the zoo enjoying the daylight, but dusk is approaching fast... what am I to do? No Internet, no TV, no lights! Yikes.

Just Breathe

WARNING: Male friends, father figures and brothers, proceed with caution, you are about to enter an uncharted territory of the feminine mystique.

Now, if that isn’t enough to make you want to read on! Seriously though, in today’s post I am going to venture into some personal, very personal information. After much discussing with Josh to determine if this was appropriate blog literature, I decided that I am in the mood to bear my soul and the story is just too funny and Italian not to share. It embodies the Italian experience that we are living here in Rome. It is one of those instances when we look at each other, laugh and say “only in Italy”. So here I go, and please note, there is a bit of soul bearing here, so I do hope that you appreciate my willingness to strip down (literally) and show you the underbelly of my everyday Roman existence.

So what is all of this hubbub about? Well folks, we are living in Italy and although I try to keep things light about the oddities of our lives, there are some things that we experience as expats that you may have never thought would be worth a blog. Today I had a situation that every American women goes through (or should go through) at least twice a year. I am going to tell you about my bi-annual visit to… “the lady doctor”. Yes, I am about to write about the Gyno, an experience that no one looks forward to, this time even more anxiety was attached as I sought to at least find a doctor who spoke English. I can brag all I want about my Italian, but there was no way I was relying on it in this particular situation.

I made an appointment, after searching in the English Yellow Pages (thank GOD for the English Yellow Pages) with a doctor who had a nice full page ad, and claimed to have done residencies in both America and England. A fertility and childbirth specialist, his practice also did regular checkups. As luck would have it, Josh happened to have the day off of work today (after working for some 36+ hours straight). Being the good husband he is, he agreed to accompany me to my appointment. We left the house this morning complete with literature for him to read in the waiting room and off to the doctor’s office for this seemingly routine visit. I must admit because of the language situation and the very delicate nature of business I was about to conduct I was in a heightened state of apprehension and very glad to have the company.

We arrived to the office a few minutes before the appointment. A Russian nurse, through a little bit of broken English and a lot of bad Italian made my chart recording my name, date of birth, address and other credentials. I then needed to convey what I was coming to see the doctor for. After asking me three times if I was sure I didn’t want a blood test, I think she was finally assured that I did not, or want to become pregnant and scribbled disappointedly on my chart that I simply wanted a regular “checkup”. Here the real fun begins…

A suave looking Italian man in what I would describe as a “doctors costume” (think of the fake doctors in the movies in a white smock and a mandarin collar) enters the waiting room, he takes my hand and kisses it and shakes Josh’s hand warmly as he ushers us out of the waiting room and into his office. He wants to speak with us before my examination… So we enter into his nicely decorated office and sit down in front of his desk. “Now, what can I do for you?” he asks. This reminds me very eerily of the time when we bought our first car. I explain to him that we have recently moved to Rome and I am due for my routine check up and will soon need a refill for my contraceptive pills. “Okay”, he said very cheerfully, “but why don’t you just have a baby?. I choke a little and then Josh and I smile politely and look at each other “Well…”, I begin, as he interrupts, “how long have you been married”. Josh tells him proudly that we have been married for five years now. “Oh, it is definitely time to have the baby”. Did our parents somehow contact this man before we came? Is this life advice included in the price of the exam!? After a few more minutes of baby pressure he finally relents and tells me about the Italian version of birth control pills he can offer. I tell him that I would like something as similar as possible to the levels of chemicals and medications I am currently taking. After consulting his reference manual and finding the make up of what I was prescribed before, he tells me that there is an Italian version that I can get, but it will make me fat, specifically that it “might make you gain the ten pounds or so”. He then recommends another product and I agree to try it. With this matter settled and the prescription written out he explains that he will now do my examination. He tells me that he and Josh will chat in his office while I go with the Russian nurse to get undressed and he will come in when I am “no longer exposed”. So I leave the office with Helga, I don’t really know if that was her name, but I think it fitting. Helga stops at a door in the hallway, points and tells me in Italian/Russian/English that I must “pee pee” before I go for my exam. Is this a real medical term?

Once this business is over we proceed into a very sterile and official looking examination room, much like what I had been used to seeing stateside. I have never been so comforted by sterile metallic instruments in my life, but at least they were a universal sign for normalcy! Through a series of gesticulation and relaying on past experience I prepare myself for the exam and station myself properly on the table (I will leave these details out, for you men readers that have made it this far, ask your wives or girl friends for further description). The RussiaNurse goes to another door in the back of the room and calls “Pronto”. It seems that this room is directly connected to the office that Josh and I were just in, in fact, I can now hear the doctor and Josh laughing merrily. After a few moments wait, in walks the doctor…with my beloved Josh. Apparently this has turned into a family affair and Dr. Italian has just invited my husband to witness this momentous occasion. As Josh walks in he looks nervous and as confused as I am, but the doctor is very merry and ushers Josh into a front row seat for the show. Again, without going into too much detail things are pretty routine, but the whole experience made bizarre by having an audience. The doctor excitedly shows Josh my uterus on a screen and assures us that everything is “A-okay”. The exam is over in less than 5 minutes and we are back in the office for our final consult.

Again, here, I share very personal information in the name of humor. Apparently I have a very common medical “situation”. I have bit of “erosion” on my cervix. Nothing to worry about the doctor assures me. He illustrates the problem by showing us a series of slides that I think may make Josh faint, but he seems to be holding up just fine. The good doctor would like to treat this with a prescription for now and then gleefully tells me with eerie gesticulations that if that doesn’t work he will burn it off, “bzz bzzz” during my next checkup. He then goes onto explain how to use the prescription, which is basically a topical ointment. You can apply it whenever, he says, “but, it just depends if you like to wear the underwear at night”. He smiles knowingly, “I don’t need to know, maybe you do, maybe you don’t. You Americans because of your heritage do not like to discuss these things, but really, you have the pajamas to cover… and a woman and a man, they need to be able to breathe sometimes” he says enthusiastically and nods, “going to bed with underwear is a lot like going to bed with a hat, you need to let your cervix breath, it is up to you though, whatever you want”. By this time, the man could have said anything and it would not have fazed me, I was in the gynecological twilight zone. Oddly enough, I had sort of gotten used and almost embraced the pure madness of the situation, so I just laughed and looked at Josh, who by this time was in the same shock of all that he had just witnessed.

We finished our business in the office with the merry medical man, who again kissed my hand and slapped Josh on the back as we made our way out to the receptionist area to pay the bill. On the walk back home we both decided that this was the most fun we’d had in awhile and that we had just experienced a true dose of the Italian way of life. After having an afternoon to ponder and think the situation over, I think there are some real learnings to share here, not to mention a funny story. Lesson one, it is good to be open about such things, we stuffy puritans might benefit from the ability to talk freely about one’s total mental and physical well being. Two, it may also be good for men to experience firsthand what we women are subjected to as a routine part of our quest for good health. And finally, perhaps the biggest lesson for all… sometimes we just have to let our cervixes breathe.

Autumn in Rome

We've settled into a nice routine (well, sometimes) now that we've been back in Rome for a few months. It has been a busy fall, so I thought I would share some highlights! The weather turned beautiful, cool nights with big moons, perfect for sleeping! We went to a play last Friday and this is the view we caught on the way home. The play was in English, but we've been discussing the idea of trying to see a production in Italian, a good way to learn!







One Saturday we headed out the Parco del Musica, with its amphitheatre and campus designed by Italy's own Renzo Piano. The Rome Film Festival also happened to be in full swing during our visit, so I happily kept an eye on the red carpet while Josh oogled over the good design. We saw some famous Italians, but still have no idea who they were. The crowd seemed to like them though...




I ran my first official Roman race, a 5k on World Food Day to fight hunger! I did pretty well, those cobblestones are still tricky though. There was a pretty decent turnout and it was nice to see all of my fellow runners come out. There wasn't nearly as much male spandex as I had prepared Josh for, the weather was a bit chilly, so everyone was pretty well covered. Josh spotted a Will Ferrell look alike lining up at the start of the race, he was an interesting character! He was jumping around, stretching out, but his outfit was the best, at first we thought he was a joke!











Halloween, one of my favorite holidays, hasn't really caught on American Style here in Italy yet. There are a few things out in the stores, but no trick or treaters and excessive costuming. The Italians aren't really up for the secular holidays; I think they spend most of their efforts on all of the individual Saints days that we always seem to be celebrating. After a bit of effort and almost a full day’s work, I did manage to find a pumpkin. The man at the market thought I was nuts for wanting the whole thing, I had to explain to him that this zucca (pumpkin) was very important in my culture to celebrate Halloween. He let me have it, but watched me drag it all the way up the street to my house. Apparently people eat the pumpkin here and they actually use the insides for stuff... imagine! We carved him this weekend to really freak out the neighbors, so far we haven't received any formal complaints!



We may be thousands of miles away from home, but one tradition we have managed to uphold is our beloved Ohio State football. We have managed to watch most of the games, thanks to the wonders of technology; we can watch the games live through a little miracle called the Slingbox. The little gadget, after much prompting frustration and phone calls to IT, connects to the cable feed in the Mackley's house in Groveport and sends the signal across the world directly to our internet connect!

Unfortunately for us EuroBuckeyes, there were quite a few night games this season. An 8 o'clock kickoff starts at 2am in Rome! We worked out quite a nice little routine and by this past weekend (a thorough routing of Penn State) we breezed through the night quite enjoyably. I took a good healthy nap before the game (Josh of course, was too excited to sleep). We start the pre-game prep at 1:30am with some light stretching and jumping to promote blood circulation. Before the game starts we load up on salty snacks and start downing the Diet Coke through the first quarter. We are alive and well through the 2nd quarter and then during halftime (4am ish), we make coffee and pancakes. The caffeine and sugar high then serve nicely until the end of the game and post game discussions, taking us right up to dawn at 6am ish! Of course, it helps when your team is #1 and dominating.

Fall in Rome has treated us well. The weather is nice, there are lots of things to do and see and the Buckeyes are the number 1 team, no matter where you hang your helmet.

Back in the O.H.I.O

Our first trip back stateside. I can read the signs without thinking and make small talk with cashiers! The TV speaks my language and there is a Walmart every 10 kilometers... errr, miles.
I promise a full report when we return home, but for now we've had a smooth re-entry. A good flight, no major delays and minimal jet lag. I do miss the Italian coffee though.

Thanks Phil and Cliff!

A special blog shout out today to my old Philly pal, Phil; who was nice enough to forward me an article about a great running route in Rome from this month's Continental Airlines magazine. It is nice to think that when people think of Italy, they are now reminded of me! I am not sure if this is good or bad for Italy, but it is definitely great for me!! Since I just received the article this morning, and it is a glorious sunny Saturday in Rome AND I had just told Josh last night that I really slacked off in running this past week, I took the email as a direct sign that I should try the route out immediately. So after sleeping in a bit and my morning coffee I grabbed my running shoes and off I went. The day is perfect, 75 degrees (that is Fahrenheit thank you very much, I can't figure this Celsius stuff out for the life of me) in the noonday sun, with a slight, cool new autumn breeze filtering through the Cyprus trees. God simply does not grant better days than this. My only hope is that it is similar weather in Central Ohio today, where my Buckeyes are scheduled to kickoff in just a few hours at the Horseshoe.

The route was great, a 2.5 mile loop through Villa Borghese, which most people consider to be the best park in Rome. From my handfuls of experiences there, I have no reason to argue, it is beautiful! Think of 148 acres of green space with winding roads, museums, ponds and fountains. Up and down the rolling slopes, there is a view around every corner that is enough to keep you running to the next to see what lies ahead. Today was the perfect park scene. Picnickers dotted along underneath the canopy of trees, tourists resting with a gelato on the marble steps of the Museum of Modern Art, clear blue water in the fountains and ponds, well dressed Italians out for a Saturday promenade and children riding ponies... you can't make this stuff up!

To get to the park from our apartment in Monti is about a 20 minute walk/warm up trot through some great neighborhoods. I passed by the US Embassy along the Via Veneto, which you might recognize as the street of Audrey Hepburn's famous Vespa ride in "Roman Holiday". Today as I made my way to and from the park the outdoor, street side cafes were just starting to fill up with the ultra hip and trendy neighborhood crowd, this was almost as good as nature watching! I kept my eyes peeled for familiar faces, as there are supposedly many celebs in town, stopping off on their way to and from the Venice film festival for a little Roman Holiday of their own. George Clooney is said to be a very great admirer and friend of Rome's major and Brad and Angelina are rumored to have just bought a new yacht, docked off one of the coastal towns near Rome. Alas, no star spotting for me today, but I am certain I will run into someone at a bar or cafe one of these days!

The city is also abuzz with activity today because tonight is La Notta Bianca, the White Night. All of the major European capitals host this end of the summer festival. All of the piazzas are filled with musical performances or art installations, the museums stay open all night with free entry and in general everyone stays up all night and wanders through the city enjoying the scenes of music, dance, art and people watching. Josh and I are going to give it out best attempt. The whole city celebrates and there are so many things to see, I think it would be impossible to see them all, but there is certainly enough to keep you out all night. My goal is to make it to dawn to see the sunrise from the piazza on top of the Gianocolo hill, by far the best view of the city. We'll see though, we don't exactly have our European threshold of partying up to its full potential yet. Thank god I started drinking coffee!

A Normal Life?

Not much to report over the last few days. Which, to a new expat in Italy, could be considered news itself. This weekend was our anniversary, so Josh and I made a night of it with dinner and a movie. Ben Hur was showing on the outside Terrace of a local Palazzo/Museum...actually, since the movie was so long, we never made it to dinner! We managed to make it through the night on tiramisu alone. This was also an achievement, not being exactly the "domestic type", attempting to make a tiramisu was quite an accomplishment for me. It must have been alright because we both took the time to scrape the bottom and sides of the pan to make sure we ate every last morsel!

To further our status in normalcy this weekend involved one of our favorite US pastimes, Ohio State Football. Nothing can be wrong in the world, even in Italy, when the Buckeyes take the field on a sunny day for the first time in the fall. In fact, a good home opener combined with Michigan's embarrassing defeat made for a jolly weekend all around: even if we did have to imagine the game, since we were relegated to listening to the broadcast on the radio. Luckily we have both been to enough games in early September that imagining the sunlight hitting the sparkly silver helmets and afternoon shadows across Ohio Field wasn't a stretch for either of us. It was a bit odd however to watch a noon kickoff at 6pm, I am a bit nervous about those night games, which will begin at 2am here in Rome. The things you do for football.

Since we were having such an American weekend anyway, we continued on with more less-than-cultural pursuits including two trips to IKEA (hey, it is "global" I suppose), vacuuming, moping and my personal favorite, rearranging the furniture! I moved "my office" and the computer into the main living room so that we will be able to "watch TV" (with our Slingbox technology) on our couch, furthering our normalcy, instead of in the bed. Watching TV in bed is nice we decided, but better as a treat than a norm.

A Papal Retreat

This past weekend Josh was fortunate enough to not to have to go into work, and I myself being of the unemployed/yet to be employed category had a bit of free time to spend as well. After some discussion about another whirlwind trip to visit old churches in yet another Italian city, we agreed that a change of pace might be quite nice in light of our recent traveling adventures and decided to stick around Rome. Knowing my love for sitting in the sun while burning my skin with harmful UV rays Josh received a recommendation from one of his colleagues about Castel Gandolfo, on Lake Albano. Home in the summer, to the world’s catholic head-honcho and exalted Roman figure, the Pope himself.

I figured it is good enough for the Pope, who has a very nice tan by the way; it will suffice nicely for me as well. So we hoped a local train out of the Termini station for a quick 25 minute ride to the lake. Josh tells me on the way up that the lake itself was formed by two ancient volcanoes and now basically sits in its own crater… how does he know these things? We arrive at the station, which isn’t much more than a spot where the gravel beside the rail bed widens and follow the road down to the lake. The view was wonderful. Although not the most majestic site I have seen since arriving in Italy, what it lacked in grandeur it made up for in pure charm. The popes really know how to relax! Indeed the small lake was nestled inside a continuous ring of gentle slopes. One side of the lack was completely covered in nature, pine trees and green vegetation, while the other side has the picturesque town and summer homes dotted along the rim and down the slopes. There is a main beach area, complete with all of the typical Italian “pay beaches”. These are new to me, but as I am learning, a very common practice. Instead of having a long shoreline of public beaches, as in the states, there are lots of little private beaches where people pay a nominal fee to the owner to rent all the necessities of towels, chairs and umbrellas. After a quick lunch, we found Giorgio’s beach rented pedal boats by the hour to take out on the lake and set sail for an afternoon of peaceful swimming and sunning in the middle of this freshwater oasis. It was one of the best days I have had, the water was deep and perfectly clear, cool, but not cold, perfect for a late day in August. Because we were out on the little boat, we were away from the usual noise and bustle of the beach, which gave me the luxurious feeling of privacy, something that you don’t get a whole lot of when living in a city like Rome (with a weird neighbor).

After a few happy hours of peace and pedaling, we took a short walk through the little community, where they were preparing for a festival that involved an annual tradition of taking a statue of Mary out to the lake and parading her around the lake in decorated boats. I didn’t see the pope, but think he would approve of the celebration, although I am uncertain of what he must think of all of the scantily clad folks that sun themselves on the shoreline of his lake. Maybe next time I will stop by to ask. On the way home, I made a mental note to look up the winter residence of the Pope, so far, he has shown to have excellent taste.

Name the Neighbor Contest

Have I mentioned the mysterious and somewhat creepy neighbor who lives across the street? He is a middle aged man, wears a thick gold chain, is balding and has a hairy chest and a hefty spare tire. I know this because he is constantly out on his balcony and seldom wears a shirt, thanks to the stifling August heat in Rome. See me secret footage photo above. His balcony is directly across the street and one floor above our apartment. I saw him out when we initially moved in and didn’t think much about it, other than a twinge of jealousy at his good fortune to have such an outdoor space in the city. As the weeks go by, he has become a source of annoyance and mystery to me. He is out smoking on his balcony at all hours of the day and night. Occasionally he is joined by a larger woman in a flowery dress, who I assume to be his wife. They don’t disturb me or make much noise, but it bothers me that they are out there peering off their balcony and by default, peering into MY windows. Of course, for me to notice this behavior, I am constantly looking up onto their balcony, curious as to their goings on. They don’t bluntly stare, but there isn’t much happening in our little corner of Rome, so here we are, day after day, in a neighborhood stare off.
Normally I would make up a name for him and his lovely bride, and after probably a funny story about this man does and how he has come to stay home all day. You see, I am home at all hours of the day, so I know that he is home… doesn’t he work? Does he work at night? I see him out there pretty late? He is a communist watching me and taking information about my democratic activities? You see, the possibilities for a good story are endless and so, before judging Mr. X for myself, I have decided to turn this over to you, my loyal readers to help me provide a name and story for this man.
Entries may be submitted via email, or preferably by posting a comment to this blog entry, so that all may enjoy and vote on your story!
Act now, don’t delay, big prizes will be awarded!

Vacation Recap

Last week we embraced the Italian culture and celebrated the 15 of August, “Ferraugusto” by going on holiday. Ferroaugusto roughly translates to everybody-gets-the-hell-out-of-town-and-goes-on-vacation-for-at-least-three-weeks. Since we didn’t have three weeks to spare, we at least took advantage of Josh’s office being closed and left Rome for the week. Have I mentioned that everyone goes on vacation in August? Our neighborhood is officially a ghost town, even the creepy bald guy across the street hasn’t made an appearance on his balcony for a few days. Almost every shop has the happy little sign on the metal security door, “Chiuso per ferie”, closed for vacation.

After much consideration we made a last minute swap in plans and decided to head north for the week. Our original vacation destination was to drive to Capri and spend the week on a beach, until everyone gave us a heavy sigh and warned us about the traffic and the mad rush for the beaches during Ferraugusto. Neither heavy traffic nor throngs of Italian vacationers sounded all that pleasing, so we began to envision a cool escape to the mountains. Being from the mid-west, both Josh and I have a strange fascination with the Alps, as anyone who recently viewed our vacation photo album can see. My friend Kelly once said that traveling is bittersweet, once you have been out to see the world, you realize there is oh, so much more to see. You can become pseudo obsessed with all of the places that have yet to be visited, and with our determination to “make the most out of living in Europe” this is especially true. So as not to totally “waste” any precious tourist time, we decided on a hybrid vacation, a few relaxing days in the nature of the Alps, followed by a few days touring Venice.

GETTING THERE:
We found a nice little national park about an hour or so north of Venice at the start of the Italian alps that would be a perfect spot for a little a nature intake. The name of the town is Belluno, population 35,000, a village compared to the metropolises that we have become used to. Our first vacation adventure is, as always, the journey. To get to Belluno, we took a bus from the Rome train station to the secondary airport, where we found tickets on a European airline (think of a Euro Southwest Airlines, no assigned seats, etc etc) to Venice for around 5 euro per ticket, yes that is 5 euro, about 7 bucks. The taxes were significantly more than the tickets. We boarded the bus at 4:45am to catch our flight a little before 8. A short flight and we were in the secondary Venice airport by 9ish. Another bus into Venice and a short walk to the train station by 10. After a quick check of the local train schedule we caught a train to Belluno through Padua, about a 1 hour, 45 minute ride. We forgot to “validate” or train tickets in our rush to catch the connection in Padua and learned that this is a costly mistake, a 25 euro fine, ouch! I am told the trip was quite scenic, but I wouldn’t know, trains knock me out cold with all of their gentle swaying and subtle click, click, clicking. Other than that, a smooth arrival in Belluno, a little town with 4 tracks at the station. Our Bed and Breakfast was just outside of town, about a 15 minute walk from the station. Our hosts were great, they spoke little English, which was great, a perfect time to practice our Italian. The husband was chatty and our language barrier didn’t stop him from giving us an hour and a half introduction to Belluno and Italian culture in general!

BELLUNO:Our original vision was two quiet days in a sleepy mountain town surrounded by nature. We were in a sleepy mountain town, but the nature seemed to inspire more activity than we bargained for. After a wonderful opening dinner, Josh claims to have had the best piece of meat in his life so far, and I am not far behind in my praises of the ravioli, we spend the next two days climbing up and down mountains…literally. We spent the first morning walking around the charming little town and enjoying the charming little mountain people, enjoying the most the charming lack of tourists. That afternoon we took a bus to Nevegal, Belluno’s mountain (can a town OWN a mountain)? Mainly a ski resort in the winter, people summer there and enjoy the fresh air and wonderful views. We took the ski lift to the summit and hiked back down to the resort. A word of advice, hiking down a mountain seems like the easy way to go, but descending isn’t as easy as one might think, there is a reason that people literally SLIDE down the side of the mountain in the winter, it is steep! A great day nonetheless, exhausted and tired we made our way back to the B&B where our hosts were throwing a party, and of course insisted that we stay to chat for awhile and share in some grappa.

The next day was officially Ferraugusto, the 15th of August, a national holiday in Italy. Our plan was to take the bus to Marmolata, the highest peak in the area, but after arriving at the bus station, we discover that the local buses don’t run on this sacred holiday of relaxation… in fact, the town was closed up tight. Upon conferring with the local tourist office, which by some miracle was open for the hour in which we were there, we discovered that there was only one way out of town, the train, further, the train schedule that day only went to two places. So we picked one that had a lake and decided to see where our Ferraugusto fate took us. In the mountains, everything and everywhere was new and beautiful to us, it didn’t matter that much which direction down the tracks we went. We ended up in an even smaller little berg called Callazo. Very cute, an hour north of Belluno, north enough that we were pleasantly surprised to see signs pointing to Austria! Every building in town could have been a postcard of what you imagine a village in the Alps to look like, Chalets with boxes of flowers overflowing off of verandas. We found a map and decided to hike it up the local mountain. We checked out the enchanting town and then walked up the trail for almost 3 hours and maybe made it ¾ of the way up before we had to turn around to catch our train back to Belluno. It is impossible to accurately describe the true sights and sounds of an experience. The scent of fresh pine was amazing, I have always been a fan of the detergent Pinesol, and I see where they got their freshness inspiration (I know, a very bizarre thing to reflect upon surrounded by such glorious nature). For most of the way up we followed a mountain stream making its way towards the valley below. The coolness of the air around the stream was incredible; it literally gave off its own breeze, and the cold water! We simply dipped our bottles into the stream for fresh, pure mountain spring water, it was incredible! Exhausted, not well rested, but happy and full of fresh mountain air, we had a wonderful time in Belluno and regretted having to leave, but were excited to continue on to Venice.

VENICE:
We caught a direct train to Venice out of Belluno at 7:30AM, our hosts were gracious enough to prepare an early breakfast, including some of the best coffee that we had yet to experience, and which I am somewhat obsessed with trying to replicate. We were back in the Venice train station by 9am and hoped on a waterbus boat for a ride down the Grand Canal to our hotel. Italy is a tricky country to navigate. Well developed before the invention of cars, streets often lead to nowhere and seldom go in any sort of straight line or direct route. Venice is even trickier; streets simply dead in at a canal, and the only way out is to retrace your steps and find a bridge. So after a few detours, we found our way to our hotel, dumped off our baggage, and were off to see the city. Already exhausted from climbing mountains and 6AM wake up calls, we simply wandered about the first day, taking in the lay of the land and enjoying sitting in the Piazzas and people watching. A shock to our senses that had been dulled by our few days in the mountains, the pure masses of people were overwhelming. There were tourists everywhere! We met up with some friends for dinner and then took a nice twilight walking tour of Venice. I won’t bore you with the details of just how many Venetian churches we saw and toured, but the next day was filled with as much sightseeing as possible. San Marco, San Giorgio Maggiore, Il Redentore, San Margahrita, lots and lots of churches. For a break we intertwined religious architecture with art, touring both the Academia and Peggy Guggenheim’s personal collection. The Academia was amazing, but Peggy provided a nice respite with her modern pieces. I cannot believe that one person owned that much art, she had Picasso next to Klee, surrounded by Pollack, it was a dream! If I am to ever run into millions and millons of dollars, I just may decide to be an art collector. It seems almost selfish that one person could own so much, but so thrilling at the same time. After getting a pretty good feeling for the mainland in Venice, we decided to take a boat out to some of the islands in the Lagoon. We headed for Torcello, the first inhabited island in the area, the birthplace of Venice. It was lovely, but we arrived too late, and literally, the island was closed, locked up tight. The boat dropped us off and there was no one there and no churches to see, so we took the next ferry back to Borano, the next island over. I highly recommended, an old fishing village, all of the houses are painted in bright colors so that the fisherman could pick out their homes from out in the sea. It was nice to see a quieter part of Venice, a perfect way to end our day.Alas, we had a plane to catch the next morning, but first we had to catch the 4:50am water bus to catch the 6:30 autobus to take us to the airport to catch our flight. A side benefit: watching the sunrise over the Grand Canal. An amazing vacation, tired but happy, we returned home to Rome, which is a funny thought… to go HOME to Rome.

A Typical Day in Rome

I have been taking Italian classes for two weeks now, I can speak a bit and understand even more. Gestures are still a big help and always a welcome supplement though. Today was my last day of classes and Josh's last day of work before vacation!

I have a nice group of classmates who have been toiling away with me everyday for our four hour lessons. Pietro is a priest from Poland, Kerri is from New Zealand and works on a cruise ship, Iuba is a Russian student and Ann Marie is a fellow American, currently studying law in California. Sandeep was nice enough to take our picture, he is Indian, his parents live here in Rome, but he has been living in the US and went to school at Virgina Tech. A most interesting group of characters. Our teacher, Simona speaks only Italian, the class is "complete immersion" which on some days translates to complete cluelessness.

Class starts around 9:30 each morning. We work on grammar until a little after 11:00. We have a 20 minute break and on most days we enjoy a bit of sacred English speaking over coffee and continue the lessons with conversation practice from 11:20 to 13:30.

On most days after class I meet Josh for his hour lunch break at 13:30. We usually have a mini picnic in the Campo on the statue of Bruno, or in the shadow of the Piazza Farnese and every once in awhile wander over to the Pizza Navona or the Pantheon for a bit of people watching entertainment during our lunch. More often than not it is unbearably hot, so our first priority is to search for shade!

In true Italian style we usually have a panini (tacchino o prosciutto con formaggio) and some fresh fruit and then perhaps followed up with some type of frozen treat or a cafe freddo at the local bar. After this it is back to work for Josh and off to an afternoon of Roman adventures for me.

Poor Josh...

Mi Primo Correndare a Roma!

This week the evening wind shifted ever so slightly to include a wisp of fall in the air, just enough to tease the soul. Perhaps this is just wishful thinking, but the break in the heat was a welcome friend, imaginary or not. This type of weather is good for all sorts of things, my favorite being sleeping, but as, literally, a close runner up, going out for a job in the evening breeze seemed to be an appropriate thing to do. Up until now, I had been unmotivated, too tired and uncomfortably hot to think about going for a run. I also have seldom seen anyone out running around the city. Although the younger Italians seem quite svelte, I don't get the impression that they are a culture of physical activity. They are lucky they have such a genetic code. My American genetic code said that I was eating too much pasta and gelato and if I didn't want to expand my code further, I had better get out there and get my heart rate up.

Finding a place to run is trickier than I thought. First, I like to be amongst "my own kind" when I run. I much prefer to at least see other runners if I am out there sucking the air and turning three shades of red. Misery loves company perhaps. Second, the area isn't well suited for these types of expeditions. The cobblestones are a constant threat to the ankles and sidewalks are nonexistent on many of the tiny streets. The hordes of tourists will stop most unexpectedly to look at a map or a site. They seem to have the uncanny ability to wander not in a straight line, but in a zig-ing and zag-ing path that is undoubtedly always in your way. They also don’t travel in orderly groups, but in clumps, preferably three or four abreast to ensure that the sidewalk is completely blocked. The vehicle traffic… I will not even begin to describe the nightmare that is Roman traffic. Let me just generalize and say that the traffic laws here are always "optional" and are loosely, very loosely, interpreted by the locals.

Despite all of these setbacks, I scoped out a route while Josh and I were on a walk the night before that I thought might be acceptable for a run. I left our house and skirted around the Coliseum, where the sidewalks are fairly wide and steady, to get to the Circus Maximus. The Circus Maximus is just like it sounds, a big circle. It was the site of ancient chariot races (think "Ben Hur"). Now it is big open field with a few lanes of circular track, perfect for a run! For the spiritual running types, it was fun to think of the essence of the place as I made my way around the track. Hundreds and hundreds of years ago, Romans were racing chariots around this track! I am going to ask Josh to upload "Chariots of Fire" on my iPod to really get the full effect on my next trip there. I think it will supplement current my Neil Diamond and Kanye West mix nicely (hey, whatever motivates you).

Even more exciting to me than the historical significance was the presence of a familiar species of man, “the runner”. There weren't a ton of them, maybe only ten or so, but the site of fellow runners was very comforting to me as we all trotted our way around the dusty circle. They weren't American tourist runners either, I am sure they were part of the small group of bona fide Roman runners. The dark socks and spandex give them away every time. A guaranteed way to tell if a man is not American is by seeing him in any type of spandex apparel. I was running with real European runners! How exciting, and very euro chic I think.

All in all, a very good run. About a 30 minute trip door to door, so I will have to make another loop or two around the circle or expand my route to add in some mileage, or kilos as we Europeans say!

As for an official running status report for my likeminded pedi-friends (Christine, Jamie and Pa), I felt pretty good. It mostly was just nice to get out there again, a little soreness the next day in the ankles, a memento from the sidewalks, but nothing that would put me on the bench. I'll need to add in some distance, and there are plenty of hills to train on as well. Although, Pa, none of them are nearly like the Peter's township mountain!

Charlie was pretty tired afterwards...

Caffe

A quick entry today, but an important discovery. The two biggest ways in which I think I have changed since moving to Rome. One, I have what I would call a tan. All of the endless hiking back and forth across the city in the Mediterranean sun has at least one advantage (except, of course for the cancerous UV rays). I think it is quite a lustrous bronze, although the Italians still comment that I should frequent the beach more. Still, due to my Germanic roots, even a little tan is an exciting thing for this girl.

Second, I arrived in Rome three weeks ago, and started drinking coffee two weeks and six days ago. I am now hooked enough to long for the caffeinated beverage if I have not yet partaken in the habit for that day. In fact, every day during the break in my Italian lessons, I am almost drooling in anticipation of my coffee fix. I started out strong and went straight to the hard stuff, the "caffe" or espresso. I started with it because it is basically a shot and I could slug it down without bothering to taste it. I moved on to the two or three gulp, cafe freddo. This is basically cold coffee and sugar, very good for a hot afternoon. Today I had my first cappuccino, a regular cup of coffee, steamed milk and my own addition, three packs of sugar. I had been reacting to the coffee pretty well. I felt more awake and alert afterwards and generally liked the Italian tradition of ordering from the barista and sipping it at the bar. Today I experienced a different reaction; apparently the cappuccino packs a bit more of a powerful punch. I spent the rest of the mid-morning and early afternoon on "pins and needles", nervous, anxious and all around just not myself. Will this reaction lessen with time, experience and practice? There is only one way to find out! Perhaps someday I will figure out how to use the Italian coffee maker that was supplied with the apartment.

Sabato Solo

With plans thwarted for a day trip to Florence, today I had to fend for myself. Around lunchtime yesterday Josh was put on a different project at work that meant working most, if not all of the weekend. Although frustrating at first and disappointing, we both were looking forward to a little excursion, it is important to remember that Josh’s job is the reason that I live an hour and a half from Florence that would make a day trip possible in the first place. So, when life hands you lemons, you make lemonade. In Rome, life hands you grapes, so you make wine! Today, my glass of Chardonnay was a visit to one of Rome’s newest tourist attractions, the Museo dell’Ara Pacis. Or the Museum of the Peace Alter. Thanks to the book that my friend Jamie gave me before I left, I was anxious to see the Ara Pacis, constructed in 13BC! It is a giant shrine basically and on its walls are some of the best preserved friezes with actual images of August and Agrippa!! Very exciting characters to us Romans! The Alter itself is a site to see, but making the trip even more interesting is the new museum literally built around the ancient site. The museum is the first building to have been built in central Rome since the fall of fascism. It’s ultra-mondern design of glass and smooth, sleek white walls stick out like the sore thumb of an ancient Roman Gladiator next to all of the crumbling ruins of the rest of the neighborhood, including the alter itself inside.

I do believe the architecture folk would call this an interesting juxtaposition. If you still wouldn’t care to see this clash of time, to further entice one to visit, was the current exhibition housed inside, “Valentino in Roma: 25 Years of Fashion”. Hundreds of wonderful Valentino dresses are on display, along with sketches and notes from the design guru himself. All of this combined for quite a spectacle, you have a barn of modern architecture sheltering an ancient pagan alter, kept company by hundreds of gold painted manikins wearing haute couture from the 60’s and 70’s. Now, my academically enhanced friends, that is jux-ta-freaking-pos-i-tion to the third power, don’t you think?

Part of the exhibit included a collection of Valentino dresses worn by celebrities. It was fun to see in person the dress that Halle Berry won her academy award in, a cute little number that was once owned by Princess Di and my favorite, a beautiful white beaded gown worn by Miss Audrey Hepburn, the room was oozing with glamour! It was a dream of any little girl who ever played with a Barbie.

The alter was astonishing, you could peer right up and see the face of Augustus! I think I bit of the majesty of the alter is taken away by the building. The alter is pretty snug inside of its contemporary house, so you never get a chance to feel the vast space around the alter that was part of its original character.

The building, which I am told was quite controversial in Rome, is nice to see as well. Designed by one Richard Meier, whom I am sure we have a book on somewhere. I shall not provide any architectural critique so as not to offend my loyal archi-type readers!

Good Things Come in Small Boxes… And to Those Who Wait

Both of these cases are true for me. After waiting what seemed to be a lifetime plus eternity, finally finally finally I picked up a tiny, indiscrete box from the realtor. It contained, well, basically, the world.

At least my world. Oh blessed sap of interconnectivity, I rejoice in your ultimate access to knowledge and am humbled by your small stature yet mighty influence (sorry, I’ve reading my favorite Helprin novel for the 4th time)!

To install a DSL modem, register it and for everything to actually work is a miracle of the divine for sure. Instruction manuals in English are confusing enough, let alone in Italian, thank god for the pictograms. Actually, perhaps this current technical feat was easier because I didn’t even bother to pretend to read the directions; I just kept pushing buttons until my hotmail worked. A very macho approach I think. Actually, after pushing buttons and crossing wires on and off for six hours yesterday, it was Josh who came home and was finally able to solve the last piece of the mystery which allowed us to connect.
Today is a good day in Rome! Since I now have the sweet sweet internet, I have many things to read, emails to write and time to waste ruining my eye site and developing carpal tunnel. So that my readers are not disappointed, I have decided to offer you blog fans a real treat today, a special guest writer!!
Here is an email from my good friend Matt, who decided that I wasn’t posting enough, so he created an addition to one of my previous musings on banks in Rome. Don’t be confused, he even went as far to write the entry in first person:

“I left all of your blog readers with, "I'm safe and with my husband and my cat. I can't ask for much more than that." But, when I awoke the following morning, and turned my head left and right to gain my bearings following the exhausting trip from the United States, I realized that I, my husband, and my cat had all spent the night in what could have been mistaken for a large cardboard box. It barely had space for the 12 bags that I had brought, and seemed like perhaps Charlie had taken more of a liking to the corner, and my lazy husband had simply ignored it for the past 4 weeks. So, I set out to find a new apartment.
Before starting the joyous search on Craigslist.com, romecityapartments.com, romerents.com, and contenitoreDiCartoneRoma.it
, we decided that we should establish ourselves in Rome by putting some money in a local bank. So we set out on foot, and the first one we came to, and probably the most popular in Rome was the Banco di Roma. It seemed like a nice place, the tellers were all dressed in Armani suits, and it looked like a reliable place to deposit some Euros. But being prudent Americans, we thought we would take a look elsewhere to see what the other area banks had to offer.
Down the street was the Banco di Napoli. Upon entering we smelled something unpleasant. It did not seem to effect anyone else in the bank, which was pretty busy on the Thursday afternoon we were there. When getting to the front of the line and speaking with a teller (all of whom were male) the teller must have noticed that we smelled something. As much as we were trying to hide the fact that this odor was foul, we were unable deceive the teller. He handed us a brochure, as if to explain about the smell. It was completely in Italian, of course, but on it we saw Mount Vesuvius erupting, and lava flowing down its sides directly into the front door of what appeared to be the headquarters of the Banco di Napoli. Aparently they have not been able to get rid of the smokey smell in the past 1,928 years.
The next bank we came to was the Banca Popolare del Verona. When we walked into this place, we fell in love. The atrium of the bank was gorgeous, absolutely luxourious. The staff was friendly and comforting. We immediately decided that this was the bank we were going to put our money in. We had seen two other popular banks, and they paled in comparison to this one. So we were able to speak to the manager, and sat down at the most beautiful desk you had ever seen, to open our account. In Italy, they make you fill out a form with the name and address for the new account, so we did. Josh wrote Joshua E. Mackley, and I wrote Kimberly J. Mackley, we put Josh's work address since we were about to move, and handed the form over to the bank officer. The officer, in the gentlest, warmest way possible shook his head at us, and began to explain something in the most beautiful, but unintelligible Italian we had ever heard. We simply could not understand what he was saying, but it was so beautiful we sat there for a minute listening as if in a trance. After a few minutes of explanation (the Italians can go on talking for ever) he resorted to charades. Still unable to understand the weirdly seductive gestures he was making towards us, we simply put up our arms and said "no lo so!" Frustrated, but still gentle, the officer took the form from us, crossed out a few parts, and scribbled in some other information. Satisfied, he smiled, and walked off with the form telling us, "un minuto." Quicker than we expected, the gentleman came back with some official forms declaring that we had opened the account. At the top of the form we read the names Romeo E. Mackley and Giulietta J. Mackley. We tried to point out that this was incorrect, but the bank officer was not listening to our complaint. Out of fear of having to produce identification to withdraw from the account, and having no ID that said Romeo E. or Giulietta J. Mackley, we sadly left and went back to the drawing board.
Down the street, around the corner from the main street Via Del Corso, we turned down a shadowy street the size of a back alley in the United States, and found the entrance to another bank, the Banca di Nuovo Girsi. Inside was only one teller, although we could see a door partially open in the back and some activity taking place in the room. The teller greeted us with a smile and was wearing a black shirt with a white tie and fedora. He was smoking a cigar, and looked at us as if to say, "how ya' doin'". He seemed strangely familiar, and when we said hello to him, he asked if he knew us from somewhere. Apparently he has a brother named Vinny, and thought that he might had seen us last time he was in the States on a train around Trenton. He spoke English with a heavy accent, but was understandable. He seemed like a friendly guy. Lowering his voice to tell us a secret, he warned us that Trento, Italia was much Trenton, New Jersey, a place that you probably did not want to go. On the side of the Fiat factory in Trento, he said, is a big sign that reads, "marche di trento, gli introiti del mondo". Then before we could ask him about a checking or savings account, we were startled by the sound of silenced gunshots in the back room. Fearful for our lives, we were frozen and unable to move. Out came Vinny from the back room with blood spattered on his white shirt. His fedora was slightly out of place, and he calmly told his brother Guido that he had taken care of it for him. Fearing that we would get fish in our monthly bank statements from this place, we calmly backed away, never turning our back on Vinny or Guido, and rushed down the street to what we hoped to be our final destination.
The next bank that we came to was huge. It was all white, and very modern. On the inside, the floors were brilliant travertine marble, and there was quite a number of white square-sectioned columns and glass. We even noticed that as we approached the bank, there was a big plaza in front, which was very unusual for a bank. ...
Banca Fascista di Como”