Swedes vs Italians

OK. I know my husband hates when I compare Swedes with Italians. I think he feels that I'm harsh on the Swedes, and being a Swede he takes that rather personally. Can't argue with that. But still, after spending another three weeks in Sweden, living in Italy and most importantly, being an American and so not defensive about either position (and not claiming a preference either way) I try to give a neutral view and just report the facts as I see them. It's not my fault if it's funny too. So my apologies to him...I'm not mocking his culture. I'm mocking them both. I hope that helps.

Two Swedes discussing a soccer game:

Per: (hands in pockets) How about that game? Vad sägs om det spelet? Wow. Oj.

(5 second pause as his friend considers the question first)

(another 5 second pause to form a response that is clearly his own opinion but not confrontational or too enthusiastic)

Magnus:  (hands in pockets) Yeah. Ja.

(short pause for emphasis)

Magnus: (with a half nod in the general direction of Per) Wow. Oj.

(a companionable silence ensues)

Two Italians discussing a soccer game:

Mario: What a game! Unbelievable!! Che partita! Incredibile!!

Luigi: (begins talking before Mario can finish) That game?!? What were they thinking?!!? Quel gioco?!? Quali sono state pensando?!!?

(thus begins a 45 minutes discussion of the players (and their history), the referees (their faults and snide references to their lineage), the coaches (whose minds are certainly a mystery to everyone in the discussion, which has probably grown by several people), the fans (who are great and terrible at the same time) and a general history of soccer. There is a flurry of waving hands, shaking heads and eye rolling during the entire discussion. In fact, the discussion continues until they've walked out of earshot of each other.)

All this observance brings to my mind two questions.

If Italians couldn't use hand gestures would they become mute?

What does it look like when Swedes play charades?

And now that I've offended nearly everyone I think my work here is  done. Till another day.....

Whaddya mean, I can't buy wine today?

This morning we got up and over breakfast (which thankfully we never have to make a decision about, it's always the same) we got to talking about lunch. We decided to make chicken noodle soup so I made my grocery list and headed off in the pouring rain for the store.

I wandered through the produce section picking up a variety of veggies for the soup, then headed around the corner for the dairy and sale wine section.

GASP!! For some as yet unknown reason there was caution tape crisscrossing the section of shelving that had the sale wines on it. I stared in frustration at a note (in Italian naturally, which increased the time it took to read it from 10 seconds to 5 minutes) stating that the city of Florence had decreed that today only they were unable to sell drinks (read alcoholic drinks) in glass or cans. Store employees avoided looking directly at me as I tried to process this tragic unexpected information. Already at 8:30 in the morning they must have had  to explain the logic of this city decision with mixed results....or perhaps not so mixed. Outrage. Frustration. But never acceptance. No....never.

Thinking that perhaps I misread the note (happens frequently) I rushed walked calmly to the real wine/beer/serious alcohol/salty snacks (cuz what's happy hour without snacks?) section where I found the same tape and notes. By the way, this is an entire aisle (both sides). I stood at the beginning of the aisle, speechless. Red and white tape stretched the length of the aisle, from top to bottom, occasionally punctuated by a bright white sheet of paper clearly stating that the city wouldn't allow them to sell drinks in glass or cans today.

I stood there, possibly with my mouth hanging open as I tried to understand at the unGodly hour of 8:30 am just why the city of Florence didn't want me to have wine. What had I done wrong? Better question....how did they even know I'd done anything wrong enough to have my wine privileges removed? (Because of course the world revolves around me, right?)

Then I remembered that there is a concert tonight at the stadium. Which shouldn't matter but apparently does. So on the way home (it's a 20 minute walk) I tried to figure out what exactly the city of Florence thought they were preventing when they stopped sale of wine at 8:30 in the morning?

Did they think everyone with a ticket to the concert woke up this morning and thought "Holy cow! The concert is today! I better get out there and buy something to sneak into the concert!" like they haven't been thinking about this day for weeks....even an Italian plans ahead  when it comes to alcohol.

Then I started to wonder why exactly they specified "glass or cans". Could I have brought in a goat skin to have filled up? If I bought a bottle and and emptied it into a massive American insulated "go cup" leaving the bottle at the store would that fulfill the letter of this insane law? Only later (sadly, much later, and Leif had to explain it) I realized that they do sell wine in boxes, sort of adult juice boxes. Not good wine. Not the wine I wanted, which is slightly bubbly, not too sweet not too dry and perfect for chicken noodle soup. But apparently the non-breakable, semi-biodegradable properties of the Tetrapak make it easier to pick up than glass or cans. I sort of get that. No, on second thought, I don't get it.

All anyone has to do is walk across the train tracks to buy drinks in any kind of container they please. Which I didn't because I have an attitude problem and discovered that the spumanti we already had in the fridge was a more than adequate substitute for the wine I wanted to buy. So I got wine with my lunch and no one had to die. Win-win.

Too many rather unexciting things to write about...

Wow. Time flies. Not too original a beginning, but truth is truth.

All kinds of things happen to me and I think "I have to write about this!" and then I get distracted (easier than you might think) and suddenly it's a week or more later and then it doesn't seem relevant and well....you get the picture.

So I'm slowly going to catch up with all the things I had the must write thought about. Starting with our trip on Tuesday to Livorno (the seaside) with our friend Simone.

Simone is the husband of one of Leif's Swedish friends here in Florence. He travels for his work and sometimes when he's going somewhere interesting he invites us along. We don't have a car and so the opportunity to go places is really exciting. He drops us off somewhere central, goes off to do his thing and then picks us up again for lunch. He always takes us to the Italian version of the truck stop because he says they're more authentic. He's right. These are restaurants that cater to working people and the food is typical to the region and plentiful.

He took us to one of these on Tuesday after our very windy tour of downtown Livorno, which features a fortress turned into a city park, numerous statuary attempting to look dignified while covered in pigeons and seagulls, and the harbor itself with water stretching into infinity.

The restaurant is sort of the Cheers of suburban Livorno. Every time someone walked in the waiters threw up their hands and exclaimed loudly "insert name here! Welcome back!" Well, not for us of course, but Simone and everyone else totally got that kind of welcome.

The room was set up with long tables that everyone shared. We managed to snag one of the few tables for 4. The decibel level was pretty high, the waiters were sweating as they ran (really) back and forth while shouting questions at the customers and orders at the kitchen. The menu was posted on a chalkboard on the wall. One flat price for a first dish, second dish, side and dolce. Extra for house wine.

They specialized in seafood so that's what we had. Pasta with seafood and for a second mixed fried things. It's always an adventure to order something al mare or misto because not only is there a great variety of seafood put into these dishes, but the degree to which they are cleaned is often far less than I'm comfortable with. Remember, I grew up in Minnesota where shrimp are little pink crescents that come hermetically sealed in plastic from the freezer. I don't believe an octopus crossed the state line until a few years ago.

The shrimp were slightly breaded and fried but still wearing their skins, legs, antennae and eyes. Wow. The little fishes were simply gutted, then fried so they had a lot of extra stuff like fins and yes, eyes. One was a pretty reddish gold color. Simone looked at it and said that they were very good, that they come from aquariums. I looked at Leif (I'm sure my eyes were as big as the plate) and said "I just ate a goldfish?" Once I was over the shock of it all I had to agree it was pretty good, but still. A goldfish. Bleh. I won't even go into how ugly the baby octopus are once they've been fried. The calamari was the least shocking part of the whole fritto misto experience. It was also the least tasty. Nuff said.

While the chaotic dining room was a fantastic dip into the experience that is Italian family style dining, the relative calm of the cafe bar at the front was just as exciting for me. The barista, whose name was Barbara, was making these very interesting coffees and I couldn't stop watching her make them. And it seems that the other customers (regulars, I'm thinking) couldn't stop watching me watch her. I was mesmerized. One of the men sitting behind us asked if I wanted one, that I should have one. In fact, he'd have one with me if it would make me feel better. So of course I said yes.

Barbara carefully showed me each step in making this drink (because naturally I have a big ol' espresso maker at home) and explained as she went along. First the sugar in the bottom of the shot glass. Lots of sugar, like a packet and a half. Then a small slice of lemon peel. Yes, peel. Then fill the glass halfway with with the Ponce alla Livornese which is a pretty strong liqueur then she steamed that a little bit (to 40C. Leif actually asked) before adding espresso to the whole lovely mixture.

It's a drink that packs a bit of a punch (pun intended) and definitely should be had only when there's an opportunity for a nap or at least a little quiet time while you pull yourself back together. But according to everyone in the bar this was an experience I should have, totally unique to their region, and they were right. Our trip would have been outstanding without the punch, but it became unforgettable once I enjoyed my Ponce alla Livornese with the guys at the bar.

The name of the restaurant? I don't know if I should share this little gem with the world, then again, you'd have to know your way around town to find it. I could never find it again. It's called Il Deserto and it's on a one way road heading out of town. Whether that town is actually Livorno or a suburb I don't really know.

I actually went online and found the place. Here's a link to their Facebook page. Enjoy!

https://www.facebook.com/TrattoriaIlDeserto

Happy anniversary to us!

Ok, it may very well be true that we celebrate too many milestones. But we don't want to forget just how wonderful this life is. So we celebrate the big and the little. Although, to be honest, those are in fact very subjective terms. What's big to you may seem small to me, and vice versa.

But today, by just about anyone's standards, is a day to celebrate. It's the day I arrived in Italy, two stuffed suitcases in tow, and handed my heart to the handsome man wearing his best suit who met me at the airport. Every doubt and fear I had imagined during the (eternal) flight here disappeared when I looked in his eyes.

He has cared for my heart better than even I can do, certainly better than any other man has. He feels the same as I do, that this day wasn't an end to waiting but a beginning of living.

It is truly a day to celebrate. So today, take a moment to thank the universe for being kind; for allowing kindred souls to find each other regardless of distance, language or culture; for nurturing love wherever it grows. Then ask the universe for your hearts desire. It works.

Finding my tribe

I'd like to tell you that all kinds of exciting things have happened to me lately. Exotic, vacation-like happenings under sunny skies in idyllic locations accompanied by a string quartet and photographed by a professional.

The truth is a little less exciting. I cycle most days, which I know for many people is in fact an activity reserved for weekends and vacations, but for me is just another day. Yesterday I rode in the rain. The setting was quite pretty, but when the cold wind is blowing rainwater into places that prefer to be warm and/or dry it's hard to truly appreciate the scenery. When alone I sing to myself, which probably sounds like a string quartet being tortured. My phone takes crappy pictures, which doesn't stop me from taking them or sharing them but they aren't really frame worthy and National Geographic won't be calling me anytime soon begging me to do a feature on Tuscany. Too bad for them.

But that doesn't mean life isn't exciting. Along with all the cycling, eating and wine drinking I've been doing there was a momentous occasion.

Last week I met a new friend.

Yes, that last statement required it's own paragraph, because friendships are hard to come by. I live in a city divided. There are The Italians, who are a tight-knit group of people staunchly trying to maintain a lifestyle while being completely over-run by The Tourists, who race around town taking pictures of laundry and food in their quest to "really experience Tuscany" and are being mocked by The Ex-pats, who are in Italy anywhere from a semester to an eternity and are too intellectual or cool to show how absolutely floored they are to be here.

I've never been cool. I'm not Italian. I'm not a tourist. I kind of orbit around all these groups connecting when I can. The rest of the time I amuse myself with things that don't require others. Reading, writing, drawing, walking around town or cycling around the countryside. Trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. If growing up is a given or merely an alternative. But that's a story for another day.

So, meeting a woman who doesn't fit neatly into these categories, is close to my own age and has many of the same likes and dislikes as I do was surprising and refreshing and serendipitous. Lately I've been thinking about the fact that when I left Minnesota I left behind my tribe. My apologies to the people who hate that term. That small group of women who I had instant access to and shared many of my same thoughts and feelings and desires, or if they didn't share them tried honestly to appreciate and understand my viewpoint, were suddenly thousands of miles and seven hours behind me. Since they were a relatively new addition to my life, I didn't think I'd miss that experience too much, but I was wrong. In part because after four years here I'm still kind of in a state of becoming.

Here, as an American, I spend a lot of time explaining other Americans or American culture or (yikes) politics to other people. I never just get to be American. When I am it's like I'm some kind of entertaining sideshow. So I'm a little of myself, and a little Italian and a little Swedish. But not so much of any one culture as to offend the others. Believe me when I say that no matter how much another culture might idolize the American dream, when you're sitting at their kitchen table they prefer you to be a little less American even as they ask you a million questions about being American.

Other Americans want to know why I came here, mostly so they can tell me why their position, ideas and inspirations are more lofty than mine. (one woman had the audacity to ask me why I came here, then told me my answer was wrong. "Can't you come up with a better way to phrase it?" Um, no.) We're so different we might as well come from different countries. But always, with everyone, I am first an American and then any other attributes they feel comfortable with.

So to meet someone who didn't immediately try to make me feel pitiful or angry or quaint was very nice. Someone who views me as another woman, not a specific nationality. I'm looking forward to a friendship unhampered by reciprocal invitations and hostess gifts and polite conversation, and instead fueled by shared passions for cycling, men who cycle, food and wine and living in the moment, wherever that moment might be. My tribe is shaping up nicely.

Revolution of a cyclist: Why ride?

Some people think it’s great that I started riding a road bike at the tender age of 52. Probably a lot more are wondering why. It’s a reasonable question. It’s not easy to ride in the rolling hills of Tuscany. If I really, really get into it it could become expensive. It’s time consuming. It’s not convenient.

I could give you reasons that you’d believe but that would be lies. For instance, I could tell you that I do it because it’s healthy and will keep me younger and stronger longer than sitting around doing nothing. Those facts are true, but that’s not the reason I started. I could tell you that I started so that I could spend more time with my husband (the Cyclist) and have a better understanding of this sport that he is so passionate about. This would be only half true. I understand passion and don’t really need to participate to understand. We spend a little more time together riding, but not every ride so the total gain isn’t that big. I could tell you that I enjoy the thrill of competition and pushing my body to it’s limits. Baldfaced lie. I may be the only person on the road who rides just for fun…and the coffee and pastry. Personal bests, Queen of the hill, these things don’t matter to me. In fact, I barely keep track of how much I ride. My only goal is to arrive.

The absolute, honest to gosh truth is that for me riding represents freedom.

Imagine you didn’t have a car. Don’t panic! I said imagine. Your car is safely parked wherever you left it, just waiting for you climb in and go anywhere your little heart desires. But what if you didn’t have it? Your life would change significantly, even in a place where buses and trains were abundant.

Everything you do would be determined by how far you can walk. How much you can carry. How long it takes to walk there. If you take a bus, the schedule and the driver’s ability to actually maintain the schedule determine just how much you can do in a day. Your view of your surroundings is always seen through a cloud of dirty windows or your own sweaty brow and obscured by tall buildings.

Now imagine getting on a bike and riding out of town, something you’ve only been able to do on a train or bus, and those times are few and far between. Do you know what’s out there?

Every vista is like a National Geographic spread. Tiny roads through little villages. Quaint churches clinging to the sides of mountains. Water coming out of fountains dating from last week or last century, or even older. The heart of wine country, where vines strectch out in every direction and olive trees dot the mountainsides all the way to the horizon. Sheep with actual bells around their necks. And you truly see all this because you’re not zooming along at 70 km/hr on your way to stop #3 of 5 for the day.

It’s not just the spectacular views though. It’s also the joy of feeling, just for a little bit, like flying. The absolute joy of flying along the road (at the astonishing rate of 15 km/hr) with the wind in your face is nothing short of spectacular. If there is such a thing as reincarnation, I was a dog in the back of a pick up or a greyhound. You know, one of those dogs that runs just for the sheer joy of running. But it's more than this too.

The country is filled with aromas. Not just the ones we usually associate with country living. You don't just see the lavender along the road, you smell it. The smell of fresh cut grass or hay, the humidity of the river as it winds next to the road, the heavy aroma of roses along the walls, the scent of fresh cut wood (and the accompanying smell of the chain saw which always makes me think of a boat on a lake), the smoke from someones burning brush pile, the sweet/sour smell of coffee and pastry wafting out the door of a cafe bar, the smell of grilling meat just as your body decides it's not just hungry, it's hungry. 

A ride in the country is experienced with all my senses. I'm already amazed and inspired by the place I live in, but when I ride I feel alive to the very tips of my fingers and toes and to the deepest part of my soul. All I have to do is get on the bike and pedal. This is why I ride.

Haves and have-nots

I know I recently proclaimed for all to hear that I was officially retired from babysitting when the Zurek family left for the States. I had plans to make other plans for life after the Zureks. I can't be trusted.

I got a random phone call one day last week. It was a hotel that I didn't recognize and the woman calling said that they'd gone through most of their list of babysitters but it was August (which if you live here you know that everyone who can flee the city for the beach or the mountains does so) and I was the only one left on the list. A little disheartening to know that I was the rock bottom of a list. On the other hand, I had no idea how I even made the list to begin with. I later discovered that I had met the manager over a year ago. He cycles with my husband. (Doesn't everyone?)

We started our own business last year and as new start ups tend to be, business was a little slow this year. I quoted an outrageous price kind of hoping they'd decide it wasn't worth it, but they said price was no issue. So I caved and agreed to babysit an eight year old boy who spoke English for two days. I got off the phone and kind of kicked myself a bit for doing something I said I wouldn't, then remembered how much I enjoy eating and decided a few more days of babysitting wouldn't ruin my eventual plans to become a grown up. Besides, it was a five star hotel.....I had high hopes for a swimming pool and good food.

I packed my bag (without having any clue what he liked to do or what would be available to me) with a swimsuit (wishful thinking), colored pencils and chewing gum. I knew where the closest playgrounds were. I wore clothes appropriate for running, climbing and generally getting dirty in. I was totally prepared.

I got to the hotel and had the desk ring the room. She said they were coming down to meet me in the lobby. Hmmm. OK. The elevator opened and out stepped a young girl and boy. They introduced themselves and said that they were supposed to wait with me for their mom.

We waited. And waited some more. The girl got a phone call, turned to me and said "Now we are going shopping," and started walking out the gate.

Hmmm, again. But she had the boy I was supposed to be watching with her so I followed and tried to find out from her exactly what it was I was supposed to be doing here.

Turns out I wasn't babysitting your typical rough and tumble eight year old boy but a boy who can shop better than most of the women I know. And his sister is better than he is. Add to this a credit card with (apparently) no limit and the only thing that slowed them down was how much I could carry.

I was their camel. Interpreter (ha jokes on them, I still don't understand much, and no one understands me). Guide to the stores they wanted to buy from. Someone to make sure they didn't get lost or have to carry their own stuff or find their own taxi.

"Now Michele, we will go to Prada." (Is now the right time to point out that I was slightly under-dressed for this kind of shopping?)

In between statements like the above I did manage to get  some information out of her. She's fourteen and goes to an English school in the country she's from, which has a lot of sand and oil. Probably in equal amounts. Her brother goes to the same school and loves soccer. Her home town is too traditional. Most of her friends spend the summers in England so she's been bored this summer.

Prices seemed to mean little to them, as long as they had the cash in her purse to buy it. If not we found the nearest ATM. Why not just use the credit card? I have a theory that using cash meant she could buy things that her parents might not approve of.

Halfway through the day we finally met up with the mother and their aunt, who co-opted me to be their shopping companion as well. Thankfully they had an Italian man hired to carry packages so I could focus on running after whichever child she wanted me to follow into a store, or to force the clerks at a store to help her faster.

Speedy service seemed to be the priority for the whole group. They wanted to order as soon as they sat down in a restaurant (of course they always ordered the same thing so they didn't need to look at a menu), couldn't understand why the food didn't arrive within 3 minutes of ordering, and made me ask for the check before we finished eating our food. They asked clerks to look for different sizes or colors, then didn't understand why they were walking away from them. Once they had assembled a pile of things to buy they would approve each item before it was rung up discarding about half the pile as no longer desirable.

It was a clash of cultures. My Midwestern need to be nice and helpful. The Italian need to make this moment absolutely perfect,  no matter how long that might take. And I'm going to call it the family's culture of wealth (and not necessarily where they were from) that made them expect that everything would appear before them as they thought about it. They seemed annoyed by having to actually put their thoughts into words.

At one point the girl turned to me and said, "She (her Auntie) says to take us to the statue of the man standing."

Pause for what felt like 5 minutes of absolute silence while I tried to construct an appropriate response to a ridiculous request. It was probably only 5 seconds. I'm pretty quick on my feet.

Florence is a treasure trove of outdoor statuary. As we would say in Minnesota, you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a statue in Florence. A male statue, probably 75% of the time. I could take them to any one of a dozen statues, but chances are it wouldn't be the right one.

I tried to ask a few questions, you know, to narrow the search down a little bit. After two questions she interrupted me and said to just take them to the Savoy, our unofficial base of operations for the two days I was with them. Unofficial in that we never once set foot in the lobby and they weren't staying there. We just ended up using that as a point of reference and luckily everything is walking distance from the Savoy.

I wish I could describe better just how surreal those two days were. I couldn't understand how these children could have so much freedom to spend. There was no filter whatsoever. I want, therefore I buy. She wanted to go to a pet shop, a visit I managed to avoid the entire trip. She wanted to bring a puppy home and thought it was a reasonable idea. At one point he absolutely had to have dumbbells so they bought them. They are taking sand-filled dumbbells back to a country made entirely of sand. How's that for irony? Of course I'm the one who had to carry 6 kilos of sand around Florence for half a day, not any of them. I was also amazed that their mother had no trouble sending them off with me into a strange city without even meeting me (I met her twice and spent no real time with her, I held as much interest for her as a chair. Less actually, she could buy a chair. I was rented.)

When I saw the tags on their luggage I understood a little better. The mother isn't a Mrs or a Ms, she's a princess. Whether she's a Princess or only a minor princess I don't know. I'm sure to her it doesn't matter. Royalty will always be royalty. But it does explain (but doesn't excuse) their attitude and behavior. It also explains her eye roll and statement (when there were throngs of tourists camped outside the Savoy waiting for someone important to arrive) that they were only "Malaysian royalty, not Madonna or anyone important."

As my Grandpa used to say...it takes all kinds.