I Miss "Easy."

I love it here.  Let's just get that out of the way to start with.  What an amazing irreplaceable experience. And I promise to follow this blog post with one that shows more love and devotion to my lovely host city.

That said, there are things that I could do without associated with living here in Naples, and they for the most part fall into a singular camp-- I miss the conveniences and ease of living in America.

It's true, I miss EASY.

I miss Building Standards.  There is probably STILL a perfect faceprint of mine imprinted deeply on a glass door somewhere here in Naples.  Raised in the U.S., I have come to expect that exit doors swing out. (In the event of a fire, you need only to PUSH the door in order to escape.)  Oh, not so in Naples.  Doors swing in.  Doors swing on double hinges, doors open over stairs, are plastered shut, go nowhere.   Electricity is another mystifying cultural phenom.  Though the most expensive in all of Europe, Italys' electricity experiences constant surges and outages and is delivered through TWO types of "standard" outlets.  (Don't get me started on how TWO and STANDARD shouldn't really coexist in the same sentence)  Water?  Also an issue.  Though on the whole the water in the Naples area is considered "safe and usable", the "safe and usable" label comes with a lot of caveats.  It's safe, unless your water pressure gets low (which it does about 50% of the time)  When water pressure is low, the water system draws from wells which are contaminated not only with bacteria, but with the runoff from the plastic/tires/trash/fill in the blank burned above ground.  Therefore it is suggested that you drink bottled water.  Oh by the way, the water is so stinking hard with calcium and other minerals that your skin will literally shrink up and fall off and your hair will become the texture of firewood kindling.

I miss Courtesy.  Neopolitans are a generous-natured people.  I have been truly delighted by gifts of food, thoughtful comments and actions.  But beware.  Beneath the generous exterior of each and every Neopolitan lies an extraordinarily selfish mean-spirited honey-badger of an alter-ego.  Put the very same Italian person that just offered you homemade wine and veggies from their garden behind the wheel of a vehicle, and suddenly that person would put their sole grandbaby on the asphalt in front of your moving vehicle before they would allow you to merge into traffic before them.  Put them in a "line" (I use this term loosely) for an event and they will trample you and toss a cigarette butt in your diaper bag just to distract you so that they can squeeze ahead.  And boy!, make sure you count your change in every instance!  Never in my life have I had a shopkeeper short me several dollars purposefully and then glare at me balefully as if being shorted is completely expected.  And it happens all the time!  Arguing for correct change every day?  Yep!

I miss American Breakfast- Italians eat Espresso for breakfast.  Okay that isn't true.  They smoke a cigarette and have a cookie, too.  They just don't do breakfast.  In fact, I have had SEVERAL conversations with Italian locals (all looking at me in confused delight) as I describe the idea of toast with spread, omelets, and breakfast meat with juice to start the day.  I haven't had an egg cooked for me since I arrived in Italy.  If I want an egg, I cook it myself in my own kitchen in my own frying pan.  It's kind of sad.

And on this same thread of thought...

I miss American Lunch- I am sure that it is because of cultural modeling in the U.S. that I cannot seem to appreciate the "joy" of the three hour lunch.  I can't seem to stop tapping my fingers, looking over my shoulder to see whether there is a cook in the kitchen, and calculating the babysitting costs.  Sometimes you just want Panera in a to-go bag.

I miss Posted and Adhered-to Business Hours-Between Riposa (Rest time when businesses are closed-- from 1:30-4:30 OR SO every day), Ferragusto (Half of August when nearly every family operated store closes so that the family can go on vacation), Sunday afternoons off, no posted business hours, posted business hours but nobody there, and little signs on the front door "back in 10 minutes" but nobody back in 45, I spend more time travelling to and from closed stores than I do actually shopping.

And following...

I miss Regular Business Protocol- Very often, during business hours, nobody answers the phone at a business.  I don't actually think I have ever had a voice mail service pick up.  If someone does indeed pick up the phone, it seems to rarely be a person that can actually help you.  Often it is the business persons' mother, or very young daughter who can only say "ca-ca" followed by muffled giggling.  I am told without fail  by whomever answers to call back later-- at which time nobody picks up when I call.  It's all rather confusing and frustrating.  I have gotten to the point where I rarely call anywhere anymore, opting instead to just show up in person.  This is also hit or miss.  If in person, the "not the right person to help you" person will usually try to take down my number to have the business person call me back, but then takes it down on a scrap of paper and stuffs it in their pocket...never to be seen again.

I miss Parking Lots- Never would I have told you that I would say this.  Who could miss a vast expanse of asphalt spread like cancer over every conceivable open space in a city?  Me, that's who!!  I have lost count of the number of times our family has completely abandoned plans to visit people or places simply because the last 100 yards of a trip became 30 miles and 3 hours of narrowly escaping transport by the jaws of life while braving traffic through infernal roundabouts, driving reverse direction on one-way cobblestone alleys trying to find a parking spot.  I'll pay anything!  Name your price!  I just want it to be walking distance and have my bumpers intact when I choose to leave!

I miss Smoking Laws- While I know a lot of people miss the haze of smoke that hangs in a sinister blue cloud in a crowded pub late on a Friday night, I think that even THOSE people would admit that the same sinister cloud does not belong in a hospital or elementary school.  Really guys?  Step AWAY from the front door of the preschool, and try to keep the butts off the playground.  My heavens.

I miss Trash Pickup- Every day my poor dear husband has to pack stinky trash into the trunk of his car and drive it to the dumpster.  If he fails, even one day, to make this trash pilgrimage (between 8pm and 8am according to Italian law), then the march of the 300 (Italian ants that is, though they make it feel like Spartan warriors with their tenacity and fearlessness) begins in our kitchen along all the walls and counters.

I miss TARGET - It actually makes me a little weepy even thinking about Target.  Once upon a time if I needed, I dunno, just fill-in-the-blank (batteries, diapers, mop-head replacements, deodorant, lightbulbs, toddler socks, a new bath mat, Oreo cookies, greeting cards, a medical prescription) I wouldn't have to spend an hour googling GPS coordinates and taking a survey amongst my English-speaking peers to determine when and where to acquire something.  Instead, I just went to Target, because YES, they had it, and YES, they were open.  Done.  You don't know what you got till it's gone, boys and girls.

But most of all-

I miss my Friends and Family back in the U.S. - It's so devastatingly difficult to call with the overlap of waking hours in the U.S. coinciding nearly perfectly with toddler-meltdown/dinner making hours in Italy.  I have made great friends here in Naples thank goodness, but I do miss keeping up regularly with everyone back home.  It's not that I don't love you. :)  Mwuah.

The Gypsy Problem

From the day I arrived in Italy, I was aware of them.  Bands of people living in squalor in makeshift homes beneath or nearby the freeways.  Dilapidated work vans, old RVs, even corrugated plastic and tarps serve as homes.  Hastily dug trenches for bathrooms.  No running water or electricity.  Matted, dirty, half-naked kids with no shoes.

Gypsies, I was told-- "Zingari", in Italian.  Beggars and thieves, the lot of them.  And I would drive on.

My experience with the gypsies here in Italy has been pretty limited.  Despite stories of muggings and pickpocketing, elaborately staged "accidents" after which only gypsies are witness and other such horrors-- I have been subject only to panhandling, and offers of a windshield wash for spare change.

Perhaps that is why I have had no interest in understanding these people or their lifestyle, motivation, or history.

My attitude changed last week when the largest of their camps, ensconced for months about 20 minutes away from my home beneath the freeway near a mall I rarely visit, was demolished.  The subsequent search for a new home led this group to settle in the median of the freeway on the exit where I drop my child off to school every morning.  The following day it had spread onto both sides of the freeway.  The day after, it included a field behind the main street.  Mothers with infants strapped to their chest walked down the middle of the main street.  Teen boys, barefoot and half-clad, swung their legs while seated on the freeway median.  Little kids burst onto the exit ramps and across into the fields beyond.

Suddenly I was interested.  Isn't that the sad reflection that is reality.

Our local Facebook page, haunted by we Americans living abroad here in Naples, was full to bursting with commentary on the subject.  Some of the comments were informative, some shockingly hateful, most (reasonably so) full of fear for family and home.  I just had to do some research of my own.

Despite what I thought I knew about these people, here is what I learned.  These people are not a loose band of impoverished Eastern European immigrants, bonded together only by their common language and condition.  These are a "people" unto themselves-- a "clan" of sorts, that has existed for hundreds and hundreds of years.  There are at least 160,000 Roma Gypsies living in Italy. (This includes, of course, only those that want to be counted.  The actual numbers are far, far higher.)  There have been Gypsies in Italy for hundreds of years, but in the recent past, large numbers of them have immigrated to Western Europe due to political change in their home countries (Romania, Albania, Croatia, and others)

In their home countries, they existed much as they do here-- living on the fringe.  Some supported themselves with subsistence farming efforts, but generally the groups then and now support themselves via panhandling, dumpster diving, and small scale thievery. Some groups have more complex "operations" that include drug running and prostitution.  They cobble together "homes" from whatever materials that they can beg, borrow or steal.  Homes of plastic tarpaulin stand next to old RVs, work vans, and plywood forts.  I haven't been inside, but from what I have read there is some pretty clever engineering going on inside-- I have certainly seen my share of DirecTV satellite dishes tacked on cardboard roofing.  Inside the camps, there is a family and hierarchical structure that exists to keep the clan together.  It includes sharing of motherhood duties, food, and money.

There have been integration efforts put forth by the Italian government.  In some cities, barrack style housing has been provided by the government in an effort to improve the health of the camps (they have a ten-year lower life estimate because of living conditions), as well as to contain the camps away from residents enraged by the thefts, filth, and other problems associated with the camps.  Classroom education has been offered to a limited degree to some children living in camps.  More often than not, these efforts have been for naught.  Camps are often dismantled or destroyed by the groups, perhaps because they are located away from what they perceive as their true support?  The castoffs of others?  Opportunities to ask for change?)  Attendance to school programs never catches on either.  (Could it be that education of their children is a threat to their lifestyle?  What if their kids began to hope for something better?  Or, less cheerfully, perhaps the children couldn't bear to attend a school where they don't speak the language, and are considered dirty, smelly, and beneath human....)

Here in Italy, usually known as one of the more tolerant Western European countries to immigration, nearly 70% of the populace wants the Roma Gypsies "gone". (By what exact method, who knows?)  In the last several years, I think in great part due to the stresses of the painfully weak economy here in Southern Italy, Italians have directed perhaps a disproportionate amount of loathing towards the Romas.  Article after article can be found in online news sources about camps being deliberately burned down by residents in an attempt to "remove" the problem.

Here in Naples, I remained anxious and concerned about our own personal gypsy "problem."  The tone of of the families living in the area became less fearful and more mob.  I began to wonder what kind of a response we would, as Americans stationed overseas, launch against this "European Immigration Problem."

But, the next morning, they were gone.  No kids, no stray dogs, no RVs, just makeshift outhouses and trash remained.  Word is that the military police drove them out-- with an offer of a camp North of here, away from our homes and schools.  I may never know.

I have to say that I am glad.  And sad.

For me personally, I feel less threatened by the potential for problems associated with having this camp nearby.  I will also be relieved that the vicious and ugly dialogue that has been thrown around in the last week will die down in my immediate vicinity.

At the same time, the problem is not gone. It is just pressed back into the periphery, where it can exist side by side with my own happiness without interference.

And somehow I just don't feel very good about that.

Two Toddlers + Tuscany = Tumultuous!

Don't let the smiles fool you.  It's been two weeks, and I am only now able to talk about the experience without getting a little dizzy and nauseated.

To begin:  There is nothing more exhausting than staying at home raising two toddlers boys.  That is, except, going on "vacation" with those same boys.

I decided in the spring that I would "push through" the heat of the southern Italian summer this year, rather than hopping a plane back to the states.  Though I was warned about the heat, the humidity, the store closings, the absence of activities for the kids, and more-- it seemed like such a cop-out to miss out on even one bit of our amazing first year living abroad.  How bad could it be, anyways?

Turns out I am not nearly as smart as I might look.  We spent most of the month of July sitting up to our necks in a small above-ground pool just to keep the heat rash at bay.  When August began the only choices for daily activities seemed to involve sunburn and/or heatstroke.  It is at this time that I decided that we needed to go on vacation for a week to somewhere with air conditioning and a nice pool.  Already freckled to my summer-limit, I decided to forego the beaches and head North and inland to Umbria and Tuscany-- the fabled lands of lore in Italy.

Look at a map.

All of the cities that I chose for our tour of Umbria and Tuscany lie well inland.  Because of the mechanics of weather, inland cities have more dramatic swings in temperature than coastal cities.  So while Naples topped out at a toasty 95 degrees Fahrenheit during our planned week, Tuscan days were forecast well over 100.

Cue the air conditioner failure on the Pathfinder.

About a week prior to our departure, Pathy lost the ability to push air conditioning except on the highest setting.  When I took it in to the mechanic, he said it would be better to "take a chance" that it would keep working for our trip rather than have him tinker with it, because if he broke it, he would not be able to source parts until September.

And off we went.

Rather than the play by play of the entire fiasco learning experience, let me just give you a David Letterman style Top Ten:

10: Escalators required to get you up into most medieval city centers. (Number actually working in high season in Italy, 4.  Number of times you must ride them in order to entertain your sightseeing-numbed toddlers, 18.)

9: Granitas ingested in a 7-day period by each boy.

8:  Earliest hour in the evening that dinner can be obtained in the summer in Italy. (Makes for some cantankerous evening hours)

7. Bottles of water required to fill up our radiator in the three separate instances we overheated the Pathy while driving with the AC on the only possible setting in 104 degree heat.  (Aside on this topic included below)

6. Cities visited during our 7-day adventure-- Orvieto, Montepulciano, Pienza, Sienna, Arezzo, Perugia. (Now go back to #10: Escalators, multiply by the toddler entertainment coefficient, and pity the parents the seasickness we had to endure)

5. Drive-hours for the trip home. (Also, number of potty-breaks required by the elder-- the last one was a "going native" experience of dropping trou and aiming for the nearest available freeway weed)

4.  Pharmacies visited before finding ONE open to fill a prescription for Amoxicillin for a Sinus Infection which appeared immediately upon arrival in Tuscany.

3. Projectile vomiting incidents.

2. Car Seats covered in vomit.

1. Moment of time where we considered simply setting the whole scene on fire and running into the woods half-naked singing the National Anthem.

Then we arrived home and mutually agreed it was the BEST TRIP YET!! :) :)

Nobody was seriously injured, irreversibly scarred, lost, or abducted.  This is pretty much the success point for vacations right now.

Next year, I'm thinking Disney Cruise.  For the kids, that is.  While they are gone, Hubby and I will go back to Tuscany and drink some wine this time.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Aside: On this trip, during Pathy boilover #3, I asked hubby to pull over to the side of the road where I could see an older Italian man watering his garden.  I told hubby I would ask the man for a few bottles of water to fill the radiator.  As I approached, I asked him in my best level #1 Italian for beginners way whether we could have a few bottles of water.  He told me that he was deaf, and he couldn't understand a thing I said, but that he thought that I needed water, and that he believed water should be free for everyone.  Mind you, he didn't have many teeth, and had a pronounced lisp, and also said something about the English people being either the devil or bulls with horns.  Fortunately, being an American,  the water offer was still open.  Being very proud of his well water, he insisted that after using it for the truck, that I should drink the remainder.  He was so adamant about this, that he insisted I drink some (and tell him how good it was) prior to returning to the car.  Hubby filled the radiator but suggested that we really needed two additional bottles.  I returned to the gardening Italian, who again began telling me something about either friends, family or neighbors that had been to America, and how the English were the devil.  He then offered to have us over for dinner.  Which is pretty much how every encounter I have with the locals seems to go.

Summertime: It comes in any flavor

    Whereas winter was a bit drab and brown, summer in Napoli is its' antithesis.  Until the weather reached 85 degrees Fahrenheit, you didn't even need to check the shoes to determine which passerby was a foreigner and which was Italian.  You could tell because the Italians were still wearing hats and scarves...and often wool coats.  But once the weather hit the nineties?  Whoa!  Behold!  All of Italy, in nearly NOTHING!  On every street and street corner women began strutting past in neon color micro-mini dresses with rhinestones...and ribbons...and silver clasps...and embroidered text...in poorly translated English.  Oh, and gladiator sandals.  And the men took off their shirts and just stuck with lavender skinny pants.  And the Beaches- yet another layer of Naked to display!  Teeny tiny bikinis and Speedos for the men, who in equal measure take hold of the seat fabric and crank it "between the cheeks" to achieve maximum tannage.
     In some ways I have to appreciate the Southern Italians.  If you have body-image issues, this is a great place to come.  They care VERY little for whether there is a bit of cellulite here, a muffin top there, some baggage, some saggage...they are all about getting some EYEBALLS on that skin!  Strut it like it is a hot package...and suddenly it IS.  I have seen more that I care to popping out, over, between, and around bits of swim fabric, but here?  It's all good. 
     Let me take that back.  It is all good, so long as it is tan.  And if you know me, you know I don't do tan.  I do freckles, I do lobster, but I do not do tan.  So I am a bit like a beach beacon with my fish-belly skin and broad-brimmed sun hat.  I didn't understand why all the Italians piled their sand toys near me until I realized that they would always be able to find them from ANYWHERE ON THE BEACH.  "Just look for the white lady with her two wonder bread boys!  That is where our stuff is."  Okay, I am making that up.  That said, we get a lot of attention.
     Another eye-popping summertime distraction comes in the form of Napoli's lovely roadside umbrella salesgirls (What I have told my boys that the Eastern European prostitutes that troll the daytime streets are doing)  Each shaded from the daytime heat by a colorful parasol, the girls along "hoochie highway" flaunt their wares VERY impressively in the summertime heat. Girls of all colors, shapes, sizes-- all of them defying gravity with lycra and spandex.   I know, I KNOW, I just said that the bikinis are tiny on the beaches!! But somehow these ladies make MORE fabric seem like so much less!  And yet, even at 95 degrees, thigh-high white leather stilletos still prevail as footwear of choice.
     And speaking of "any flavor that you like", these have to be my favorites...I can't take credit for this picture.  I have been attempting to catch a shot of the ubiquitous gelato- and granita-mobiles that dot the landscape here in Napoli this time of year, but alas, most of the time they are traveling the opposite direction as me on a winding 1.5 lane road and I haven't had the chance to snap a picture.  Most that I have seen actually have the case for the frozen deliciousness up front- in place of a front fender and windscreen.  I assume they aren't the safest ride on the road, nor the most aerodynamic.  But it has been over ninety degrees here with winds blowing off of blistering North Africa for as long as I can remember, so frankly-- I...don't...care.  Just gimme some.  Most carry a dizzying number of fabulous flavors-- it is truly one of the more daunting decisions of my day.  Stracciatella?  Green Apple?  Or perhaps Ricotta and Pear? (OMG, send me straight to capital H, e, double hockey sticks it is good)  It's no wonder that that "baby weight" seems so sticky this time of year. :)
     In addition to these luscious little numbers, inventive Italians have also created "Gelato and Granita- tractors" with honest-to-goodness tank/bulldozer tread and lawnmower engines...these little guys grind up and down the beach through the soft wet sand delivering deliciousness hand-planed off of a giant block of ice for 1E.  Another please.  Both Elder and Younger have kicked Gelato to the curb for a granita when they spy actual lemon seeds enrobed in layers of soft lemon ice.
     Ah summertime and the surprises lovely Napoli has had in store.  And we are only now just entering the part of summer when all the stores shut down and the entire population runs screaming out of the city and onto the beaches.  Nearly all the storefronts on my street have a little sign announcing that they are closed for Ferragusto and will return in September.  Um.  Wha?  Where the heck am I supposed to get my pizza fix?  
    
     
     

Dogs and Puppies, Puppies and Dogs

The expression "It's a dog's life" has become an ambiguous one of late.  My dog, who languishes on her temperpedic-ortho-ergo-green-cycled fleece-lined dog bed and eats high-nutrition all-organic dog kibbles certainly has a life of luxe.  But this is not the "dog's life" for which the expression was coined.  Instead, the saying was first recorded in the sixteenth century, and it's meaning was "a life of misery and subserviency".  This was because, during the time, the life of a dog was incredibly difficult- kept outside regardless of weather as guards of the household, and fed only scraps.  These dogs lived lean, and often not long.

Napoli, it seems, has retained the original meaning of this sad expression.

Prior to my arrival to Naples, I read warnings about stray dogs in the region.  And, upon arrival, I became aware of just what a significant problem stray animals are in Naples.  It is estimated that there are 70,000 stray dogs on the streets of Naples.

I think they only counted the brown ones with blue eyes and a white sock on the right hind foot.

There are an enormous number of stray dogs in Naples.  You cannot take a drive without seeing one or more animals trotting, tongue out, along the busy streets.  These animals make their living on the periphery- rooting around overflowing dumpsters or depending upon the rare kindness of passersby.  They become masters of traffic avoidance, or they become road kill.  I have actually changed my driving patterns to and from the military base to avoid the area that seems to be the wasteland of unlucky road-travelers.

Some animals became stray through no fault- escapees from yards, run feral.  The vast majority, however, are stray due to a systemic problem in Naples itself.  

1.  Dogs are most often kept as "watchdogs", and not pets-- therefore, when they go missing, it is simply a matter of replacing the role, not the family member.   In fact, though I have yet to experience it, I am told that dogs are often "released" during European vacation weeks to fend for themselves while the family hits the mountains or the beach.  If the dog is still there upon the families' return, they can resume their role as guard dog.  If not, they can be replaced.

2.  Italians are loathe to spay/neuter their animals.  It's cultural, and deep-set.

3.  The combination of 1 and 2 makes for an enormous number of "born wild" animals who will never be spayed/neutered and will only continue the vicious cycle.

American and NATO military members are not guilt-free.  Warned of the crime in the region, military members are known to adopt animals as watch dogs only to abandon them when their duty station changes.>

This spring began "puppy season" here in Naples.  Pups, born wild of strays, begin appearing along fencelines, wandering into subdivisions, or trundling into traffic.  Their mothers, who struggle to feed THEMSELVES on a street diet, become increasingly obvious in town-- thin and desperate with swollen udders and prominent ribs.

Eighteen such puppies were born in two litters in Carney Park, the recreational facility here in the Naples area.  A kind-hearted woman and friend began feeding the mothers and puppies, and trying to find them homes.  I helped her by fostering a number of the puppies while we tried desperately to find them homes.  Of the eighteen weaned from their mothers at the beginning of June, 12 are still searching for homes.  Just today I saw another posting of 12 puppies needing homes.  There simply is nowhere for these puppies to go.

It is uncommon for Neopolitans to adopt animals from an animal shelter.  In fact, animal shelters here have unfortunately become another victim of corruption in the area.  Instead of serving to care for and re-home animals, shelters  are used as profit centers on the backs of these unfortunate creatures.  An animal shelter in Naples is provided 5E/day for each animal "living" in the shelter.  If the animal can be kept "alive" on less, the remaining $$ can stay with the shelter management.  Though I cannot verify the conditions myself (I haven't the heart), I understand the conditions to be deplorable, with near-starvation and disease run rampant.

I still am fostering two of these puppies.  They are each a joy- full of wiggles and love.  It gives me palpitations to think of the number of like-animals fending for themselves and dying on the streets of this town as I write.

Where are the two females that delivered the eighteen puppies in Carney Park?  Still stray.  Still unspayed.  Most probably pregnant.  It's too much.

Driving in Italy, Part Due: Italian driving directions, American style

Driving in Italy, as I have mentioned, is a bit of an adventure.  Between the roads themselves, oft potted, narrow, and winding, and the drivers on said roads, oft speeding, honking, or driving the wrong direction in your lane, you have to keep your wits about you and be prepared.  I credit Naples for a 400% increase in my reaction time and a 75 degree increase in my peripheral vision skills.  It's just survival, people.

Getting around can be a challenge.  Roads often have multiple names, and addressing is haphazard at best, more often simply misleading.

Now, I am no Neophyte.  I can read a map.  I can read a map North up. (No spinning the map in the direction I am driving- you know who you are)  I studied Cartography in college and cut my teeth in Corporate-land at a company that makes digital maps. (Shout out to you guys at NT!)  I even have a fabulous full color GPS with European maps standing prominently on my dashboard.  Yet, I never get where I am going without at least two turnarounds, one phone call, one wild gesturing session with a Neopolitan passerby, and a few tears.

Here is an example of a typical driving session to somebody's house: (Actual information has been modified to protect the innocent.  Local peeps will note that if you follow these directions, you are likely to end up in the Bay of Naples about halfway to Ischia.)

Via Facebook:  "I live at 45 vecchia vigna.  The GPS coordinates are N40. 79414 E14.06281 See you there.  Jane"

So I plug the address into the GPS.  Nope.  Doesn't appear to exist.  OK, I plug the GPS coordinates in, and off we go.

30 minutes elapse.

GPS:  (With a grand flourish)  "YOU HAVE ARRIVED AT YOUR DESTINATION!!!"

I look around.  There are sheep.

I pause, regroup, and call over the shepherd.  He is Albanian.  He doesn't speak English OR Italian.  But he does speak "flailing hands".  He indicates that I am nowhere near where I need to be.

I pause, regroup, cry a little, and call Jane.

Jane: "OK, So  get back on the Autostrada going towards the blue bridge.  Get off at the exit by the castle.  When you get to the smoky tunnel,  (the tunnel with exhaust fans...yet they don't work) veer to the left.  No, not the far left, the one that is just sort of to the left.  OK.  Now you will come to the circle of death. (A roundabout with an enormous number of options, and, a really nice rotisserie chicken place known to the US locals conveniently as **Circle of Death Chicken**  I am sure it has a real name, but who cares.  We all know where we are talking about)  Take the third exit.  You will drive for a couple of miles.  When you see Touchdown Jesus (A Jesus statue with arms upraised) you know you are going the right way.  If you get to the bumpy tunnel (a wildly curvy tunnel that the Italians put concrete/asphalt bumps in to slow traffic down and reduce the fatalities from blind curve passes IN the tunnel) you have gone too far.  At the top of the hill, turn left.  It's a hairpin, and one lane, so be sure to honk before you go into the turn.  If you meet someone coming the other way, you will need to back down to the bottom (about a half mile) and pull into the little driveway to wait and let them by.  After the turn you will see a green gate.  The next house on the right hand side is pink.  Go down that driveway to the end.  Honk and I will open the gate for you.  See you soon!"

I have never had a set of directions from anyone that is any simpler that this.   Really.

I heart you Italy. :)

I've mentioned it before...you just can't feel ambivalent about Italy.  Sometimes it's love I feel, sometimes hate...it's a passionate kind of place.
Today, with the red poppies blooming, the breeze blowing and the clear view of the Bay of Naples, I was reminded of some of the things I love about living here.
Let's get a couple of the obvious ones out of the way to start.

The Food:
I have been surprised to discover that not everyone loves Neopolitan cuisine.  Me, I am in the "love it" column.  Fresh mozzarella and ricotta cheese, cured meats, and *sigh* the pizza. It's heaven to me.  They may have to roll me out of here when I go.

The Wine:
They all make it.  It's called "young" because some guy fermented it in his cellar just last week.  It is slightly carbonated and oh-so-delicious.  And if you don't "know a guy" (like everyone does here), then you can buy the stuff that your grocer made in HIS basement for, like, a Euro ($1.25) a bottle.  Va bene.

The Coffee:
They like it strong and sweet and man is it good.

The History:
It's everywhere.  I mean, the Acropolis of Cuma and Sybill's Cavern (still standing ruins from a city settled by the Greeks in 740 BC) can be seen from our balcony.

The Access:
The Amalfi Coast: 1 Hour by car
The Island of Capri:  1 Hour by ferry
Rome: 1 Hour and 8 minutes by high-speed train
My favorite pizza spot for a 4-cheese: 1 minute by car, and they'll deliver.  Really.

And then there are some of the less-obvious things to love....

Small-town living:
Yeah, the Naples metropoltan area is over 3 million people.  But we live in a community.  We shop in local markets and stores.  They know us here. (Probably simply as the crazy Americanos, but that isn't the point)  They greet us, they appreciate that we patronize their stores, they watch out for us, and they fill our kids with candy.

Fashion risk-taking:
It doesn't always work, trust me.  Despite what you hear on the news, not all Italians have perfect bodies.  But they don't care.  I applaud their efforts.  Lavender pencil-leg pants on the men, thigh high stilleto heels on the women (for work at the grocery, no less), scarves, hats, it's just plain fun to watch.

Family-run stores:
Most every store is named after the person or family that owns it.  Pescheria da Nicola e Nunzio (Nicole and Nunzio's Fish Shop), Aldo's Pizza, Ambulatoria da Maria (Maria's Veterinary Hospital)...all on our main street.  Even if you don't know them, you feel like you do.

The Produce:  Gorgeous fat english peas- $1E/Kg.  I'm sorry.  That is over 2 pounds of peas for $1.25.  I pay $6.00 a pound at the farmers market in the shoulder seasons.  1E/kg for ripe tomatoes?  Really?  I bring them home and rot them sometimes because I simply get out of hand at the market.

The Truckers:  I know, kind of random.  But they put their NAMES on little plastic nameplates on the dashboards of their 18-wheelers so as you drive by them, you could shout out, "Hey Alessio, good to see you!   How's it going Ciro?  Alessandro, how's the drive today?"....if you wanted.

And most of all...

The generosity of spirit:  Out from behind the wheel of their automobiles, I have found the Italian people to be incredibly generous in most every way.  We have been invited to share meals and met the entire families of people who speak nary a word of English.  I get doors held open, bags carried, and  items graciously returned to the shelves by perfect strangers when my toddlers go shopping with me and leave complete tornadoes in their wake.  My butchered Italian is nearly ALWAYS received with patience and enthusiasm.

These kinds of things I don't take for granted, and would not even expect back home in the states.  For that Italy, I heart you. :)


 

Open letter to the ants:

Ok, I give.  I have two little crumb-crunchers, plus a husband who doesn't seem to know we have a trash can, so there are always graham cracker and goldfish crumbs on the floor and half empty juice boxes and gatorade on the coffee tables.  It cannot be fixed!  Believe me, I've tried!   And, I know, sue me-- I don't do the dishes EVERY SINGLE NIGHT before I go to bed, so there are sometimes dirty dishes in the sink in the morning.  But really?  EVERYWHERE?  Why in empty reusable grocery bags?  Why inside my kitchen cabinets with the dishes?  Why in the coat closet?  Why under the stinky laundry in the basement? And where, exactly, are you coming from?  I know that the house isn't exactly "sealed", or anything, but you don't leave an obvious trail where you are entering-- it's just open the desk drawer in the office and "Whoa!!- ANTS!"  I don't mean to seem all ugly-American on you or anything, but you have to go.  I haven't actually yet recovered from "children endlessly vomiting" season here in Italy, so I am simply unprepared to enter "Endless ant marches through the dining room" season.  So, go.  Your cooperation is appreciated in advance.  Arrivederci.

Love it or hate it...it's life in Italy.

People who talk to me who are living in the states constantly ask me the same question.  So, you are living in Italy.  Do you just LOVE it?!?


Well, there ARE things I love.  The food, for example.  The access to amazing historical, architectural, and artistic treasures.  I love that too.  And the crazy.  I have really come to love the crazy.
But don't get me wrong.  Living overseas has its' share of complications, frustrations and challenges.  About every fourth day I have my "I hate Italy" day of the week-- where I curse and stamp my feet and cry at the drop of a hat over some tiny little inconvenience which has served to catalyze the recollection of the eight million "tiny little inconveniences" that I had already suffered in the three days prior.  And I have a mini-meltdown.

Here is a tiny sample.

The Parco.  We live in a Parco.  This is what the Italians call a gated subdivision.  Parcos are very common in Naples-- there is a lot of petty crime, and people like to take precautions.  We have fabulous gate guards, Pasquale and Antonio, who let us in and out of the Parco with a smile and who keep an eye out for gypsies and ne'er do wells that might interfere with our bliss. When Pasquale and Antonio get time off on Sundays, however, there is a big automatic steel gate that allows access to the Parco.  It is operated by a remote that we carry on our keychain.  Said remote goes on the fritz (as does EVERY electronic, battery powered, or internet enabled thing in Italy, it seems) a lot.  Access to Parco, denied.

Garden Gates.  We live in a gated yard in a gated Parco.  As I said, there is a lot of petty crime, and people like to take precautions.  The gate to the yard MOSTLY works.  Sometimes it won't open.  Sometimes it won't close.  It can be operated from inside the house with a buzzer style remote opener, or by key. Inevitably it decides to remain stubbornly locked when I am carrying a thirty pound toddler, a purse, two sweatshirts, a diaper bag, a sippy cup, a bag of goldfish crackers, my cellphone, and a bag of fresh vegetables. 

House Keys.  The keys used to open your front door in Italy are ENORMOUS.  The first time I saw our house key I immediately started singing the Addams Family theme song in my head.  They look like old castle skeleton keys and don't fit in ANY pocket in ANY piece of clothing you own.  You end up getting a key ring the size of a dish plate to manage your Parco gate key, garden gate key, and house key.  And then you spend most of your day trying to figure out how to jam this giant key monstrosity in your purse and the other part of the day fishing it back out when it jams in the zippered pocket.

Maneuvering your car.  Every Italian, or at least every Italian I know, drives a glorified rollerskate.  There is a reason for such.  First, the gas prices are REdonculous.  You cannot afford to fill the tank on a good ole american automobile and still eat.  Second, the roads are a terrifying tangle of foliage overgrown, 270 degree turns onto one-way wide but two lane driving, wrought iron gate half-open, and trash filled madness.  There is no room to place a good ole american automobile.  Finally,  all the openings into parking garages seem to have been spec'd for a Fiat.  The first time I drove into my garage I hit the bumper on my Pathfinder going in AND going out.  Now I just park outside.

Staying Warm.  Electricity in Italy is the most expensive in all of Europe.  And the houses have high ceilings and marble floors.  So it takes a lot of heating to heat up the houses.  So, in order to avoid hundreds and hundreds of dollars of heating every month, you have the heat follow you around the house.  Each room in our house has a little heating unit on the wall.  Enter the room, turn on the heat.  Huddle in front of it.  Leave the room, turn off the heat.  Move to next room.  Repeat sequence. 

Cooking.  Darned Kings English.  Fahrenheit--->Celcius and Fluid ounces--->milliliters for EVERY SINGLE RECIPE.  Fortunately "there's an app for that."

Hard water.  Naples itself has a water system that has some issues, one of which is lots and lots and lots of minerals.  You have to use special shampoos to keep your hair and skin from going to heck and need to add vinegar and salt to the dishwasher to get the dishes clean. 

 The Washer and Dryer.  I am convinced that some fiendish woman-hater came up with these contraptions to keep moms downstairs in the basement full time.  The washers are teeny-tiny.  Like 4 shirts, a dish towel, and a pair of socks tiny.  And the wash cycles are looooooooong.  And you have to empty the dryer of the condensed water after every cycle, or sometimes midcycle.  And clean some dirt gathering contraption that fills up with I-don't-know-what and makes the dryer fail to operate every 17th cycle.  I can understand why many Italians resort to the soap it up in the bathtub and hang it out to dry on a line method.  With two dirt-seeking stinky boys-- laundry is 24x7x365 torture.

Italians don't seem to believe in garbage disposals.  I don't know why, but something about scraping day-old peanut butter from the drain strainer gives me the dry heaves.

Taking out the trash.  It actually MEANS that here, because nobody comes to get your trash in a trash truck here.  To get rid of your trash, you put it in a black garbage bag, load it into the back of your car, and drive to the nearest dumpster.  Mind you, this needs to be done between 7pm and 8am in order to avoid a "trash fine".   Hunh, you say?  Yeah.  And I have one in diapers.  It's icky.

Recycling.  The good news:  There IS recycling!  The bad news:  The recycling bins are big dome shaped containers that have an opening about the circumference of a 2-liter bottle for inserting your recycling, which you must insert...one...piece..at.......a.....time. (Between 7pm and 8am, OK?)

In short, next time you feel overwhelmed by life's little household curveballs, think of how many more you could suffer through   enjoy if you only lived overseas! 

:)

Driving in Italy: Part one of many. :)

One of my "Naples Kisses" on my Pathy.  One on each side already!

Learning to drive like a Neopolitan took me much less time than I expected.  Turns out, if you pretend that you are the ONLY person on the road and do exactly what you want to do how and when you want to do it- you are driving like a local.  Here are some common driving rules (I use this term in the loosest sense just like the Italians do) so that YOU TOO can drive like an Italian.

1. Road Lanes:   Use them ALL. Scratch that.  Pretend there are none.  Straddle lanes for miles at a time.  Regardless of the number of lanes of traffic painted on the roadbed, travel willy nilly all over the road.  Make sure there are at least five cars abroad for every three painted lanes.

2.  Freeway Exits:  There are a number of different options

***This is the precise moment when my computer crashed, all of our lights began flickering ominously, EVERY house alarm in the Parco (subdivision for you stateside) began sounding, and every Italian guard dog began howling (due to said house alarms).  Apparently we had some sort of power issue in the area.  Joe and I wandered around the house for an hour attempting to get the wall heaters to stop squealing and keeping the house alarm from going off.  The lights continued to surge and die until we finally gave up and went to bed.  Why, you ask?  Because it is Italy.  That is the only explanation I have.***

And now back to the previously scheduled Blog.

Ahem.

2.  Freeway Exits:  There are a number of different options for approaching Freeway exits.  Here is a sampling of a few I have seen:

The "Fake Right".- Drive as though you are going to exit the freeway.  At the last possible moment, make an abrupt left adjustment, gesture wildly with both hands and curse out the driver to your left.  Return to the freeway. 

The "Fake Left".- Drive as though you plan to continue on the freeway.  At the last possible moment, make an abrupt right adjustment, gesture wildly with both hands and curse out the driver to your right.  Exit the freeway.

The "Va Bene".- (Loosely translated to "It's all good").- Drive past the freeway exit.  Upon realizing you have past the exit, pull over to the side of the road and drive backwards to the exit.  It does not matter in the least how FAR you have travelled beyond the exit.  Exit the freeway.

The "WTF!".  While exiting the freeway, simply stop in the middle of the roadway.

3.  Vespas:  Ride with three or four passengers at a time with no helmet, in your Sunday best, preferably with one rider carrying either a cake or four stacked pizzas or possibly the family dog.

4.  Nature calls:  Pull over, drop 'em.  Doesn't matter your age or gender.  I have seen more bare bottoms on Naples freeways than in a whole lifetime of gym locker rooms.

5.  Passing:  Do it.  Do it around blind curves.  Do it into oncoming traffic.  Do it even if you are a ...holy mother of taco sauce that is a CITY BUS coming right at me!!! (Sorry, flashback.)

6.  Using headlights:  While convenient for travel at night, these are most often used to flash drivers in front of you to indicate you want them out of your way.  If they do not immediately move over, feel free to climb into the back seat of their Fiat or perform a PIT maneuver.

7.  Using signals:  When travelling in the fast lane, turn on your left blinker and leave it on to indicate you have NO intent of EVER moving over for another vehicle. (It is fun to see a #6 and a #7 meet on the freeway)

8.  Right of way:  It's yours.  It's ALWAYS yours.  Just drive.  Don't use your mirrors, don't hesitate, don't let them see the whites of your eyes.

9.  Parking:  Never ask if it is a parking spot, because of course it is.  Double parked?  Fine.  Triple parked?  No Problem.  Put on your hazards in the middle of the street in the middle of town during rush hour and run into the pasticcerie?  Va bene.

10.  Road Rules:  These are pretty simple, really.  Don't hit that which is in front of you.  It is only if you do that the other traffic rules apply.

Man, that's a lot of Cabbage!

One of the more striking things that I have noticed now that we have been in Italy for three months is how much more "in touch" I am (literally and figuratively) with how much cash we go through on a daily, weekly, or monthly basis.  Italy is a cash economy.  You pay the rent in cash.  You pay the gardener in cash.  You pay the veterinarian in cash.  In most markets, they really only want cash.  It is utterly horrifying to watch the constant hemorrhaging of cash!  Now, that is not to say that this same outflow of money didn't occur while we were in the states- because it did.  But we were insulated from it, cozy in our nest of Mastercard, debit card, autopay and checks.  It wasn't like real money.  But this stuff is real.  It is so real that the normal vigilance that I have for keeping an eye on my wallet has become super-vigilance...you just are ALWAYS carrying cash!  There are two things that I ponder when I count out yet another pile of Euro in order to pay for the groceries... #1.  Thank goodness we are in a position that I can count out Euro and buy my groceries.  There are a lot of people that cannot.  #2.  What condition would the American economy be in if the populace could only buy what they could actually afford to buy in cash?  Sets a mind to thinking.  Just saying.
     On an entirely different cabbage related note:  Boy Elder has finally started preschool  I hemmed and hawed and toured different schools and finally committed to a great preschool for him where he is amongst Italian children and NATO forces children and taught in both English and Italian.  I think it is a great experience for him to be immersed in the culture and the language and I am dearly hoping he will learn quickly enough to do all my translation for me. 
Because I am simply NOT getting it. 
     But this is not the point of my story.  The point of my story is that schools in Italy serve your children lunch.  This isn't lunch of the cold microwaved hamburger and day-old tater tots variety.  This is primi piatti (pasta dish of some kind) followed by secondi piatti (meat and vegetables) + bread or dessert.  Boy Elder is not much of an eater, but I am paying for the food and they do pack it up to take home (in little "to go" containers) when he doesn't eat it, so I like to get a preview of what myself and Boy Younger (aka The Garbage Truck) are going to have for lunch the next day.  The menu reads like a darn good date night.  Pasta Fagioli followed by grilled chicken, mashed potatoes and chard.  Pasta with potatoes followed by sauteed steak bites and spinach.  Um, yum!  Can I go back to school?!? 
     So last week I sashayed past the posted menu to check out what I was going to be enjoying for lunch this week, and I see the following dish:  Pasta con Cavolo.  Pasta with HORSE?!?  WHAT?!  Now, I have seen the little baby food jars of horse in the grocery store (and been appropriately disgusted), but I would have expected an international school to understand that HORSE is not "on the menu" in many places.  I stood in trepidation trying to decide whether I would just look the other way and call it part of the cultural experience or skip school that day or ask that Jack be excused for lunch that day or...I went home to contemplate my options.  Thank God for Google Translate.  Turns out Cavalo is Cabbage.  Cavallo is Horse.  Not Horse for lunch, Cabbage for lunch.  "Ugly American" incident avoided at school.
    Turns out pasta with Cabbage is delicious!  The picture above is of a cabbage I purchased at a local market.  I see them all the time and had no idea which variety they are, but figured- Hey, it's a cabbage.  I'll figure something out.  Turns out when you peel back the gloriously green outer leaves- It's a Savoy Cabbage.  I used these all the time (when I could find them) in the states-- but we only ever saw them in their "domesticated" state-- all the outer leaves removed, leaving a paler, smaller version of the same. I see this kind of thing all the time here...vegetables I am completely familiar with in their "produce aisle" format look VERY different when left in their unadulterated form coming from the fields.  And I would have told you that I knew my veggies.

     Just for kicks- here is the recipe I used with my glorious little Savoy.  Enjoy.
A big handful of cubed pancetta (It comes here packaged like that....so awesome)
A good glug of olive oil
1 clove of garlic, finely chopped
A palmful of dried thyme
1 large Savoy cabbage, chopped coarsely
1 handful of grated Parmesan cheese
Pasta of your shape of choice - I used these great mini lasagna shape noodles called Mafalda Corta
salt and black pepper
1/4 cup or so of grated dry provolone ( You could use mozzarella or similar)
2 handfuls of pine nuts, lighly toasted

Saute the pancetta in olive oil.  Add thyme and garlic.  Add cabbage and cover.  When cabbage has softened (add a little chicken broth to get some steam going if you need), then add the cooked pasta and provolone.  Turn off the heat.  Give another generous swirl of olive oil, salt, pepper.  Top with parmesan cheese and pine nuts.  Serve hot. 

The meaning of trash

You may be aware that Naples had a trash problem back in 2008.  It was all over the international news at the time.  The closure of local landfills led to the streets being filled for huge stretches of time with rotting, stinking and sometimes enormously hazardous trash.  What you may not realize is that this same trash problem still exists today.  Naples has a complicated relationship with trash. Years of poor management, mafioso influence, corruption, and apathy has led to a situation in which all existing landfills are full to capacity (often with trash from as far away as Northern Italy, and often with incredibly TOXIC materials.) and "temporary" landfills are opened, filled, and closed before the trucks can deliver their loads.  Any additional trash then has to wait until a new landfill is authorized and opened.  Naples government has looked into building an incinerator to burn the excess trash, but the populace has been highly opposed-- to a great degree because of fears of lack of oversight leading to hazardous material being burned and greatly contributing to what is already a noxious cloud of haze that burdens the city.  As a result, trash struggles continue, and the city and the roads and the skies and the agriculture and the people suffer.

On an entirely different and not nearly so morose a note, Naples also suffers from a trash problem of a different sort.  The music that I have discovered so far is awful.  There are some sappy Italian love songs, yes, but the VAST majority of music on Italian radio in Naples is either A)  Really bad American music, or B) Really bad house mix music with the never ending thrumming base that makes the juice in your eyeballs jiggle and eventually causes a migraine.  OH, and then there is the ONLY SONG IN THE WORLD.  Here it is.

Michel Telo-Ai Se Eu Te Pego

Catchy?  Yes.  BUT IT IS THE ONLY SONG THEY PLAY.  And it has been since I arrived in November.  Sigh. I guess I should figure out what they are saying, but it isn't even Italian.

La Befana and La Bufala

Pazzo (Crazy) Italian Lession #1:  La Befana and La Bufala
One is a witch, and the other is delicious.  Well, It itself may not be delicious, but what it produces certainly is.

La Befana is a big part of Italian Christmas tradition, which typically lasts through January 6th, The Feast of the Epiphany. (The Twelfth day of Christmas, and yet another Italian National Holiday).  The tale goes as follows:  On the evening of January 5th, the wise men were traveling to the manger and stop at an old womans' house to ask directions.  They then invite her to join them, but she refuses.  Later that night she sees a bright light in the sky and decides that she wants to join them, bearing gifts for the baby Jesus from her own child who had died.  She gets lost, however, and never finds the manger.  Now, La Bufana flies around on her broomstick on the 11th night of Christmas, bearing gifts (fruit and toys for good children and coal for bad) in the hope of finding baby Jesus.

La Bufala is where Buffalo Mozzerella comes from.  Long a fan of Buffalo Mozzerella, I never had stopped to think about what exactly was producing this lovely cheese.  Turns out, it isn't a Buffalo.  At least, not in the American West, herds of thundering sense.  This Buffalo, as you come to find out, is actually a Water Buffalo-- much more like an Asian Yak.  Naples turns out to be is ground zero for la Bufala in Italy.  Small herds of these animals are kept in muddy pastures under the freeways.  Sounds not so romantic, but despite that, the cheese is to die for.

New Years Eve

After we tucked both boys into bed and began our movie marathon leading up to the New Year, we should have known that Italy would do things differently.  As midnight approached, bottle rockets and whistling Petes began going off prematurely.  It sounded interesting, but not interesting enough to drive a wedge between our behinds and the comfy leather couch.  As soon as the clock struck midnight, however, we knew that we needed to haul our tails up the freaky spiral staircase and onto the rooftop terrace.  And was it EVER worthwhile.

This video is a 1.5 minute clip of the nearly 25 minutes of continuous 360 degree madness that surrounded us for the arrival of the new year.  Naples apparently isn't satisfied with benign city displays timed to classical music, instead choosing to shoot off enormous fireworks from every backyard and rooftop.  I felt the need to duck twice when our next door neighbors launch sequences went awry.  The noise was deafening, and inside the house (with our single pane, drafty windowpanes) it sounded like the entire neighborhood was under siege.  The grunions, amazingly, slept like little lambs through the entire thing.  The dog, however, may need Prozac.