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. :)