Sunday Lessons in Village PR

We finally had some time to get stuff done around the house today so Cristian was out in the driveway cutting wood this morning. See, we have this woodburning stove we use to supplement the regular gas heat (and having fires in winter rocks). Since there are other people at his work with fireplaces and woodburning stoves, they order their firewood together. You can load it up and take it home when you want (company perk, Triestine style). The wood is cheap but you have to cut it to fireplace size yourself, which is a great excuse to buy a chainsaw.

Which brings me to the lessons I learned today.

Lesson 1.
My husband really loves his chainsaw.

Lesson 2.
Chainsaws are Man Magnets.

Within about 10 minutes there was a 3-man fanclub out there talking wood: where to find it, how to cut it, the best ways to burn it.

And in this neighborhood, when men come over to talk anything, you better offer them something to drink. This is met with, "Oh no, I couldn't. You are so busy..." followed by "Oh, alright. Let me bring home the hound and I will be right back."

When they come back, they bring a bottle of wine and you know it's going to be good because it has no label, which means that it is "Domace" and if they didn't make it themselves, someone close by did. This is a precious gift and a gesture of friendship.

Of course, you will not open it (now) because you also have a bottle waiting. It also has no label and is "Domace," fresh from the cantina of someone in the village up the hill. In this case, it is Emil's, the one with the twin boys who just graduated from College. Uncle Boris gets his wine from him, too.

The neighbors stay for two drinks and in that time they talk about what the village looked like 40 years ago, when our house was a small grocery store and the yellow house on the corner was a bar, and the house behind ours was the bakery.

Oops. Look at the time, they drink up, and say their goodbyes. They, too, have a lunch to get to. We call the mother-in-law and explain that we lost track of time. We were cutting wood, the neighbors stopped by and Cicole Ciacole, an hour has passed. In the meantime the washing machine finished its cycle and we still have to hang out the clothes (in our village you hang clothes outside even in winter), then we will be right over. Of course, she says, that's life in a village.

How Not to Look American -- from an American who sticks out

Triestini can spot their own kind from a Kilometer away. "You can tell by the way they walk... Check out those sunglasses!" My husband says, "Italiani in vacanza!!"

The Triestini say the Germans wear sandles with socks and, in summer, they are anywhere they can be naked (boats, nudie camping grounds, anywhere in Croatia...).

Americans are also abbastanza obvious. Use this guide and maybe you can fool the Triestini (not likely), or at least not stick out too much.

1. Yellow gold.

Leave it at home (it's considered old-fashioned) unless it's your wedding ring. White gold is okay.

2. The Diamond Engagement ring.

Triestini don't do engagement rings. They would prefer that money go toward a down-payment for their very own apartment or an awesome vacation. Two rings on one finger means you are a widow/widower and you are wearing your deceased partner's ring.

3.  Bottles and Bottles of water.

What is it with Americans and obsessive hydration? American tourists can be spotted in European capitals wearing contraptions in the Baby Bjorn family designed for holding bottles of water. They seem to be hanging everywhere: on the backpack, over the shoulder, one in each hand. You might as well be wearing a sign that says: "I am not from here, please pick my pocket."

Having a bottle of water with you in your bag is fine. Many Italian cities have water fountains in various places where you can fill up your reusable bottles with "aqua del sindaco," and it is perfectly delicious (Trieste and Rome are great for this). Better yet, why not do like the Italians? Stop at a bar and order something to drink and have a conversation with someone or do some people watching! Be careful what you order if you don't want to stick out. According to my mother-in-law, "Water is for washing." She would order an espresso or a glass of wine.

4. White Tennies.

Italians prefer shoes that can work in both casual situations and in a professional context. Their reasoning is you can never be overdressed, only underdressed. For this reason, it is a safer bet to go dark, which is always more elegant than white, or, godforbid, dirty.

5. How you stand can make a difference.

This video by an ex-CIA Chief of Disguise explains that you can even spot an American a mile away because of how they have a tendency to lean on one leg rather than distribute weight evenly to both legs...

6. How you use space.

Americans are used to having lots of space and not having to touch anyone on public transportation. David Sedaris says you can spot an American on a metro in Paris because they "hug the pole" rather than hold on with one hand so that others can hang on, too.

Same with elevators. Americans will not get on a full elevator. They will wait for the next one. A European will squeeze in and be happy to be so close to the door so they can be the first off.

7. Going to the back of the line.

If there is a line, Americans will go to the back of it EVERY TIME.

I was just in Rome with American friends who have lived in Italy longer than I have. At the conference where we were presenting, they saw a line and went immediately to the back. I did not.

Like a good fake Italian (observer), I went to the front of the line to understand the situation. There were actually TWO lines: one for speakers (no waiting) and one for guests (big long line). I registered immediately and went back to rescue my friends.

All this is not to say that I don't look American. I do. I also sound American, but I do not look or act like a tourist. It's all about situational awareness. You want it to be clear that you know what's up!

You know me, I just want you to fit in!

Behold, The Naked Lightbulb

Italians pay such attention to detail, their houses are perfect, except for one thing...

Naked Lightbulbs. Just hanging there. Like, everywhere.

I know why, and now I will explain. It is because they care so much, too much. Light fixtures are important.  You have to consider every characteristic: type of room, type of lightbulb, the look you are going for, hot or cold light, diffused or direct, etc.

So many things you can get WRONG. The best way to handle this monumental decision?

A naked lightbulb. This will work in the meantime until we find the PERFECT LIGHTING SOLUTION.

How Advertising Has Changed in Fifteen Years: Less Boobs on Display

Ignore the Boobs on that Billboard!!

One day I was on the bus and I counted how many times I saw a semi-nude woman advertising something from my house to central station. There were 17 different women in all, and that is not counting when the same woman was repeated (street advertising here is often posters glued next to each other like pixels on a much bigger billboard-sized advertising space). This was a fifteen-minute ride including all stops and just two major streets. A little mind-blowing perhaps? Not so much if you lived here fifteen years ago, which was when I carried out this experiment.

Actually, there was something therapeutic about this exercise. It was the first time since I had arrived that I was able to look at these women without getting pissed off or taking it personally. I was able to see the women on the posters as objects. And isn’t that the point of this kind of advertising? I had officially become the Male Viewer.

At about the same time, my husband and I took a ride to Udine and I was surprised to see a billboard with two naked boobies on it (and that’s all) with some writing underneath. As I got closer, I noticed it was a mattress company.

“What the hell do boobs have to do with mattresses?” I ask him, curious to understand the machinations of the Italian male thinking process.

He wrinkles up his brow in a way that made it clear he was not used to making connections between female body parts and what they are advertising (which was exactly my point). Then he comes up with a doozy.

“Boobs. Soft pillows! Pillows and mattresses!”

Problem solved. He felt smug and unflustered by the whole thing. I still felt pissed off.

So, two lessons from that first summer living in Italy.

1) Sexism is pervasive, and nobody seems to care.

2) We Americans take a lot of shit personally.

I could elaborate on point one all day, of course, because that’s what I do, but I want to take a moment to talk about point two because it is something I feel we can work on as a people.

Jumping back into the mind of the Italian male (or at least the mind of the one I know best, my husband’s) I can tell you exactly why he was unflustered by the booby campaign. The first, most obvious, reason is point number one above. That is the easy answer that even an international audience can agree on. “Those Italians, so sexist!!” And they wouldn’t be wrong. 

The second reason is a little more subtle and it is this: Boobs are not a big deal here and I mean that for women and men. In Trieste for example, the important thing is the tan line (or not having one) not the boobs. Boobs are considered part of a woman’s body, thrilling to look at, no doubt, but not something to gawk at as there is no pressure here to hide what is perfectly naturally a part of YOU.

To understand this one, let’s do a little role reversal and talk about the warnings that Italians give their friends when they hear they are going to America in the summer.

“Be careful in America when you go to the beach: even little babies must wear a bikini top!! No boobies yet and the Americans are worried about indecent exposure!!”

This is usually followed by the story about the friend of a friend who got a good “speaking to” by “the police” and a warning to “cover up” their little one-- the confusion and shame that ensued.

See, little girls’ swimming suits come in two types here: a classic full one-piece affair that you would use for, say, swimming class, and the other type of one-piece, which is a bikini bottom. There is no top because it is considered strange to put a bra-like contraption on anyone who is pre-pubescent. Looks like you’re trying to dress a child like a woman, and that, if you think about it, is a little strange.

Kids in Italy wear practically the same style of swimming suit until they are teenagers. While the girls have the bikini bottom, boys and men wear what Americans call “Speedos” for going in the water. They are considered “more hygienic,” and faster to dry once you get out. I would add that it is the closest thing to running around in your underwear that you can get, and don’t all dudes love hanging out in their underwear? They may throw on a pair of longer swimming trunks or shorts for hanging out and playing with friends and kicking a ball around in between swims.

Nobody is scandalized or titillated by the presence of a scantily clad person of the opposite sex. The training starts at an early age. Take locker rooms. They are mixed until middle school (the rule is kids go in the changing room of the gender of the parent who is helping out. While with daddy, go in the boys' locker room, while with grandma or mom, go with the women). Kids see each other naked (locker room at pool, for instance, or at the beach in the summer) or in their skivvies all the time. No body shaming. No embarrassment. Even as adults, there are plenty of times when a good swim (which takes precedence over nearly anything else in the world, including Pride) requires changing in the presence of other adults. The Triestini are experts in the art of towel manipulation and have Houdini-like precision when it comes to escaping one type of clothes and throwing on another.

Thus, when in Italy, don’t take it personally. After that bus ride with the naked ladies, I realized that it wasn’t just me. There is a system in place here that I cannot change on my own overnight. Taking systemic misogyny personally was not going to take me very far. Instead, I decided to see those posters in a more neutral way and work on something I can have some influence over. First, my relationship with my own body (a work in progress, I can tell you, even after fifteen years of trying) and… my husband.

It starts here with this little question.

“Don’t you men get tired of being marketed to as if you were cavemen?!”

Now, I can’t take credit for  progress that has been made in the meantime (and there has been some), but I can tell you that fifteen years later advertising has changed. Apparently I am not the only one to desensitize from the in-your-face booby caveman advertising because you just don’t see it so much anymore (in the streets, that is. TV is a completely different beast, so I just don't watch it).
Of course, sexism is alive and well in Italy and will not be going away anytime soon (in case you are a male chauvinist and worried about this), but other things have changed. For one thing, I feel like women (especially women with some work experience, but also young women who are just starting out) are no longer waiting for the contratto a tempo determato to fall in their lap (because it won't). Instead they are opening their own one-person-show businesses, negotiating their salaries and timetables based on their personal needs. 

If women can work on their own terms, they can also shop in places that see them as whole people. Perhaps the advertisers have woken up to this reality.

What's for Lunch in America?

Does the subject of conversation always have to come back to food? Sometimes it's my fault. I am often hungry during lessons because I forget to go grocery shopping (more often than I'd like to admit) and therefore don't have any convenient snacks to fill me up. If I did, my brain could move on to other things.

Thankfully, since I am the Teacher, I can steer the conversation in the direction of my desires.

"Kebab or pizza?"

"What kind of pizza?"

"Where do you take a date for a really yummy meal?

"Like, what's the address and is dinner avilable right after this class?"

This time, however, the conversation turned to me.

"What Americans have for lunch?" asks curious studente, catching me off guard.

"Hmmm. What DO Americans have for lunch?" I am buying time.

"No. What YOU have for lunch?" and I realize this is no time to review how to ask questions. There is something bigger happening here.

Do I tell them?!

"Um. Well, in a perfect world... I would have a grilled cheese sandwich (onion, yes!) and a bowl of canned tomato soup." Because that is the truth.

But I don't say it.

See, the canned soup part sounds tacky. It's, like, too American, like America before Whole Foods, before Brie Cheese made it to Wisconsin, before they started putting fresh basil on pizzas (available in participating pizzerias in college towns near you)... It is what Americans  my age still long for (but deny as much as we deny how much we love and miss tunafish in a can), and I am an Ambassador (well, not actually, but I do feel like a small-time representative of the Stars & Stripes, especially since I am expected to explain The Trump Thing and The Gun Thing almost daily and seriously? I don't get it either).

So on some level I feel like I need to present something other than the stereotype (even if I do jones for some tomato soup and a greasy grilled cheese)...

I'm going to come clean here.

The Truth is I had cheese and crackers for lunch.

And that was only because some generous kind of kitchen goddess left the cheese in the fridge at work without a nametag on it and there was an open pack of crackers leftover from some book club meeting on the table and I was starving and I went for them.

Then Denise walks in with a bottle of Regular Coke, which she never drinks, and neither do I except for at kids' birthday parties (which parents are expected to attend) but she's had a long day and I am looking for some easy empty calories to get my oomph back  so we split that baddy and oh! It tasted good!

And now I am back in class and need to find a solution to the age old question but I have no solution. The real problem, of course, is not the food itself. Not at all. It's the randomness of it all. It's how I just leave it all to chance. Nothing is worse to Italians than an Unplanned Lunch. 

Leave your weekend plans, that coveted vacation (in August, the highest of high seasons), your retirement, to the last minute, but Please, Please Plan your Lunches, Friends!

So, I need a plan B.

Or At Least plan a decent answer that doesn't start with "McD," which is what they are really expecting to hear.

Just say SALAD. Better yet, INSALATONA. That is something they can understand and you can save face.

Let's just Never reveal the truth of what we really eat. We are going to have to agree on this one, okay? (wink)

Your Shoes Can Talk

...But only the Triestini can hear them. Here is what the conversation sounds like to the rest of us.

BIRKENSTOCK CLOGS: (What sounds like silence to you and me).
TRIESTINO: You work at the Hospital?! Since when? Cattinara or Maggiore?

CROCS: (What sounds like one hand clapping in a lonely forest).
TRIESTINO: I know. I totally need to get out into my garden too!!

WELLINGTON BOOTS: (What sounds like an ant sleeping)
TRIESTINO: Caspita!!! The Pescaria is already closed and I was JUST on my way to the Fish Monger's to get a nice BRANZIN for supper!

SANDALS WITH SOCKS: (What sounds like time standing still)
TRIESTINO: I had NO idea you were German. You totally don't have an accent! Complimenti!!

10cm JAUNTY HEELS: (What sounds to us like the shadow of a tap on the pavement)
TRIESTINO: I go to Lidl usually or Despar. Where are you off to? I'll walk with you. I could use a snack!'m out of caffè and creamer.

FLIP-FLOPS: (What sounds to us like eery quiet)
TRIESTINO: Me too, DEI, see you at Barcola!! Quanti gradi xe l'aqua?

FLIP-FLOPS, NO BEACH BAG: (What sounds to us like cherries growing)
TRIESTINO: Dry your hair. Te ciapi freddo going out in the cold after a shower!!

TWO BARE FEET STANDING IN THE GRASS: (What sounds like world peace).
TRIESTINO: ARDA! Don't step in the dog poop!!

The Real Reason WE drink Cappuccino AFTER Dinner.

Dear Italians, I want to share a little story with you. I hope this will help you understand where we are coming from a little better.

Once upon a time, before Starbucks came to every block in the United States...

there was a small town along the shores of Lake Michigan in Wisconsin called Racine. In the olden days, if it was your grandma's birthday you went to the fanciest place in town, the Corner House, for Prime Rib. Now, you Knew this was a Fancy Supper Club because even grandma got a "Cocktail" before dinner there. And by "Cocktail" I mean anything with Brandy in it, because that is the main ingredient in cocktails in Wisconsin. Gramma Jeane, never banal, had a "Dry Burbon Manhattan on-the-rocks-with-a-twist," however. This can be used as a tongue twister by those too young to actually drink them. In fact, from a young age, we practiced rattling it off fast, many times in a row while drinking our "Kiddie Cocktails" as we pulled the marascino cherries off the plastic sword resting on the rim of our glass with our teeth. Good times, people, when servers were called "waitresses" and "waiters".  Earth tones reigned and the lighting can best be described as "amber".

The other context clue that indicated you were in someplace special was the timing of the Coffee. At the Corner House, you ordered it AFTER you finished your Soup, Prime Rib, potato any way you like (except for fried, which is not sophisticated) which meant baked with sour cream, and salad with cottage cheese or, alternatively, spinach salad with hot bacon dressing.

Yes, coffee came after supper and the server would come back 4 or 5 times for a "warmer" while you sat around talking because no one was chasing you out to serve the next group of eaters (another fancy restaurant "thing").

THEN SOMETHING MAGIC HAPPENED!

I think it was around 1988.

THE CAPPUCCINO MACHINE ARRIVED.

This revolutionized Fancy Dinners FOREVER!

This large and noisy machine did make EXPRESSO (which is what we still call it), of course, but who would drink that crap? Too small for $1.75, no free refills and by the time you put enough sugar in it to make it drinkable it was a sludgy mess. And there seemed to be some sort of unwritten rule that said you were not allowed to put milk in it, so it was to be avoided.

CAPPUCCINO (when you said this word the heavens used to open up and the angels would start singing from on high) was another story.

It was still $1.75 and there were no refills, either. But it was DELICIOUS! Who KNEW that froth could taste so good? Is that a hint of COCOA in there?? Paying once for it just made it all the more CHIC and fancy. Again, a once a year affair.

Flash forward. We can get cappuccinos anytime we want now... but when we come to Italy, something special happens. We bounce back to high school and OUR FIRST CUP OF CAPPUCCINO. It is magic. We want to drink them all day because we can. And we do.

And who can blame us. Full with dinner or not, the Cappuccino tastes really good. It is like dessert for us. Yum.

I have lived here for many years now, but I do not judge my fellow Americans when they order a cappuccino after dinner. I even recognize the micro-expression the waiter elicits at the order. It is a mix between an eye roll and a wink of physical pain. But then he or she remembers that you are Americano or Tedesco, and they find it in their heart to forgive you.