Our first days in our new country are a whirlwind. Saturday morning we rise early and drink two moka pots of coffee while awaiting Francesca and Giorgio to awake. The air is heavily scented with the honeysuckle and heavy with dew. The garden is wet and pleasant as early morning begins to lift.
Once everyone is caffeinated and dressed, we go to the Polizia office to register as is required, and to apply for our Permesso di Soggiorno, the permit to stay. There were only a few people in line at the Immigration Office, which surprises us, and Giorgio thankfully jumped in to inquire about the necessary documents. I understood not a word as the man behind the glass spoke rapidly into a microphone that faded in and out. They determined what was necessary and we proceed to make the rounds: the office supply store for a document and to make copies; to the post office for official franchibolli, stamps; to a photo booth to have little passport-sized pictures taken; and back to the Polizia to make the official registration. Once that part of the process is completed, we try to return to the Immigration Office but it is now closed for the day; they are not open Saturday so Giorgio and Francesca immediately make plans to stay an extra day so they can return with us on Monday. They have an appointment in Rome at noon, but are sure that we can complete the paperwork early enough.
Giorgio has been cooking for us daily and we feel rather useless as we stand about and watch him work…in the kitchen, around the house, in the yard. He must think we’re imbeciles, but we’re not quite sure what to do with ourselves. We are to live here, but it’s not out home and we don’t want to upset any apple carts or step on any toes, yet we desire to be useful. We occupy a bit of time by putting some things away, but there is not much room for the vast amount of clothing we brought, so we store away the fall items we’ll not need for months and try to prioritize which summer gear we’ll want first.
We walk down to the beach and sit on the warm sand listening to the tide. The sea is rather choppy and the waves break onto the shore with a bang. Salt is in the air. With Francesca we take a long walks on the beach as she points out the Saracen tower, explaining it’s now owned by the World Wildlife Fund, and she shows us where a natural sulpher spring produces a mud that is “very fine for your skin”.
Monday, May 22, we return to the Questura early, about twenty minutes before they open the office for the day and there are about 9 people in line. Once the door is flung open, everyone rushes in to the respective windows. We line up again at the Immigration Office window and wait. And wait. And wait. The official has taken our paperwork and gone into the back with another foreigner. We watch as the line is quickly disseminated by an efficient woman and wonder why we couldn’t have dealt with her. Apparently she only handles the renewals of Permesso di Soggiornos, not primary applications. At length, about an hour and a half later, we are called back. The same official who gave us the list of errands on Saturday attends us brusquely. He staples some of the five photos we’ve provided to the application and gathers information from our passports to input into his computer. He asks my height, but to his annoyance, I don’t know it in meters. Giorgio guesses that I am about 165 metri tall and Bryan is about 175 (both of which turn out to be nearly correct). The applications are printed and we sign them. During the procedure the official gets into a discussion with another employee; Francesca, then Giorgio jump into the fray to our great consternation, because they begin to argue and we hope that the official doesn’t decide to rip up our applications during the dialogue. As he rises, the guy smiles and bids us to follow; apparently political discussions don’t end in hard feelings here.
We are fingerprinted – full hand prints as well as fingers. He sends us on our way telling us that the Permesso di Soggiornos take about two to three months to arrive, that they’ll call us to let us know when they are ready to be picked up. Another discussion ensues, the only gist of which I gather is related to us possibly buying a car, but beyond that I am in the dark. Later I ask Giorgio, who explains that the official said that he is unsure, but we may need a residency permit to buy a car, but that there is an inexpensive place to get long-term rentals in Rome. Given our rather remote location we may have to look into this option. At this point a vespa would be nice, too. It’s been an arduous task to try to figure out the regional bus system to get into town.
We have receipts of our applications, so we are approved for the “permit to stay”, and are officially allowed to be here for the year. I would have thought that the hard-earned visa would be the only necessary document, but Giorgio says, “this is Italia; there is very much burocrazia here”. They calmly explain to us that this is normal operating procedure in Italia. Bureaucracy and lines are a way of life, and that the line in Anzio was actually “non c’e male” in comparison to those in Rome or Florence, so we’re grateful for that, and grateful beyond words that these kind, kind friends went along to smooth the path for us.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Thursday, May 25, 2006
We are here!
We are here! After a year of planning, months of wrangling with paperwork, and an uncomfortable but uneventful flight, we have arrived in Italy. We collected our copious amount of luggage and found our friends waiting for us at the airport. They graciously didn’t widen their eyes at the sight of our bulging bags but proceeded to cram and stuff them into the trunk and backseat, and we were on our way to our new temporary home by the sea.
We now reside in a beach community north of Anzio in a cute, little efficiently-furnished, semi-independente house just steps from the Mediterranean. It is essentially a duplex, with another family living in the house attached on one side. While Giorgio says they live there year-round and we see them outside, their shutters seem always to be closed. The street is narrow with access to houses only on the right side of the road; on the left a long wall demarks the homes on the next street over. All the homes are walled or fenced off from the street with tall gates giving seclusion and a sense of mystery to the dwellings behind. Giorgio threw open the shutters and showed us the house and the particulars about living here: how to light the stove, where the gas line comes in from a bombola (a bulbous propane tank just outside), the bedroom we’ll occupy, bathrooms, the little service building with a shower and washing machine -where we are to take our showers as the water heater in there is electric whereas the water in the indoor bathrooms is heated by the bombola, which is apparently very costly to refill and thus used only for cooking. A little rustic perhaps, but the beach is only a block away and the house is free.
The first thing I notice is the sweet, strong scent of honeysuckle perfuming the air. The small secluded yard is well-planted with flowering shrubs and annuals, as well as fruit trees and herbs, all neatly bordered with small rocks. From the upstairs bedroom window I looked out over the surrounding walls and notice that our garden is by far the nicest. Birds sing and call as I breathe in the honeysuckle and lemon blossoms. Potted cacti line up along the wall just outside our front door. There are two varieties of palm trees. Francesca, reminding me of my friend Lynn, is a gardener at heart and has taken great care to create a lovely atmosphere. The garage, a small guest house and the service building form a wall and make the garden feel sheltered.
I lie down for a short rest, much-needed after the long, sleepless flight, hour drive, and unceasing motion sensation that is beginning to make me feel queasy. I notice that the bed and linens and even the velour couch all feel damp. I admit that my first thought was, “we need a dehumidifier,” then I realized how very American that sounded, even if the thought only occurred in my head. Of course it’s damp; we live a block from the sea! Being a desert-dweller for nineteen years has given us a different perspective on humidity and we are aware of the moisture in the air, which makes our skin feel clammy.
There are also accompanying bugs – the dreaded zanzare, mosquitoes, which like to eat me alive. I am sure that by week’s end I’ll be covered in the characteristic welts that balloon up on my skin when bitten. In New Mexico mosquitoes are not much of a problem (lack of moisture) and I tend to forget the bothersome buggers exist. The other bugs which love me, and which I loathe and are present here, are what we call “no-see-ums”, the miniscule, irritating insects. I was once swarmed by these creatures in the mountains in NM, bitten all over me; I was covered with extremely itchy welts for over a miserable week, so their presence here is not a welcome sight to me. Giorgio is happy of my presence, which draws the blood-suckers away from him as no bug can pass up the opportunity to attack me if they possibly can help it.
While Giorgio naps Bryan and I walk the short distance to the sea, and down the long, curving, covered staircase that leads to the beach. There are a few people scattered about sun-bathing, and three or four who are brave enough to swim before la stagione has officially begun. I think the water is still rather cool, but the sand is very warm beneath my feet and I immediately find three intact shells to send to my grandma as I’d promised to do. We listen to the tide, breath the salt-cleansed air and say, “we’re here!” as we smile at each other.
Later Giorgio takes us into Anzio to show us around. He points out the general direction of the closest train station, about 1 ½ kilometers uphill from our house. He shows us the closest supermarket, which is in our neighborhood but which we probably would never have found on our own, tucked away among the houses and apartments, which he says is convenient but piu caro, more expensive. He drives past the fish monger, the produce vendor he prefers, the supermarket where he normally shops, all of which are reachable only with a car, which we do not have. There is a bus, he says, but doesn’t know the schedule. We hope we can figure out the timetable quickly.
In Anzio our trusty local guide takes us to the centro where we stroll about. He shows us where local fisherman sometimes sell their catch to the public if they have anything left after fulfilling their commercial orders. I see a hair salon and am reminded that I desperately need a haircut, which I didn’t have time for before I left, but find that I’m suddenly, completely intimidated by the prospect of going into a salon and trying to communicate what I want in a foreign language that I can barely speak. A bit of fear grips me unexpectedly. I need to “get over it” if I’m going to get anything accomplished here; now is the not the time for timidity. I decide that my new mantra will be, “don’t be a wimp!” and I hope that it will give me courage when I falter.
After a grilled dinner with a little bit of vino we go to bed to sleep off the effects of jetlag. The shutters plunge the room into total darkness, which I like but Bryan fears he’ll have to get up in the middle of the night and slam his toes into something, so he opens them a crack. We sleep soundly until about 6:30. We open the shutters to the sound of the birds and the scent of the honeysuckle. We are here in Italia.
We now reside in a beach community north of Anzio in a cute, little efficiently-furnished, semi-independente house just steps from the Mediterranean. It is essentially a duplex, with another family living in the house attached on one side. While Giorgio says they live there year-round and we see them outside, their shutters seem always to be closed. The street is narrow with access to houses only on the right side of the road; on the left a long wall demarks the homes on the next street over. All the homes are walled or fenced off from the street with tall gates giving seclusion and a sense of mystery to the dwellings behind. Giorgio threw open the shutters and showed us the house and the particulars about living here: how to light the stove, where the gas line comes in from a bombola (a bulbous propane tank just outside), the bedroom we’ll occupy, bathrooms, the little service building with a shower and washing machine -where we are to take our showers as the water heater in there is electric whereas the water in the indoor bathrooms is heated by the bombola, which is apparently very costly to refill and thus used only for cooking. A little rustic perhaps, but the beach is only a block away and the house is free.
The first thing I notice is the sweet, strong scent of honeysuckle perfuming the air. The small secluded yard is well-planted with flowering shrubs and annuals, as well as fruit trees and herbs, all neatly bordered with small rocks. From the upstairs bedroom window I looked out over the surrounding walls and notice that our garden is by far the nicest. Birds sing and call as I breathe in the honeysuckle and lemon blossoms. Potted cacti line up along the wall just outside our front door. There are two varieties of palm trees. Francesca, reminding me of my friend Lynn, is a gardener at heart and has taken great care to create a lovely atmosphere. The garage, a small guest house and the service building form a wall and make the garden feel sheltered.
I lie down for a short rest, much-needed after the long, sleepless flight, hour drive, and unceasing motion sensation that is beginning to make me feel queasy. I notice that the bed and linens and even the velour couch all feel damp. I admit that my first thought was, “we need a dehumidifier,” then I realized how very American that sounded, even if the thought only occurred in my head. Of course it’s damp; we live a block from the sea! Being a desert-dweller for nineteen years has given us a different perspective on humidity and we are aware of the moisture in the air, which makes our skin feel clammy.
There are also accompanying bugs – the dreaded zanzare, mosquitoes, which like to eat me alive. I am sure that by week’s end I’ll be covered in the characteristic welts that balloon up on my skin when bitten. In New Mexico mosquitoes are not much of a problem (lack of moisture) and I tend to forget the bothersome buggers exist. The other bugs which love me, and which I loathe and are present here, are what we call “no-see-ums”, the miniscule, irritating insects. I was once swarmed by these creatures in the mountains in NM, bitten all over me; I was covered with extremely itchy welts for over a miserable week, so their presence here is not a welcome sight to me. Giorgio is happy of my presence, which draws the blood-suckers away from him as no bug can pass up the opportunity to attack me if they possibly can help it.
While Giorgio naps Bryan and I walk the short distance to the sea, and down the long, curving, covered staircase that leads to the beach. There are a few people scattered about sun-bathing, and three or four who are brave enough to swim before la stagione has officially begun. I think the water is still rather cool, but the sand is very warm beneath my feet and I immediately find three intact shells to send to my grandma as I’d promised to do. We listen to the tide, breath the salt-cleansed air and say, “we’re here!” as we smile at each other.
Later Giorgio takes us into Anzio to show us around. He points out the general direction of the closest train station, about 1 ½ kilometers uphill from our house. He shows us the closest supermarket, which is in our neighborhood but which we probably would never have found on our own, tucked away among the houses and apartments, which he says is convenient but piu caro, more expensive. He drives past the fish monger, the produce vendor he prefers, the supermarket where he normally shops, all of which are reachable only with a car, which we do not have. There is a bus, he says, but doesn’t know the schedule. We hope we can figure out the timetable quickly.
In Anzio our trusty local guide takes us to the centro where we stroll about. He shows us where local fisherman sometimes sell their catch to the public if they have anything left after fulfilling their commercial orders. I see a hair salon and am reminded that I desperately need a haircut, which I didn’t have time for before I left, but find that I’m suddenly, completely intimidated by the prospect of going into a salon and trying to communicate what I want in a foreign language that I can barely speak. A bit of fear grips me unexpectedly. I need to “get over it” if I’m going to get anything accomplished here; now is the not the time for timidity. I decide that my new mantra will be, “don’t be a wimp!” and I hope that it will give me courage when I falter.
After a grilled dinner with a little bit of vino we go to bed to sleep off the effects of jetlag. The shutters plunge the room into total darkness, which I like but Bryan fears he’ll have to get up in the middle of the night and slam his toes into something, so he opens them a crack. We sleep soundly until about 6:30. We open the shutters to the sound of the birds and the scent of the honeysuckle. We are here in Italia.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Addio
At long last we are leaving! We have escaped bureaucratic purgatory, we have wrestled our way out of the Twilight Zone, and in 24 hours we will be headed for the airport to embark on this adventure. Finalmente.
Excitement and fear mingle together; I alternate between butterfly flutterings and heart-pounding trepidation. A move to another country, another language. Ancient streets and wonderful food. These are my convergent thoughts. After the delays it seems somehow unreal, but I'm also ready to be on our way!
Our friends, Giorgio and Francesca, who have so graciously offered us the use of their summer home, will meet us at the airport. I fear they will faint when they see the load of luggage that will be accompanying us. I am sure all these over-stuffed bags will not fit in the trunk of their car and have reserved a rental, for the transportation of our goods, mostly clothing and some books. I wish we could pack lighter; I wish I could take more. It's a dilemma; what do we need? I think we need the entire wardrobe. Then frustrated at the girth and weight of the offending bags, I think we should just go with a suitcase each and our passports (stamped with all the all-important visas!)
My anti-jetlag plan, devised by my friend, personal trainer, and all around smart-girl, Maria, strictly forbids caffeine or alcohol for 48 hours before (as well as during) the flight. I can do without the booze, but no cappuccino? No green tea at my Japanese meal in Cleveland tonight? I'm quivering at the thought, but then recall the disaster of jetlag, how I felt like a zombie for two days on my last trip. I'll muster through.
We must finish packing, finish cleaning, visit my grandparents. That's going to be the most difficult. My maternal grandma is 95. My paternal grandpa is 93. One of the good points of the delay has been the extra time I've been able to spend with them. Still, I can't help but wonder if I'll see them again, and tear up at the prospect of goodbye. I must bid adieu to my sister, who has lived close by in location and heart for the past ten years. My closest friend. It's been rainy for days, reflecting my misty feeling inside. No regrets, but heart-felt emotion.
We are leaving tomorrow. We are flying over the ocean on a 777 which is, I am told by a friend, "the cat's meow". Tomorrow. A new life begins in a ancient land. Tomorrow.
Addio!
Excitement and fear mingle together; I alternate between butterfly flutterings and heart-pounding trepidation. A move to another country, another language. Ancient streets and wonderful food. These are my convergent thoughts. After the delays it seems somehow unreal, but I'm also ready to be on our way!
Our friends, Giorgio and Francesca, who have so graciously offered us the use of their summer home, will meet us at the airport. I fear they will faint when they see the load of luggage that will be accompanying us. I am sure all these over-stuffed bags will not fit in the trunk of their car and have reserved a rental, for the transportation of our goods, mostly clothing and some books. I wish we could pack lighter; I wish I could take more. It's a dilemma; what do we need? I think we need the entire wardrobe. Then frustrated at the girth and weight of the offending bags, I think we should just go with a suitcase each and our passports (stamped with all the all-important visas!)
My anti-jetlag plan, devised by my friend, personal trainer, and all around smart-girl, Maria, strictly forbids caffeine or alcohol for 48 hours before (as well as during) the flight. I can do without the booze, but no cappuccino? No green tea at my Japanese meal in Cleveland tonight? I'm quivering at the thought, but then recall the disaster of jetlag, how I felt like a zombie for two days on my last trip. I'll muster through.
We must finish packing, finish cleaning, visit my grandparents. That's going to be the most difficult. My maternal grandma is 95. My paternal grandpa is 93. One of the good points of the delay has been the extra time I've been able to spend with them. Still, I can't help but wonder if I'll see them again, and tear up at the prospect of goodbye. I must bid adieu to my sister, who has lived close by in location and heart for the past ten years. My closest friend. It's been rainy for days, reflecting my misty feeling inside. No regrets, but heart-felt emotion.
We are leaving tomorrow. We are flying over the ocean on a 777 which is, I am told by a friend, "the cat's meow". Tomorrow. A new life begins in a ancient land. Tomorrow.
Addio!
Saturday, April 22, 2006
The Twilight Zone
I am caught in a time warp. This strange, little town from which I hail seems to have grasped onto the 80s and never let go. Hair styles, clothing, and the background music in all the area businesses point to this fact. It’s a place where everything is different but nothing has changed.
It’s been a peculiar experience to spend an extended period of time here and to view the behaviors and attitudes I’d left behind some 20 years ago.
First, there is the food.
I have been astounded by the growth of the population here, and I’m not talking about numbers, but size. While I’ve read articles about the obesity epidemic in America, and New Mexico is certainly not without her share, it seems that the majority of the population here is unhealthily, sadly overweight. It’s no wonder when one realizes what the normal diet is. The dining choices in this town of about 6,000 souls consist of no less than five pizza joints (who do not serve up thin-crusted Italian pizza but heavily-cheesed, greasy behemoths with crusts as thick as a shoebox, the resulting taste somewhat like the contents of a shoebox but greasier and less nourishing). The other options are primarily deep-fried, barbecue, and fast food junk. Fresh perch, pulled from nearby Lake Erie would be a healthful choice, but in these parts it can be served only by breading and deep-frying it (I think there must be a State law governing that presentation); your choice is, “do you want it on a bun or on a plate?” Globs of tartar sauce are to be anticipated with either choice.
The grocery stores are not much better. Most of the produce is pre-wrapped and seems a couple minutes away from rotting. The emphasis is heavily weighted toward packaged and canned and frozen…er, stuff (I hesitate to call it food). Nary a whole grain is to be found in the tri-county area. Organics are frowned upon. And don’t even think about finding ethnic ingredients, the mere mention of which will bring about a diatribe about illegal immigration.
And so, to go grocery shopping we must make the trip to Cleveland, an hour distant. There we revel in the West Side Market experience and find a better selection of meats and some organic produce. We found a small locally-owned health food market on the west side of the city, as well as a Trader Joe’s. There we indulge in restaurants serving Japanese or Lebanese or Thai fare. But it’s the idea…an hour to find edible food? Something that can be truly called food, to give nutrition and taste? In the heart of America’s farm country?! What gives?
And then there is the matter of exercise. One is extremely careful to not move one’s limbs in a manner that might exert oneself in any form. Walking elicits bold-faced stares, as we’ve discovered when we have (gasp!) walked from my parent’s loft on Main Street three whole blocks to the (so-called) grocery store. Oh the folly! The local inhabitants will sit in their cars at the drive-thru window of the ice cream joint rather than park and walk about 15 feet to the building, though service is faster at the walk-up window. When Bryan was out running yesterday morning, some good ol' boys driving by leaned out the window and mocked him, yelling, "Run Forrest, run!"
Then there is the ambiance. Many of the storefronts on Main Street are empty, given up in favor of the mall, strip centers, and big box stores in Sandusky, a half-hour away. Main Street has been largely given over to the semi-trucks that rumble down it on the US route bisecting the town. People don’t seem to take any interest in civic life, in maintaining a sense of community, or fostering local businesses. My parents, God love them, are endeavoring to drum up some type of downtown renaissance, and I wish them well though I fear they face an arduous, uphill battle and will be none too appreciated for their efforts. Apathy runs rampant here, but at least someone is trying. It's sad; many of the old brick and stone buildings are historical and pretty, and downtown could be quaint. Instead, it's practically deserted of life and devoid of charm.
Another problem about hanging around here is anonymity, or lack thereof. It’s a small place and everyone immediately knew of our presence about 10 minutes after our arrival. The two main gossip hubs – the coffee shop and the barber shop – are located downstairs from my parents’ loft. The occupants of these establishments quickly disseminated the news about out-of-staters taking up residence upstairs. And not only does everyone know we’re here, but everyone knows my mom. Everyone. This was a major crimp on my life when I was a teenager. I could get away with virtually nothing. Any activity or attempted misdeeds on my part would reach my mother’s ears before I’d even arrived home for the night. Nothing has changed. Everyone still knows my mom, and everyone still sees and hears about everything that goes on here.
We lived in a village in New Mexico with roughly the same population as this town, and the contrast is striking. It is also depressing. The delay in our dream has us temporarily stranded in this strange little place where everyday feels like a Twilight Zone episode. I can hear Rod Sterling: “A couple arrives in a dingy, small Midwestern town where time stands still. Can they escape?”
The wheels of bureaucracy are turning slowly, inching us closer to Italy. I know we’ll get there. We are motivated; we really, really want to live in Italy. And we really, really don’t want to stay here much longer.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
It’s been a peculiar experience to spend an extended period of time here and to view the behaviors and attitudes I’d left behind some 20 years ago.
First, there is the food.
I have been astounded by the growth of the population here, and I’m not talking about numbers, but size. While I’ve read articles about the obesity epidemic in America, and New Mexico is certainly not without her share, it seems that the majority of the population here is unhealthily, sadly overweight. It’s no wonder when one realizes what the normal diet is. The dining choices in this town of about 6,000 souls consist of no less than five pizza joints (who do not serve up thin-crusted Italian pizza but heavily-cheesed, greasy behemoths with crusts as thick as a shoebox, the resulting taste somewhat like the contents of a shoebox but greasier and less nourishing). The other options are primarily deep-fried, barbecue, and fast food junk. Fresh perch, pulled from nearby Lake Erie would be a healthful choice, but in these parts it can be served only by breading and deep-frying it (I think there must be a State law governing that presentation); your choice is, “do you want it on a bun or on a plate?” Globs of tartar sauce are to be anticipated with either choice.
The grocery stores are not much better. Most of the produce is pre-wrapped and seems a couple minutes away from rotting. The emphasis is heavily weighted toward packaged and canned and frozen…er, stuff (I hesitate to call it food). Nary a whole grain is to be found in the tri-county area. Organics are frowned upon. And don’t even think about finding ethnic ingredients, the mere mention of which will bring about a diatribe about illegal immigration.
And so, to go grocery shopping we must make the trip to Cleveland, an hour distant. There we revel in the West Side Market experience and find a better selection of meats and some organic produce. We found a small locally-owned health food market on the west side of the city, as well as a Trader Joe’s. There we indulge in restaurants serving Japanese or Lebanese or Thai fare. But it’s the idea…an hour to find edible food? Something that can be truly called food, to give nutrition and taste? In the heart of America’s farm country?! What gives?
And then there is the matter of exercise. One is extremely careful to not move one’s limbs in a manner that might exert oneself in any form. Walking elicits bold-faced stares, as we’ve discovered when we have (gasp!) walked from my parent’s loft on Main Street three whole blocks to the (so-called) grocery store. Oh the folly! The local inhabitants will sit in their cars at the drive-thru window of the ice cream joint rather than park and walk about 15 feet to the building, though service is faster at the walk-up window. When Bryan was out running yesterday morning, some good ol' boys driving by leaned out the window and mocked him, yelling, "Run Forrest, run!"
Then there is the ambiance. Many of the storefronts on Main Street are empty, given up in favor of the mall, strip centers, and big box stores in Sandusky, a half-hour away. Main Street has been largely given over to the semi-trucks that rumble down it on the US route bisecting the town. People don’t seem to take any interest in civic life, in maintaining a sense of community, or fostering local businesses. My parents, God love them, are endeavoring to drum up some type of downtown renaissance, and I wish them well though I fear they face an arduous, uphill battle and will be none too appreciated for their efforts. Apathy runs rampant here, but at least someone is trying. It's sad; many of the old brick and stone buildings are historical and pretty, and downtown could be quaint. Instead, it's practically deserted of life and devoid of charm.
Another problem about hanging around here is anonymity, or lack thereof. It’s a small place and everyone immediately knew of our presence about 10 minutes after our arrival. The two main gossip hubs – the coffee shop and the barber shop – are located downstairs from my parents’ loft. The occupants of these establishments quickly disseminated the news about out-of-staters taking up residence upstairs. And not only does everyone know we’re here, but everyone knows my mom. Everyone. This was a major crimp on my life when I was a teenager. I could get away with virtually nothing. Any activity or attempted misdeeds on my part would reach my mother’s ears before I’d even arrived home for the night. Nothing has changed. Everyone still knows my mom, and everyone still sees and hears about everything that goes on here.
We lived in a village in New Mexico with roughly the same population as this town, and the contrast is striking. It is also depressing. The delay in our dream has us temporarily stranded in this strange little place where everyday feels like a Twilight Zone episode. I can hear Rod Sterling: “A couple arrives in a dingy, small Midwestern town where time stands still. Can they escape?”
The wheels of bureaucracy are turning slowly, inching us closer to Italy. I know we’ll get there. We are motivated; we really, really want to live in Italy. And we really, really don’t want to stay here much longer.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Mean People
After a tedious drive across the country, all I wanted to do was relax and visit with family. We arrived near Chicago at my sister-in-law's home to a warm welcome and the promise of a massage for my car-confined aching muscles. Then the dreadful news. After several calls to the Los Angeles Consulate to check the status of our visa application, we were hit the stomach-dropping blow...our application was being returned. We were shocked. The pencil-pusher on the phone would give no additional details but seemed to delight in telling us we'd have to wait for the packet to arrive with the letter explaining the denial. Days and more miles passed.
With legalese, the letter stated that we submitted an incorrect form, thus not proving "adequate" evidence of housing arrangements. We had also included details of our enrollment in a three-week langage course (following the advice and format of a letter on an expatriates website, and also the recommendation of the vice-counsel with whom we'd had contact). This was, apparently a no-no. Yes, showing that we'd make effort to become part of society was forbidden by the government representative who reviewed our application, as it confused her into thinking we would be vagabonds, without proper housing, drifting from place to place.
We are stuck in bureacratic purgatory.
Phone calls to said government consular agent were not only unfruitful, they were downright discouraging. She told us we'd have to start all over again. She told us that "maybe" we could try again and "take your chances" at being approved. She was rude; she was glad to be glum. She was a dream-quelcher.
Unanswered emails. Unanswered phone calls. Questions abounding, frustrations darkening our dream. What to do? We drove to a nearby (read, 2 hours drive) consulate to inquire specifically about their application process, for while each consulate represents the Italian government, each has its own requirements instead of one, uniform policy. Rather than dealing with the Evil Woman in Los Angeles, we figure if we're entering a crap-shoot, we'll take our chances with other, hopefully nicer, people.
The intial impression wasn't too encouraging. The woman behind the glass had a grown man shaking and stammering. She cut off his questions and answered curtly. She grabbed papers through the little window, ticking off requirements and what he still needed, then pushed the papers back through the hole and sent him packing. She asked, "Who's next for the visa department?" and we quivered, as it was our turn.
We swallowed hard, tried to look confident in the face of obvious authority, and squeaked, "we're next". She eyed us calmly, then asked if we were Italian citizens. Alright, I admit to being flattered as it meant that 1) she'd not looked at the Germanic-sounding name on the sign-in sheet and 2) she'd sized us up and thought we were one of her. Not a bad start. We said no, that we'd researched citizenship through my grandmother's family but that we wouldn't qualify, and, kind lady if you please, we have some questions. Then we produced our list. She was tolerant for the first four inquiries, answering them evenly and without the edginess she'd displayed to the man before us. But after the fourth question, she was obviously becoming impatient with us and tried to wrap it up by saying, "alright then" firmly. We pressed on with a couple more questions until it became evident she was done with us, so we fled a bit breathlessly for the elevator. She did at least answer in a straightforward and fairly tolerant manner. Much more so than Evil Woman or her minions in L.A., and that alone felt like a welcome change, so we'd rather work through this kinder, gentler consulate.
But this entire ordeal has made me wonder...what is it about bureacracies that they always seem to produce that type of behavior? Are those impatient and almost-inhumane government workers born that way and thus recruited because of their callous attitudes, or are they normal, everyday people who must undergo extensive meanness training before being let loose to intimidate the public they are supposed to serve? I can understand becoming frustrated if you're having a bad day and seemingly ignorant people inundate you with seemingly inane questions. But to consistantly behave in a rude and malevolent manner, to delight in dashing people's dreams, to joyfully and sadistically make well-functioning, college-educated adults feel hopelessly inept seems to be their goal in life. They seem to enjoy plunging you down to the depths of a bureacratic abyss from which you must fight and claw your way out. Rather like Dante's Purgatory. I guess Dante could concoct such an image of Purgatory so adeptly because he had been in intimate contact with Italian bureacracy.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
With legalese, the letter stated that we submitted an incorrect form, thus not proving "adequate" evidence of housing arrangements. We had also included details of our enrollment in a three-week langage course (following the advice and format of a letter on an expatriates website, and also the recommendation of the vice-counsel with whom we'd had contact). This was, apparently a no-no. Yes, showing that we'd make effort to become part of society was forbidden by the government representative who reviewed our application, as it confused her into thinking we would be vagabonds, without proper housing, drifting from place to place.
We are stuck in bureacratic purgatory.
Phone calls to said government consular agent were not only unfruitful, they were downright discouraging. She told us we'd have to start all over again. She told us that "maybe" we could try again and "take your chances" at being approved. She was rude; she was glad to be glum. She was a dream-quelcher.
Unanswered emails. Unanswered phone calls. Questions abounding, frustrations darkening our dream. What to do? We drove to a nearby (read, 2 hours drive) consulate to inquire specifically about their application process, for while each consulate represents the Italian government, each has its own requirements instead of one, uniform policy. Rather than dealing with the Evil Woman in Los Angeles, we figure if we're entering a crap-shoot, we'll take our chances with other, hopefully nicer, people.
The intial impression wasn't too encouraging. The woman behind the glass had a grown man shaking and stammering. She cut off his questions and answered curtly. She grabbed papers through the little window, ticking off requirements and what he still needed, then pushed the papers back through the hole and sent him packing. She asked, "Who's next for the visa department?" and we quivered, as it was our turn.
We swallowed hard, tried to look confident in the face of obvious authority, and squeaked, "we're next". She eyed us calmly, then asked if we were Italian citizens. Alright, I admit to being flattered as it meant that 1) she'd not looked at the Germanic-sounding name on the sign-in sheet and 2) she'd sized us up and thought we were one of her. Not a bad start. We said no, that we'd researched citizenship through my grandmother's family but that we wouldn't qualify, and, kind lady if you please, we have some questions. Then we produced our list. She was tolerant for the first four inquiries, answering them evenly and without the edginess she'd displayed to the man before us. But after the fourth question, she was obviously becoming impatient with us and tried to wrap it up by saying, "alright then" firmly. We pressed on with a couple more questions until it became evident she was done with us, so we fled a bit breathlessly for the elevator. She did at least answer in a straightforward and fairly tolerant manner. Much more so than Evil Woman or her minions in L.A., and that alone felt like a welcome change, so we'd rather work through this kinder, gentler consulate.
But this entire ordeal has made me wonder...what is it about bureacracies that they always seem to produce that type of behavior? Are those impatient and almost-inhumane government workers born that way and thus recruited because of their callous attitudes, or are they normal, everyday people who must undergo extensive meanness training before being let loose to intimidate the public they are supposed to serve? I can understand becoming frustrated if you're having a bad day and seemingly ignorant people inundate you with seemingly inane questions. But to consistantly behave in a rude and malevolent manner, to delight in dashing people's dreams, to joyfully and sadistically make well-functioning, college-educated adults feel hopelessly inept seems to be their goal in life. They seem to enjoy plunging you down to the depths of a bureacratic abyss from which you must fight and claw your way out. Rather like Dante's Purgatory. I guess Dante could concoct such an image of Purgatory so adeptly because he had been in intimate contact with Italian bureacracy.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Vaya con Dios, An Ode to New Mexico
We depart in less than a week and saying goodbye has been an emotional experience. Packing stress has set in. Laughs and tears intermingle as we reflect on our years here. In the midst of planning and packing and parties, we have also had to bid adios to the land which has become so familiar and comforting. After nearly two decades in New Mexico we are bidding farewell to this place that we have called home.
I have spent most of adult life here. While I grew up in Ohio, it was here that I matured. That was the land of my childhood; this has been the land of my womanhood. Here I learned to adapt, accept, embrace. Here I have experienced joys, trials, love. There is something indescribable about the atmosphere; the high desert, where you can easily see for sixty miles, can offer such clarity to life.
Albuquerque has changed in so many ways during our residence. It has exploded in population and sprawl and traffic and insipid chains and strip malls. It has become so much more homogenized than it had been, often driving out the elements that had made it so attractive and charming to us. I guess this is the trend of life in America and we were lucky that so much was unique for so long. It grieves us to see it change. We had seen it "before" and admired its multi-culturalism.
And yet, outside the city the landscapes are infinite...we have such a love for the landscapes. Turquoise blue skies, juniper-studded hills, pine-carpeted forests, red sandstone mesas. Time-weathered Indian lands with beautiful, resilient people and their beautiful artistic traditions still being passed down to the next generation to carry the torch of their cultural heritage. In New Mexico's vast and varied landscape, beauty is everywhere and becomes a part of daily life, a part of one's being.
The wide-open spaces still astound and awe me. Uncluttered, unpolluted expanses of land. Land and sky so intensely brilliant with sunlight and moonlight and high altitude air. In this land the desert burns shimmery-gold and the mountains turn glittery-pink. Half a lifetime ago we came here. We chose to live here, and it chose to endow us with its treasures.
New Mexico is often called the "Land of Enchantment". But I will also call it "Home."
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
I have spent most of adult life here. While I grew up in Ohio, it was here that I matured. That was the land of my childhood; this has been the land of my womanhood. Here I learned to adapt, accept, embrace. Here I have experienced joys, trials, love. There is something indescribable about the atmosphere; the high desert, where you can easily see for sixty miles, can offer such clarity to life.
Albuquerque has changed in so many ways during our residence. It has exploded in population and sprawl and traffic and insipid chains and strip malls. It has become so much more homogenized than it had been, often driving out the elements that had made it so attractive and charming to us. I guess this is the trend of life in America and we were lucky that so much was unique for so long. It grieves us to see it change. We had seen it "before" and admired its multi-culturalism.
And yet, outside the city the landscapes are infinite...we have such a love for the landscapes. Turquoise blue skies, juniper-studded hills, pine-carpeted forests, red sandstone mesas. Time-weathered Indian lands with beautiful, resilient people and their beautiful artistic traditions still being passed down to the next generation to carry the torch of their cultural heritage. In New Mexico's vast and varied landscape, beauty is everywhere and becomes a part of daily life, a part of one's being.
The wide-open spaces still astound and awe me. Uncluttered, unpolluted expanses of land. Land and sky so intensely brilliant with sunlight and moonlight and high altitude air. In this land the desert burns shimmery-gold and the mountains turn glittery-pink. Half a lifetime ago we came here. We chose to live here, and it chose to endow us with its treasures.
New Mexico is often called the "Land of Enchantment". But I will also call it "Home."
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Breaking Up is Hard to Do
Time is running quickly through the hourglass. Our departure from New Mexico is drawing near and we are beginning the rounds of parties and dinners and meetings to say goodbye to our friends who have in so many ways become a part of our family here. So much of Albuquerque's population is transitory - they come with the Air Force, the national laboratory, the university, and then move on after a few years. But we have lived in this area for nineteen years...long enough to be considered "honorary natives" by a local radio personality. We have accumulated a houseful of stuff and a heartful of precious friends. Saying goodbye is indeed bittersweet and difficult.
We came here in 1987 with our little Ford Escort hatchback crammed with our clothes and a tiny U-Haul trailer tailing behind, its meager contents constituting the entirety of our earthly possessions. Without jobs, without friends or family, without even having visited before, we arrived with a few belongings, great hopes and a healthy dose of youthful ignorance.
Nineteen years later we leave with more "stuff", a circle of friends and a lot of memories. The Land of Enchantment has been truly an enchanting place to live. We have become a part of the culture and the very air and beauty of this place has become a part of us. We take the High Desert with us.
Saying goodbye to the landscape and to our dear friends is difficult. As it gets ever closer, I get ever more melancholy. Though filled with excitement for the future, the present is filled with wistfulness. I don't like farewells. Each party and gathering makes me realize how important all these people are to us, and us to them. It is both heartening and sad.
Parting really is such sweet sorrow.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
We came here in 1987 with our little Ford Escort hatchback crammed with our clothes and a tiny U-Haul trailer tailing behind, its meager contents constituting the entirety of our earthly possessions. Without jobs, without friends or family, without even having visited before, we arrived with a few belongings, great hopes and a healthy dose of youthful ignorance.
Nineteen years later we leave with more "stuff", a circle of friends and a lot of memories. The Land of Enchantment has been truly an enchanting place to live. We have become a part of the culture and the very air and beauty of this place has become a part of us. We take the High Desert with us.
Saying goodbye to the landscape and to our dear friends is difficult. As it gets ever closer, I get ever more melancholy. Though filled with excitement for the future, the present is filled with wistfulness. I don't like farewells. Each party and gathering makes me realize how important all these people are to us, and us to them. It is both heartening and sad.
Parting really is such sweet sorrow.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
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