We have been in Italy for about three weeks and have been settling in rather nicely. We have accomplished a lot in a short period and feel that we are adapting to our new, albeit rather remote, surroundings. We have become comfortable in our little house, have performed extensive extermination and cleaning of the guest house in preparation of my parents’ arrival, and have made ourselves fixtures in the small, nearby shops. The weather is rather cool again, but as it heats up, we will spend a lot of time on the beach, figuring it best to take advantage of the sea while we can. We desert-dwellers marvel at the expanse and mist and waves, finding the tidal movements calming.
But, we will not be here forever. This home is temporarily on loan to us and we must find a place to live for the term of our residency in Italia. The past several days were spent driving around the central region of the country as we visited some friends and explored some new areas in our search for a home. We are looking for a spot that screams, “HERE! You need to be here!” Perhaps we are looking for an epiphany, but I think we are just seeking a certain feeling of calm and a sense of history. There are towns we enter where we feel a little giddy at the mere sight of the ancient stone buildings and historical roots. Citta della Pieve was one such town.
We went to visit friends from New Mexico who are in residence there for two months. Evey, a fellow classmate and all-around fun gal, invited us to spend a night with her and husband Wayne to see the area. She not only graciously opened the door to their sprawling apartment, they brought us green chile to boot! Talk about hospitality. The town sits prettily on its hill and oozes charm. We walked the narrow streets and liked what we saw. Until we looked in the window of the immobiliare and saw the real estate prices. We would not be able to afford to live here.
After this brief visit we drove to Chianti region, where we spent a day with a group of expats at a party hosted by the website Bryan used extensively to gather information. They are a lively, fun bunch and it was a pleasure to meet them and to converse easily, without having to struggle for words and verb tenses. Several people I hope to meet up with again. Chianti is famously beautiful and rightfully so, but extremely expensive, too, and – we felt – a little too over-run by foreigners. Being foreigners ourselves, this may seem a little hypocritical, but we really do want to be immersed in Italian culture and society, and prefer to be in an area where English is not heard as frequently as Italian. One every turn down the winding road we saw three (or more) signs for hotels and other tourist facilities. Don’t get me wrong, we truly enjoyed our visit with friends. It was wonderful to see them and we look forward to other visitors coming from America during our year. And meeting expats is nice, too, but, at the end of the day, I still want to be here for the experience of Italy.
We wound our way down the surprisingly steep mountains to the lower area south of Siena. We had spent a week in Asciano on a previous trip and enjoyed the town and countryside here very much. Driving through the Crete Senese reminded us of how enchanted we had been with the landscapes here. Strolling through town and dining at a little osteria we had previously enjoyed (with a few home-made dishes on offer daily) jogged our memories at how friendly we had thought the town to be. We like it here very much, but again, doubt that we can financially swing a move here, as it is in rather close proximity to Siena, a city of renown and touristic interest. We didn’t really have an intention to look at Tuscany, anyway, but we really do enjoy this section of that region.
We set out from there to explore northern Lazio, an area unknown to us but intriguing and, from what we have seen on real estate websites (read, possibly affordable). We entered the provincial capital of Viterbo and promptly got lost. The streets were so narrow that even our itty-bitty slender Matiz car seemed too large. We barely made it through some of the turns. The town (at least what we saw of it) didn’t impress us, but we did stumble upon a Middle-Eastern diner and enjoyed a rendition of chicken gyros for lunch, so all was not lost.
We loved the view of (and from) Bolsena, on the lake of the same name, but figure it to be a rather seasonal town, like Anzio (only much, much prettier). An old woman was washing her clothes at the still-used communal washing well. She hunched over the stone basin and beat the daylight of her clothes with a huge bar of soap, then drowned them in the water to rinse them. The atmosphere was altogether charming and we may explore this town more indepth.
There was one cittadina that really struck us, the sight of which made us gasp and utter, “whoa”. Soriano is perched precariously in the Cimini mountains, high above the valleys. Driving around a bend we caught of glimpse of her stone buildings tumbling down the hillside, towers reaching heavenward and we were smitten. Driving into town confirmed our first impression; it was beautiful and ancient, yet larger than it had first appeared with ample shops and restaurants and a couple of hotels. The views over the mountains and valleys were breathtaking. We wandered the old, medieval borgo section of town on foot, leg muscles screaming at the exertion on the very steep, cobbled streets. We walked down sinewy alleyways and gawked. This was okay as we were also being gawked at by the inhabitants, though not so much as to feel completely conspicuous or uneasy.
On one street an old woman stopped us and said that we were “una bella coppia”, a beautiful couple. When I spoke with my heavy accent, she said, “Ah, you’re not Italian? Ma mi sembra italiana” But you look Italian to me. I told her about my Italian grandmother and she nodded, smiling as she departed. Yes, we liked Soriano very much. The problem, though…its rather remote location up the mountain. The closest city is Viterbo and the drive was not exactly a short one. I fear that the remoteness we feel here will be very exaggerated there since it is pretty much the only town up on that mountain. There is a lively centro with more stores than we have access to here, and a train station too, so we will need to check into the schedules and routes. We would like to return for a few days to see if the initial feeling of awe remains.
Other towns blur together and none really impressed us as being quite right for us. Sutri was pretty and we enjoyed a fantastic meal there, but in the morning, the constant stream of traffic below our hotel window informed us that this was a commuter town; a conversation with the hotel owner confirmed the fact that many people live here and drive into Rome, about an hour away.
So the quest continues. We have several areas that interest us; we just need to get out and explore, more difficult to do without a car of our own, but we are confident we will find what we’re looking for…”seek and you shall find”.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Memorial Day
Memorial Day 2006
We took the bus to Nettuno and walked the short distance to the Sicily-Rome American Cemetary. It was Memorial Day and we thought it would be a good way to commemorate the day. We were also on an errand. An acquaintance in St. Louis told us that his father had been a soldier who participated in the Allied landing at Anzio during World War II. His dad had wanted to come to Italy to see the graves of his friends who had been killed here, but had not done so and was now too frail to make the trip. Would we look for the graves and take photos, he asked us. Of course!
List in hand, we entered the cemetery to find a large continent of carabinieri milling about. There was a tent set up near the memorial at the far end of the cemetery. We inquired in the office about the day’s activities and were told that the U.S. Ambassador as well as an Italian government official would be attending a ceremony. The superintendent took our list and looked up the names in the computer, printing out the details of the grave marker locations for us. He also offered to have photos taken that he would then email to our friend. “You can take photos, but the names get a little too washed out,” he said. “When we take the photos, we have special way to darken the names so they appear better.” What a nice touch.
We walked to the memorial area to listen to the speakers and participate in the ceremony. Italian and American servicemen stood in formation side by side. I teared up; I get so emotional at these kinds of events. The combination of the national anthem, an echoing, soulful trumpeting of Taps, a 21-gun salute and a fighter jet fly-over in the missing man formation pretty much did me in and I had to fight back a full-on cry. Maybe it’s just hormones, but I doubt it. I have a great appreciation for these men who fought bravely and gravely for a definite cause, and who are still very much appreciated by the local population.
We toured solemnly around the cemetery to locate the graves on the list and took photos, then returned the list to the superintendent with our thanks for his generosity to send email photos to this now-elderly soldier whom I’ve never met, but am grateful to…for his service to our country and to this country, and because his errand had brought us here on this particular day. It was a touching experience.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
We took the bus to Nettuno and walked the short distance to the Sicily-Rome American Cemetary. It was Memorial Day and we thought it would be a good way to commemorate the day. We were also on an errand. An acquaintance in St. Louis told us that his father had been a soldier who participated in the Allied landing at Anzio during World War II. His dad had wanted to come to Italy to see the graves of his friends who had been killed here, but had not done so and was now too frail to make the trip. Would we look for the graves and take photos, he asked us. Of course!
List in hand, we entered the cemetery to find a large continent of carabinieri milling about. There was a tent set up near the memorial at the far end of the cemetery. We inquired in the office about the day’s activities and were told that the U.S. Ambassador as well as an Italian government official would be attending a ceremony. The superintendent took our list and looked up the names in the computer, printing out the details of the grave marker locations for us. He also offered to have photos taken that he would then email to our friend. “You can take photos, but the names get a little too washed out,” he said. “When we take the photos, we have special way to darken the names so they appear better.” What a nice touch.
We walked to the memorial area to listen to the speakers and participate in the ceremony. Italian and American servicemen stood in formation side by side. I teared up; I get so emotional at these kinds of events. The combination of the national anthem, an echoing, soulful trumpeting of Taps, a 21-gun salute and a fighter jet fly-over in the missing man formation pretty much did me in and I had to fight back a full-on cry. Maybe it’s just hormones, but I doubt it. I have a great appreciation for these men who fought bravely and gravely for a definite cause, and who are still very much appreciated by the local population.
We toured solemnly around the cemetery to locate the graves on the list and took photos, then returned the list to the superintendent with our thanks for his generosity to send email photos to this now-elderly soldier whom I’ve never met, but am grateful to…for his service to our country and to this country, and because his errand had brought us here on this particular day. It was a touching experience.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Out of Touch
Out of Touch and Somewhat Immobile
Cotral is a regional bus system servicing this area. The bus travels between Nettuno on this end, through Anzio and our section of town, on up to Roma, and in reverse. The trouble is there seems to be no set schedule. Every time we have gone to the fermata we have had to wait anywhere from 30 to 50 minutes for a bus to come along. Locals waiting with us roll their eyes every five minutes and make hand gestures, indicating their frustration and their nonverbal communication of “where the hell is the stupid bus”.
Fortunately, we can obtain the basic elements of everyday sustenance in our neighborhood. There is a little market just a couple blocks away to buy groceries, though they carry no meats, prosciutto and salami excepted. Another couple blocks takes us to a coffee bar where they also conveniently sell bus tickets and cell phone minutes. It doubles as a gelateria, too. There is a frutta/verdura and a pizza place that offers up excellent, true Neopolitan pizzas (he has the certification to prove its authenticity), all in walking distance. And of course, the beach and its accompanying bars and casual cafes that will open soon.
The season is only beginning and when we walk on the beach we can observe the tell-tale signs: painting and hammering of awnings, the careful placement of rows of little cabanas, the seasonal preparations for the sun-bathing hordes that will begin to arrive in a few weeks. Already, weekends are beginning to pick up. All week we have the streets and beach to ourselves. Today, Saturday, while waiting for the bus, there was a nonstop stream of cars flowing southward into Anzio from Rome, the weekend warriors headed for their summer homes. Our narrow street has more cars parked on it than usual. The sun-worshippers are coming to commence their annual tanning rituals.
We feel incredibly lucky to have access to this house and the beach. Still, we can’t help but be a bit wistful at the lack of reliable transportation, and, more immediately disconcerting to us, the lack of internet connection. We have become completely internet-dependent. Any little bit of information would be sought out online; all communication with friends and family anticipated to be so easily completed by email. This is the major reason we brave the bus system. This hardship is sorely felt. Showering in a little service room I can deal with; and, while attacking mosquitoes are definitely a problem, not being able to connect for email is, to me, akin to not having indoor plumbing. It feels so…primitive. I knew we would adapt and live slow, but in ways I’d not anticipated!
Because we truly need internet (for communication, news and to manage our finances), we have sought out various ways of connecting. The internet point in Anzio told us that they can install a high-speed connection for us in about two weeks’ time. Great, except that they require a year contract and we don’t plan to live in this locale for a year. We found another internet point in the nearer community of Anzio Colonia, though it still requires riding the wretched buses (and yesterday when we arrived after much travail, their internet service was unavailable). We tried to access wi-fi at a nearby hotel. We’d seen an ad that they offer this service and Bryan went to inquire; he was informed that we could use the service for a fee. Today we walked down to try it out. We required a password and login code from the hotel in order to access the pay page. The girl at the desk said she didn’t know about that and shrugged, then resolutely ignored us. Defeated again.
We had inquired at a beach-side bar which, Francesca told us, offered internet last year. They did not receive their approval from Telecom, the phone company, to offer it this year. Drat. I may brave some language trepidation to ask the manager of a nearby hotel if internet could be procured for a price there, but when I went in to ask him about hotel rates for my parents, he spoke so quickly and brusquely that he downright scared me and I fled rather than state my blatant ignorance and repeatedly ask him to “ripete piu piano, per favore”.
We plug along. We hop on buses with undetermined destinations to see where they take us. This results in a lot of time and energy exerted in erroneous thinking. Buses do not complete a circular loop as one might think. We reached the end of the line at a military installation outside Nettuno and the bus driver kicked our confused little butts off the vehicle, saying he was now “fuori servizio”. We watched several buses pass by without stopping. We didn’t know where we were except that it was several kilometers from town. A strange little bag man edged closer to us as we stood under the fermata sign waiting. A bus came along and stopped to let out passengers but didn’t open his doors for people to board. I knocked and he cracked it open ever so slightly, so I quickly asked about getting back to Anzio. Another bus will come soon, he told me; he was now fuori servizio. “When?” I asked. “Soon.”
About fifteen minutes later another bus came along and we boarded, again blind to where it was going but figuring it had to be toward one town or another where we could at least figure out where the heck we were and how to get home. We had a few moments of grave concern as the driver took us down some country roads, further away from town. We had no choice but to wait it out, and eventually we found ourselves back in the center of Anzio. We had to connect to another bus, though, to return home. Later, when we told Giorgio and Francesca of our adventure, they laughed and nodded and “si-si’d” us in awareness that this is normale.
Ogni giorno e un’avventura nuova, I say. Every day is a new adventure. When one uses the regional bus, the adventure may be more than one bargained for, but at least at the end of the day there is the sea. And gelato. And real pizza napoletana.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Cotral is a regional bus system servicing this area. The bus travels between Nettuno on this end, through Anzio and our section of town, on up to Roma, and in reverse. The trouble is there seems to be no set schedule. Every time we have gone to the fermata we have had to wait anywhere from 30 to 50 minutes for a bus to come along. Locals waiting with us roll their eyes every five minutes and make hand gestures, indicating their frustration and their nonverbal communication of “where the hell is the stupid bus”.
Fortunately, we can obtain the basic elements of everyday sustenance in our neighborhood. There is a little market just a couple blocks away to buy groceries, though they carry no meats, prosciutto and salami excepted. Another couple blocks takes us to a coffee bar where they also conveniently sell bus tickets and cell phone minutes. It doubles as a gelateria, too. There is a frutta/verdura and a pizza place that offers up excellent, true Neopolitan pizzas (he has the certification to prove its authenticity), all in walking distance. And of course, the beach and its accompanying bars and casual cafes that will open soon.
The season is only beginning and when we walk on the beach we can observe the tell-tale signs: painting and hammering of awnings, the careful placement of rows of little cabanas, the seasonal preparations for the sun-bathing hordes that will begin to arrive in a few weeks. Already, weekends are beginning to pick up. All week we have the streets and beach to ourselves. Today, Saturday, while waiting for the bus, there was a nonstop stream of cars flowing southward into Anzio from Rome, the weekend warriors headed for their summer homes. Our narrow street has more cars parked on it than usual. The sun-worshippers are coming to commence their annual tanning rituals.
We feel incredibly lucky to have access to this house and the beach. Still, we can’t help but be a bit wistful at the lack of reliable transportation, and, more immediately disconcerting to us, the lack of internet connection. We have become completely internet-dependent. Any little bit of information would be sought out online; all communication with friends and family anticipated to be so easily completed by email. This is the major reason we brave the bus system. This hardship is sorely felt. Showering in a little service room I can deal with; and, while attacking mosquitoes are definitely a problem, not being able to connect for email is, to me, akin to not having indoor plumbing. It feels so…primitive. I knew we would adapt and live slow, but in ways I’d not anticipated!
Because we truly need internet (for communication, news and to manage our finances), we have sought out various ways of connecting. The internet point in Anzio told us that they can install a high-speed connection for us in about two weeks’ time. Great, except that they require a year contract and we don’t plan to live in this locale for a year. We found another internet point in the nearer community of Anzio Colonia, though it still requires riding the wretched buses (and yesterday when we arrived after much travail, their internet service was unavailable). We tried to access wi-fi at a nearby hotel. We’d seen an ad that they offer this service and Bryan went to inquire; he was informed that we could use the service for a fee. Today we walked down to try it out. We required a password and login code from the hotel in order to access the pay page. The girl at the desk said she didn’t know about that and shrugged, then resolutely ignored us. Defeated again.
We had inquired at a beach-side bar which, Francesca told us, offered internet last year. They did not receive their approval from Telecom, the phone company, to offer it this year. Drat. I may brave some language trepidation to ask the manager of a nearby hotel if internet could be procured for a price there, but when I went in to ask him about hotel rates for my parents, he spoke so quickly and brusquely that he downright scared me and I fled rather than state my blatant ignorance and repeatedly ask him to “ripete piu piano, per favore”.
We plug along. We hop on buses with undetermined destinations to see where they take us. This results in a lot of time and energy exerted in erroneous thinking. Buses do not complete a circular loop as one might think. We reached the end of the line at a military installation outside Nettuno and the bus driver kicked our confused little butts off the vehicle, saying he was now “fuori servizio”. We watched several buses pass by without stopping. We didn’t know where we were except that it was several kilometers from town. A strange little bag man edged closer to us as we stood under the fermata sign waiting. A bus came along and stopped to let out passengers but didn’t open his doors for people to board. I knocked and he cracked it open ever so slightly, so I quickly asked about getting back to Anzio. Another bus will come soon, he told me; he was now fuori servizio. “When?” I asked. “Soon.”
About fifteen minutes later another bus came along and we boarded, again blind to where it was going but figuring it had to be toward one town or another where we could at least figure out where the heck we were and how to get home. We had a few moments of grave concern as the driver took us down some country roads, further away from town. We had no choice but to wait it out, and eventually we found ourselves back in the center of Anzio. We had to connect to another bus, though, to return home. Later, when we told Giorgio and Francesca of our adventure, they laughed and nodded and “si-si’d” us in awareness that this is normale.
Ogni giorno e un’avventura nuova, I say. Every day is a new adventure. When one uses the regional bus, the adventure may be more than one bargained for, but at least at the end of the day there is the sea. And gelato. And real pizza napoletana.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Linguistic Challenges
I am posting two blogs today, while I am at an internet point. We do not have internet access in our little home as there is no phone line and no wi'fi signal that we can find. To reach an internet point we must wait from 30 to 45 minutes for the regional bus to come along, travel into Anzio Colonia or Anzio proper, pay and check email. Thusly, today I am transferring two blog posts that I had written and saved to disc this past week, so read on!
Adventures in Linguistic Adaptation
It’s not like I was coming here completely ignorant. I studied Italian informally for about a year. I was conversing somewhat smoothly in my conversational class. I arrived confident that I would be able to have basic conversations and understand what we’d need to get around and conduct daily transaction. It turns out that I was overconfident.
Perhaps it is the local dialect (this is the option I’d prefer), or maybe my ears are just not functioning properly. I am, after all, an American who has been learning Italian by listening to other Americans speak, and the inflection, pace and clarity are different in that instance. Still. It’s rather demoralizing when basic words I KNOW that I know are suddenly hard to understand and I must ask the speaker to repeat them.
Every day seems like a little victory. Tuesday (May 23) I procured for myself a haircut. This task was necessary and seemed daunting. I had a flash of fear at the mere thought. While Bryan checked email in Anzio proper, I took a stroll around the centro and came across a little hair salon. I cautiously peered inside through the beaded curtain over the door and saw that there were two employees with no customers. A fine time to go, thought I, as I could make a spectacle of myself to only two people instead of a roomful of onlookers. This proved a good idea; they were not only patient, they were kind. The younger girl, who was a helper of sorts, smiled a lot and seemed amused that an Americana had stumbled into their neck of the woods. The stylist, professional and businesslike, patiently determined what sort of cut I had in mind and got her scissors flying. There was rudimentary conversation about where I was from and was my husband an Italian, but beyond that I couldn’t venture far linguistically. But I walked out with a new ‘do and another little bit of confidence.
Wednesday-another day, another language adventure-we ventured to the little community of Anzio Colonia for market day. One street was closed to traffic for the array of trucks and booths selling clothes, shoes, and food. We wandered through to see what was on display and to observe the locals as they expertly navigated the stalls. We jumped in and purchased cheese (Grana Padano for about ¼ the price we’d pay in New Mexico); fresh produce (the baby artichokes looked too wonderful to pass up); and a pair of beach shoes for Bryan. He also bought a messenger bag, a little tote that the men around here are wearing. He looks rather sporty with it slung across his shoulder.
The bus is another matter altogether. We are located in the beach section of Anzio, a bit north of town. To reach Anzio proper or the nearby town of Nettuno we must take a regional bus. The price is very inexpensive, but so far our forays into this transit system have proven it to be less than punctual. We have not figured out exactly what the schedule should be, but locals waiting at the stops with us are constantly gesticulating their consternation at the tardiness, indicating that they, too, are not happy with the service. Why is it that when we are traveling north, four buses pass us going southward but when we are traveling southerly, all the buses are heading north? It must be a Murphy’s Law clause written into the bus scheduling.
We did have a rather interesting experience Tuesday, though. In the main piazza, after my haircut, while Bryan went to the bank I watched the people milling about. There was an older man, obviously foreign and probably British, fishing around in the fountain with a cane, apparently having dropped something, or perhaps cleaning out some coins, I thought. In the gelateria nearby, he entered as we were about to leave and he gave us an expression that exuded amusement and openness, but he also seemed a little confused. We said, in English, that he starts by paying at the register. He asked about a couple flavor names he didn’t understand, about our American accents, and began to tell us about his visit around the area.
He was, he said, last in Anzio sixty years ago. He had been part of the military landing in Salerno as well as in Anzio. Many of his friends died here and he came to visit the cemetery. We listened to his experiences and thanked him for sharing them with us. It is emotional to me, I am not sure why, to hear of these individuals who fought in a place like this, in a war that was so different from the ones currently engaged in, and so much more defined. He interested me, and he seemed grateful that we were took an interest in him. He rode the bus with us, his hotel not far from our home, and pointed out spots along the way, explaining the maneuvers the military had undertaken in this section. I am glad to have met him.
Thursday we went to the Giorgio-recommended pizzeria nearby, Pizza DOC, where they serve genuine Napoletana pizza. We sat down and the owner, at the oven, yelled over for us to shout out our orders. The first bite confirmed in my heart and my mouth why we had so wanted to live here. No matter what brick-oven-baked pizza I’d consumed in America, none have ever come close to this melty, thin-crusted bit of heaven. One bite and my memory flooded back; THIS is the taste. Oh yes, I remember how good this is and how dull our tastebuds are at home without it.
The owner stopped by the table to inquire about the food. When we rolled our eyes heavenward and praised his culinary abilities, he asked where we were from. “Gli stati uniti,” I replied. He raised his eyebrows and was speechless a moment. “AAAAHHHH, che bello! Americani!” We had a brief conversation, another little victory for me. But more than that, he seemed genuinely surprised and pleased that we would find his little pizzeria, all the way from America. We’ll return; it is located just seven blocks away. Next time, we’ll split a pizza, though. The pie spread over the edges of the plate and filled me to the brim. Che bello.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Adventures in Linguistic Adaptation
It’s not like I was coming here completely ignorant. I studied Italian informally for about a year. I was conversing somewhat smoothly in my conversational class. I arrived confident that I would be able to have basic conversations and understand what we’d need to get around and conduct daily transaction. It turns out that I was overconfident.
Perhaps it is the local dialect (this is the option I’d prefer), or maybe my ears are just not functioning properly. I am, after all, an American who has been learning Italian by listening to other Americans speak, and the inflection, pace and clarity are different in that instance. Still. It’s rather demoralizing when basic words I KNOW that I know are suddenly hard to understand and I must ask the speaker to repeat them.
Every day seems like a little victory. Tuesday (May 23) I procured for myself a haircut. This task was necessary and seemed daunting. I had a flash of fear at the mere thought. While Bryan checked email in Anzio proper, I took a stroll around the centro and came across a little hair salon. I cautiously peered inside through the beaded curtain over the door and saw that there were two employees with no customers. A fine time to go, thought I, as I could make a spectacle of myself to only two people instead of a roomful of onlookers. This proved a good idea; they were not only patient, they were kind. The younger girl, who was a helper of sorts, smiled a lot and seemed amused that an Americana had stumbled into their neck of the woods. The stylist, professional and businesslike, patiently determined what sort of cut I had in mind and got her scissors flying. There was rudimentary conversation about where I was from and was my husband an Italian, but beyond that I couldn’t venture far linguistically. But I walked out with a new ‘do and another little bit of confidence.
Wednesday-another day, another language adventure-we ventured to the little community of Anzio Colonia for market day. One street was closed to traffic for the array of trucks and booths selling clothes, shoes, and food. We wandered through to see what was on display and to observe the locals as they expertly navigated the stalls. We jumped in and purchased cheese (Grana Padano for about ¼ the price we’d pay in New Mexico); fresh produce (the baby artichokes looked too wonderful to pass up); and a pair of beach shoes for Bryan. He also bought a messenger bag, a little tote that the men around here are wearing. He looks rather sporty with it slung across his shoulder.
The bus is another matter altogether. We are located in the beach section of Anzio, a bit north of town. To reach Anzio proper or the nearby town of Nettuno we must take a regional bus. The price is very inexpensive, but so far our forays into this transit system have proven it to be less than punctual. We have not figured out exactly what the schedule should be, but locals waiting at the stops with us are constantly gesticulating their consternation at the tardiness, indicating that they, too, are not happy with the service. Why is it that when we are traveling north, four buses pass us going southward but when we are traveling southerly, all the buses are heading north? It must be a Murphy’s Law clause written into the bus scheduling.
We did have a rather interesting experience Tuesday, though. In the main piazza, after my haircut, while Bryan went to the bank I watched the people milling about. There was an older man, obviously foreign and probably British, fishing around in the fountain with a cane, apparently having dropped something, or perhaps cleaning out some coins, I thought. In the gelateria nearby, he entered as we were about to leave and he gave us an expression that exuded amusement and openness, but he also seemed a little confused. We said, in English, that he starts by paying at the register. He asked about a couple flavor names he didn’t understand, about our American accents, and began to tell us about his visit around the area.
He was, he said, last in Anzio sixty years ago. He had been part of the military landing in Salerno as well as in Anzio. Many of his friends died here and he came to visit the cemetery. We listened to his experiences and thanked him for sharing them with us. It is emotional to me, I am not sure why, to hear of these individuals who fought in a place like this, in a war that was so different from the ones currently engaged in, and so much more defined. He interested me, and he seemed grateful that we were took an interest in him. He rode the bus with us, his hotel not far from our home, and pointed out spots along the way, explaining the maneuvers the military had undertaken in this section. I am glad to have met him.
Thursday we went to the Giorgio-recommended pizzeria nearby, Pizza DOC, where they serve genuine Napoletana pizza. We sat down and the owner, at the oven, yelled over for us to shout out our orders. The first bite confirmed in my heart and my mouth why we had so wanted to live here. No matter what brick-oven-baked pizza I’d consumed in America, none have ever come close to this melty, thin-crusted bit of heaven. One bite and my memory flooded back; THIS is the taste. Oh yes, I remember how good this is and how dull our tastebuds are at home without it.
The owner stopped by the table to inquire about the food. When we rolled our eyes heavenward and praised his culinary abilities, he asked where we were from. “Gli stati uniti,” I replied. He raised his eyebrows and was speechless a moment. “AAAAHHHH, che bello! Americani!” We had a brief conversation, another little victory for me. But more than that, he seemed genuinely surprised and pleased that we would find his little pizzeria, all the way from America. We’ll return; it is located just seven blocks away. Next time, we’ll split a pizza, though. The pie spread over the edges of the plate and filled me to the brim. Che bello.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Burocrazia
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
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
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!
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