(Note: the fact that Bryan wrote about coffee the same week that I did can either mean that "great minds think alike" or that he is a topic thief. I'll have to keep an eye on him.)
Anyone who knows Bryan even casually will know that he is passionate about espresso. Not coffee, mind you, but espresso. Unlike me, who started drinking coffee at the ripe age of 12 or 13, he never touched a cup of American coffee. He thought it akin to drinking dirty water and opted for tea when he wanted caffeine. Until our first visit to Rome, that is.
Jet lag will do funny things to the body and the mind and, desperate to stay awake to feed the cravings in his stomach for the wonderful aromas wafting down the street from the trattorias, he succumbed to an espresso. One packet of sugar to sweeten the brew and his eyes perked up and a smile crossed his face. He had found true love.
That first cup got him started. He spent years trolling the so-called espresso cafes around America in search of a real and satisfying espresso without much luck. Oh sure, there was the occasional “perfect cup” but, like the wine-seekers in Sideways he rarely found that which had the right taste and crema, smooth and whatever else it is he looks for in an espresso. Like wine, I know what I like and drink it rather than examining the “finer qualities”. I’m a cappuccino girl, myself.
Here in Italy my beloved is in espresso heaven. Every day, morning and afternoon like clockwork, he imbibes the brew and is deeply satisfied. There are favored brands. Illy, acknowledged widely as “Italy’s best caffe” is a treat; it is too expensive for an everyday coffee, though the Illy bar in town isn’t too much more for an espresso than an ordinary bar. At home his choice is usually Kimbo; barring its availability he’ll settle for Lavazza. The bars have brands we’ve not heard of before…Saccaria, Mokambo, Tameucci, Cuba Caffe. He’ll taste them all and get back to you on which, in his estimation, rates highest.
Italians, as everyone knows, are passionate about coffee. This is, after all, where all the famous coffee drinks were born…think about the names – espresso, cappuccino, caffe latte – all Italian. They have years of experience in creating these concoctions without watering them down or roasting the beans until they give the resulting beverage a burned taste (like that famous coffee purveyor that serves swill in America at grossly inflated prices). I have never seen a range of syrup bottles (just liquor bottles in case you want a caffe corretto, corrected coffee…grappa with espresso anyone?). No “mochaccinos” or “caramel lattes” around here. We’ve not even tried to explain those to our friends.
If we offer a cup of coffee to our Italian friends they will say, “ah si, prendo un caffe,” then add the clarifying amendment, “uh, but Italian coffee, yes?” Everyone among our acquaintance is in concensus that American coffee is “schifo”, disgusting. Too watery; no taste; cooked flavor…these are complaints we frequently hear about our nation’s cup of joe. Bryan vehemently affirms his agreement and tells them how he never, ever has allowed American coffee to pass his lips and pollute his body. They are duly impressed and proud of him.
I, for my part, enjoy the coffee options here, too, though I admit that a brewed mug of rich Columbian on a cold day, nursed while watching the news or reading the paper, isn’t so bad to me. Heretic, my husband thinks. So we both have our satisfying cups, I, my cappuccino, and Bryan, the purist, his simple caffe with one packet of sugar.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
A Place to Call Home
We have packed our duffel bags, bid farewell to friends, and informed a couple of baristas that they will be seeing a marked drop in profit. We’re moving on, trading the beach for medieval streets.
After three months cocooned away in Anzio with the tireless care and devotion of friends, we are breaking out on our own. We had not planned to spend so long in Anzio. When we first arrived we thought our paperwork would come through quickly and we’d easily locate a place that beckoned us. Bureaucracy threw us for a loop, and we discovered that each area we visited had a lot of charm and it would be impossible to decide if we continued on a quest. We could spend the entire year traveling about searching, always on the look-out, always exploring.
We’d just need to make a decision with the information we already had. We knew Tuscany was out. It would be too expensive, and we just didn’t feel comfortable there despite its many beauties. Umbria would be convenient but also a bit pricier than we’d hoped. We compared the pros and cons of several other towns and decided at last on Ascoli Piceno, the allure of the city’s atmosphere, the proximity to beautiful mountains as well as the Adriatic Sea making it very attractive.
We needed a place of our own. While our friends have been wonderfully accommodating, we have not been able to fully unpack nor have we felt comfortable rearranging things, for while they came primarily for weekends it was still not our home to rearrange.
So now we have arrived, soaked through from the rain that beat down upon us the whole of moving day. Our apartment in the centro storico is better equipped than we had anticipated. Our landlady was initially reluctant to rent to us as we requested the space for less than a year. “Non lo so, signora,” she repeated during my phone conversation with her about three weeks ago. I just don’t know. Finally she agreed to let us view the place and then said that if we wanted it, fine, but to be aware that she didn’t plan to put much furniture into it as it would not be economically beneficial to her to do so for our short time period. We agreed and returned to Anzio from this house-hunting mission unsure of what our new home would contain.
We arrived to find rather nice furniture and even a few kitchen items. We’ll be shopping for more objects to finish it off but were happily surprised by the touches and the welcome, her husband even helping Bryan heft all of our heavy luggage up the two flights of stairs, in the rain.
Our first outing in town to the monthly antique market resulted in running into Linda, our teacher when we were in school here, as well the Australian friends from Bryan’s class. Funny to see the only people we know in town on our first day…a nice beginning.
We are trying to settle in, figure out where to put things, which clothes we can stash away in our little attic through the winter months, how to arrange the furniture, and which items are most pressing to buy. We feel like college students just going away to school. Why is it that so much of this experience makes us feel so young and ignorant? I’m still not sure if that’s a good or bad thing, or maybe a combination. But we have a place of our own in a three hundred year old building in the center of a beautiful town. Siamo contenti.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
After three months cocooned away in Anzio with the tireless care and devotion of friends, we are breaking out on our own. We had not planned to spend so long in Anzio. When we first arrived we thought our paperwork would come through quickly and we’d easily locate a place that beckoned us. Bureaucracy threw us for a loop, and we discovered that each area we visited had a lot of charm and it would be impossible to decide if we continued on a quest. We could spend the entire year traveling about searching, always on the look-out, always exploring.
We’d just need to make a decision with the information we already had. We knew Tuscany was out. It would be too expensive, and we just didn’t feel comfortable there despite its many beauties. Umbria would be convenient but also a bit pricier than we’d hoped. We compared the pros and cons of several other towns and decided at last on Ascoli Piceno, the allure of the city’s atmosphere, the proximity to beautiful mountains as well as the Adriatic Sea making it very attractive.
We needed a place of our own. While our friends have been wonderfully accommodating, we have not been able to fully unpack nor have we felt comfortable rearranging things, for while they came primarily for weekends it was still not our home to rearrange.
So now we have arrived, soaked through from the rain that beat down upon us the whole of moving day. Our apartment in the centro storico is better equipped than we had anticipated. Our landlady was initially reluctant to rent to us as we requested the space for less than a year. “Non lo so, signora,” she repeated during my phone conversation with her about three weeks ago. I just don’t know. Finally she agreed to let us view the place and then said that if we wanted it, fine, but to be aware that she didn’t plan to put much furniture into it as it would not be economically beneficial to her to do so for our short time period. We agreed and returned to Anzio from this house-hunting mission unsure of what our new home would contain.
We arrived to find rather nice furniture and even a few kitchen items. We’ll be shopping for more objects to finish it off but were happily surprised by the touches and the welcome, her husband even helping Bryan heft all of our heavy luggage up the two flights of stairs, in the rain.
Our first outing in town to the monthly antique market resulted in running into Linda, our teacher when we were in school here, as well the Australian friends from Bryan’s class. Funny to see the only people we know in town on our first day…a nice beginning.
We are trying to settle in, figure out where to put things, which clothes we can stash away in our little attic through the winter months, how to arrange the furniture, and which items are most pressing to buy. We feel like college students just going away to school. Why is it that so much of this experience makes us feel so young and ignorant? I’m still not sure if that’s a good or bad thing, or maybe a combination. But we have a place of our own in a three hundred year old building in the center of a beautiful town. Siamo contenti.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Saturday, September 16, 2006
The Spectacles
Our stretch of beach was strewn with “important people”. Glitterati. Who knew that beyond the gawdy swimsuits, make-up, and leathery tans lurked some of Rome’s movers and shakers? A famous architect, a school superintendent, a “Renaissance man” married to the Director of a university. Ophalmologist. Psychologist. Banker. A veritable “who’s who” lounging on the lettini in the prima fila at Lido di Cincinnato. They have come every year, for many years like clockwork, and resume their friendships and routines every summer, sunbathing while gossiping, and dining or playing cards. All summer.
Some of these individuals reside seasonally in our street, and one throws a party that is An Annual Event. By virtue of our friendship with Francesca and Giorgio we were invited to this year’s gala.
The grand event has often been held as a costume party. Thankfully, this year it was a more low-key affair and we needed only to dress up in something “un po elegante”. The hostess worked tirelessly in the kitchen bringing out huge platters of food while also welcoming everyone. The enormous garden was lit by candles, with a life raft containing a tray of candles burning as it skimmed the surface of the swimming pool. There were three levels to their garden with tables scattered about, and the food spread out under a portico. The architect husband had thought of every detail for this home, and he flit from group to group pouring wine before any glass dared to be emptied.
We were welcomed warmly by several. One group stood off to the side staring and talking openly about us, we frequently heard “gli americani” sprinkled in their speech, so we knew immediately that we’d be The Spectacles for the evening. One man, Luigi, was kindly and told us how he had been befriended by American soldiers when he was a child in Sicily during World War II. He had become a bank president but his real love was history and he had written several articles for publication.
All went smoothly until about 2:00 a.m. when I just couldn’t possibly stay any longer and we begged leave. We were the first to depart, but several took the opportunity to exit as well. It seems no one wanted to make the first move toward the door, but since gli americani had been so forward, well... Francesca stayed on for political discussions as we dragged our tired hineys home.
A few weeks later we invited to another, more casual gathering, this one held in honor of a marriage. Lilly and Franco had a son who married in Spain, so they wanted a chance to throw a party upon their return. The couple sat quietly off to the side, rather ignored once the initial compliments had been proffered, so I sat and talked with them for a while. Coming from Spain, she understands my difficulties in learning the language and feeling a little displaced sometimes.
Luigi from The Gala made a bee-line to me when he entered, smiling and making the usual greetings. Then he said, “I have a question. I heard a phrase when I was a boy, and always wondered what it meant. When the soldiers would say, “take it easy”, what does that mean?" I explained the phrase and its meanings, and he smiled broadly, having that long-held mystery cleared up.
The Wedding Couple danced obligingly when the parents insisted, more an excuse to start the dancing portion of the party, which is Lilly’s main objective at any party.
Thus commenced what we call Italian Line Dancing. Many songs here have prearranged dance moves that closely resemble a line dance with the shuffling of feet, moving forward, turn, start again types of moves. We don’t dance to begin with, we really don’t do line dances, so they were all sorely disappointed when we sat it out, muttering about gli americani and such things. On the occasion I did dance a waltz with Franco one woman screamed, “Look everyone! The American is dancing!” Yeah, thanks. Draw a little more attention to us, why don’t you? Fortunately, the didn't have YMCA on CD; at every beach party we heard YMCA played at least three times during the course of the evening. And we thought disco was dead.
But really, they are warm-hearted and curious about us. They wonder why we’re here, why Anzio, aren’t we going to live in Rome, the center of the world? How can we be here a year without working? And, why would Americans want to come to Italy when so many Italians still view America as the Dreamland? We’ve heard that question many times and try to explain, but they still don’t really understand.
But this little circle of long acquaintances have allowed us into their circle anyway, plying us with wine and food and laughing at us. We’re glad we can provide them such entertainment. They made our summer more enjoyable, made us feel welcome, and we miss them now that they’ve all returned to Rome, leaving the beaches deserted.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Some of these individuals reside seasonally in our street, and one throws a party that is An Annual Event. By virtue of our friendship with Francesca and Giorgio we were invited to this year’s gala.
The grand event has often been held as a costume party. Thankfully, this year it was a more low-key affair and we needed only to dress up in something “un po elegante”. The hostess worked tirelessly in the kitchen bringing out huge platters of food while also welcoming everyone. The enormous garden was lit by candles, with a life raft containing a tray of candles burning as it skimmed the surface of the swimming pool. There were three levels to their garden with tables scattered about, and the food spread out under a portico. The architect husband had thought of every detail for this home, and he flit from group to group pouring wine before any glass dared to be emptied.
We were welcomed warmly by several. One group stood off to the side staring and talking openly about us, we frequently heard “gli americani” sprinkled in their speech, so we knew immediately that we’d be The Spectacles for the evening. One man, Luigi, was kindly and told us how he had been befriended by American soldiers when he was a child in Sicily during World War II. He had become a bank president but his real love was history and he had written several articles for publication.
All went smoothly until about 2:00 a.m. when I just couldn’t possibly stay any longer and we begged leave. We were the first to depart, but several took the opportunity to exit as well. It seems no one wanted to make the first move toward the door, but since gli americani had been so forward, well... Francesca stayed on for political discussions as we dragged our tired hineys home.
A few weeks later we invited to another, more casual gathering, this one held in honor of a marriage. Lilly and Franco had a son who married in Spain, so they wanted a chance to throw a party upon their return. The couple sat quietly off to the side, rather ignored once the initial compliments had been proffered, so I sat and talked with them for a while. Coming from Spain, she understands my difficulties in learning the language and feeling a little displaced sometimes.
Luigi from The Gala made a bee-line to me when he entered, smiling and making the usual greetings. Then he said, “I have a question. I heard a phrase when I was a boy, and always wondered what it meant. When the soldiers would say, “take it easy”, what does that mean?" I explained the phrase and its meanings, and he smiled broadly, having that long-held mystery cleared up.
The Wedding Couple danced obligingly when the parents insisted, more an excuse to start the dancing portion of the party, which is Lilly’s main objective at any party.
Thus commenced what we call Italian Line Dancing. Many songs here have prearranged dance moves that closely resemble a line dance with the shuffling of feet, moving forward, turn, start again types of moves. We don’t dance to begin with, we really don’t do line dances, so they were all sorely disappointed when we sat it out, muttering about gli americani and such things. On the occasion I did dance a waltz with Franco one woman screamed, “Look everyone! The American is dancing!” Yeah, thanks. Draw a little more attention to us, why don’t you? Fortunately, the didn't have YMCA on CD; at every beach party we heard YMCA played at least three times during the course of the evening. And we thought disco was dead.
But really, they are warm-hearted and curious about us. They wonder why we’re here, why Anzio, aren’t we going to live in Rome, the center of the world? How can we be here a year without working? And, why would Americans want to come to Italy when so many Italians still view America as the Dreamland? We’ve heard that question many times and try to explain, but they still don’t really understand.
But this little circle of long acquaintances have allowed us into their circle anyway, plying us with wine and food and laughing at us. We’re glad we can provide them such entertainment. They made our summer more enjoyable, made us feel welcome, and we miss them now that they’ve all returned to Rome, leaving the beaches deserted.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Ringing In My Ears
Not long after the summer season got into full swing, I began to hear a curious ringing near the house. The tone, duration, and actual ring sounded nearly identical to the familiar school-bell that announced the classes in my high school. As there is no school nearby and being summer when school is out anyway, we couldn’t imagine what was causing the ringing.
At first it seemed to be coming from the general direction of the house under construction one street over. Bryan surmised that perhaps the sound was a tile cutter. I was dubious but figured he might be right. But then we started hearing it at well after 10:00 p.m. and knew it had nothing to do with construction techniques.
We grew accustomed to the tone and learned to tune it out amid the other summer noises of parties, barking dogs, screaming kids and jovial voices. But then one day the sound seemed to be coming from right outside our gate so we asked Francesca, “What the heck is that?” She laughed and said, “gelato”. Ah, the ice cream truck. Soon after, while taking an evening stroll, we saw and heard it simultaneously and sure enough, she was right. He’d ring the bell then park and wait for people to emerge. Funny, we thought, and then reminisced about bomb pops, drumsticks and fudge bars. Being spoiled with artigianale gelato in town, we didn’t think we’d try the packaged type.
Until a couple nights ago, that is, when I was craving something chocolatey; I heard the school bell and figured I’d suck it up and see what he had. Little did I know! This being Italy I should not have underestimated the ice cream man. This guy had a mobile gelateria, complete with homemade gelato, sorbetto, granita, and banana splits. Cups, cones, and special concoctions. With whipped cream and chocolate sauce, even. At prices that are on a par with what one normally finds in the gelateria in the centro.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
How stupid we’ve been! All summer we could have been partaking in the mobile confections and shunned it thinking it was packaged and manufactured tasteless stuff. We really should have known better. Now I hear that bell and shake my head at my ignorance.
At first it seemed to be coming from the general direction of the house under construction one street over. Bryan surmised that perhaps the sound was a tile cutter. I was dubious but figured he might be right. But then we started hearing it at well after 10:00 p.m. and knew it had nothing to do with construction techniques.
We grew accustomed to the tone and learned to tune it out amid the other summer noises of parties, barking dogs, screaming kids and jovial voices. But then one day the sound seemed to be coming from right outside our gate so we asked Francesca, “What the heck is that?” She laughed and said, “gelato”. Ah, the ice cream truck. Soon after, while taking an evening stroll, we saw and heard it simultaneously and sure enough, she was right. He’d ring the bell then park and wait for people to emerge. Funny, we thought, and then reminisced about bomb pops, drumsticks and fudge bars. Being spoiled with artigianale gelato in town, we didn’t think we’d try the packaged type.
Until a couple nights ago, that is, when I was craving something chocolatey; I heard the school bell and figured I’d suck it up and see what he had. Little did I know! This being Italy I should not have underestimated the ice cream man. This guy had a mobile gelateria, complete with homemade gelato, sorbetto, granita, and banana splits. Cups, cones, and special concoctions. With whipped cream and chocolate sauce, even. At prices that are on a par with what one normally finds in the gelateria in the centro.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
How stupid we’ve been! All summer we could have been partaking in the mobile confections and shunned it thinking it was packaged and manufactured tasteless stuff. We really should have known better. Now I hear that bell and shake my head at my ignorance.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Finally!
I walked across the threshold into the sparkling grand foyer strewn with precious sculptures and breathed a sigh of relief. I was in the door. At long last, I was going to see the Galleria Borghese. This was not something to be taken lightly. I had tried and failed on three attempts to visit this famed repository of beautiful art.
On our first trip to Rome our hotel was located in the vicinity of the Villa Borghese. The gallery was not yet reopened after years of renovation; it would be another month before reservations would be taken and my parents were among those lucky enough to enter the villa after years of closure. I would have to wait until another trip a year later secure reservations, which we duly obtained. The day arrived, we high-tailed it through the vast park and up the steps of the villa only to be told that the galleria was, that day, chiuso. There was some kind of strike going on involving museum personnel. At least that is what we think he said; it didn’t really matter why, we only knew the museum was closed despite our reservations made months in advance.
Another year, another trip, another reservation secured. The only day available during our stay in Rome was the first thing in the morning on the day after our arrival. If you have suffered jet-lag you will understand why we slept soundly right through our appointed hour. We were told all other reservations for that day were firmly held and we’d not be able to enter unless we wanted to spend the better part of the day waiting around hoping for a no-show. We opted to see other sights.
Another year, another trip, another reservation. We hopped a bus from the Trastevere area, allowing ourselves ample time. Except that we didn’t know there was a huge anti-war demonstration in the heart of the city, causing everything to come to a screeching halt, including our bus which tried to navigate around the mess but was left at a standstill until the driver finally turned the vehicle off and ordered everyone out. We ran and tried to make it, but of course by this time we were a half-hour late and were not admitted.
I gave up hope of ever seeing the wondrous beauties within the 18th century villa. Until Thursday. Francesca made reservations several weeks ago for a small group to see the special exhibition of Raphael works. I guess when I am not the one reserving, things go smoothly. We entered without a glitch (except that Francesca was ordered to check her purse; mine was allowed in, though I’m not sure why). An audio guide helped us understand the background of the museum and the precious contents within, though it didn’t cover any of the Raphael exhibit. Marvelous, marvelous, marvelous! Bernini! Caravaggio! Canova! My favorites, accompanied by the lovely Madonnas of Raphael and we were completely enchanted.
At long last I admitted to the gallery. It was worth the wait.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
On our first trip to Rome our hotel was located in the vicinity of the Villa Borghese. The gallery was not yet reopened after years of renovation; it would be another month before reservations would be taken and my parents were among those lucky enough to enter the villa after years of closure. I would have to wait until another trip a year later secure reservations, which we duly obtained. The day arrived, we high-tailed it through the vast park and up the steps of the villa only to be told that the galleria was, that day, chiuso. There was some kind of strike going on involving museum personnel. At least that is what we think he said; it didn’t really matter why, we only knew the museum was closed despite our reservations made months in advance.
Another year, another trip, another reservation secured. The only day available during our stay in Rome was the first thing in the morning on the day after our arrival. If you have suffered jet-lag you will understand why we slept soundly right through our appointed hour. We were told all other reservations for that day were firmly held and we’d not be able to enter unless we wanted to spend the better part of the day waiting around hoping for a no-show. We opted to see other sights.
Another year, another trip, another reservation. We hopped a bus from the Trastevere area, allowing ourselves ample time. Except that we didn’t know there was a huge anti-war demonstration in the heart of the city, causing everything to come to a screeching halt, including our bus which tried to navigate around the mess but was left at a standstill until the driver finally turned the vehicle off and ordered everyone out. We ran and tried to make it, but of course by this time we were a half-hour late and were not admitted.
I gave up hope of ever seeing the wondrous beauties within the 18th century villa. Until Thursday. Francesca made reservations several weeks ago for a small group to see the special exhibition of Raphael works. I guess when I am not the one reserving, things go smoothly. We entered without a glitch (except that Francesca was ordered to check her purse; mine was allowed in, though I’m not sure why). An audio guide helped us understand the background of the museum and the precious contents within, though it didn’t cover any of the Raphael exhibit. Marvelous, marvelous, marvelous! Bernini! Caravaggio! Canova! My favorites, accompanied by the lovely Madonnas of Raphael and we were completely enchanted.
At long last I admitted to the gallery. It was worth the wait.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Bureaucracy Revisited
The wheels of bureaucracy in
The visas decorating our passports allowed us to enter the country for a year. Normal tourists can stay up to 90 days and then must take their baggage and leave. To be here officially we need the permits. We dutifully went on our first day here, accompanied by Giorgio and Francesca, and went through the whole rigamorole of being finger-printed, weighed, measured (height) and questioned. (Read all about it in the archives from May.) We were given our ricevuto, a kind of receipt adorned with a tiny photo face-shot saying we’d applied for said permit. And then we began to wait. And wait. And wait.
We returned a couple weeks ago to inquire about the status, but were told that we’d “only applied in May”…how could we possibly expect they’d be ready yet? Maybe September, he said. September; we were aghast. Well, he said, you know it is almost August and there are the vacation schedules…and he mumbled other things I could not hear nor comprehend, speaking as he was into a crackly microphone through the plexiglass window, with a full room of foreign spectators behind me creating a cacophony. We left understanding enough – the permessos wouldn’t be ready for some time.
Today we returned armed with Francesca, a gal who knows her way around bureaucracy. She was packing a weapon – the name of an employee. “It’s the only way,” we were told. “You have to know someone.” Unfortunately, that someone is (predictably) on vacation. Nonetheless, we were again told that we’d only applied in May, so why the impatience? Francesca explained about our friends and their coveted appointment in
And so we wait. And wait. And wait.
copyright 2006 Valerie Schneider
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
The Tastes of Italia
Food tastes better here. The same fruits I bought at home – cantaloupe, watermelon, peaches – that were faintly scented and fairly tasteless, here are bursting with juicy fragrance and sweet freshness. Tomatoes, something neither of us ate raw at home, have a different flavor, and we have enjoyed them chopped on bruschetta drizzled with golden-green olive oil, as well as sliced onto salads. Fresh tomatoes…us! It’s unheard of. We have been enjoying fresh, home-grown figs, apricots, and plums. For a month Francesca brought nespole, a Mediterranean fruit we’d never seen before, a funky sweet-tart thing with five large seeds in the middle. Bryan, forever a picky eater, has been much more willing to taste things here (and is actually liking many of them).
The foods available are just plain fresher. The growers are closer at hand, and they are picked at the peak. No picking when they are still hard and green, traveling for hundreds (if not thousands) of miles to sit around in a warehouse, and then in the grocery case. Not in
When we buy fresh produce, it must be consumed within a day or two or it begins to rot. We learned the hard way that we have to buy more frequently in smaller quantities; no American-style once-a-week big grocery shopping here. The first several trips to the weekly market I went ape, letting my eyes feast on the goods at hand, with my hands readily forking over the money for a great quantity that I thought I would use all week, only to find the beautiful veggies going bad in the frigo within a few days. 
It is a much more pleasurable experience to pay a visit to the little frutta-verdura lady to supplement what we buy at the mercato, than to troll a garish, florescent-lit, gigantic store chock full of unhealthy, artificially-flavored boxed goods. Our few forays into the gaudy ipermercato ended in blurry eyes, frustration, and a feeling of overload…it was too much like a Super Wal-Mart for my taste and sensibilities. Especially when one has a nice purveyor of produce right in the neighborhood.
The fruit lady lets me select what I’d like in any quantity – if I only want 3 stalks of celery, so be it; a handful of parsley instead of a whole bundle is no problem. She frequently tucks sprigs of basil and oregano into my bags if I am buying tomatoes, figuring I’m going to need the flavorings for a sauce. She also sells various breads, and that, too, can be had in any quantity…a knife is provided for us to cut off the size chunk we want. Even if I fill a bag full of things, I’ve rarely spent more than 3 Euro at a time in her store, her prices are just that darn low, and I don’t know how she can make a profit. Despite the sign that clearly states “non si fa credito”, she tells me to pay domani when I think I’ll need to put something back for lack of sufficient money, or if I try to give her a bill instead of the smaller-denomination euro coins. She also rounds the bill down to the nearest increment every time I go in, so my bill for 2.24 euro today was stated as “2 euro, per favore”. One afternoon I’d arrived after all the zucchini had been sold; the next day when she saw me, she smiled and produced a little bag of the small, freshest zucchini at hand, blossoms still beautiful, and handed over the bag. She had set them aside just for me.
The butcher is kindly and has beautiful meats. He, too, cuts off what you desire when you are buying it. He also fillets the chicken breasts if I ask - at no extra cost- to use for cutlets. When I wanted a small amount of ground beef for stuffed eggplant but didn’t see any in the case, I asked about carne maccinato, and he said, “of course, how much would you like?” I stated the amount I thought I’d need (grams and pounds conversions still pose a mathematical challenge for me on top of the linguistic conversions floating about in my head), then he cut a chunk of meat off of a nice, lean roast and ground it for me on the spot. It doesn’t get much fresher than that.
In our resort area, seafood is everywhere and the fishmongers have the freshest of fishies, as do the restaurants. Giorgio has prepared some fish very simply grilled, but so fresh I could still taste the salt-water in them.
Gelato is so unlike ice-cream it is a shame they translate the word as such. Gelato is creamy and light, bursting with the flavors of what is used to make it…be it strawberries, chocolate or hazelnuts, the source taste shines through. It is not heavy and dense, like American ice cream which is made from great quantities of heavy cream; it is softer, more silky in the mouth; it does not coat the tongue and weigh down the taste, and has less sugar, too. Delightful.
Food is the ever-popular topic of discussion. On trains, on the beach, in the stores…where I hear people interacting, inevitably the conversation turns around to food. Always. On a train, two men in suits were arguing and gesturing, and I thought they were discussing politics. When I strained to hear better - to practice listening in Italian, of course, not to eavesdrop, mind you - the heated discussion was about how best to prepare veal cutlets, Milanese style or in a simple wine sauce.
Truly, Italians are passionate about food and it shows. Truly…food just tastes better here.
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