The Answer Is

All right...the answer is... 

CATERPILLARS!  

Why?  We have no idea.  In fact, I'm not really even sure how he knows about caterpillars.  I don't think he's ever seen a real one, we don't even have Eric Carlyle's book, The Hungry Caterpillar.  The only thing I've ever done is make little play-doh balls and stick them together, adding eyes to the front one, and tell Dominic it was a caterpillar.  And then another day he lined up a bunch of coins and proudly told me he made a caterpillar.  But scary?  And going to eat him? I have no idea...he's a weird little boy.

Scared!

So, Dominic woke up crying in the middle of the night.  Mommy to the rescue.

--Dominic, Dominic, what's wrong?

--I'm scared.

--What are you scared of?

--They're going to eat me!

Okay, guessing time, what is Dominic scared of?

Alberto

I came home from church today giddy with excitement at my conversation with Alberto.  I felt like a little school girl.  He was so interesting.  He was so nice.  He was so...Italian! 

No, not a crush, of course.  More like a sense of triumph.  Alberto is my once-a-week Italian friend at church.  The first week he came up to say hi, I felt so sheepish.  I could only reply, "Ciao.  I'm sorry I don't speak Italian, but I'm learning"  to his friendly Italian "overtures". 

About a month went by when this Alberto came up to me again and tried again to speak to me.  That time I was able to say a little more, although I still understood very little.  I could tell him my name, that I was married and had two kids, and what we were doing here.  We left on friendly terms, and I felt encouraged that I was able to say a little more. 

Since then, we've had several conversations, and each time he encourages me that I am speaking more than the last time, and certainly far more than the first time.   Sometimes I get discouraged that I can't say what I want, but it's hard to gauge my own progress.  This sort of outside measure has proved to be most encouraging.  Each time I am understanding more and able to say more. 

This last time, I felt great about our interaction.  One, I understood 75% of what he was saying and, most importantly, I was beginning to be able to ask questions if I didn't catch what he was saying.  For some reason, it has taken me a long time to feel comfortable asking a question regarding my comprehension.  I guess in order to do that, I need a reasonable assurance that a clarification will help me catch it the second (or third) time, otherwise it's just a waste of time and embarrassing.  Second, we had an interesting conversation about the US and Italy.  It had snowed about an inch again today, so I asked him if this was typical.  He told me that it was colder this year, and it doesn't usually snow in Padua.  I asked if he liked the cold, and he told me he much preferred the warmth (wild gestures here).  Then he asked about the weather of Philadelphia (we always say we're from Philadelphia, it's much easier for Italians, who have frequently at least heard of it, instead of Pennsylvania or York).  I told him it was colder in the winter and hotter in the summer than Padua.  He told me a funny thing.  "I thought so," he said.  "I remember very well the first time that I saw you, you had on a short-sleeve shirt and all the Italians were wearing long-sleeve shirts.  That was how I knew you were not Italian.  We were all so cold and you were not.  You could not be from here." 

Really, that was what gave it away?  I was giddy about this discovery.  Yes, I talked to a real Italian and I understood a more complicated conversation.  But I also uncovered something that Matt and I had been talking about.  What gives us away as non-Italians?  Italians don't often assume that we're from the US, for some reason.  Spain is actually the most frequent assumption; last week, Lana and Matt were identified as Portuguese!  But why?  Often we haven't even talked, or we say something that is very typical and, at least in our opinion, sounds pretty Italian.  What is it?  It seems that it is these very small cultural things, things that we don't even think twice about.  Like a short-sleeved shirt in September.  Because it is still hot. 

Cheerios and Salt

What's that proverb?

 A little sleep, a little slumber,
       a little folding of the hands to rest-
 and poverty will come on you like a bandit,
       and scarcity like an armed man. 

Yes, indeed. 

A little sleep cost us a box of cheerios.  And a shaker of salt.  A lot of aggravation. And thirty minutes of cleaning.

So what happened?  Dominic slipped out of the room without our notice.  We were slumbering peacefully away until we were jostled from happy-land by an unusual scream from Cate, who had, I gather, finally gotten tired of having Dominic in her pack n' play.  I'm not sure how long he had been there before she had had enough.  All I know is that it was long enough for Dominic to get breakfast for the two of them.  He had taken the two boxes of honey nut cheerios off the counter and threw them into Cate's bed, then climbed over the rail into bed with Cate and the cheerios.  Together they were smashing in cheerios, dumping them out into the pack n' play.  For easier access?  For play?  I'm not sure.   I guess they thought the cheerios were getting a little boring tasting, though, because Dominic then took the salt shaker off the table and began pouring it's contents on top of the cheerios. 

During the cross-examination of incomprehension at this travesty, I kept asking Dominic, "Why? WHY  Why did you do it?"  He was at a loss and just stared at me, not getting it.  He shrugged and added, "I pour 'em, for Catie.  See, I sprinkle, sprinkle, sprinkle," he told me as he demonstrated just how to shake a salt shaker. 

Sigh.  Well, at least one bag of cheerios was still sealed...

 Proverbs 24:33-4

As I took this picture, Dominic said, "Mommy are you taking a picture of my cheerios?  Do you want to take a picture of my doggies too?"

Blog Sabbatical

I've been absent from the blogosphere for quite some time.  I do sincerely apologize for depriving you of my wit and charm.  I know that this is the reason you surf the net, perhaps even the reason you get up in the morning;  I am truly sorry. There are several reasons--most of them legitimate--for this unplanned blog sabbatical. 

First, Matt's sister, Marialana, came for a wonderful two-and-a-half week  visit.  Since she chose to spend her J-term here in Italy with us instead of taking an intensive three-week course at college, we made our best attempts to give her a little Italian crash course.  Matt and Lana took a little brother-sister trip to Florence and Rome for five days, doing a blitz of the major sites that would not have been possible with the pace and luggage of kids.  Once back in Padua, we did some more sight-seeing all together of Padua and the surrounding area.  We tried to take Lana to see Petrarch's house in Arqua Petrarca (about an hour away), but it ended up being impossible to reach by bus, so we ended up taking a ten minute train ride to the nearby town of Monselice, a charming village with medieval walls and a scenic walk/pilgrimmage of seven "churches" winding their way up a hill to a large church at the top.  

Leaving Matt behind to do some work in the archives, Lana and I took the kids to Verona together and, by a wrong turn, discovered the amazing Roman Theater and Archeological Museum.  I posted pictures of that about a week ago.  It was originally a Roman theater dating back to the second century (AD).  On top of this was a temple.  Then, the Gesuati built a monastery and the marvelously frescoed church of St. Jerome above this.  Built even higher up into the hill was the Castel di San Pietro (Castle of St. Peter).  As we went higher and higher, the view of beautiful Verona and its river just kept getting more and more spectacular.  This was a nice reward for poor Lana since she ended up carrying Dominic almost the entire way.  (Cate was already in the baby carrier on me, sleeping.)  We didn't get a chance to go to the very top because the castle is only open on Sundays, but it was an amazing find.   I think it was even more exciting because we found it by chance, peeking in through a side gate at the towering ruins, wondering, "What's THAT?" and then discovered that it was a museum with a cheap entrance fee!

Lana and I made a little trip to Venice by ourselves. We left Matt and the kids back at the apartment because of the frigid weather and the annoyingly abundant stairs in Venice.  It was still magical despite the weather.  We had a lot of fun trying out the cozy (code for: crowded, standing room at bar only) cafes to try a toasted panini, cappuccino, and fritelle.  The best cafes are, apparently, jam-packed with people.  You weasel your way to the bar, give your order to one of the two bartenders when they ask, wait for it, take it to some corner of the floor, trying to stay out of the way of the opening doors and the fifteen other people vying for room in the warmth of the cafe.  Should the cafe have a table or two, you will pay a premium for it.  The prices are often 100% more for taking you drink at a table instead of a bar.    You don't pay until after you consume your drink or food.  Very interesting.  They must make a killing.  All the panini and wraps are pre-made.  I'd say the average customer only stays 8 minutes.  One guy makes drinks and the other guy heats up the panini.  Very small space (although this particular place was very classy with polished wood bars, glass sliding doors, and a hanging, mirrored display of drinks.  Brilliant.  Amazing. 

So Marialana is the first reason that you've been deprived. I'll try to get her to do a guest post on something she saw for a fresh perspective on Italian life to make up for it. :) 

The second reason is that we intensified our potty-training efforts and with great success!  We can now proudly boast of having a "mostly potty-trained" son.  Perhaps by 3 he'll be completely there. Just diapers at night now, and we've had several days without any accidents--or splashes, as he refers to them (because he gets a slash on the paper instead of a star)--including going on several lengthy outings.

The third reason is that our internet has been dysfunctional, again.  Or still, depending on your perspective.  Server error.  Internet not working.  This time for four days.  I actually wrote a whole stash of posts off-line a few days ago, figuring that I should just stop stalling, get down to business, and restore the sunshine to your lives...  

Why I love Itay...

Lana, the kids, and I made a little day-trip to Verona and, after taking a backroute through the city, just happened upon this sight.  The bottom picture is to the left of the top picture and taken from the top of this theater-like thing.  They're both built into the hill and extend upwards for some distance.  What do you think? What is/was it?

Warmth, At Last!

The heater is finally working. I wouldn't say it got fixed. But it is working.

So, for about two weeks, I'd been calling, writing e-mails and dropping by our house "secretary's" flat to find a fix for our broken bedroom heater. Let me share the lovely Italian absurdity with you.

I see the "secretary", il Signor Federico, in the hallway. I take my chance to inform him of my need.

-Mi scusi. The heater in our bedroom is broken.  It isn't putting out any hot air.  Can we have someone come and fix it?
-The what? Where? Oh, okay. Right away.

I was skeptical. He probably wouldn't remember it at all.  It had taken 2 months to get him to get us a new chair for our apartment.  The first time he told me he needed to order one.  The second time he told me he was waiting for it.  And the third time, when I asked if it had come yet, he looked very, very confused and told me we could just have the chair from his apartment, which he promptly carried to our apartment.

So...about 3 days later, I went to the other residence to pay our rent at the other residence. Keenly remembering the last time, I requested again:

-Scusi, our heater does not function. It is broken.  It is very, very cold in our bedroom when we sleep at night. (Notice how much I repeat myself and how I simplify everything to terrifying horrible English in an attempt to get understanding and action).
-Oh, yes? I'm sorry but the man who can fix it is away. You will have to wait until Monday.
-May I have extra blankets since it is so cold?
-Ok. I will have the housekeeper leave one for you at your door.

One? But we are three people...Sigh. For the shock of a lifetime, however, I got
home and there was actually a blanket waiting for me! Hooray. Now at least one of us would be warm enough at night.

Monday came, I had waited the whole weekend expectantly, eager for heat to come with Monday. But Monday came and went and still no repairman. No apology. No nothing. Did I really think that someone would come? Really? Yes, sadly, I still believed that secretaries follow through, that repairmen come, and that heat matters. How American can you get?

Tuesday came and goes. Still nothing. I read a notice that Federico Fantuzzi had gone on "holiday" and would not be available to assist the residents, but if you should need assistance either wait until he returns or e-mail the Accomodation office. "Yes!" I thought.  This is my chance. I can go around Mr. Fantuzzi without being caught! I e-mail them right away. At least I have a chance of someone else hearing my plea. I then experienced the single most un-Italian thing I have ever experienced since coming here...

I got an e-mail response back in 30 minutes. He asked for clarification if it was the heater in the bedroom or living room. I responded quickly and then he again responded an hour later and said that someone would come that day to look at it.

Having learned from the last empty promise, I did not anticipate. I was not expecting an actual man to show up. So when the door bell rang just two hours after I got the e-mail promise, I was very startled and a bit confused at who it could possibly be at the door. But it was "the man" (yes, the legendary man who can fix everything! Dominic really believes that there is a miracle worker--who he refers to simply as "the man"--who can put broken crackers back together, take mold off walls, and make things work again.) He came! He looked at the heater and declared it to be "rotto". Literally, broken. The worst part was that he would not be able to fix it and needed to call another "technico" or so I learned via our interpreter on the other side of a cell phone that we passed back and forth. Would tomorrow be okay? Tomorrow would be perfetto.

Did I think that new man would ever come? No. With a window of "between 2 and 5," something was sure to go wrong. But, I got a phone call in Italian and I understood enough to know that the "technico" was here and coming. Oh my gosh!!! This is it.  We're going to have heat again! I hastily woke up a grumpy Cate and moved her to the other room. I shoved aside the beds and made a nice path to the heater.  He came in and examined the heater. He turned it on and looked at me strangely. "Non funzione?" "It doesn't work?" Lacking words, I simply responded, "Si, e rotto." Since he spoke no English and I speak little Italian, he gestured to me to come over and feel the heater. It was blowing out warm air. Inexplicably, it had begun working. How embarrassing!  But, but...it was broken!  Even the man yesterday said it was! I tried to protest in Italian that I didn't know how it was working. It was broken for two weeks, but I don't think he bought it. He simply thought I was an ignorant and silly American girl wasting his precious time.  

Sigh...

And that is how our heater came to work without actually being fixed.