The Italian Coin Craze

Remember the coin craze in the US when the Fed started minting special state quarters and only 4 new ones came out each year? There was a mad rush on every bank and endless phone calls for customers desperate to get their newly-minted quarters, desperate to snatch up a roll or two while they were still spankin' new, to fill that lonely CA or TX whole in their coin collection.  I worked in a bank for one of those years and dreaded every time a new quarter was released.

Fortunately, the Italian coin craze is not like that.  There is no mad dash over the euro, no coin collecting, and no urgent bank runs.  And therein lies the real problem: not only no rushing the bank, Italians don't ever (or...very rarely) go to the bank.  Not merely average citizens, but the shops, supermarkets, restaurants, etc, just never go to the bank.  They rely on their customers to have exact change or make change in such a way that they give you the least amount of change. The idea of requiring change from a vendor is seen as an insult of the highest kind, one only perpetrated by tourists.

Let me give you an example.  Just yesterday I was in the supermarket, a large grocery store chain called Billa.  It is always crowded and must have a thousand customers a day.  The kids and I went at 9am to avoid the hoards of crazed Italians staunchly marking out there territory before the deli, in the aisle, and waiting to check out.  You would think that -- this early in the morning -- making change would not be a problem (they open at 8am).  But shops do not make a morning run to the bank to get the change they might require for the day, like they do in the US.  My total rang up to 20.49 euro.  I handed her a twenty and then felt the need to apologize when I also handed her a five.  From experience, I knew this apology was necessary to avoid being shunned.  After all, I was asking that she give me two two-euro coins and a fifty-cent coin and a penny.  That's a lot of change isn't it?  How dare I not carry exact change?!  She looked at the five as if she didn't quite know what to do with it.  She pondered a minute looking at my shopping cart, then she spoke her brilliant scheme.  "You have a cart.  When you return it, bring me the euro." And she returned my five-euro bill and gave me fifty cents instead, expecting me to bring her the euro when I finished returning my cart.  To get a shopping cart, you put a one euro coin in as a deposit.  When you return it, you get the euro back. 

Other times, Matt has tried to buy bus tickets from a tabaccheria and been refused because he didn't have the right change.  He only wanted two, so it should cost 2 euro.  But, as no one else gives change either, he only had a ten.  This would entail giving him a five-euro bill, a two-euro coin, and a one-euro coin.  Outrageous!  Once it was around 9:30AM, and they asked if he would wait for them to grab change at the bank because they had none in their registers.  He just decided to buy enough tickets to prevent that waste of time.  (Once he had to come all the way back from a pizzeria because he only had a twenty-euro bill for a twelve-euro purchase! He needed to come back and grab enough coins... But he would have had to wait for the pizza to bake anyway, I guess.)

Routinely, Italians round up or down by up to 10 cents so that they can give you nothing smaller than a ten-cent piece.  Pennies are forgiven if they ever come up.  I'm not quite sure why they even exist.  And most prices are usually on the euro itself.  1 euro, 2 euro, etc.  The idea of .99, .85, etc is simply anathema to them, as it well should be. Who ever thought of doing things that way, anyway? And tax is already included, so, the listed price is the price you'll pay.  That's convenient.

But, here in Italy, have the right change, or you will be the utmost inconvenience and have scorn heaped upon your head.

To Queue or Not to Queue

I just had some friends, Trevor and Anna, visit who are living in London and came to Italy to do some sightseeing.  They brought this cultural difference about "queuing" to my attention, and it rings wholly true with my experiences.

So, the question is: to queue or not to queue?  If we were in England, the States, or any northern European country like Denmark or Sweden, the answer would be terribly obvious. Queue. Duh. In fact, there would be no discussion about it. Just get in the single file line and wait your turn, like everybody else.  Oh and don't talk about it.  That's rude.  Just wait.

In Italy, the idea of "queue" does not really exist. The mob mentality is king. For example, when we were trying to get our Permits of Stay.  We had arrived early and were waiting outside the ominous metal gate of the Questura police station, poised at the front of the line...or so we thought. People kept coming and coming and coming, but they wouldn't line up behind us, snaking neatly to the end of the block. No. They lined up next to us, making an ever wider line, occasionally going back a row as the space didn't allow any more horizontal expanding.  They were pressing on the metal gate, rattling the bars to get in, and shouting, like raved lunatics at rock concerts.  And, to our utter dismay, as soon as the door was opened, people smashed their way through, jamming their papers at the attendant in no particular order and rushing for a seat inside the waiting room.  And the attendants allowed this! Since I had to maneuver the double stroller and, of course, any double stroller no matter how high end or awesome, simply cannot compete against the highly adaptable pedestrian, I fell behind in the line while Matt pressed forward, hunting for the family, scouring places to sit and getting our papers in the stack.  This, however, gave me the chance to observe what was really happening.  After the gatekeeper got all the papers, she shuffled them around, moving one after the other into some sort of actual order.  It appeared that they were actually going to honor the appointment times after all and call the names of the earliest appointments first!  The mob was just waiting to get inside and get seats!  But this is just one example of what happens everyday.  The bus "lines" are exactly the same way, except no one is there to arbitrate.  It's not "first come, first serve," but rather "first and fastest (or pushiest)." Cafes are the same, tobacco shops (we buy bus tickets there), stores, and most certainly, government agencies.

The only two exceptions are the post office, deli, and the grocery store checkout.  The post office and deli are each run by a number system that is very similar to the D.M.V. in the States.  You grab a number from the machine.  Then you wait until it flashes on the overhead sign.  Presto, your turn.  In the mean time, everyone loiters around looking very ill at ease.  But nothing can be worse than the annoyance and paranoia at the grocery store checkout line.   At the supermarket, Italians are forced to queue.  It is as if it sucks the life from them.  They wait impatiently, always looking irritatedly at the people in front of them and behind them.  They snatch the divider stick and emphatically place it between your stuff and theirs. I know I've written about that before, so I'll spare the details.  (If you missed that post it's here To market, to market.)

Maybe it simply boils down to a language difference.  In English we have a the letter "q".  But in Italian, they lack the letter "q".  It has become painfully apparent that they don't have a "q" about queuing.

Is it really worth it?

Or, as they say in Italian, "Vale la pena?" Is it really worth it to go through all the trouble of using artichoke hearts? Right now artichokes are just coming into season, so we can find them very easily. They're still not super-cheap, but they're at least affordable and incredibly tasty. I decided to have a go at using fresh artichoke hearts, harvesting them myself from a whole artichoke. With them, I was going to make an artichoke parmesan quiche that looked pretty delicious. If that went well, I had plans to make artichoke au gratin potatoes for Easter.  Marcella Hazan, author of my new cookbook, The Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking, just made my mouth water for artichokes going on about how tender, enjoyable, delectable, and glorious artichoke hearts are.  When she wrote "the only exacting part of this recipe is in fact the trimming away of all the tough, inedible parts that usually makes eating artichokes a chore," I think she made a profound understatement.  It probably took me half of an hour to prepare two artichokes.  First, wash them.  Then, snap back all the leaves from the outside inward.  Next, run a paring knife around the inside to scrape out all the prickles, taking care not to damage the most tender heart.  Finally, still using the paring knife, peel the stem and trim any tough leaves (most of the outside).  To be fair, the second one went a lot faster than the first.  The results are below. On the left is a fresh and untouched artichoke.  On the right is the pile of discarded and unusable leaves, stem, prickles, etc, from the first artichoke I did.  Then, the tiny pile on the bottom is the artichoke heart and stem that I harvested for my recipe.  Really?  Is it worth it?

This pictures below is the artichoke after I had stripped it of inedible leaves and prickles.  Not the prettiest job (I guess that comes with practice, assuming I ever do it again).

And this final pictures shows the two cut up artichokes being sauteed in butter.  I must say, they were mouth-wateringly good.  It was a shame to have them covered up in a quiche.  I would have preferred to enjoy their delectable qualities alone, unsullied by any other flavors.  Perhaps next time, that's what I'll do.  Then they will be worth the trouble to enjoy their glory in full.
                               

Italian Fashion

"To be out of fashion is more criminal than to be seen in a state of nature, to which the Parisians are not averse." (Abigail Adams, becoming acquainted to French custom)

The Italians might agree...

These puffy, shiny jackets are all the rage.  Note also the man scarf on this stylishly-grayed husband. Knee-high boots (thigh-highs are also popular) and skinny jeans. Also notice their one child and his fur collar, who is sitting in their posh, very expensive stroller.  Gotta love the classic Italian style.  I'll try to periodically post some pictures of Italian fashion for your inspiration or amusement. 

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. 

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.

When the Tide Rolls In: Venice

Matt was in Venice again to do still more research at la Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana.  (I just love it, here we have a quintessential example of Italy's adjectival usage.  La Marciana is a National Library.  Read carefully.  The Marciana is one of at least five national libraries in Italy: Rome, Florence, Milan, Torino, Venice, and maybe a few others.)  He went to Venice on a sunny day, clear blue skies all around. What he saw, however, shocked him beyond belief.   Piazza San Marco was entirely flooded, and the whole city was 1-1/2 feet deep in water.  The raised sidewalks, a series of planks that look like park benches are lined up end to end, were all up.  I guess the tide had rolled in; apparently, it was that time of the month. (I think that's how tides work, anyway).

But it was business as usual for the Venetians.  Despite have water around their calves in their shops, they were conducting trade and serving their clients without a hitch.  They all had high rubber boots on and some had one or two employees hauling bucket after bucket of water out of the store.  Matt saw a gelateria (ice cream store) taking orders and serving up cones from the ground, surrounded by water, to people leaning down from the raised sidewalks.  I can only imagine all the Venetians that must have been loitering on these two-feet wide planks with their little porcelain cups of caffe, reaching down to return a cup and to place a euro in the the hand of a rubber-booted barrista.

Clash of Cultures

We witnessed first hand a most beautiful clash of cultures. This time it was the Italian culture and the Danish culture. I know I have already written of the Italian wariness of temperatures, which causes them to bundle children until they resemble marshmallows and to refrain from taking them out in any sort of inclement weather, such as a 60-degree day or slight sprinkles from a sunny sky. Well, it turns out that Danes believe with equal tenacity that fresh air strengthens children and is necessary for their development. All children take at least one nap outside each day, sleeping in their very plush and oversized "strollers," which are really just small beds on wheels. The exception is if the weather is minus 10 degrees Celsius or lower (14 degrees Fahrenheit), then they concede that the weather might harm even their hearty Nordic children. Our neighbors, being Danish to the core, take their son for a walk everyday, during which he falls asleep, and then they bring him back to the apartment and push him out on the terrace where he will sleep for two or three hours.

We went to their house for Vilhelm's second birthday party, and he was still sleeping peacefully on the terrace, although you could not see much of him under his down comforter. The other guests began to arrive as well, including their Italian friend, Marco. Marco is probably thirty and is neither married nor has children. We saw Vilhelm outside and, knowing their custom, laughed and asked when would Vilhelm wake up. Marco, upon seeing the stroller outside with poor Vilhelm in it, exclaimed, "But it's cold outside! He'll catch a cold! Do you always do this?" When they told him yes, he does this every day, unless it is below -10 degrees, Maro just shook his head in shock. It was beautiful to behold.

Giorno del Ringraziamento a.k.a. Thanksgiving

Preparations were most difficult for this beloved American holiday. Italy just isn't made for this sort of country-wide gluttonous feast devoted to the red-wattled gobbler. Thank God for the Native Americans and all their delicious foods that helped the Pilgrims through the harsh winters of the New World.

Fearing to be alone on such a communal feast, we invited our Danish neighbors, with whom we have become quite good friends, to share our Thanksgiving. They were quite excited to be able to come and see a real American Thanksgiving, so we felt that we needed to put together a decent spread. This, of course, required turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, ample gravy, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, bread, and pumpkin pie, at the very minimum. Having only decided 4 days before Thanksgiving that we would be hosting the feast (we were hoping for an invite...but it never came, so we resolved to have our own), I set out looking for the proper ingredients.

But to no avail. The Italians just thought I was crazy. You want a what? A whole turkey? No, no, no; we don't have those. I had resolved that if I couldn't find a whole turkey, which was a very real possibility because I had not ordered one from a butcher several weeks in advance, I would just have to settle for turkey breasts or simply substitute a whole chicken. In the name of authenticity, especially for the sake of our Danish invitees, I opted for turkey, in whatever form I might find it. After trying four stores, I finally found a very, very large turkey breast and equally enormous legs. The turkey they came from must have been an inimitable foul. Mashed potatoes were no trouble except that we had no masher, so I sent Matt out for a handheld blender at the last minute. It worked a little too well, and they ended up being very pureed, kind of like Outback's mashed potatoes. Fortunately stuffing turned out to be a cinch, even though I'd never made it before and couldn't find poultry seasoning anywhere. I had scoured the internet for a recipe that was fairly simple and had a limited number of ingredients, finally deciding on chestnut stuffing. As for green bean casserole. . . well, cream of mushroom soup and French's french friend onions. Rather than trying to make some horrible concoction of substitutes, I simplified it to garlic string beans. At least it's a vegetable, right?

The pie was quite an affair. It certainly would have been easier to do without. But really, can you? I think that second to the turkey, pumpkin pie is most essential. I searched high and low for pureed pumpkin. (I'm beginning to think that Italians have some sort of superstition about the evils of canned food. Maybe it's the temperature change that the vegetables must go through the be put in the can. Other than tomatoes, hardly anything can be found in a can here, and certainly not pumpkin.) Okay, fine. I'll make my own pumpkin puree. Let's see just how Martha-esque I can be out of necessity. I spy the zucca. Now, how much does one need? Which kind? Lost in puzzlement over the three types: two squash looking ones and a more traditional shaped pumpkin, although very white, I call Matt on the phone to see if Google can answer my question. I guess the man next to me understood enough English to eavesdrop, though, because he began to tell me in Italian which pumpkin was best. Being a bit confused, I ask, "For cake?" (Because there's no Italian word for pie.) "Si, si, si," he responds, without seeming even a little ashamed that he heard my conversation. "And the price is better. Get this one." And then he walks away. Very mysterious. So I bought two of the kind he recommended. Whipped cream is also not to be found so I bought a carton of cream. Our Danish friends had told me that you can make whipped cream by shaking heavy cream in a ziploc bag with a coin in it. Brown sugar also does not exist in Italy, so I hoped white sugar will be okay. I stuffed my backpack with turkey, pumpkins, cream, and various spices, hopped on the bus and hauled all my groceries home, ready to begin the big preparations for Thanksgiving.

In short, cooking the food was much easier than finding it. I brined the turkey in a honey-lemon marinade, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that it only took up half of our refrigerator. Then I began on the pie. Per internet directions, I had cut the pumpkins in half and placed them fleshy side down on a buttered baking sheet. I had just put them in the oven when my Indian neighbor stopped by with her little boy. Inviting them in, I explained to her that I was just about to make a pumpkin pie for our Thanksgiving holiday. Since she likes to cook quite a bit herself, she asked if she could watch. Of course, I say. It also dawns on me that she has a little food processor which would solve my problem of how to puree the pumpkin. So we made pie together. Scoop the baked pumpkin out. Strain it--with a t-shirt--several times. Puree it. Continue as normal. Other than being very messy and a bit flat looking (we only had a ten inch metal cake pan), everything turned out perfectly. I ended up with about 3 cups of pumpkin puree left after making the pie, however, so I decided I may as well whip together some pumpkin soup for the occasion. Pumpkin soup really is easy and delicious. Cream and pumpkin and some spice.

Everything else really turned out quite well, although while I was taking the turkey out of the oven my racks began to break and one side of the oven collapsed inward. Rather than panic, however, I took it over to our neighbors and let it cook with the stuffing that was already baking in their oven. The whipped cream also gave me a little trouble. When Andreas, Astrid, and Vilhelm came over, I was in the middle of desperately trying to shake this cream in the ziploc bag with the euro in it into something more solid. Was a euro too much? Should it have been twenty cents instead? Astrid just told me to blow more air in the bag. Oh. Then Andreas offered to take over the shaking. I was only too happy to delegate. Apparently you need to shake hard and fast. We ended up with cream in just a few minutes.

We had borrowed their table and set up a lovely spread in our little apartment. Although, to be honest, I was surprised at how little a Thanksgiving for 4 looked when we set it on a big table. It didn't matter; we set in to our feasting with great delight. I explained what all the foods were and apologized that cranberry sauce was missing. I had scoured the stores for it and could not find cranberries anywhere. They also asked about this Thanksgiving tradition of ours, and we got to tell them about the Pilgrims and their odd outfits, how they were dying of hunger and were given food tips from the Indians on how to survive these dreadful winters. We also told them about how it wasn't made an official holiday until after the Civil War. "Civil War?" they ask, looking confused. "Who fought in the Civil War?" So then we had a little diversion on the history on the enmity of the north and the south, and how Abraham Lincoln reinstated a national day of Thanksgiving for the abundant crops that were still signs of God's mercy. At Thanksgiving we still celebrate our unity and the assistance of the Native Americans. We also give thanks for all our blessings by having a long holiday and eating enormous amounts of food at noontime with dear family. Then we lounge around and watch football or It's a Wonderful Life, we visit, we nap, and then we eat lots of leftovers as soon as we feel you can eat again.

It was really hard to communicate just how lovely Thanksgiving is. We gave thanks for all our family and friends who could not share our skinless turkey breast and flat pumpkin pie with us. We drank many glasses of fine wine for you on this our Italian Thanksgiving.

Italy Thankfuls

Making my list of things I am thankful for in Italy, I realized that at least 1/3 of them were types of food. While the administration and efficiency over here are, well, "lacking," the food over here is superb. I am thankful for pasta in all its shapes and sizes, for the multitude of sauces in which one can deliciously smother their noodles. I am thankful for pizza with wine and then gelato for dessert. We have never had a bad meal in Italy. Never. Ever. Let's give thanks to the God who made Italian food. ;) Other things I'm thankful for are:

• The abundance of fresh, seasonal fruit. (Although I am worried about what winter, when nothing is in season, will be like.) We have eaten 8 or 10 kilograms (22 pounds) of the delicious, seedless Clementine oranges this month!
• Matt and his dedication to us and his diligent work going day after day to different archives and persevering in reading Latin and Italian books and manuscripts. Also, Let's get this straight. This list is not in order of importance.
• The kids. See above comment. Plus, what would I do all day without them?
• Beautiful Italian architecture. Does it elevate my soul just to live here? Perhaps. Petrarch, Dante, and Livy are from here after all.
• Beautiful art, everywhere.
• Being forced to develop our own traditions: chestnut stuffing, Settlers of Catan in Italian, new routins, etc.
• Skype and cheap phone cards. A few conveniences that make the distance seem smaller.
• Our Danish neighbors. They are fun and interesting and keep us from getting too lonely. They also have a two-year-old boy, Vilhelm, who Dominic loves to play with.
• Our little apartment. I'm thankful that we got an apartment, that it is fairly inexpensive, that it is clean, that we have an elevator, that we have a nice view, and that we have heat.
• A chance to see wonderful Italy. This really is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. "White collar poverty" certainly does have its perks.
• The opportunity and ability to learn Italian. It really is a beautiful language.
• Wine. Good. Cheap. Abundant.
• Funny things the kids say and do. I'll indulge you in a few recent examples:

1. Just a minute ago, Dominic was buck-naked running off to go to the bathroom and shouting back to his sister, "I'll be back Cate!"
2. Because Dominic was not sitting in his usual chair at the dinner table, I said, "You need to move, this is where Daddy sits." He responds, "Yeah, that's Daddy's Happy Birthday Chair." That's a valid reason for a two-year-old. I love it.
   
3. Cate has started bringing me everything. She will pick up any toys/papers/bits on the floor and hand them to me one at a time, even if I'm across the room. The best part is the uber-proud look on her face every single time she hands me something. Then she claps for herself. :)
4. Dominic has begun quizzing Cate, just like an adult. He points to me and says to her, "And who's that, Catie?"

Things I miss Most About Home

This is sort of a pre-Thanksgiving post. While it could be considered to be a list of gripes about Italy, more important, it's a list of things I'm thankful for in the United States. As I was composing my list, I realized that most of them are matters of efficiency. Apparently, that's pretty important to me. I guess that's not surprising being an American and growing up with the 'Protestant' work-ethic. So, here's my list of American 'thankfuls'. I think tomorrow I'll do a list of my 'thankfuls' for Italy.

• Family
• Good friends with longstanding history
• Knowing how everything works and where to find stuff
• Whole turkeys at Thanksgiving
• Cranberry sauce (cranberries are impossible to find)
• Unlimited and free water at restaurants, ice
• Second-hand stores, especially for kids clothes
• 4-burner stove (we only have two)
• Unlimited energy (we can only run either the burners or one burner and the "oven" or the power blows)
• Fast internet and wireless(we have a single ethernet cord, and the internet powered by crippled hamsters)
• Stocking up at supermarkets (going to the grocery store everyday was quaint at first, now it's a little archaic)
• Being able to hop in the car and drive from point A to point B (not having to walk to a bus station, take the bus, take the train, take another bus, and then walk some more, especially with the kids)
• Target (everything affordable, easy to find, and all in one building!)
• The freezer (other Italians do have these)
• Free shipping on Amazon.com
• My sharp butcher knife and sharpener
• Living space and multiple bedrooms

Recap!

Aren't pictures worth a thousand words? Well, I'm going to save you the trouble of reading 75,000 words and have selected the best twenty percent for you to view at your leisure. Lots of things we weren't allowed to take pictures of, so, quite naturally, there are not very many pictures of some of the spectacular things we saw. Let's just say, it was a wonderful couple of weeks with Grandma and Grandpa!

Florence was crowded, rainy, and charming in its artsy way. We enjoyed a very central location and took in the local culture by eating at a late hour without the kids (we went as couples, taking turns watching the kids). The art museums were spectacular, but exhausting, as museums are wont to be.

Rome was, well, really old. It was sweet to see the ruins and imagine a thriving city there at one time, but honestly, Turkey has better ruins. Imagine that, better ruins. :) In Turkey they let you climb all over the ruins and really get close. But Turkey doesn't have the Colosseum or The Arch of Constantine. I really enjoyed seeing in person all of the things that hitherto have only been a page in an art history textbook. The process of getting to the Sistine Chapel was way more complicated than I ever dreamed it could be! We waited in line for 2 hours (our fault for not having reservations...but, as a plus, we went on a free day and saved a lot of money), then we were led through what felt like miles of anterooms gloriously decorated with frescoes, paintings, gold, carvings, etc. before we ever got to the Sistine Chapel. Once we finally got to Michaelangelo's masterpiece, you would have thought that we wouldn't have much art appreciation left in us. The man clapping his hands and bellowing out "SI-lence!" to the hoards below didn't help with that problem. Despite the downsides, however, it was still amazing. I have no idea how anyone, or even a group of people, could paint something so masterful and so beautiful. Extraordinary. St. Peter's Basilica blew my mind. It literally brought tears to my eyes. I love that it is still functioning as a church and not a museum or merely a destination for visitors. It was very prayerful and reverent as well as overwhelmingly beautiful and glorious.

The Colli Hills, about 40 minutes from us, are really quite lovely. It was nice to be out in nature and away from people after so many crowds, lines, and bustle. We enjoyed our hike to the top. Matt was such a trooper hauling Dominic up there in a baby backpack. Grandpa carried Cate in the other backpack and was a tropper too (she's just not quite as heavy). We saw some really gnarly vineyards, olive trees, and a persimmon tree. As a side note, we do not recommend not-quite-ripe persimmons. Psch, eckk, yuck! They taste like chalk and give you the worst cotton mouth you've ever had.

Verona was a charming city. It was a quaint little place full of its own wonders. The entire city is built upon Roman ruins. It has great shops, restaurants, and fun places to see. It was a joy just to wander around.

Lastly, we went to Venice. I know I've already posted about Venice, so I'll keep it brief. We went after a rainy day. The city had a slightly sewagey smell. But despite that, it was still a very endearing city. Because of the ill weather, we were able to walk right into St. Mark's Basilica without waiting at all. That was a miracle. It was a gold, Byzantine wonder. There are mosaics everywhere! According to Rick Steve's, who knows all, of course, the ceiling is as large as a football field and to do the mosaics would be like paving a football field with contacts (but of different shapes, etc!). We also took a boat ride to Murano island and saw a very brief demonstration on glass-blowing. I wish it had been longer because it was really fascinating. Mom and I gave in and bought necklaces with Murano glass beads. They're pretty cool, I must say.

At home, in Padova, we had a little (early) birthday celebration for Cate with a chocolate torte. She sure enjoyed that! It was wonderful to have Grandma and Grandpa here to celebrate it with us.

We had a fantastic time and wore ourselves out with wonder. Now it's back to the everyday grind, which is much less exciting...and exhausting.

The Corruption of Italy

The corruption of Italy runs deep. In fact, it has even penetrated our little boy's imagination (and, apparently, my spelling abilities, since I just spelled it "immagination").

While reading Harry, The Dirty Dog for the one hundred-billionth time, I start asking Dominic questions about the pictures, hoping to break up the monotony. I ask him to find the fire hydrant, count the number of shovels, locate the coal car, etc.

He catches onto the game alarmingly quickly and starts asking me his favorite question, "Whaz that?"

After we played it his way for a few pages, I turn the tables, "Dominic, what's that?" as I point to a plate with leafy greens on it in the background of the cafe scene. The expected answer is, of course, "salad" or perhaps "broccoli," which remains his favorite vegetable, although asparagus and green beans are definitely challenging its preeminence.

"Iz basil," he casually tells me.

My windowsill herb garden appears to have left quite an impression upon him. Whenever he sees me pick some for a recipe he asks, without fail, "Mommy, can I have a basil (or rosemary, he correctly identifies them), for me?"

I have also discovered that he likes sandwiches, if they're not boring. I'll give you an example. A few days ago I made him a sandwich. It was asiago cheese and salami on a fresh baguette, not too bad, I thought, but he just picked at it, hardly eating anything.

He sees me eating my sandwich and, in his typical style, asks, "Mommy, what're you eating?"

Since I make it my policy to always answer these inquiries, I "patiently" respond, "it's a sandwich with zucchini, red peppers, cheese, and pesto."

At the mention of pesto, he perks up. "Pesto? I want some pesto."

Seeing no harm from this request, I get some out, slather it on his bread, reassemble the sandwich and give it back to him. He promptly ate the entire sandwich. Ever since then he asks for a pesto sandwich. See, Italy is corrupting him.

Foreign Tidbits

I was just making a quick list of interesting things I've found out recently, originally intended just for my own records, but I thought you all might enjoy them as well. I made friends at the park with a Finnish mother (2 kids) and our neighbors are Danish. Both speak excellent English, so I've been learning a lot about their countries. And, of course, there are random things we keep learning about Italy. So here they are, in list form.

Italy
-all children go to "school"
-take the public bus to school or parents bike them to school
-shop every day
-Albanians and Moroccans are the victims of much prejudice. But this is apparently different than prejudices in America, because these people "really are thieves."
-very sweet (and minimal) breakfast foods: croissant, brioche, choco-cereals, muesli, yogurt (even chocolate chip flavored! (straticella)), coffee, juice
- eat dinner late 9:30-10:00
-kids go to bed about 10:30 or 11:00
-everyone goes to the park at 4:00, after picking up kids from the school
-make payments on strollers. I.e. Peg Perego stroller with pram is 60 euro/month for 10 months!
-frequently ask me about the kids, "are they yours?" and "how old are you?"
-apparently, it is not rude to ask "how old are you?" and "how much do you weigh?" after all, everyone can see these things any way.
-I cannot find Shout, brown sugar, baking soda, jarred garlic, dried mint, ranch dressing, and the pacifiers are lame (no curved nipple).
-the pizza is delicious, but apparently, "American pizza" has corn on it. What?

Finland
-eat dinner about 6:00
-kids to bed about 8:00
-much recyling/thrift stores, hand-me-downs
-hardly any cars
-the trope 'you cannot eat pasta every day' is there as well. Too many carbs are bad for you
-English is compulsory in school. almost everyone, even grandparents, speak English.

Denmark
-meat is more expensive there than in Italy. wow. 9 euro/kilo for chicken = $6/lb for chicken and ground beef. yikes.
-they eat dark bread (like pumpernickel) with various toppings for a traditional lunch
-almost no mothers stay home
-bikes everywhere. including a bike with a box in the front to house a child and another person
-buy a special bike and stroller instead of a car
-dissertation = "writing a Ph.D"
-liberal and conservative politics. but the support of the right wing party is necessary for anything to pass.
-more recently it is becoming right-wing. the police sent back 50-100 Iraqui refugees, even though it is not safe to send them back yet.
-eat dinner about 6:00
-kids to bed about 8:00
-concerned about 'sustainable living'
-minimum wage is 11-13 euro for someone without any education
-learn English from tv programs. nothing is dubbed.

Questura Continued = Not so Happy

Today Matt went to the Questura to be fingerprinted. Naturally, he needed a paper he did not have (for some reason, they require all the same paperwork that you already submitted copies of...even though you have a receipt showing that your papers were already accepted...) and, also, they wanted me and the kids there at the same time, even though they never told us that, and our appointment wasn't for another ten days, anyway...I got the paper, strapped Cate onto my front in the Baby Ergo, took Dominic firmly by the hand, and caught the next bus for the center.

Things went relatively well. I waited with the kids at the gate for 10 minutes. We waited inside for another 30 minutes. Then we submitted all our papers again. Waited another 20 minutes. Then we were called up to the window. They accepted everything! Then we put each finger on this little blue machine. Okay. So far, so good. Then la polizia asked Matt how tall, in centimeters, he is. Wow, we have no idea! After a bit of trying to make a reasonable guess, he tells her that he is 190 centimeters. His logic went something like this: a meter is pretty close to a yard and a yard is three feet. So...six feet would be two meters. He is 5 inches (half a foot) shorter than 6 feet. He remembered from school rulers that a foot was pretty close to 30 centimeters. So, he figured that he was about 10-15 centimeters shorter than 2 meters. Ergo, 185-190 centimeters. She scoffed in disbelief. Responding in half-Italian and half-English she said that he is certainly not as tall as a basketball player. I guess our calculations were in error. She guessed that he was somewhere in the 160s or 170s. A yard and a meter really aren't that close... One foot equals about 30 centimeters. 30 x 5 = 150 + 15 = 165. OH.

Funny bits aside, we did succeed. But after that, we needed to go to another building, down the street, to have another set of fingerprints taken by a bureaucrat with blue gloves who took his job very, very seriously. Having done that, we were finished. Well, at least for 40 days. In 40 days, we need to go back to the URP office to check something on the internet and get an appointment to pick it up, I guess.

Side note: On the way to the Questura, after we exited the bus, Dominic was throwing a little tantrum because he wanted to stay on the bus. In an attempt to appeal to his reason, I told him his behavior was not making Mommy very happy. He eventually calmed down and we kept walking. Later in the afternoon, he randomly asks me, "Mommy, are you happy?" I tell him, "Yes, Dominic. I'm happy." I respond, "Are you happy, Dominic?" He informs me, "No, Mommy, I'm not so happy." And that is exactly what he said, Matt can confirm it.

The 3rd Monday in Italy

Today is the first day that I have actually woken up refreshed since we arrived. The two hour nap yesterday coupled with sleeping in this morning (until 7:40 woo-hoo!!) probably account for this. Our little Italian colds have subsided and Cate seems to be interested in nursing during the day again. For a while, she was all mixed up and only wanted to nurse at night. Although she is still waking up frequently at night, there's hope that she's starting to adjust to the new schedule. I never thought it would take her this long!

Monday is just a general housekeeping morning. Grocery stores are only open in the afternoons on Monday (not really sure why, it's just the way they roll, I guess), so I've decided to spend the morning tidying up, doing laundry, getting a grocery list together, and entertaining Dominic while Cate catches a little nap. Dominic seems to like having some order in the apartment, if only so that he can have the pleasure of taking everything apart again.

Immediately after we got up and went out to the living room, he was trying to put his pillow in the drawer, then he handed me his sheet and said, "fold it, Mommy," and started trying to fold up the sofa bed by himself. In a couple minutes we transformed the room from Dominic's bedroom back to a living room. But now, all the cushions are on the floor, making alternately a train and an airplane for my imaginative, albeit toyless, son.

Off to get the wet laundry and hang it on the line...if I can find the missing clothespins (another favorite toy). Here are a few pictures of where I've found clothespins recently.


We were told that these are "happy birthdays" and Dominic pushed Cate away when she tried to touch them, telling her "no, no, it's hot."


This is the USB cord for my camera...



This is the curtain by the door to the terrace. Note, these are just a few of the random places we've found the clothespins. I also found them on the knob of every cupboard (curiously, always facing the same direction), on my shirt sleeves, and on the backs of our kitchen chairs. It's always a mystery where they'll pop up next.

Italian Bureaucracy 101

Just forget about doing anything quickly, or logically, in Italy. Just forget about it. We were mostly prepared for this after our Visa Escapades. Mostly. This entire last week has been sacrificed to the obtaining of the Permesso di Soggiorno or Permit of Stay.

First, we needed to acquire the notorious marriage certificate with the troublesome Apostille that was being sent to us in a Fed Ex package by Mom Gaetano. (Some of you may remember, this is the one that Mom and Dad Plopper applied for in Madison about 1 1/2 months ago!, then they messed that up, the mail lost it, I re-ordered it, they almost failed to match it up correctly, and it was still late, despite expediting everything...so, when it came to York the day after we left, Mom Gaetano had to mail it to Padova. Matt also wanted me to mention that this should remind us that these problems are not exclusively Italian.) Padova, however, cannot manage to deliver this package. Matt had to wait from 9:00AM, when, supposedly, there was an attempted delivery on the previous day. Then, after being out there for well over an hour, he asked a random delivery man if he knew about our FedEx package and was told to be waiting outside at 11:30. He was; they didn't come...until well after 12:00, so they claimed. Anyway, no luck. The only number they leave is a fast Italian message. I finally find someone to help me call them, they don't know where the package is, and we're running out of time. Foreigners must present themselves before they have been in Italy for 8 business days, and tomorrow, Tuesday, is the last day.

We go, without it. To where? That's exactly what we wondered. From what we could tell, we needed to go to the post office to obtain a "kit" (pronounced, "keet"). We rush to the local post office at 8:30, hoping to get it so that Matt can still go to class for the day. Nope. You must go to the central post office. Great. So, after waiting for the said Fed Ex package until 12:00, we decide it's not coming. We set off at a fast pace for the central Post Office. We make it there and get the two kits, only to discover that they are near impossible to decipher and that we do not know what to do with them. Having heard about the SAOS office, which assists immigrants in such matters, we set out to find them. We do. Now really begins the frenzied lines and waiting and backtracking of the last week.

At the URP (Ufficio Relazioni Publici or Office of Public Relations), we take a number and wait. And wait and wait. With the kids. Finally Paulita sees us, right as Cate starts to wail. I wait outside while Matt receives hurried instructions about what papers he needs. "Come back on Thursday," she says, "at 9:30." Wednesday is spent by Matt running around on buses, trying to obtain a tax number, and by me, signing a housing contract and making photo copies and getting tobacco stamps (long story!). Hoping to bypass the line at URP, we get there at 9:30, but already 4 people are ahead of us. She sees us after 2 hours, and helps Matt fill out his paperwork. Now we rush to the post office to wait in another line to submit this kit. Oops, wrong line. Start over. At last, after the scrutinizing eyes of the postal workere, his kit is accepted and he gets a receipt (making him legal, although this is not the Permesso di Soggiorno, he must still be finger-printed and then they mail it months later if everything is in order).

Paulita, of the URP, tells us that I must go to the Questura (Police Station) instead of the Post Office to submit my papers. She will meet us there and introduce us. I make more photocopies and buy more tobacco stamps. We go to the Questura half hour early (after going to the wrong place--we weren't given an address. Another long story!). There is a mob of people outside of a locked and barely identified wrought-iron gate, number 8. Are we even at the right place? I call Paulita and tell her we are there, and she tells me she'll be there in 10 minutes. 45 minutes later there is still no sign of Paulita. Finally, we see her on the inside of the gate, admitting people! Oh! She actually works here, too! She nods at us, and we are relieved that she knows that we are there and is going to help us. There is a mob inside too. Everyone is moving around, cutting in line, and pressing forward to be seen first. After an hour of being annoyed (it's hard to "budge" with a stroller), we realize there's no actual line. She simply calls each person when she wants. After two hours, she looks at our papers. Okay, everything is good. Husband, as Paulita refers to him, can go to class.

We wait another hour. Dominic has eaten 3 packs of crackers, 5 cookies, Nemos, and one sippy cup of juice. He has played with books, toy cars, shoes, and clothespins. Paulita tells us we need Matthew's post office receipt. Come back Monday at 8:00 with these copies. Feeling very dejected and like we'd wasted our whole morning, I call Matt. He suggests that he leave class, hop on the bus, get the receipt, make a copy, and return to the Questura while I wait there, preserving our place in line. Ok. I wait. He returns, having accomplished his mission. I'm so proud and excited about my heroic husband! We submit our new papers. Ok. Now you may see the counter. Phew. Almost there. Life can almost get back to normal.

But at the counter they tell me they can only grant a tourist visa for 90 days, not 300. What?! I ask them to ask Paulita (who is behind the counter). They conclude that it is ok, I can get one for 300, but not there. I must take a "keet" and submit it at the Post Office. Then I will get an appointment and return then. I must have looked very peeved and upset because Paulita immediately assured me that she would fill out the kit for me. "Come Tuesday at 2:30," she says. "Then go immediately to the Post Office." Sound familiar? Anyway, Matt and I spent the next couple of hours trying to figure out if there was any point at all to this whole morning... We went to a nice place (Brek) for lunch and the kids were sleeping. A silver lining?

So Tuesday I will go to get my filled-in kit. Then to the Post Office. If everything goes well, we will receive our appointments at the post office, we go to the Questura to have fingerprints done, to wait for the Permesso di Soggiorno to come, maybe before we leave, in the mail.

Markets, Buses, and Rickshaws

Sorry for the strange formatting. Blogger did something to my post and, with such a slow connection, I don't have the time to change it.

The open air markets in Padova are simply splendid. They are open Monday–Saturday mornings in downtown Padova and offer any sort of produce that one could want, just waiting to be bought, bright colors of fruits and vegetables in tidy heaps at each stand—even herb plants (this is where I got my superbly robust basil plant)! Also for sale are bolts of cloth, sewing notions, underwear, t-shirts, purses, and so on. And yet, curiously enough, if you walk by the Piazza Erbe or Frutta, which sit at the feet of the Palazzo del Ragione (Palace of Reason), all you see is a large open empty piazza with perhaps a few tables and lots of pigeons, and the famous palace front.

After the exertion of wandering around aimlessly, Dominic and I had worked up quite an appetite for something tasty. I chose two chocolate cannoli and a brioche (cream-filled roll, I found out, as I tried it). The cannoli were fabulous. I’m not sure why I bought cannoli, actually. I don’t really like them. But these were aaa-mazing. Flaky little pastries (think, very small croissants) with chocolate filling. Not gooey like pudding, not whipped like moose, not sweet like frosting, not hard like a chocolate bar, but just right. If you come to Padova, we will buy you chocolate cannoli. I simply cannot describe them. After I had my first bite of the cannoli, I selfishly decided that Dominic would not care if he had the brioche, and I ate both cannoli myself.

We’ve been in Padova for one week. Today, Saturday, much to Dominic’s supreme delight, we rode the bus to the “mall,” Brentelle. Brentelle houses the giant supermarket/Italian Wal-mart, Interspar (I believe some have actually called it a “hyper-market”), several clothing stores, and various other “mallish” type places. And, just like Wal-mart, going on a Saturday morning was a big mistake. In fact, Interspar might be even worse, since it’s not open on Sundays. But I needed Matt’s help to navigate the bus with the kids for the first time and to once again be the family hoss with all the purchases.

We were seeking an umbrella stroller, cell phones, an alarm clock, sundry kitchen items, and more groceries. I’m sure any new home owners or apartment dwellers can sympathize, but it seems like all we’ve done this first week is shop! We had some success at Interspar, but were limited by deteriorating happiness of the children, wildly chaotic store, and, despite what most think, a limit to my husband’s strength. We did, however, find an umbrella stroller. It wasn’t as cheap as I had hoped it would be. In fact, it was the only one there, so we were lucky to find one at all. It very mod-pod looking, and I have begun to refer to it as Cate’s rickshaw. Seriously, take a look at the picture. Am I wrong?

While we gave up on Interspar before we got everything, I did manage to snag an awesome cheese grater, one of those white ones that fancy Italian restaurants use, and I purchased some authentic Parmigiano-Reggiano (I had to do some research on this, that’ll be a post for later) to make my pasta sauce. It grates cheese like a dream. This will be a great souvenir, I tell myself as I shell out more euro for kitchen “essentials” (grated cheese is not very common here).

Here are a few Dominic Stories from the last week:

1) We stopped by the church near us to see if it was open. It was not. After Dominic sees me unsuccessfully try to open it, he announces, “I need keys.” And then asks me, “You have ‘em, Mommy?”

2) Dominic loves to press the elevator buttons. We live on floor 6 and the ground floor, is “zeerio.”

3) Preface: in our home, we refer to kisses as “power,” a practice I started to make good night and good morning kisses more exciting when Dominic was losing interest.

Now, Dominic wanted to watch Jimminy Cricket on Mommy’s computer. I told him that we couldn’t because my computer needed power. He proceeded, without any prompting, to kiss the computer. J

Days 2-6

Has it really been six days already?! Mama Mia!

Our bags are unpacked and everything is finally put away. It always seems like a daunting task to get things in order with children under foot. The best time to put things away undisturbed is, of course, when they are sleeping. They, however, are sleeping in the bedroom, where, yes, all the clothes go. I can now take pictures for everyone to see our new "domicilio". Actually, it's a video tour, in two parts. How high tech, I know.





On Sunday, I was totally depressed. It was a horrid night's sleep with the kids and Matt still being jet-lagged. Somehow, I made it past jet-lag pretty quickly, but have had to suffer the side-effects of everyone else's. I tried to go to mass, but didn't know the correct times. I actually went too early (9:00) and was very intimidated by the large crowd of people eating and talking with great gusto at the picnic tables next to the church. So, I must confess, that in addition to Matt's being tired beyond safely being left with the kids, I was deterred from returning this week. I think Matt ended up sleeping until 3:00 that afternoon.

The worst part about Sunday, however, was that I was so hungry. All day. See, we had gone out for pizza in the city centre the night before (a very delightful meal, outdoors, on the cobblestone street, in the shadow of a great statue of Cavour), and neglected to go to the grocery store again. So on Sunday, not only were all the restaurants closed, but all the grocery stores were closed. What were we going to do? I had snacks for the kids and baby food...but nothing for Matt and I. He would just sleep through it while I waited in misery. Being roused from his slumber by my despair, he pulled himself together, and we went looking for anything that might be open. After walking 3/4 mile, we found a Famiglia Pizza (conveniently next to a gelateria) which was just opening. He made pizzas just for us! A really nice man, we had a little conversation in broken Italian/English and had happy tummy's. Also, as a reward for Dominic's excellent progress in potty training we had some strawberry gelato (ice cream).

Monday, Matt began Italian class at the Bertrand Russell school, in the center. It's about a 35 minute walk. It went pretty well, although he definitely has to stay on his toes because almost all the instruction is in (fast) Italian with an impatient teacher. He seemed much more comfortable trying to communicate in Italian even after that first day. We try to practice at night when he comes home. There is certainly more urgency in learning the language now that we are here and need to use it every day! He came home right after class and helped me load up on groceries and household things. You'd be proud. He was a regular pack horse! We loaded him up with the backpacking backpack and he carried all the stuff while I pushed the stroller and carried a smaller bag.

Well, I guess the rest will have to wait. The internet is really slow here...those video uploads took almost all night to finish, so I lost a lot of time and energy! More later.

Day 1: Arrival

All in all, the flights over here went surprisingly well. We were worried because our seats were not together. I was in the bulkhead with the infant cot and the two kids and Matt was behind us, in the middle. At check-in, however, we inquired about this and they upgraded us to economy premium, all together. That was really nice. Did it promise good fortune to come?

Cate had about an hour of irritability from pre-boarding until after takeoff, but calmed down with the aid of Tylenol and then slept like a champ for most of the flight. Dominic was so excited, he just sat in his seat and said, "buckle up!" His little melt-down came upon our arrival in Venice, when he had to get off the airplane. "More plane!" "More sit in airplane". "Please (dramatic whining here)!!" The promise of a shuttle ("bus"..."big bus") ride soon calmed him down, though, and we were off to collect our bags and begin the final leg of our very long journey. We collected all our belongings without too much trouble. The bubble wrap did its job and our very expensive stroller made it safely through all the handling. It's a good thing we did wrap it, though, because the red canvas bag had a big hole in it. That could have been the stroller! The only mishap was a torn handle on one of the smaller bags. I'm sure we will survive.

We found the shuttle just fine and about an hour later we arrived safely in Padova. Here we had a bit of local "fun". Fortunately, we were able to recognize Residenza Galileo from the picture we had seen, so we at least we knew we were at the right place; the signs were miniscule, however, and neither the said office nor the said manager was anywhere to be found. So there we were, four of us and nine bags, standing on the sidewalk in front of the building, unable to get inside and unable to figure out who to call. Unexpectedly finding some courage, when I see three students going inside, I stop one of them and ask, apologizing profusely for my horrible Italian, "manager?" "office?" He tells me, "sei, zero, uno". Matt follows them in and goes up to the sixth floor, hoping this solves all our problems. As our luck would have it, the manager is not in.

A Bangladeshi (Bengali?) family is just going into our building and the woman asks me if we need help. I tell her that I'm looking for the office manager because we need our keys. She tells me she has the number for his office, and asks if I have a "mo-byle," when I tell her that I don't have one, she offers to me that I should follow her in. She knows somebody who has a phone. I follow her in, she knocks on someone's door.

Ellie, a Philippino, answers. A phone? Sure, of course. Come in. You must be tired. Sit down. Would you like something to drink? Really, you must be thirsty. Here, have some water. What's your name. What's your baby's name? Oh, you need to call Ivan, at the University... Here, let me call my friend. We always call him when we need to contact them.

Down Juan Miguel comes. He's just full of questions and help. What is your name? You need your keys? Okay sure, I will call right away. He (another Philippino) comes down to Ellie's room, introduces himself and calls the office. He says he'll come over in a few minutes and meet you in Ellie's room. I ask them if it would be all right for Matt and Dominic to come up too, since he's meeting us there. They apologize profusely for not offering earlier. Do they need help carrying things? Juan Miguel jumps up to go get them and help them with our stuff. Ivan meets us there within the keys and in about 20 minutes we are in our apartment. Very nice people around here! That's a good sign.

Since then, we've been trying to unpack and get settled in. I found the local grocery store and made our first meal. Pasta, prosciutto, zucchini, and pomodoro (tomato). It would have been better if I could have found garlic, salt, and pepper and the grocery store, Billa. Next time.

The apartment is decently equipped. It has a big pot and a sauce pan, 4 sets of plates and cups, and, of course, since we are in Italy, wine glasses and espresso mugs. We have a long list of things we'll need to complete the apartment, especially, the kitchen, but it's better than we thought it would be. It even has a mini dishwasher. I wish it were a microwave, but it's nice to have one, I guess. We're still trying to figure out the best sleeping arrangement with the two kids. They're both exhausted from the trip and totally off their schedules. Matt and I spent most of the night rubbing Dominic's back and keeping him quiet so that Cate could get some more tylenol-induced sleep. We're trading naps for now, but hope that soon we'll settle into a workable arrangement.

Well, more will come later, including some pictures, but I hope that calms any anxiety you may have had and gives you an idea of where we are in our voyage.

Love you all!

Address:

Residenza Galileo
Nr. 606
9/16 Via A. Magarotto
35136 Padova, ITALY