LIFE: The Story Starts Like This

CHIAVARI, Italy – The first city in Italy that I lived in was Rome, and like a first love it holds a special place in my heart. I had enrolled in a language course at the Dante Aligheri Society, determined to conquer Italian once and for all. Through the school I found a room to rent on the Via della Vite, near the Spanish Steps. An old woman named Niola owned the apartment, and her only other ‘tenant’ was a girl from Argentina who was studying at the Universita’ La Sapienza in Rome.   

 Rome's Spanish Steps in the Spring

Every weekday morning I would take the bus from Piazza San Silvestro out to the school on the Via Nomentana and spend four grueling hours trying to get a grip on Italian grammar. It was torture trying to wrap my tongue around all the complicated verb forms, but from two o'clock on the day was my own, and oh how I treasured it. 

I loved living in the center of the Rome.  Every afternoon as the stores re-opened from their mid-day break, the narrow streets of my neighborhood, which included the famous Via Condotti, would slowly fill with Romans and tourists alike. I used to spend hours window shopping and dreaming of the day I would live in Italy forever.

Carriage Ride Along the Via Condotti in Rome  

On days I didn’t have school, I would walk to the small outdoor market near the Trevi Fountain and stock up on groceries.  I would cross the Via del Tritone, go up Via del Stamperia, then turn and head toward the vendors. It was just at that point, near the corner bar, that I would be greeted by a Rudolph Valentino look alike who would bow ever so slightly and say,  "Buon girorno, Contessa."  I'd stutter and stammer and finally come out with what I hoped was "and a good morning to you too." 

I didn’t know it then but in Italy everyone calls everyone else carrissima, bellisima, amore or   any of the other hundreds of endearing names they have invented. Even my slightly senile landlady, Signora Niola, used to have imaginary conversations that always started with ‘ciao cara’ and continued as she walked around the apartment talking to herself.  It confused me at first as she always started her conversations with me that way, but then I realized she didn’t even see me during those interludes, so I just stayed out of her way.

Trevi Fountain, Rome, Italy  

I liked shopping at the Trevi market, which was more of a meeting place than market where farmers sold their produce and goods like honey and jams and wine. The honey and jam came in a variety of jars that had once held pickled cauliflower or artichoke hearts or some other Italian deliciousness. If you wanted wine you had to bring your own bottles and they would fill them from the barrels they had on the back of their trucks. You also had to bring your own egg cartons if you wanted eggs.

Since I didn’t have egg cartons to bring, the old woman who sold chickens and eggs would wrap my eggs, one by one in torn off squares of newspaper and hand them to me to put in my shopping bag. Then she would hold out her wrinkled hand for the money. She never spoke to me. Never said a word. I figured out afterwards that it was probably because I was actually asking her for two or three grapes, confusing the Italian words for grapes and eggs and she realized any attempt at conversation would most likely be a complete waste of time.  

 The Dome of St. Peter's Cathedral at the Vatican

A more serious problem than knowing the difference between grapes and eggs was trying to convert my US dollars to Italian lira.  Since I had to be on the bus for school at 8:30 AM, when the banks were opening, and didn’t get back to the center of Rome until 2 PM, which was after the banks had closed for the day, getting my hands on cash was a challenge. The only solution was to take a day off from school, which I did not like to do.

But in those pre-ATM days my options were limited. Getting lira was a long, and grueling process. There were forms that had to be filled out, and not the kind of forms you could take with you and fill out while you had a cappuccino at the nearest bar. No. The bank clerk had to ask you the questions, and he would fill out the form. And he was never in a hurry.

I still remember the day he was filling out a form for a pretty Asian girl who was in line ahead of me.

“What is your name,” he asked.

She told him.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

She told him.

“Are you staying in a hotel?”

“No,” she said.

“Okay, where are you staying,” he wanted to know.

“With my uncle,” she said.

“That’s nice,” he said. “Where does your uncle live?”

“Over there,” she said pointing in the general direction of outside the bank.

“No, I mean what’s his address?” said the bank clerk shifting around in his chair. 

She just looked at him.

“Okay, well what’s your phone number,” the bank clerk continued.

She just looked at him, still not replying.

“Look, Signorina,” said the bank clerk who was now showing signs of exasperation, “I’m not asking you these questions for my personal benefit. Personally I don’t care where you live or who you live with or anything else, but the bank wants to know and it’s my job to write that information down, so what is your phone number?”

At that point the bell rang signaling the bank was closing. Please use the center door to exit. Another day shot to hell.

That wasn’t the first time I had been ushered out of the bank without changing money. I looked in my wallet. I had 10,000 lire, about $7.00 and I needed to buy a bus ticket to get to school in the morning, another to get home after school, and then there was the question of food. Faced with a choice of scrambled eggs again or deep fried rice balls called arancini, I opted for the arancini.   

The Pantheon, My Favorite Place in Rome  

That wasn’t the first time I had eaten arancini for dinner, nor would it be the last. As it turned out Rome was just a preview, the coming attractions like at the movies. How could I know what surprises destiny had in store for me, or that the best and the worst was still to come.

It took a few more years for all the planets to align and clear a path for me to actually make the move. This past week I celebrated 25 years of living in Italy. What an amazing adventure it has been. But looking back on those years today I understand that they too were only a preview, the coming attractions of what is in store for me next. If nothing else I've learned the difference between the words for eggs and grapes in Italian, which makes me think I'm on a roll. Yes indeed.

LIFE: What I Love About Italy Redux

CHIAVARI, Italy – As I sat back with my feet up, sipping lemonade this week, I started thinking about the things I love about Italy. I realized it wasn’t one big thing that captured my heart, but many little things. If you think about it, it’s never the big things that draw people to something. I mean did you ever hear anyone say they pulled up stakes and moved to Rome because of the Coliseum, or that they simply couldn’t bear to live another day without the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. Me neither. 

Trevi Fountain, Rome

For me, this list of things I love started when I lived in Rome. Every Saturday I would leave my apartment on the Via della Vite, cross Via del Tritone and go up Via della Stamperia to a small street market near the Trevi Fountain. At a certain point I would be greeted by a John Hamm look alike who would smile and bow ever so slightly and say, “Buon Giorno Contessa.”

With no real language skills I would stammer something back and continue on my way, but I ask you, who would not want to start their day like that.   
 
I also love the way Italians live with their art.

“Oh this fountain, yes, well yes it is a 16th century masterpiece by bla bla bla,”  they will say and then the conversation about where to go for pizza continues for there are many incredible masterpieces stuck here, there and everywhere.

 Lecce

I love my green grocer when she tells someone looking for zucchini in January to come back in April. Of course you can find zucchini in January but zucchini grown who knows where and tasting like who knows what.

I love the fact that Italian orthopedic surgeons from Gaslini Hospital in Genova go to Africa every year and perform hundreds of operations on little African kids, free of charge and they don’t tell anybody about it. It’s all arranged through anonymous church missions staffed by Italians giving their all in the name of humanity.  

I love the way hospital patients drift down to the hospital bar in their pj’s for a coffee or a grappa and a smoke. I love the fact that hospitals want your friends and relatives to be with you when you are sick. After all, what are friends and relatives for? 

 Friends Forever

And speaking of friends, the day my friends Tracy and Daniele got married in Savona there was a wicked storm and the road to the restaurant where the reception was to be held was closed. That meant no reception and that would never do. The bar in the Savona City Hall, where Tracy and Daniele  got married was closed, but we managed to talk the barman into selling us some champagne, providing us with glasses and throwing in some nibbles as well. Instant party. Try that in NYC. 

I love the shiny brass name plates on the buildings. You rarely see names scribbled on scraps of paper stuck between two pieces of plastic to indicate this month’s occupant is….. . And the two names on those brass plates? The husband’s and the wife’s. 

 One Way of Keeping His Attention

I love the way Italian men look at women – even if it is a little unnerving at times. I love the way Italian women start talking faster and pull, ever so slightly on their husband’s arm whenever a pretty girl walks by. He can look, but why make it easy for him. 

I love the bars, the big bars, the little mom and pop bars, especially the old historic bars in the center of most cities. To sit and have a coffee in the Café’ San Carlo in Torino, or Covo in Milan is to be part of the drama being played out in those places at that time.

I love the names of the streets. Via Gabriele D’Annunzio, Vicolo Simon Boccanegra, Piazza Camillo di Cavour. It’s like walking around in a history book. Piazza Savonarola? Oh right, he’s the 15th Dominican friar and prophet of doom that they burned after they hung him back in 1498.” And the best part is everyone knows who’s who.

I love the fact that Italians make up the rules as they go along. I remember forgetting my passport on a trip up to Switzerland and reporting it to the Italian police when they came on board the train in the border town of Chiasso. 

 Don't Worry, Be Happy

 “Signora,” they said, “you are leaving Italy, that is a problem for the Swiss border guards.”

 “Yes,” I said, “but when I have to come back? I have to work on Monday.”

“Ah, Signora, you worry too much. Just sit down, be calm and pretend we never had this conversation.”

So I did. I continued up to Switzerland, had a great time with my friends, came back into Italy, no passport, no hassle, no problem.

Yes there have been problems over the years, mostly having to do with trying to get a work visa, but there was never any doubt in my mind that I had made the right choice. I knew from the beginning I was in the right place and I know it now for while this isn’t a new list, it is still a true list.

LIFE: All Roads Lead to Rome

CHIAVARI, Italy - Rome was the first city in Italy I ever lived in, and like a first love, it holds a special place in my heart. I was there to study Italian. Through the school I found a room to rent on the Via della Vite, near the Spanish Steps. The apartment was owned by an old woman named Niola, and her only other ‘tenant’ was a girl from Argentina who was also going to school in Rome.   

 

S[panish Steps

I don’t know what she was studying, or anything else about her as she didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak Italian. But we got along ok, she didn’t take up space on my shelf of the refrigerator and I didn’t take up space on hers.

Every weekday morning I would take the bus from Piazza San Silvestro out to the school on the Via Nomentana and spend four grueling hours trying to get a grip on Italian grammar. It was torture trying to wrap my tongue around all the complicated verb forms, but thankfully, from one o'clock on, the day was my own and oh how I treasured it. 

Via Condotti 

I loved living in the center of Rome.  Every afternoon as the stores re-opened from their mid-day break, the narrow streets of my neighborhood, which included the famous Via Condotti, would slowly fill with people of every age, Romans and foreigners alike. I used to spend hours walking those streets, window shopping and dreaming of the day I would live in Italy forever.

It was great fun to look in the windows of the oo la la fancy shops on the Via Condotti, but more interesting were the small open air markets that seem to sprout up from one day to the next like giant mushrooms after a rain. I found them irresistible, especially the food markets.  Growing up in a country where most foods come pre-packaged and shrink-wrapped, I loved being able to buy three egg, six carrots or just one potato, if that was all that I wanted.  No one cared. It didn’t matter. Everyone shopped that way, and they still do.

Trevi Fountain 

On days that I didn’t have school, I would walk to the small outdoor market near the Trevi Fountain to do my weekly grocery shopping.  I would cross the Via del Tritone, go up Via del Stamperia, then turn and head toward the vendors. It was just at that point, near the corner bar, that I would be greeted by a Rudolph Valentino look alike who bow ever so slightly and say,  "Buon girorno, Contessa."  I'd stutter and stammer and finally come out with what I hoped was "and a good morning to you too." 

Now I know that in Italy everyone calls everyone else cara or carrissima, or caro if it’s a guy, or Contessa or any of the other hundreds of endearing names and it doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. Even my slightly senile landlady, Signora Niola, used to have imaginary conversations that always started with ‘ciao cara’ and continued as she walked around the apartment  talking to ‘her.’ At first I thought she was talking to me, but she wasn’t, so I got out of her way.

 Trevi Market Looked Something Like This

But I liked the Trevi market and if having this guy call me Contessa was the worst that was happening to me, it didn’t seem bothersome enough to worry about. The Trevi market was not organized like most of the other markets in the city, it was more of a meeting place where farmers sold their produce and goods like honey and jams and wine. You had to bring your own bottles if you wanted to buy wine, and they would fill them from the barrels they had on the back of their trucks.

My favorite stall was run by a very old woman who sold live chickens and eggs. She would wrap the eggs, one by one, in torn off squares  of newspaper, hand them to me to put in my shopping bag, and then hold out her wrinkled hand for the money. She never spoke to me. I later figured out that it was probably because I was actually asking her for two or three grapes, confusing the Italian words for grapes and eggs and she realized any attempt at conversation would most likely be a complete waste of time.  

Daily Market at Campo Dei Fiori

There are open markets in most of the city's neighborhoods. One of the best is the one at the Campo de'Fiori. There are two very different versions of how the Campo got its name. The most obvious is that before it became part of the city, it was a meadow of flowers. It's a nice story but I prefer the Roman legend which says the Campo was named after an actress named Flora, who lived during the time of the Caesars. Her theatre, which was the largest in ancient Rome, used to stand on what is now the northeast corner of the square. Or it could very well be that both stories are true. In Rome anything is possible.

Some of my favorite Italian memories come from those early experiences in Rome, and every once in a while I get a hankering to go back and walk the streets and revisit those early days, which is what is going on right now.