Sicilian Christmas Part I

Christmas in Germany was epic – classical, elegant, and everywhere, but Christmas is big in Sicily too, in its own, different way.  Many balconies in our town were adorned with Christmas lights.  Usually it was just one lone strand, but without fail, that one strand would be brightly colored, often multi-colored, and more often than not, flashing wildly.  It’s not tacky, it’s just…different.  Apparently the story of Santa is slightly altered here from our American down-the-chimney version, because multiple balconies also displaced a short length of rope ladder upon which a small plush Santa gripped for his small plush life, black boots dangling perilously.  I thought at first that this was a novelty decoration that one family thought was cute, but as I saw more and more ladder-gripping Santas, it became clear that this was just one of the common scenes of the Sicilian holiday season.

Another Sicilian Christmas tradition, this one receiving much publicity and, guessing from the buzz on base, attracting many an American attendee, is the living Nativity.  It seems that every town in Sicily puts on one or more of these living Nativity performances.  Not having witnessed one myself, I assumed that they were somewhat like the Christmas plays that I had seen in my youth at church.  I heard that the living Nativities here were outdoors, but I assumed that it was the same sort of atmosphere of a Christmas play, taking place in front of a church, perhaps with a makeshift stable and manger. 

On the afternoon of December 23, however, my neighbor, the cheerful P, flagged me down and animatedly told me about a Christmas something or other that was going to happen that evening in our street.  I clearly understood “sta sera” (“this evening”), “sei” (“six”), “qui” (“here”), and “Natale” (“Christmas”).  She also made the motion of drums, so I assumed that at six that evening, there would be some sort of Christmas parade.  She was very adamant about the “qui” part though, and kept pointing to my driveway.  The more she repeated it, it seemed like she was asking permission.  I then began to wonder if carolers were meeting up in our driveway or something, but either way, I answered, “Si, si, va bene!” (“yes, yes, good!”), knowing that Dinosaur and I would be home at six, not needing to go anywhere that evening, and up for whatever was planned for our driveway.

Six o’clock rolled around, and P rang our bell.  Dinosaur and I bundled up, grabbed our cameras, and headed down the long, steep driveway.  What we saw was P, another neighbor woman and her toddler daughter, and a male neighbor setting up a clothed table in our driveway, set with a single sheet of paper and a quill.  A sign taped up on our gate said (I don’t remember exactly how it was in Italian, but Dinosaur and I figured it out):  “The Census of Augustus Caesar.”  Our driveway was going to be part of a living Nativity!

After a short wait, two “guards” arrived and took their places to either side of our gate, with “Caesar,” who took his seat at the table (all high school-age kids).  A bit after that, we heard drumming, music, and singing from up the street, and a crowd descended.  A group of kids lined up in front of “Caesar’s” table, last in line was “Mary” and “Joseph” (oddly, not all the kids in line were in costume).  The kids and the Holy couple filed through and had their names recorded, and then the drumming and music started up again and the procession continued on down our street. 

We didn’t follow the group, which I now regret slightly.  But neither did P or any of the other neighbors, and it seemed like our part in the experience had been fulfilled.  I’m guessing that there were other check-points located around that block, related to the story, and then the group probably convened at the church at the top of our street for a service.  All of that isn’t really Dinosaur’s or my scene, but we were happy to see our picturesque gate used for such a popular Sicilian tradition.  We wished our neighbors “Boun Natale e bouna notta” (Merry Christmas and goodnight) and scampered up our driveway to warm up with hot cider in the villa.

Next week:  Christmas Eve with Bella and IMMA!

The guards and Caesar get set up while a few desperate cars make their way down our street ahead of the crowd.

Caesar registers some farmers and shepherds (normally our gates would be closed, but the sensors were acting up that evening).

The crowds watch the census.

Mary and Joseph are last to be registered.

Drummers and carolers guide the crowd to the next station of the Nativity.

Bavarian Holiday Getaway

Where should a Sicilian inhabitant take a short flight to see snow-capped peaks, catch snowflakes on her tongue, and peruse open-air Christmas markets while sipping hot mulled wine?  Why, Bavaria, of course!  Southern Germany oozes with Christmas spirit, and since palm trees and mild temperatures weren’t inspiring me to deck the halls, Germany offered the perfect mid-December infusion of holiday cheer.

One of our first adventures was riding a cog-wheel train and then a cable car up to Zugspitz - the highest point in Germany.  Gorgeous.  And cold!  There's a restaurant at the top with the, oh, you know, "decent" view seen above.

Through Edelweiss Lodge, the US Armed Forces-owned lodge, we booked two trips.  The first was a night hike through a canyon, lit by torches.

The castles of "Mad" King Ludwig were located nearby.  Above is the "quaint hunting lodge" where his family spent getaways during King Ludwig's childhood.

In the same area as his family's hunting lodge castle, Kind Ludwig spent 17 years constructing his own castle, which served as Walt Disney's inspiration for Cinderella's castle at Disney Land.  You can see scaffolding on the left where renovations were taking place.  (Sadly, this castle was never completed.  While you can tour the lavish floors that were inhabited for less than a year, Ludwig died during it's construction, and many floors remain unfinished.)

In Munich, we watched the famous old town clock chime the noon hour, and were treated to the mechanical puppet show that depicts Munich's history.

"Dunkel Dunkel Dunkel!

I love Dunkel!

Here it goes!

Into my belly!

Liter Liter Liter!"

Hofbrauhaus did not disappoint.

An areal view of Munich, from the clock tower.

One of the many open-air Christmas markets, where we enjoyed gluhwien (hot mulled wine - SO warming and scrumptious) and browsed the holiday goods.

The second tour we booked through Edelweiss was a micro brewery tour.  We learned about the German purity law - that beer is only allowed to have four ingredients: water, malt, hops, and yeast.  Oh, how four ingredients can taste so good...!

Garmisch-Partenkirchen was home to the 1936 Olympics, under the leadership of Hitler.  Above, you can see the ski jump(s), which are still in use.

Our Bavarian adventure kept us busy for 10 days, and the winter atmosphere definitely succeeded in putting me in the holiday spirit.  I probably could have stayed and eaten German food, washed down with German beer, for a bit longer, but Dinosaur and I both agreed that with each new homecoming from an out-of-Italy vacation, Italy is beginning to feel more like "home."  And it is wonderful to be home.  

Coming up:  Dinosaur and Dragon's first Christmas in Sicily!

Through the Lingual Looking Glass

Just when I thought I wouldn't have inspiration for a blog this week, I stopped by the produce shop on my way home today (ahem, my produce shop, as you will recall from last week's Produce Wars.)

Mama Produce greeted me enthusiastically, asking how I was doing while bounding around the counter to help me. The last time I had been in her shop, it was Thanksgiving morning and I was trying to buy enough potatoes for the mashed potato-philes who would be eating at my house. Perhaps I had been moved by the holiday spirit, but I veered from my usual routine of smiling brightly, nodding, and simply rattling off my produce list, and I had announced (what I hoped translated to..) that the day was an American holiday and that I would be cooking for nine people. Mama Produce was ecstatic for me, and after filling my order, piled into my bags handfuls of oranges and pears, "offro" ("my treat").

Today, nearly two weeks later, Mama Produce followed her profuse and cheerful greeting by asking me how my holiday dinner had gone. I was moved by her attentiveness and mentally reaffirmed to myself that I would faithfully patronize this shop until the day we move away.

Mama Produce was filling my first order, "tre pepperoni rossi" ("three red bell peppers"), when her adolescent son stepped up beside me and asked in an accented child's voice, "What_is_your_name?" He seemed delighted at my mixed expression of being both caught off guard and pleasantly surprised. First, I exclaimed, "Bene!" ("Good!") then told him my name. Mama Produce explained that he studies English at school. What followed was a delightful interaction that taught me more about how I must sound to an Italian than I could ever hope for.

After the boy's initial brave inquiry of my name, I asked in slow, deliberate English, "What is your name?" He cocked his head to the side, so I asked the question in Italian. To this, he answered quickly, with a look that said "ah, I know that one!" Next, he nervously tapped his fingers on his chin while gazing at the ceiling, and I could practically hear the gears in his brain turning. I know precisely what he was thinking too: "Oh no, I got stupid and brave and tried to talk to this person in their language, but I said what I had to say and now I can't think of how to say anything else relevant - think!!" I turned toward the register to give him a moment to think, but before Mama Produce could tell me my total, he was at my side again:

"Do_you_like...chicken??"

Immense restraint was involved in reining in my delight. I managed to shift my focus from tickled humor to asking him the same question in Italian, "Si. E tu, tu piaci pollo?" He giggled and nodded, thought for a moment while I sifted through Euro coins, then produced another zinger: "Do_you_like...chips?" I laughed and nodded, realizing that I'd need to contribute to this exchange or the peppering of "Do you like (anything he knows in English)?" could go on for awhile.

In deliberate English again, I asked, "How old are you?" I was treated in response to a terrified expression that I recognized only because I myself have flashed it to countless Italian folks, one that unmistakably said, "Aaa! I don't know! I should know, but I don't! I should've kept my mouth closed from the beginning; I'll never be able to do this!" I wanted so badly to give the boy a huge hug and sooth the fear away assuring him, "It's ok, really! I do the same thing. Languages are hard!" I repeated the question of age in Italian, and some brightness returned to his eyes when he answered in English, "Ten."

I had paid for my produce at this point, and Mama Produce was walking my bags around the counter. The boy, with confidence regained, bounded around the store, pointing to produce and exclaiming, "Green! Red! Yellow!" Again, I struggled to resist running to him and dancing around the shop hand in hand. I've done the same thing! When I put my ego out on the table and attempt to talk to someone in Italian, and if I feel like I've made a bit of a fool of myself, I've been known to blurt out anything I know in Italian - a last-ditch effort to say, "I'm not completely ignorant of your language!"

Mama Produce was stuffing six "offro" mandarine oranges in my bags as we stood near the door and the boy took one last stab:

"Do_you_like...Italy??"

At this, I smiled warmly. "Yes," I said, "Yes, I love Italy."



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Produce Wars

There are two main streets in my small Southern Italian village, each one way, heading opposite directions, parallel to each other.  And on these two main streets, you will find the majority of the town’s shops.  When we first moved to this town, there was one produce shop on the main street.  I eagerly patronized this shop, happy to be purchasing local, seasonal Italian produce.  As opposed to purchasing produce in an American grocery store, where we fish through piles of fruits and vegetables, inspecting, squeezing, and sniffing until we find the items that are to our liking, in Italy, the shopkeeper waits on you and picks out your produce for you.  The full service, to this American, hints ever so slightly of a delightful mix of luxury and chivalry.  But it could be intimidating too.  I had to know the name in Italian of each item I desired, or else I was forced to wander around the store apprehensively hunting as fast as I could.  With the shopkeeper following me, brown produce bag in hand, I imagine the sight was not far from that of a timid puppy hunting for a place to relieve itself, the impatient owner following it’s erratic path with bag in hand, ready to spring into action when a decision is finally made.  To add to the occasional unease of this process, the shop was often bustling with other customers.  It was hard to know where I was in line (since there is generally no discernible "line"), and even more difficult to politely fend off any well-meaning but utterly incomprehensible chit chat from fellow patrons.

Then another produce shop opened.  It was closer to my house.  It wasn’t as busy.  But it was on the same street, and though not within shouting distance, it was curiously close to the first produce shop.  Do I dare switch?  The original shop contains photos around the cash register of the shopkeeper and his father at various moments throughout their, and the shop’s, history.  I don’t need to speak the language to understand that it is a family business, perhaps passed down from father to son, and that it has been in existence in this spot, providing produce to our village’s citizens, for quite a long time.  Granted, I have no longstanding history with this town, nor hardly any investment, emotional or otherwise, in the original produce shop.  But for an unfortunate amount of time, the sentimentalist in me refused to patronize the new store.  I had no proof that they were a malevolent organization, hell-bent on destroying the family landmark of the original produce shop, but for some reason, that’s the idea I came up with in my head.

Then one day, I needed some produce early in the afternoon for a soup that needed to simmer before dinner.  The original shop was closed for the mid-day break, “riposo.”  The new shop was open.  So this is it, I thought, this is the day I try out the new store; let’s see what they’ve got, these meanie weanies.

And you know what?  I loved the new store!  It’s smaller than the original shop, but if I thought the shopping experience at the original store nudged at chivalry, then this was the knight in shining armor experience of produce shopping.  I was the only customer, and I was greeted by an upper-middle-aged, very typical "Italian Mama"-esque female shopkeeper.  She eagerly jumped up to fill my order, and patiently and slowly asked me simple questions when it was apparent that Italian is not my native language.  When I resorted to pointing and saying, “This” (“questo”) to unknown items, she said the Italian name, then repeated it as many times as necessary until I was saying it correctly.  As she rang me up, she went over each item and said the price, so I knew exactly how much I was paying for everything.  Before she handed me my bags, she came around the counter and told me (again, in slow, patient Italian) that they were open every day of the week and that they sold fresh bread and, when available, fresh eggs.  Then, just as she was doting her goodbyes as I headed, smiling, toward the door, she grabbed an extra fennel (I had bought two) and stuffed it into my bag.  “Offro,” she insisted, (“My treat.”)

How lovely!  How perfectly capitalistic!  How very wrong I was!  I’ve never looked back – this new store is my produce store.  Each time I shop there, it’s either the cheerful woman or one of her equally pleasant young teenage children waiting on me.  Every time the woman is there, she slips something extra into my bag as I’m leaving, sometimes multiple items.  One day, I asked if they carried any of that wonderfully shady-looking homemade wine sold in reused water bottles (of course, I didn’t phrase it that way (as if I had the knowledge anyway!) – I asked for house wine, “vino di casa.”)  She didn’t have any, but a few short weeks later, guess what appeared:  shady water bottle wine!  €3 for a liter and a half.  And it was potent stuff!  Sure made wrapping Christmas presents a lot more fun for Dinosaur and I! !

The original produce shop is still doing well, as far as I can tell.  It is constantly flowing with customers, and I’m guessing that here in family-oriented Italy, if folks have been shopping at that store for generations, it would take an act of God to make them change.  As for me, I’m so happy I took a chance on the new store.  I now have reason to pledge allegiance to my store – the one with superior service and charm.  The one that, unfortunately I will not be able to patronize for generations, but I plan to continue shopping at for my remaining years here in Italy.  And I hope other newcomers to our village do the same.

A Return to Americana and a Time for Thanks

Dinosaur and I have lived in Sicily for nearly seven months now.  Upon first arrival, the culture shock was a relentless bombardment.  In the beginning, every move required extra thought – thirst was followed by grabbing a bottle of water rather than turning on the tap (not that the water here isn’t potable, it’s just hard and mineral-y); hunger meant a language-strained trip to either a bar (which serves a type of fast food, not just drinks) or a restaurant; driving took extra courage; walking on the tiny sidewalks (if any) took even more guts.  The learning curve was nearly vertical, and I often felt like an infant, interacting with the world for the first time.  I spent most of my time in the beginning wandering through town, attempting to shop, learning Italian, and hanging out with Dinosaur in the evenings and on the weekends.  I had little reason to go to base, so my exposure to other Americans was limited.

But seven months have passed.  Dinosaur and I have made numerous American friends, but the number of our Italian friends remains at Bella and IMMA, as well as the Italians who work at the hotel where we first stayed (but that hardly even counts, since they speak flawless English).  I’m on base nearly every day now, whether to workout at the gym or use the internet (since we still do not have it at our house and it is beginning to look like we never will).  Though I still buy my produce, eggs, and bread exclusively out in town, I am guilty of purchasing the remainder of my grocery needs at the commissary on base (and why wouldn’t I? – they’re cheaper than out in town and they’re brands that I know and love).  With my recent adoption of an adorable Sicilian mutt puppy, Fluffy Bear, I spend even more time on base, since walking the dog on the narrow, busy Sicilian streets is dangerous and stressful, and there are few fenced sports fields outside of base in which to let Fluffy Bear run free.

The progression from culture shock to settling in is a curious one.  It is easy to become comfortable in my habitual ways.  I am at a point where the new and shocking everyday experiences are few and far between.  I must push myself constantly to seek out new challenges and continue to explore and learn about my host country. 

I believe I’m in a not-so-uncommon cultural dip.  Revelations and discoveries must be sought, as well as experiences outside my comfort zone.  And that is why I wanted to share this with you, readers.  I have shared with you times of joy and moments of embarrassment, moments of wonder and times of frustration.  I wanted to also share with you this new development where I find myself shifting back into the habits of a typical, comfortable American life.  I have loved sharing my Italian adventures with you thus far, and I cherish your comments and encouragement.  I suppose what I am saying is that in this week of Thanksgiving, I am thankful for you - the friends who read my blog and join me in this journey.  I am thankful that this blog nudges me to continue seeking out new experiences, allowing me to make the most of my time in Italy.  Thank you, friends.  Let us continue on with the journey!

Da Bears! - British version

Neither Dinosaur or I had ever been to a professional football game before seeing one in…London.  A little strange for two Americans to get their first taste of live NFL action that way, but no complaints here. 

From what I gathered, there is just one official American football game in London each year.  That means that all fans of American football who are in the area attend the game, regardless of the allegiance of the fans to the teams playing.  Again, I’ve never attended an NFL game in America, but I assume that at those events, if the Bears were playing the Buccaneers, the majority of jerseys that you would see fans wearing would be either Bears jerseys or Buccs jerseys.  Not so in London.  If you’re an NFL fan in Britain, you have but one chance per year to let your pride show, so you throw on that NFL jersey, no matter what team it represents or whether or not that player’s name on your back is even still on that team’s roster.  As we made our way from the Tube to the stadium, the rainbow of jersey colors and spectrum of teams represented was astounding.  

The Buccaneers were the “home” team (is that just a bizarre American sport occurrence – to designate one team the “home” team, regardless of how far both teams actually are from their homes?), so the stands were filled with Buccaneers penants.  And because most of the British NFL fans filling the stadium held no allegiance toward either team that was actually playing, most seemed stoked to score a free NFL souvenir and waved the penants furiously.  Not that the stadium filled from top to bottom with waving Buccs penants actually helped that team in the game’s outcome (go Bears!).

The GooGoo Dolls played a few songs as the opening act.  That was entertaining.  And also funny that an American band was brought over to London to open.

Both the American and British national anthems were sung.

Looking around the stands (which were quite full), hardly a woman could be found.  Is this typical of an NFL game in America?  I can imagine that it is, but still, hardly to the extent that I witnessed in London.  I would hesitate to bet that even 10% of the audience was female.  I definitely felt…outnumbered.

The people sitting near us in the stands were very friendly.  The row of people behind us held retiree-aged Bears fans from Scotland.  To my right were five college-aged friends from Ireland who make a yearly journey to London for the NFL game.  Each of the five boys wore a different NFL jersey.  I was able to chat (well, yell) with the nearest three, to glean the stories of how they chose “their” teams.  Steelers jersey, sitting next to me:  “I used to have hair like Polamalu’s.”  Patriots jersey, who had been sipping Smirnoff Ices throughout the entire game:  “I’m in love with Tom Brady.”  Bengals jersey:  “My cat looks like Garfield.”  Beyond Bengals, the two others were sporting Broncos and Buccaneers.  I didn’t catch their stories, but Steelers fan sitting next to me shrugged and stated in his thick Irish accent, “We play a lot of Madden.”

Continuing on in thick Irish speak, Steelers fan entertained me throughout the game with his incredulity at the cheerleaders:  “What on earth are they doing??”  “Can you imagine, if in the middle of a rugby game, a bunch of girls in bikinis ran onto the field??  There’d be utter madness!”  “Not that I’m complaining…”  “Do you reckon they’re cold?”  “Who pays for them??”  “I like this sport.  All I need is the sport.  When did Americans get so bored with sport that they had to bring in girls in bikinis??”  “Who are these women?!?”  “Again, not that I’m complaining…”

Dinosaur and I enjoyed the easy Bears win, high-fiving the Scottish retirees behind us after touchdowns.  We sipped beers and munched on crispy chicken and chips (thick British French fries, not potato chips).  (I’ll admit, I was hoping for a warm, hand-held meat pie, a la Aussie footy games, but no such luck.)  We braved the crowded Tube and managed to maneuver back to our hotel.  All in all, our first NFL experience, though unconventional, was a thoroughly delightful one.