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.

Hold the Clotted Cream

Some of you may not be aware, as I was not, that the NFL sends two teams to London once a year to play a regular season game there.  Luckily for Bears-crazy Dinosaur, this year those two teams were the Bears and the Buccaneers.  Two short flights from Sicily, Dinosaur and I found ourselves in foggy London town.

It must be noted that London/British related songs and movie quotes encompassed my mind for the entirety of our trip.  The far most prevalent were “The Worst Pies In London” from Sweeney Todd, “Feed the Birds” from Mary Poppins, and the entire script of Love Actually.

London is in a different time zone than Sicily; we gained one hour in travel.  Though our cell phones picked up service from a British carrier, I chose to keep mine in airplane mode to avoid roaming charges.  Dinosaur turned his on sporadically for map/internet uses.  Our first night, I used my cell phone as the alarm clock that roused us early for a full day of sight-seeing.  At 7:00am, my cell phone chimed us awake and we went about our morning routines.  About a half an hour later, while making myself a cup of tea, I clicked Dinosaur’s cell phone to check the time.  It was 6:37am.  A full day of sight-seeing, indeed.

The London Underground (“The Tube”) is awesome.  SO easy to get around to exactly where you want to go.

Our first Tube stop was Big Ben and Parliament.  Big Ben was my favorite sight in London.  It’s just so idealic.  And it was fun to look at Parliament from the nearby bridge over the Thames and picture Sherlock Holmes diving out of a Parliament window (aw, there’s another movie that occupied my brain while in London).  After snapping some pictures and simply gazing around, Dinosaur and I wondered if it was time to line up for Westminster Abbey.  We both automatically pulled out our cell phones to check the time.  While standing under Big Ben.  Which is a big clock.

Westminster Abbey is impressive.  Both Dinosaur and I were expecting a big church, a la St. Paul’s cathedral.  In actuality, it struck us as less of a church and more of a giant tomb, teaming with dead kings, queens, poets, and other notable historical figures.  I enjoyed seeing the graves of Geoffrey Chaucer and Charles Darwin.

The changing of the guard was perhaps slightly overrated, but iconic nonetheless.  Seeing the Beefeaters ride in was worth the crowd.

The pub fare of London was most definitely NOT overrated!  I could not wait to enjoy a pie and a pint, and I was not disappointed.  Dinosaur munched on fish and chips while I feasted on a venison pie.  We sampled four pints between us – a house Porter, ESB, Golden Pride, and Bengal Lancer IPA.  YUM!!

After our pub lunch, Dinosaur and I wandered through the Burough Market, which is a foodie’s dream come true.  I chased down my pie and pints with a cup of goats milk ice cream – raisin rum.  Surprisingly scrumptious!

The London Bridge is grand, though perhaps a bit garishly painted in white with bright blue trim.  Then I had “London Bridge is Falling Down” in my head.

For dinner, we ate at a cute sit-down restaurant, and it became abundantly clear to me that I am better able to communicate with Italian servers in Italian than I can with British servers speaking English.  The Queen’s English and American English might as well be foreign languages.  Thank goodness we’re not stationed in Britain; I’d starve.

Our restaurant was close to Fleet Street, and I had just recently watched Johnny Depp’s Sweeney Todd, so despite the cold and blustery wind, Dinosaur and I took an after dinner stroll.  There was a barber shop, but it was down a side alley, so it was not called The Fleet Street Barber or anything similar.  Adding to my disappointment, there was no pie shop to be found.  But in reality, I suppose a pie shop modeled after one in a movie that served unknowing customers cannibalistic meat pies might not be the wisest business model.

I’ll tell you next week all about seeing an American football game in Britain.

Dolci Gratis?

Ah, Halloween.  There comes an age in everyone’s lives when, despite the constant variable of costumes, the gastronomical association turns more toward libations than candy.  For Dinosaur and I, that time began with the commencement of college and has continued on through to the present.  Post college life, in the U.S., Dinosaur and I have always lived in apartment complexes not frequented by trick-or-treaters.  If we really thought about it, we would acknowledge that trick-or-treating happened, but it was not something that we witnessed or paid any mind. 

Here in Italy, it seems that most Italians know about Halloween, but only as an American holiday.  I knew that trick-or-treating was going to happen on October 31 at the base housing complex, but since we live off base, Halloween all but slipped from my mind once dinner was on the stove.

Then our buzzer rang.  When Dinosaur and I aren’t expecting anyone, the buzzer ringing is generally cause for nerves and unease.  Not because we live in a bad neighborhood or anything; quite the opposite, actually.  We live in a pleasant, friendly neighborhood, at the top of a very long, steep driveway, at the bottom of which is the gate where callers buzz the house.  When the buzzer rings, we can pick up a telephone and talk to the person at the bottom of the driveway, but 90% if the time, that person is Italian and solely Italian-speaking.  Hope as we might for a successful verbal interaction, Dinosaur’s or my response to whatever was spoken to us is inevitably, “Mi dispiaci, un momento” (“I’m sorry, one moment”), flip-flops thrown on, keys snatched, iPad grabbed, and then there’s the long trudge to the bottom of the driveway to see if a face-to-face interaction can be any more successful.

On Monday night, when I answered the buzzer phone, I heard kids on the other end, but couldn’t understand what they were saying (no surprise there).  My initial reaction was that kids were playing with our buzzer, and I didn’t want to bother putting shoes on and walking all the way down the driveway in the cold to tell them to go away.  (It should be noted though, that this scenario I fabricated in my mind has never actually happened, and since we have very nice neighbors who seem to collectively raise the few kids in the neighborhood, I cannot imagine that any of the kids would ever get away with randomly ringing our bell for fun.)  I hung up the phone, but the buzzer rang again within seconds.  “Well crap,” I figured, “I’d better just go see what’s up.” 

I pulled on a sweatshirt, shuffled into some sandals, grabbed my keys, and headed outside.  No sooner was I off the porch than I looked down the drive and saw two kids in masks outside our gate.  Trick-or-treaters!!  The first I’ve seen in over ten years!  Brightening considerably, I laughed out loud and waved my hands in a gesture that I hoped told the kids I would be right back.  As I did, I heard our neighbors’ peals of laughter from their third floor terrace.  I knew immediately that the kids at my driveway must be Jessica and a friend, and their parents were no doubt gathered together, enjoying dinner and the entertainment of whether or not the Americans would indeed pull through with free treats if kids rang their doorbell in costume.

I ran back into the house, mind racing – alas, I knew I didn’t have any candy!  Dinosaur and I love candy, and we usually have a bag of fun-sized something-or-other in the pantry, but not that day.  Fortunately, Dinosaur has a soft spot for individually-wrapped breakfasts, so I grabbed two Little Debbie coffee cakes and headed back out. 

I opened the automatic gate and the two kids met me halfway up the drive.  I noted with delight that they were wearing identical Scream masks and normal clothes.  I didn’t see the requisite grocery bags or pillow cases in their hands, so I figured I’d just hand them the cakes.  To my even greater delight though, the kids tentatively raised teeny tiny little girl’s purses to me, held open to receive their treats.  I pressed the cakes inside, and if it was not clear before, it quickly became obvious that this was our neighbor kids’ first trick-or-treating experience.  One girl pulled off her mask, revealing, as I had guessed, my vocal neighbor, Jessica.  The other girl pulled off her mask too, and I didn’t recognize her, so I assume it was a friend.  Jessica gave me the usual Italian dual-cheek kisses, and then the three of us stood there for an awkward second.  I said “Happy Halloween!” and the girls looked at me quizzically.  Jessica asked me something in Italian, and I cocked my head to the side before answering, “…si.”  (Surely her inquiry was some sort of rhetorical question in which “yes” was an appropriate answer, right?)  The girls smiled, shrugged, waved, and headed away down the driveway.  The parents cheered.