The NEW International Language

It has been said that music is the international language.  That may be so, but at a recent weekend Olympic Lifting certification seminar in Parma, Italy, I discovered the international language of fitness.  The course took place at CrossFit Parma, an Italian CrossFit affiliate, and was attended by mostly Italian participants, but the cert staff was American.  As with most endeavors in the fitness realm, this seminar was not cheap.  I was immediately impressed by the motivation to learn and sheer bravery of the participants who were attending the seminar in a non-native language.  Though a skilled translator was quick to help out, nothing close to every word was translated.  And yet neither tension nor frustration ever bubbled up, everyone learned and advanced, and the weekend was a brilliant success.  One particular participant from Paris stands out in my mind - he spoke not a word of either English or Italian, and yet he paid good money and attended the cert under the faith that a highly skilled staff, copious gestures, and the international language of fitness would carry him through.  I was delighted and inspired by the fact that he was correct.

One element, though, that was often lost in translation was the conversion of pounds to kilograms.  I, and my fellow Americans attending the cert, lift in pounds.  Everyone else in the world, including CrossFit Parma, lifts in kilograms.  My quick mental translation was to assess a weighted bar, double the number of kilograms, and assume that that was somewhere near the amount in pounds.  However, since the actual conversion is about 1 pound = 2.2 kilograms, my quick mental estimation always came up short.  On more than one occasion, an American would complete a lift with a weight that he thought was close to something he’d lifted before, only to do the math afterwards and realize that he’d inadvertently exceeded his previous personal record.  (Further proof of the mental aspect of fitness and what one can achieve when s/he gets out of his/her own head.)

Throughout the weekend, participants were required to break off into small groups or pair up.  The lack of hesitation that utter strangers from different countries showed when pairing up and teaching each other felt so natural and unremarkable that it then became notable.  The few American participants were met with nothing short of whole hearted inclusiveness.  We were all so incredibly united over our shared interest and a drive to learn that it never occurred to us to let our different languages present a barrier.

A 360 degree view of CrossFit Parma

My favorite experience actually happened on Monday, after the weekend seminar.  My two fellow “Sigonellans” and I had a late flight, so we were able to attend an early class at CrossFit Parma.  The two trainers spoke English, but the regular class participants did not, and having not attended the weekend seminar, they had no idea who we were.  Regardless, they welcomed us into their group.  We lifted together – helping each other load kilograms onto the bar, cheering each other on – and then performed a timed workout in which, working all at the same time, we had 12 minutes to complete as many rounds as we could of three different exercises.  When the buzzer range, we all collapsed momentarily and then happily exchanged high fives and compliments on hard work well done.

Through a shared interest in fitness, we were no longer “Americans” or “Italians,” but people – people striving toward superior health and fitness, a drive that transcends both language and cultural boundaries.

Insert "gas" joke here

(**Note: All of the pictures on the blog today are images from a Google search; they are not my pictures.)

The trucker strike seems to be over in Sicily.  The latest news I can find is that the movement headed to Rome for continued protests.  There also seemed to be a falling out between two of the leaders of the movement.  I'm not entirely sure if anything got accomplished.  If someone knows more (Maggie?), please fill us in.

All I know for sure is that gas stations have gas again, and my car is running.  It definitely took a few days.  The strike ran all last week, with practically every gas station in Sicily completely running out of gas.  I had a full tank at the beginning of the week, so my work and normal schedule wasn't particularly affected.  I ran my tank low on Friday, and stayed near the house over the weekend.  The strike officially ended at midnight on Friday, so gas trucks began making their way to stations on Saturday and Sunday.  But everyone in Sicily (we're talkin' one of those "everyone and their mothers" situations), flocked to the gas stations over the weekend. 

(This picture is actually from Greece.)  I couldn't find one of Sicily, but this is exactly what the lines looked like.

Lines were ridiculous.  Facebook was in an uproar with reports of, "So-and-so gas station has gas!" then 20 minutes later, "That station's out."  On Sunday, I ventured out early in the morning in hopes of beating the crowds.  I got a text tip from a friend and got in a long line at a station that for sure had gas.  The line slowly ticked forward...but I wasn't even close to the station when they ran out.  Later that evening, on another text tip, I hurried to a gas station where I actually saw the gas truck leave the station.  The line was long, but I knew, knew I'd get some this time.  Slowly we inched forward.  After about 45 minutes in line, I was three cars away from the pumps...when the attendants began shaking their heads and waving us away.

Dinosaur had to come rescue me with two gallons in a gas can that he filled up at an interstate gas station.  He took my car back to that same interstate station...but they were out by the time he reached it.

It was frustrating to witness scenes like this and not be able to go up and understand what the chatter was about.  Just another motivator to study up on Italian - understanding the civil unrest.

I stubbornly stuck to the house all day Monday, with no desire to repeat Sunday's failed attempts at a fill-up.  Finally on Tuesday, after four days of gas trucks madly trying to relieve the island's deficiency, I waited in line for about a half and hour and finally got to fill up.

I learned a few things.  I learned that my car can go an impressive distance after the gas light turns on.  Dinosaur explained to me that gas stations on the interstate most likely have much larger reserve tanks than back-roads stations (logical, but who knew?), so in case of another strike, it would be best to head straight to the interstate for a lesser chance of them running out while I'm still in line.  I learned that three days at the house won't kill me and actually motivates me to get some long-procrastinated cleaning done.  And I found it really neat to witness a substantial cultural event in another country.  Granted, it would not have been so neat if the protests weren't peaceful or the public at large had freaked out and turned to anarchy.  But those things did not happen.  I learned that Sicilians will stand their ground when they're upset, and that it's best for me to have a stocked freezer, a tolerant attitude, an open mind, and keep my American butt out of the way.

Protestors waving the Sicilian flag, blocking the way of trucks.

Sicily on Strike

No need to guess at the meaning of my title this week - there really is a strike going on in Sicily.  Because nothing in the past few days that I have experienced or done to embarrass the American name trumps this chunk of news, readers, feast upon this nugget of real, non-trivial current events - a rarity here at Mi Scusi.

Here's a Google-translated blurb from http://palermo.repubblica.it/dettaglio-news/11:54/4098673
"Trucking: Protest continues in Sicily, Palermo-Sciacca blocked
Palermo, 17 January - (Adnkronos) - drivers' protest continues in Sicily against the rising price of gasoline. Due to the strike of the truck and 'left off this morning automobile traffic in the highway Palermo-Sciacca at San Cipirello. More than 40 trucks blocked the main road. On site there are traffic police patrols and police. There are many inconveniences to motorists in the rest of Sicily. Deans also this morning at the Palermo-Messina motorway. The strike will continue 'until January 20."

So basically what's happening is that the truck drivers think that gas is too expensive.  I guess because gas taxes are too high(?)  Lowering the gas taxes would be the only thing the government could do to lower the price, right?  Or maybe the strikers want the government to subsidize it?  I'm no economic expert.  The big issue is, "no one in Italy pays their taxes."  Ok, ok, we all know an ugly stereotype when we see one.  But perhaps you've heard that a few European Union nations are in fiscal trouble.  Italy is one of them.   So I think, I think, what's going on is that the Italian government is scrambling for money anywhere they can.  I know that there were some laws passed this month that even affect the Americans, such as the new rule that any cash purchase over 1,000EU must have a receipt.  That may seem obvious to my American readers, but believe it or not, we've been paying our rent by giving our landlord a fat wad of cash every month.  That's the common practice; cash rules here.  (Why?  So "no one has to pay taxes.")  Brace yourselves - here's my half-ignorant, probably wrong, shouldn't be quoted Italian current economic affairs theory:  Cash has ruled for a really long time, both on the level of government and on the level of the people; Italy jumped on with the European Union and perhaps didn't worry as much about their fiscal state as they should have; the EU cracked down and now Italy is scrambling for money; governments make money through taxes so taxes are rising; no one pays income tax the way "we all do" in the States, so Italy is taxing more tangible things like gas; gas is getting really expensive and people are getting mad.


Again, that could be waaaaaaay off.  Feel free to comment with more educated knowledge if it's in your noggin.


So anyway, today is Wednesday the 18th and this strike started on Monday and is scheduled to go through Friday, and all of Sicily's gas stations ran out of gas today.  You read correctly - we have no gas.  I'm not terribly worried, personally.  I'm lucky to be in a situation where the earth doesn't stop spinning if I can't drive.  I can walk to shops; my job on base isn't essential.  


The immediate future might be a tad...interesting, however.  Apparently the trucker's strike is scheduled to end at midnight on Friday, but then a bigger strike is scheduled to begin next Monday, where the actual gas stations themselves and other service providers will go on strike.  Will gas actually get delivered this weekend, and if so, will everyone who wants gas be able to get it in their cars, including little ol' me?  What does next week have in store?  So far, the protests have been fairly peaceful.  Let's hope it stays that way.


It's times like this that I revert back to the basic needs that I learned in elementary school: as long as I'm able to get food, I have the protection of our house, water runs out of the facets, and I've got clothes to keep me warm, I think I'll be alright.  If I have to hunker down for a few days and snuggle with the pets and a few good books, I can do that too.  Good luck to you all, protesters and Italian government; I will be staying well out of your way.

**Update on January 19**
My friend, Maggie, a native Sicilian, posted this comment on Facebook:
"with all the due respect Erin it is not only a high price gas issue, but everything, all the italian people the middle class, are at the point that we live to pay bills, it is impossible to save money, the raise is everywhere every kind of tax, not only gas, but the thing that pissed us off is the fact the they raise the taxes, cut the pensions cut the job bonuses, but they did not cut the salary of those pigs that rule us in the parliament, Italy is not a republic anymore, it is a regime, a monarchy of the politicians that keep stealing and waste...."

Thank you to Maggie for shedding some informed light on my speculative ramblings.  'Living to pay the bills' paints a vivid picture of a punishing, repressed life.  If the big cats in government keep getting fatter while the middle class barely scrapes by, I can understand the resentment.   I don't know the answer, but there won't be an answer if the disparaging parties don't get together to talk.  And if I have to go without gas in my car for a little while in order to get people to talk and make some just and fair changes, I will do that without complaint.


**end update**


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http://www.timesofmalta.com/articles/view/20120117/local/Truckers-caught-in-Sicily-blockade.402643

Tuesday, January 17, 2012 , by

Matthew Xuereb

Truckers caught in Sicily blockade

A Virtu Ferries catamaran sailing out of Grand Harbour in Valletta.

• 

"A blockade of ports by Sicilian truck drivers has prevented trailers from loading goods, including those destined for Malta, but the extent of damage this may cause the island will only be determined if the situation drags on.
The last time similar action was taken was in autumn of 2000 when truck drivers brought the Sicilian economy to a standstill with a 10-day strike.
A spokesman for one of the main freight forwarding companies in Malta told The Times yesterday that the strike action caused severe congestion around the ports from where they operate. The company had a number of truck drivers caught in the centre of the strike action.
The spokesman, who spoke on condition that the firm was not named, said his company was making alternative arrangements to have cargo shipped from other ports in Italy such as Genoa and Civitavecchia. The trip from Civitavecchia to Malta takes two days, as opposed to 90 minutes by catamaran from Pozzallo to Malta.
The strike action was ordered by the association representing Sicilian truck drivers (Associazione Imprese Autotrasportatori Siciliani) and the action is expected to last until Thursday, unless a solution to the problem is found before.
The Sicilian truck drivers blocked entrances and exits of the ports in Pozzallo and Catania and roads and motorways in Palermo.
The managing director of Virtu Ferries, Henri Saliba, said the action had not had any effect on its operations so far but if it was prolonged, it would surely hit its commercial vehicle clients.
Virtu Ferries, which operates a daily catamaran link between Malta and Sicily, had to cancel its trips yesterday evening and this morning but this was due to the inclement weather and the rough sea, Mr Saliba said.
Several Maltese businesses, which knew about this planned blockade by Sicilian truck drivers from weeks ahead, managed to make arrangements for their goods to reach Malta from other destinations.
The main gripe of Sicilian truck drivers is the price of fuel which they believe has reached “unsustainable levels”. They are also saying the present system has brought about a reality where the cost to transport goods was greater than the cost of the actual product.
Contacted yesterday, one Sicilian truck driver who owns his own freight company said the rising costs of transportation were having a drastic effect on his profitability.
“We cannot have a situation where a product costs €1 and the price to transport it €1.20. Once the transportation costs surpass the actual cost of the product, the system breaks down. I can’t continue like this. I have a family to feed,” Paolo Caltanivetta said from his truck, which was blocking the exit from the port of Pozzallo.
The truck drivers are also complaining about the rising costs of insuring their vehicles and of wear and tear."

Flash!cards

The week has been low-key as far as Italian adventures go.  However, Dinosaur and I are really trying to make a push toward studying more Italian (he's reviewing flashcards as I type this),which made me think of a few points.

Did you know that people who speak other languages say animal noises differently than we do in English?  I had a good laugh comparing English and Italian animal noises with some Italian friends who work at the hotel where we stayed when we first got here.  I wish I could remember more of them, but for instance - What sound does a dog make?  You're probably thinking, "bow wow," or "bark," or some sort of barking/growling/yipping noise.  In Italian, take the "wow" off of "bow wow" and add another "bow."  Pronounced like a tree bough.  "Bow bow!"  You're saying it out loud, aren't you??  Heehee, animal noises are fun in all languages!

Last week when I entered the produce shop, Mama Produce was sitting with a friend.  I greeted them, then Mama Produce offered a long string of pleasantries, and I answered something that may or may not have made sense.  I told the friend that I'm American and speak very little Italian, but that I'm learning.  Mama Produce was very sweet and quick to defend me, and I'm pretty sure that she said that though I don't speak very well, I understand well.  Which is absolutely, laughable, not the case.  For every sentence that I know how to say, I can readily understand one or two words when spoken to me.  I think Mama Produce is deceived just because I smile and nod so much around her.  She's so cheerful! - I can't help the bright expression plastered on my bobbing head when she talks to me.  "Lei capisce bene" my foot.  Very sweet of her to defend me though.  Such a nice woman.

I've been chatting to Bella more often on Facebook.  She writes in English and I try to write what I can in Italian.  I usually have Google Translate open in the next tab, but I try really hard to think of the Italian on my own before I look it up.  The problem is, Bella would never correct me.  Just as I don't correct her.  It would be an incredibly tedious and unpleasant conversation if we corrected each other after every entry.  So that's not an ideal way to practice, but at least it gets me thinking about Italian.  And she had a really great idea recently.

Bella said that singing along to American music helps her learn English.  She suggested that I listen to Italian music.  Most of the radio stations here play American music, but I managed to find a pop station that's about 50/50.  I concentrate super hard on what the DJ's are saying, but I only manage to make out a word here and there.  But songs are different.  Most are slower than you would talk, so I can pick up so much more.  And by learning a song, even if I don't know exactly what the lyrics mean, my ear gets used to hearing how Italian words go together.

This hadn't occurred to me before I came over to Italy, but when we speak, we anticipate quite a bit.  When you ask someone, "How do I open this?" you've already subconsciously primed your brain to anticipate the answer.  Your brain knows the answer isn't going to be "lipstick" "lima casserole" or "in a tree stand," so it's not perked for those answers.  But when I ask that same question in Italian, I have no idea what to expect for an answer.  Imagine the anticipation if every time you asked a question, you had to be ready to mentally sift through ever possible phrase that you know, never knowing where in your brain the matching phrase, if it's even there, will be.  So that's why songs are handy.  The tune helps me put together words in a sentence the way they're supposed to be, the way I'll hear them when Italians speak to me.  At first, I'm just memorizing the sounds of words, but once they're in my head, they're stuck there.  Then I look up the meaning, and boom - another phrase in the arsenal.

Dinosaur is so diligent.  He's still flash-carding away.  I guess I'd better join him so he doesn't have all the intercultural conversational fun.  A presto!  (ahem - see you soon!)

Sicilian Christmas Part II

Buon Anno!  Did you pronounce both n's as you read that?  If not, you just told yourself "Good Butt" instead of spreading New Year cheer.  Gotcha!  What a language, this Italian...

Despite it being a week into 2012, let's take a moment to reflect way back to Christmas Eve 2011.  Back when we were young, innocent.  And very full.  Dinosaur and I, as well as two other American friends from base, had the extreme pleasure of joining a Sicilian family in their Christmas Eve feast.

We began digging into the antipasti (pictured above) around 9:00pm.  When you visit Sicily, beware: the antipasti alone could be a meal.  Pace yourself.  Next will be lasagna, two types of stuffed pizza, chicken and onions, and then desserts galore.  (But you won't pace yourself.  It's all so darn tootin' good!  I'll say I told you so.)

Our gracious hosts, Bella's parents.  They spoke zero English, but I think we managed to convey our appreciation for being witness to such a cool cultural event!

A packed and boisterous kitchen - Christmas Eve done right - feasting the night away!

Everyone speaks the language of laughter. 

Just a sampling of the many, many (MANY) desserts.  In addition to those pictured above, there were multiple cakes, oranges, candy, and liqueurs.

After the food was cleared away, the card games began.  This group was playing what appeared to be hearts, or something similar.  Their deck was Italian, not the suits and numbers that we're used to.  But I think it was a similar concept.  A bit later, the entire group sat down to a fun gambling game: everyone fished all their Euro coins out of their pockets and we bid on cards that had different pictures on them.  After all the cards were purchased, four cards were placed face down in the middle of the table, from an identical deck.  All the collected money was divided up on those four cards.  If you had purchased a card or cards that matched the ones in the middle, you won the corresponding money.  Winning money is fun for all ages!

At midnight we drank a champagne toast and, with kisses, wished each other "Auguri!" ("Seasons Greetings!").  Outside, the church bells clanged nonstop and fireworks could be heard from all directions for a solid 20 minutes.  Buon Natale!  Merry Christmas!  Auguri!

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.