Markets, Markets and piu mercadi

I live in the small town of San Martino in Rio, just outside the larger city of Reggio Emilia.  Every Saturday morning here there is a market on the main street.  It does not consist of locally made products; each tent houses products you would find in a department store, but prices are very low.  For example, one tent was full of young women's clothing, another of socks and underwear and a third sold jackets.  There were also three produce stands, which were my target.  My host mom is (intelligently) conscientious of where she buys her produce to be careful of quality.  She recommended buying mine from the stands, to get to know from where the produce is coming and to meet the farmers, so I had been saving up my produce buy all week. 
[I buy most of my food at the Coop grocery store right next door, which has communist origins.  My host mom teases me that I’m shopping with the communists every time I go.]  I posted up outside the produce stand that had the most friendly looking employees (the produce among all looked identical).  I stood on the side for several minutes, preparing my speech in my head, waiting to be called on for my turn.  I saw the employees look at me a couple times, recognizing that I had been there for a while and that it should probably be my turn, but I hadn't responded to the numbers they were calling.  I came to and realized it was like being at the DMV; you pull a tab with a number on it and wait your turn.  After that, the session was a breeze: "La insalata; uno di questa e uno di questa, etc." 

San Martino's main street where the market is held every Saturday.

Get your number and get in line!

Not a bad lunch, eh?  Made from some of my market produce.

 After the market I went for a jog around town (did I mention how much pasta I eat here?).  The terrain is extremely flat, so it's a nice confidence boost to keep me exercising.  I took La Rossa to the market in the morning and road a couple miles, which is a greater quantity in kilometers so I count it as more workout.  After my pitiful exercise and a bit of washing up, I hopped on a train to Bologna.  Without stops Bologna is only thirty minutes away, so I made it there within an hour.  

I had a lot of grand, fashionable ideas of things I wanted to purchase in the reputable Bologna shopping district, but when I got there my fist tightened around my wallet and I couldn't do it.  It's nice to have some consistency at home and abroad.  There was a market of white tents going on there, too, but approximately twenty times the size of the one in San Martino.  It was overwhelming!  Aisle after aisle of 10 euro shoes, 2 euro socks, knock-off purses and people packed together like sardines. I persevered and made it out alive, and more importantly with all of my belongings.

La Via Dell'Independenzia is full of shops.  I'm not sure if it's an every Saturday occurrence, but the entire road was blocked from automobile traffic to make way for pedestrians.  The sidewalks are covered by porticoes, so Bologna makes for a friendly visit even in the winter months.  I walked through several shops, including H&M and Zara, which my host mom informed me are very in fashion now as suppliers of stylish, poorly made clothes to pair with more expensive, quality pieces.  Lucky for my wallet I am not a fashionable Italian size.  I'm not even sure if pants exist here that my legs would fit into.  The Italian size on the tags is smaller than the same number in general European sizes.  I love the look of women who can fit into these skinny jeans/thick leggings and pair them with beautiful boots.  And they can apparently do everything in heels.

I stumbled across a piazza at the end of La Via Dell'Independenzia where a group of young men were playing live music.  They were gangly, scruffy, had awkwardly high energy and were altogether captivating.  Their name is Rumba de Bodas, and they play traditional wedding music from all around the world.  They were having so much fun playing and singing that I found myself laughing out loud in the middle of the crowd, which seemed every bit as entranced as I.  They had a container set in front of them with a sign explaining how much CD's, shirts and other paraphernalia cost, then a box for onlookers to pay money to trade for said paraphernalia.  I couldn't help but walk up and drop in 5 euro in return for a CD.  The CD doesn't hold the same magic as they did on their makeshift stage, but it's a nice way to keep the memory of them jumping around and attempting to sing English songs in terrible accents.

Rumba de Bodas

I walked a bit further on before I decided it was time for a gelato break.  I've had surprisingly little of this since I've been here, which I vow to change (La Rossa may need to be taken around the block a few more turns).  I have experienced an interesting phenomena here: I do not like chocolate ice cream, but I LOVE chocolate gelato!  It is unbelievable.  Imagine the creamiest, richest chocolate you've ever tasted.  Now freeze that and make it even creamier.  UN. Believable.  The small size gets you two scoops, so I paired the chocolate with a sweet cream vanilla with balls of Nutella.  Very naughty.  Another favorite blind date for chocolate is Stracciatelli, which is vanilla with chocolate chips.  Gelato is so fresh, it blows ice cream out of the water.  I just decided; a new goal of mine is to converse with the owner of a gelato shop and figure out how they make it.

So at the end of my dreamy day of shopping in Bologna, I came away with a mediocre CD and a belly full of gelato.  Great success!

Appliances Work Differently Here

The first, and most possible, mission to accomplish was different outlets.  Duh, European outlets (I didn't plan for it, but adapters are sold at every corner store).  But did you know that German appliances have a different outlet?  Adapter on adapter; hot.

My apartment is completely set with a dishwasher and a washing machine (they generally do not use a dryer here because clothes last longer without it.  Sadly for me, this requires you to have more than one week's worth of clothes).  It's so convenient to have everything right here!  My intellect regarding such appliances, however, is not convenient.

The washing machine has a hose attached to it that hangs on the side of a basin sink.  The plug for the washer didn't reach all the way to the outlet so I had to move the machine away from the sink.  The hose no longer reached the basin.  At least I was smart enough to realize that water would most likely be coming out of that hose.  I stuck the hose end into a mop bucket that holds ~ 3 gallons of water.  That's enough right? Right?  I mean, I don't see ANY water coming out of my machine in Missouri (logical?).  I walked down to the laundry room an hour later and it had effectively converted into a small lake.  Thank God the floors are stone tile.  On the down side I was up until 1:00 AM mopping my floor, but on the upside the laundry room tiles are impeccably clean.  I bought an extension cord.

At the end of my first week here I have finally conquered the dishwasher.  It is a Bosch automatic washer with no start button, only a power button and a button that let's you choose hours.  The first time I tried it I set it for 1H, or 1:00 AM so it would run during the night.  When I woke up all the dishes were clean and I thought I had it figured out.  This morning I tried to set it a half hour before for 10:00 AM, but then 10:00 came and went and nothing happened.  I tried again for 11H.  When I checked later it had changed my time and the machine hadn't run!  I finally figured, screw it I'll set it for 0H or 12:00 AM, and the machine started immediately.  The hours aren't for time of day, it's how many hours you want the washer to wait to start running.  Sweet Jesus, I felt dumb!

They don't drink the tap water here, and they are religious about it.  I though it was ironic that the cleanest water in Rome came out of the sides of buildings (it comes down from a mountain spring). The first couple nights I boiled tap water for my tea; a powder was left in the pan and a sludge in my mug.  Now I use the bottled stuff and stick it in the microwave.

Drink out of the wall, but not the faucet!

Good news: bicycles still move when you pedal them here!  I met my new friend whom I've dubbed La Rossa this week.  She is the beautiful road bike I picked up from Ginger.  Ginger is the town gossip who owns a bike shop down the street from my house, who has curly red hair and glimmering, needy eyes.

La Rossa

There are so many bicycles and mopeds here!  It cracks me up, all the older women drive mopeds.  You'll see a woman hobbling down the street with her cane, then at the end she'll swoop up onto her moped and take off.

A day in the life

I wake up every morning at 7:00 AM in my beautiful apartment, stroll down my first set of stairs into the living room/kitchen and have cereal or il gnoccho for breakfast (a local specialty salty flatbread, which goes wonderfully with fresh cheese spread and prosciutto crudo).  Then I sit down and try to finish the blog I started writing at midnight and finish my compito (homework) for Italian class.  Get dressed, etc., stroll down my second set of stairs out the door (lock it) then down to my underground parking spot.

Living room

kitchen

Prima colazione!

My car here is so fun to drive; a Renault Scenic, manual gearshift, diesel.  The driving is so smooth (once I got used to how fresh the clutch is)!  I am assimilating well to the size of the roads.  There are some two-way backroads that are barely the size of one side of a U.S. road.  Every so often there is an extension in the shoulder to scurry into should you come across any traffic.  One "interesting" thing about the roads here are the roundabouts.  They are "very stylish" right now.  I didn't want to over-exaggerate so I planned to say that there was one every two miles, but I paid attention this morning and there is a long strip where you come across one every 400 meters.  It is absurd.  I've had a tough time figuring out directions here because my eye isn't trained to distinguish differences among the Italian towns.  I had my first attack of culture shock the other day when I had been driving an hour to get to my class and still hadn't found my parking spot.  On a good day it takes 15 minutes to get there.

I am learning so much in my Italian class!  We meet for four hours Mon-Fri.  I have 7 compadres in the class: two from Russia, a couple from Denmark, a young girl from Morrocco and two Japanese men who chef in Italian restaurants located in Japan (they didn't know each other before the class!) I don't know if I should chalk it up to age and experience or that I have already learned the structures of other languages, but I am much more brave and self confident this time abroad than when I was in Argentina years ago.  I'm less afraid to go out and try my Italian and I'm very talkative in class.  We'll see if the other students start hating me...

Halfway through class we take "una pausa" and go across the street to a bar to get coffee.  "Bars" here are both little cafes with pastries and lots of coffee and what we think of in America as bars with a full list of alcoholic drinks.  You can find them everywhere.  Italian coffees are what we think of as espressos, only less liquid.  They generally take me three sips, but they are strong.  Most Italians drink coffee at breakfast, at the morning break, after lunch (but never order coffee with milk in the afternoon or evening; they say milk halts digestion) and then after dinner they have an orzo decaffeinated coffee that I opt for.  The cappucini here are so foamy and delicious!  It's a different concept not carrying my coffee around with me for an hour but slurping it all in one shot.

After class I drive to my "family's" house for lunch with the mom.  We have very stimulating conversations, either practicing Italian (I've grown accustomed to their voices and can understand quite a bit), or discussing the economy and politics.  Being a business owner, I think she has very good ideas.  She also dresses better than any real human I've ever seen.  I am slowly developing a style here.  I appreciate the intelligence it takes to dress well, and I also embrace dressing to make yourself feel good and command attention as a form of feminism.  Maybe I'm getting a bit deep here, but I've recently started a love affair with a new scarf and it's introducing to me a world of fashionable opportunities.  Those who know me well will be shocked, I know.

After lunch I have a couple free hours to myself.  Yesterday I picked up a used road bike, which was waiting for me in a man named Ginger's garage.  My family warned me that he was the town gossip, and would probably ask me all kinds of questions.  He only explained to me how all the lights and locks work, then sent me out with a "bon voyage!"  I think he had been warned that I speak little Italian.  My host mom assures me he'll talk to everyone about me for the rest of the week.

The kids get out of school at 4:30, so I go back to the house and hang out with them.  I have Richi help me with my homework, and Bea and I will play Italian/English pictionary or some other simple game.  They are really fun kids and I look forward to spending time with them.  I really want to help them in any way I can!  I hope there is an improvement in their English at the end of my stay.  This family treats me like gold, and I want to give them a payoff.

We go to piano lessons, fencing and volleyball, depending on the night of the week, then we come home and have an aperitivo.  The sparkling wine here (spumante) is fantastic!  Then dinner around 8:30, which typically is fish or pasta.  They eat SO MUCH pasta here, but the rule is no carbohydrates after 2:00 PM (we follow it loosely).  Apparently it's working because the entire family is in fantastic shape.  I could use a few more vegetables in my life, but I have nothing to complain about because the food is delicious.

Pasta Arrabiata - "Angry pasta", with a little spicy kick.  NOM!

I come home, turn on my TV program "Questo Nostro Amore" and catch up on my internet.  Then I climb the flights of stairs up to my castle and get ready to do it all over again.  I feel so alive with traveling; so many new words, actions, places and things to absorb!  Buongiorno, arrivederci, and until tonight

Atlas Shrugged

Since the time is ripe, let’s talk politics.  I am currently watching an Italian TV station entirely dedicated to following the U.S. election.  It seems that most people here are very in-the-know about the American political disposition, which I find interesting.  I’ve had some invigorating conversations with my host parents, who own their own business here.  The mother was explaining to me over lunch how difficult her position is as head of HR because she has to create methods of cutting expenses, but it is against the law to fire anyone.  What?  

I hate talking about politics, because saying the wrong thing can literally ruin a relationship.  I'm going to go out on a limb and relate what I've gleaned from conversations here.  Take it with a grain of McKynlee-flavored salt.

Italy has a deep vein of communism running through its economic heart, though they won't label themselves exactly that way in modern day.  In the 1960's there was so much work available in Italy that companies marketed to employees; they promised job security, excellent pension plans and benefits galore.  This did two major things: 1) create a lazy younger generation who was told by their parents, "Oh, don't take that job; you'll find something better", and 2) dig a nice pot of shit in which future business owners now stick.  [I added my own twist to the tale].  Out of this employee market arose a law which still stands today; any employer who wishes to remove an employee is required to pay said employee a large percent of their standard wages for over a year.  Usually it's more financially sound to cut the persons pay and keep them on hand.  In an attempt to release business-owners' handcuffs, a law was passed within the last couple of years that states an employer can release an employee without severance pay if there is a good reason for doing so.  Can I get an A-M-B-I-G-U-I-T-Y?  Fired employees are taking advantage of the unclear wording, and they take the business to court.  The judges are usually on the left (more communist) side due to the nature of getting such a high position in government.  They generally side with the Unions, and mandate businesses found guilty of mis-fire to rehire the employee AND pay damages for the time the employee spent without work.  

I can't lie; this scares the crap out of me.  I appreciate the fact that I can get fired in the U.S. (don't worry, I tossed a coin in the Trevi Fountain so I don't have to eat these words).  I feel more appreciation to be  employed and I'm motivated to succeed in order to maintain it.   I can't help but be proud of the United States for maintaining capitalism (as much as its citizens will say that we're going away toward socialism, relatively we are still impressive).

A Brief Roman History, or an oxymoron

I slept with the enemy.  And by that I mean bed bugs.  My rustic Roman hotel's rich history and beautiful old paintings apparently come at a price.

I met with my Italian host family my second day in Rome.  They came down from their northern home in Emilia Romagna to spend their All Saints vacation touring with me in the capital (when does capitol get a chance to play?).  What a beautiful family!  The youngest, Bea, is 9 years-old and a complete love bug (so adorable).  Richi is 11 and fast becoming a man, so it will take a bit more to break through his exterior.  Neither speaks very much English, although no one speaks much of any language when they're intimidated.  Bea and I bonded over this goofy, head-splitting yet catchy song Pulcino Pio (little chicken).  You can listen to it here, but take an Advil first: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=juqyzgnbspY.  I in turn shared Gangnam Style with her and we practiced the dance.  She held my hand everywhere we went the rest of the trip through Rome.  K-Pop really is crushing borders everywhere.

We booked a tour guide to walk with us for half a day.  Rome is very conducive to walking, which ranks a city high on my list.  Our hotel was right outside the Vatican museum + St. Peter's Basilica, and within a thirty minute walk of all the places I will describe.  Besides scattered showers, the weather was gorgeous; sunshine and ~60-70 degrees.  Apparently Rome is moderate all year long, so even visits in December can be pleasant.  I advise bringing an umbrella or some kind of rain gear, though, because when it rains, it pours.

Statue of Michael

The guide took us first to Castel Sant'Angelo, of which I had been ignorant.  The Castle was once used by the Popes as a fortress which housed their treasure and themselves against invaders.  They used a secret corridor to get from the Castle to the Vatican (see picture below).  There is a statue on a veranda of Archangel Michael, because a Pope had a vision of Michael in front of the castle sheathing his sword.  Thus ended the Black Plague.

See the secret walkway raised above the street on the right heading toward St. Peter's?

The Pantheon was one of my favorite sites.  It is so OLD; originally built in 31 B.C.  Talk about gifted architects!  It was originally intended to pay tribute to the gods of ancient Rome, but was eventually converted into a Catholic worship, which is why the Popes allowed it to live on.  Most other pagan structures were stripped of precious material (i.e. the Colosseum) to be used in new Catholic constructions.

The Pantheon

Anfiteatro Flavio, AKA the Colosseum, was our next stop.  The Italians are extremely dedicated to their history, which makes me a little embarrassed about my specific knowledge of my own.  The detailed information that my host family threw at me was incredible.  Apparently the popular picture portrayed of the Gladiator thumb up= life, thumb down=death, never took place.  In fact, there was only a brief period where any performances involved human deaths before a law was passed to prohibit it.  The amphitheater was mainly used for battle reenactments and theater performances.  The sight of il Colosseo was originally the playground of Emperor Nero, who had the river put underground and built himself a lake. Nero's Nazi-Fascist ideology made him controversial, so when his reign ended his playground was destroyed.  Nero had had a "colossus"-sized statue of himself on the property which was torn down, but the name recycled. 

The emperor sat just to the right of where the wooden platform restoration ends.

Walking in Julius Caesar's footsteps.  NBD

Ran, this is for you.  Breakfast at the hotel.

Julius Caesar's tomb

The Fountain of Four Rivers depicts the major river in each of the four continents in the world at the time: The Nile, Ganges, Rio de la Plata, and the Danube.  The segment for the Nile (opposite) has a face covered with a towel because it was unknown where the river originated.

The Trevi Fountain.  I could have sat here all day.  Probably my favorite spot.

On the last day we made it at the buzzer into the Capella Sistina.  I don't know if it was the season or because we got inside just before it closed, but we swam in a sea of bodies all the way through the building.   The sheer mass of humanity coupled with an enormous amount of artwork was overwhelming; a wonderful demonstration of the Roman syndrome of "horror vacui" (fear of empty spaces).  The floor was decorated with gorgeous marble and mosaics.  Walls were covered in tapestries, featured statues and held paintings.  And the ceilings, well, I'm sure you've heard something about that.  All of this combined with my 1.5 square inches of personal space, I am not ready to run back inside, although it was one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen.

Umm, no pictures please!

Rome is so full of history.  My brain hurt by the end of the trip, but you can't help but fall in love with history.  I noticed that the subway system was very rudimentary, and initially chalked it to their active lifestyle of walking.  My host father told me, however, that every time they try to expand the subway they dig up a new ruin, so construction is halted and a new monument is born.  Unbelievable

Crete, Day 1

Wow.

Wow!

WOW!  I had a phenomenal trip to Crete.   

I had been blindly searching for the bus station my first morning; I wheeled my suitcase (which is subsequently losing steam…Parents, I’ll get us a new one) all over Heraklion's cobblestone streets.  Each set of broken English directions led me a bit closer, but was never spot on.  Finally I found the station and figured out which bus (there were probably 50) was mine.  The ride to Chania (pronounced Hanya) was along the northern coast, so the view was energizing.  Olive trees grow EVERYWHERE!  From a higher vantage point the trees look like balls, so the hills appeared to have had corn-rowed afros.  Three hours on the bus and a very brief taxi ride later (the woman driver initially said it would cost 45 dollars, and really meant 4.50- we had a nice chuckle) our hotel in Chania was adorned with huge Backroads signs.  They were a lovely signal that I had finally reached the correct place.

Opening Skit

After settling into my room it was time for the Backroads Staff Ride kickoff meeting.  We all funneled into an amphitheater across the street (one could imagine early Olympics going on there) and found stuffed grape leaves and beer galore awaiting us.  All the Staff Ride participants settled onto the stone bleachers, and our amazing Backroads Leaders for the trip put on a skit explaining the history of Crete.  A minotaur ravaged the stage, a hurricane from a water bottle wiped out all the Minoans, the Italians took over in a wine stupor and a crumpled old Greek woman stormed around with a cane and junk in her teeth (presumably olives).  All of this was narrated by an actual Greek god, Devin; our Leader with natural bleach-blond hair and big, bulky muscles.  It was a good sign for things to come; the Leaders did an excellent job organizing and entertaining all week long.

View from our restaurant back toward the hotel

Dinner that night was a short stroll away from the hotel along the beach.  We were greeted with raki ("rocky") shots, a very bitter Greek liquor which literally met us around every corner the entire trip.  It reminded me of Japanese sake with the burn of Bacardi 151; not something to be savored.  A better version of it mixed with honey and cinnamon (Rakiomello) was introduced later in the week, but it still wouldn’t be my first choice drink.

A buffet dinner was served: steamed vegetables, pork, Greek salad and stuffed bell peppers.  Maybe the raki was a calculated aperitif, because the main courses tasted delicious all week.  The wine was flowing faster than the water, shouts of yamas (Greek for 'cheers') abound, and shortly after our innocent friend Kara was organizing her first ever skinny-dipping expedition.  A small group of us found our way to a dark spot on the beach and sneakily dipped into the ocean.  There was a huge rock ~100 yards offshore which we had been admiring from dinner because the restaurant had a spotlight on it.  Soon the boys in our group were heading that direction, and the girls didn’t take long to follow.  The water felt wonderful, but the rock did not; it was like climbing onto a pile of daggers.  We each settled into as flat a nook as we could find and looked toward shore.  When we had departed most people were inside dancing, but word traveled fast and a huge group of Backroads friends were lining the shore to watch.  One by one, we could see more swimmers coming toward us in the water until it became a flock of naked Backroads employees (bosses included).  The image of naked people swimming toward us from every direction on the beach will be burned into my memory forever.  Every time I think of it I laugh. People on the beach said we were far enough away that we were only naked silhouettes, sirens calling to shore.  We really embraced the idea of Greek gods and goddesses!

View from the restaurant; the rock was just barely off to the right.

Someone shouted that the police were on their way, so we scrambled down (not without battle wounds) and back to shore.  The police never showed, so we continued our night dancing in the bar attached to the restaurant (fully clothed this time).

Rome

This post is out of order, but I've got too much to write about Crete to do it in a timely fashion!

I landed in Rome this morning at 10:00 AM, followed the crowd to my luggage and found my driver waiting with a “Mc  Kynlee Westman” sign.  I was finally THAT person!!  I wanted to take a picture, but my driver was not all smiles so I figured it wasn’t a good time to play the airhead tourist.  The city was dreary and wet, but not as cold as I was expecting.  I made a few attempts to throw out Italian or slow English, but we passed most of the ride in silence. 

View of St. Peter's from the hotel

St. Peter’s Basilica is literally right outside my hotel room.  After a nap that was not as brief as I wished (but very necessary), I layered up and headed out to see what kind of crowd waited to see Peter’s rock.  For a rainy day the showing was impressive.  Sadly, the only Halloween costumes I saw were a bunch of Mary Poppins fighting the rain and Catholic priests (weird how popular that costume was inside the church.)  Some salesmen were making a killing on parkas and umbrellas for people standing in line, but it actually felt pleasant to me (and lord knows I need to save up for all the gelato I’m about to eat).  I made friends with a German fellow visiting with his family, and he protected me under his Regenschirm.  The hour wait went by quickly and we were finally inside. 

 This line wrapped back and forth for days

Taken by a nearby foreign friend.

I am overwhelmed by the detail and the scale of artwork inside St. Peter’s Basilica.  I can’t even keep myself motivated to finish a 12x12 painting, and these artists created sculptures on top of sculptures within mosaics over tombs on altars.  I wonder how much of a single artist’s life was consumed by creating any facet of that building.  It seems that today we each do so many more things, but rarely do we have such a long-lasting impact.  I’m not sure if it’s cultural or generational, but it’s shock all the same.

I ate dinner in my hotel’s restaurant tonight.  The prices were very expensive, so I ordered my main dish off the hors d'oeuvres: a mini tuna hamburger.   The waitress shortly came out with a half dollar-sized dish, which gave me a fright, but it turned out to be fried mozzarella with tomato to get me started.  When the tuna burger finally came it was still small, but at least more substantial.  A small piece of bread sat in an oily juice at the base of the plate.  On top of that was a nice chunk of seared tuna meat, garnished with julienned celery, caviar and tuna skin.  Fish skin usually throws my appetite, but it was actually deliciously savory.  The tuna was a little more well-done than I prefer, but still tender, and the celery surprisingly added a lot of flavor.  It was easy to take tiny bites to make the dish last longer.  I figured I might as well try a dessert to counteract all the salt, and ordered an almond parfait.  When it came out I gaped and my waitress laughed.  We were speaking the same language for the first time all night, “Good luck finishing this, and if you do, good luck still fitting in your pants.”  A hockey puck of frozen (yet powdery) almond parfait lay on a bed of Brazilian chocolate and wore a headdress of burnt caramel.  I don’t think I need to say more, except that I’m glad I was wearing elastic pants.