Scorpione

On Sunday Chris and I were introduced to another form of Italian "wildlife." I was still snoozing in bed when Chris yelled from the bathroom, "There is some kind of crustacean in here." I heard "incrustation" since incrustation is a familiar thing in our bathroom as the water is so hard here that you can litterally see calcium floating in it. In fact the #1 cleaning product in the grocery store is called "Disincrostante."  

"Where is it?" I asked. 

"Between the toilet and the sink," Chris replied. 

"Well, that could be almost anything," I said. 

"NO, I mean a CRUSTACEAN" 

"What? Like a crab?" Now I was wide awake. By the time I got to the bathroom Chris had stunned the "crustacean" with a shoe. Although I had never seen one in real life, I knew it was a scorpion. Three graduate degrees between us and all we know about scorpiones comes from an Indiana Jones movie where Indy says that when it comes to scorpions, bigger is actually better (i.e. less poisonous). We both stared at the tiny scorpion. Chris wacked it again with the shoe.

Once I had my shoes on I went to the computer for internet research, where I found that large and small doesn't necessarily mean anything when it comes to scorpions. Apparently the types found in Italy - large or small - are generally not too poisonous. In fact, when I told one of my coworkers we found a scorpion in the house, he said the frightening creatures signify good luck. I would believe that, but Italians have a way of saying anything bad that happens to you means you are lucky including being pooped on by a bird, spilling champagne, or getting soaked by rain on your wedding day.

The moral of the story is, you can't trust all the information that you find in an Indiana Jones movie. I'm starting to wonder now about the aliens teaching the Mayan Indians farming...

Ufficio

My days as a housewife are over since I now have a part-time job and get to partake in the joys of the Italian office environment. Foremost among these is the coffee break which begins promptly at 10:30 am. It is clear that the coffee break and espresso machine have been much abused (i.e. used all day long) because there are signs on the breakroom door specifying the machine must be off from 7:00 am - 10:30 am and from 10:45 am -5 pm.

The first order of business (after coffee) was to settle in and get to work so I went in search of supplies. It seems that similar to most offices, one person is in charge of the distribution of supplies, however, I've rarely seen such a highly guarded stash of Post-Its, paper clips and pens. Unfortunately when I found the desk belonging to the keeper of the Post-Its the chair was empty and the computer off. I asked around and was told he was on vacation -- with the key to the file cabinet apparently. Surely someone else has a key? I was told I should try again on Monday to get supplies. This was on a Wednesday afternoon.

Unfortunately upon returning to my desk I realized that the printer I had inherited was running out of ink. No surprise, I had to wait until Monday to get toner. Now unable to write, or to print, I had some time to kill. One of my colleagues was kind enough to point me in the direction of the rack of forms so I could find the proper paperwork to fill out in order to expedite my acquisition of pens when the supply-security-guard returned. Naturally, I was struck by the irony of needing a pen to fill out a form so that I could get some pens. Luckily, nearby was one of those pens they have at the bank that is chained down to the desk, obviously to prevent other desperate workers from absconding with it. Having turned in my forms and acquired the proper stamp, I went back to my empty desk to twiddle my thumbs until the next time we could turn on the espresso machine.

I eventually got my Post-Its, 2 pens and a box of paperclips. I didn't bother filling out the paperwork for a ream of paper, I figured I would just remove a bit from the copier now and then. Of course, that was before I knew that the copier too was under lock and key.

In order to avoid the endless paperwork I have become a great conserver of office supplies. I believe it is good not to be wasteful, but I fear I may be becoming compulsive in my hoarding of rubber bands and paper clips. I now seriously consider the gravity of errors before applying liquid paper and I highlight with restraint.

buon natale

The highlight of Christmas was spending it with my surrogate family. Alison (surrogate sister) showed up early to do all manner of Christmasy activities. Sadly, the first day she was here her wallet and passport were stolen on the bus while we were laden down with packages. Now we know why Romans don't go in for the Christmas shopping like we do - it's simply too difficult to defend your wallet with all of those holiday gifts in hand. We immediately headed home to cancel the credit cards and then went to the police office. Although there was someone there to answer the door we were told we were too late to file a police report. As Alison said, "Sorry you lost your identity, you'll have to come back tomorrow!" It makes you hope nothing grave happens to you after 5 pm here. We came back the next day to fill out the "Denucia" which we were told was the very official police report which would assist us in recovering identification and filling claims. We dictated the story to a police officer who filled in our answers by hand on a photocopy of a form. He then photocopied it once again and we marvelled at how much trouble it took to get something very unofficial looking which we could have easily made ourselves at any hour of the day.

We then went straight to the Embassy with our photocopy. I was steeling myself for hours of waiting in line when I saw a few people at the entrance, but after showing the guard our photocopy we were whisked inside and directed to the second floor. At the entrance we were greeted with a number machine. 6 months in Italy has left me cynical about all attempts at orderly systems but we took one anyway. We had barely sat down when we were called to a window and given the proper forms to fill out. We were pleasantly surprised also to find that they had a photo machine in the embassy, right there were hundreds of people a day are actually in need of passport photos - a work of American ingeniuity to be sure. I recall getting my photo for a permesso di sogiorno from such a photo machine conveniently placed on a cement divider in the middle of a main thoroughfare in Torino. It was nowhere near the office where you had to make the application, by the way. I'm certain the Italians probably hoped to reduce their rate of applicants by having them killed trying to get the necessary photos. As we went down to get Alison's photo from the machine on the first floor we passed by a chaotic room full of people clamoring to get to the windows. This was obviously where they dealt with Italian citizens. I was never so glad to be an American.

With Alison's identity back we went back to our Christmas preparations and back to Italy, the land of inconvenience. We had some cookies planned but as I have already told you, baking supplies are scarce here so this was a challenge. Peanut Butter Blossoms were out since we couldn't find hershey kisses and peanut butter can be bought only at a premium. We weighed the possibilities of breaking up chocolate bars into chunks to use in place of the kisses, but to me it was an abomination to make my favorite cookie with such unasthetically pleasing squares of chocolate. We settled on sugar cookie cut-outs and gingerbread men based on the availability of ingredients. Ali brought the cookie cutters from London since as far as I know, such things don't exist here. We were hampered again when it came to frosting supplies. In the grocery store we could only find the tiniest packet of powdered sugar. We would have needed 100 of them to make one batch of icing. Apparently here "zucchero a velo" is only used for a light dusting on top of cakes. Luckily we were able to get a half kilo bag of it and food coloring at Castroni. If it weren't for Castroni we would have never lasted this long in Rome.

ben tornata e buon natale

Since I have been a bad blogger, I have to fill you in on some of the past few months which were full of interesting Roman experiences. I think it was around the holidays that I began to slack off so I have to recount the story of Christmas in Rome. I am nuts about Christmas and I was very excited to celebrate Roman style. Christmas is far less commercial in Italy and while that sounds like it would be a good thing, it began to wear on me when I was unable to find suitable gift bags and had to resort to wrapping presents with double sided tape since I had no idea where to find "scotch" which is what they call scotch tape. If only they had drug stores here that sold more than drugs!

The lack of commercialism also frustrated my desire to shop for and buy the perfect presents and Christmas trappings. I was thrilled when I heard that, miracle of miracles, there would be a Christmas market in Piazza Navona. I envisioned the equivalent of the Union Square Christmas market where you can find truly unique things from up and coming designers and handmade goodies. Chris and I began our search for our tree there two weeks before Christmas. Unfortunately we discovered that the main attractions at the Navona market were Ciambelloni (giant donuts) and moss-covered manger scenes reminiscent of the 70s. There was not a tree or wreath to be found, not to mention any interesting gifts unless you are interested in plastic gladiator costumes. We looked around the center of Rome for hours in desperation. I once got excited thinking I saw a bunch of trees for sale at the far end of a piazza but when I got there I was disappointed to see that it was only a restaurant entrance covered in fake evergreen boughs. We finally found two trees at the florist in Campo de' Fiori, one of which was sold and one of which was the epitome of a Charlie Brown tree but with a wopping price tag. We went home dejected. There is nothing more sad to me than Christmas without a tree. I take after my mother in my emotional attachment to seasonal evergreens. Together we would lobby for a large tree against my father's practical arguments for a smaller one. We had to plead with my dad to leave the tree up until New Year's Day, a compromise since I would have left it up all year round. I resigned myself to the worst case scenario: Christmas with a faux tree from Ikea.

When I ran out to get groceries later that night I thought I saw some Christmas trees as I passed by the combination florist and gas station. I was cautious because of my experience with the Christmas tree mirage earlier but when I got closer I realized it wasn't a vision - there were real trees there! I didn't have enough cash to buy one on the spot (nor did I have the means to transport it) but I was relieved to see we would have a real evergreen for Christmas. The actual purchase waited until my best friend Ali arrived because tree stands do not exist here. They actually pot the tree. We needed someone to assist in carrying not only the tree but the pot and the dirt! And we thought pine needles were messy--no wonder Romans don't buy live trees!

lo sciopero (di nuovo)

As you might imagine, my initial enthusiasm for strikes has waned since my ill-fated attempt at the sciopero della pasta. That seems like such a long time ago; back when I still thought that the inconvenient aspects of Italian life were quaint. Since then I have had the experience of being stuck on a bus for 45 minutes at Piazza Venezia when all the taxi drivers in the city decided to park their taxis there to block the road and I have also had the pleasure of rescheduling a weekend trip to London due to an all transportation strike the day of my departure. We are now in the midst of a truck strike. There are huge delivery trucks, full of spoiling food, parked all over the highways. In preparation for the strike I had done my major grocery shopping yesterday so I only needed a few little things. I wanted to try out a recipe for mulled wine and pick up cat food (yes, we are now feeding the tigressa twice daily). I wasn't prepared for the total vacuum where the produce once was. Only cucumbers and grapefruits were left. The shelves normally containing fruit were now being used for Panetone, a traditional Christmas cake. Perhaps the employees had reasoned that the candied fruit and raisins in the cake were a decent substitute for grapes and oranges. I was contemplating the ramifications of substituting grapefruit zest for orange zest in the mulled wine when I noticed a bewildered woman wandering back and forth in front of the aisle where the wine is. As I looked closer I saw that the wine had been cordoned off with police tape. There were signs posted up with the seal of the comune of Rome saying that owing to the soccer match tonight between Lazio and Manchester United, there would be no liquor, wine, or beer sold from noon to midnight.

I made my way through the rest of the store to find the remaining items: cat food and drano. The bakery had only one type of bread--you have no idea how dire that is for the Italians who can normally choose from 30 or 40 different types. I saw two nuns filling their baskets with all the chocolate candies they could find. I imagined they were feeding the whole convent on sugar that evening. In the frozen food aisle two old ladies were arguing over the last of the frozen green beans. The aisle with the cleaning products was well stocked with Padre Pio votive candles, but that was it. No drano. I went in to crisis mode. I bought two bottles of shelf stable milk and a box of cereal to sustain us if necessary. As I was checking out the manager was screaming at some man who was insistent on buying beer. Italy has come along way since the days of conquering the world. Now it's a miracle to be able to take the bus to the grocery store and actually buy food there, all in the same day. I managed to get some cat food, but the cat hasn't appeared to eat it all day long. She's probably on strike too.

concistoro

A few weekends ago the pope named 23 new Cardinals. This only happens once every few years and much of the excitement surrounding the event occurs because the Apostolic Palace is open to the public for the Cardinals to greet people. It was only the promise of entering the Sala Regia that motivated me to withstand what would be ravenous crowds. There is nothing more viscious or fearsome than a crowd of catholics approaching the focus of their religious fervor. There are usually regular line cutters in the line to go to the Basilica (Chris has proposed that they are in a real hurry to get inside because they need to go to confession). I knew I had to do something to ease my entrance into the Papal apartments, so I attached myself to a group of seminarians wearing their cassocks. They in turn attached themselves to a Bishop. Certainly we got in easier than most people--in line to greet Cardinal DeNardo we heard stories of dresses being torn and elbows being thrown--but it was no picnic none the less. At first things seemed fine. We waited at one check point in front of a gate. A crowd began to form behind us and despite the protest of the guards that this was NOT the entrance, no one budged. As soon as the guard was relieved by someone else, he allowed the bishop to shepherd his group through. I began to breath a sigh of relief since I was near enough to see the Scala Regia which leads to the apartments. It wasn't over yet though. Suddenly the guard behind us let everyone through. People ran up all around us. There was no respect for the line that already existed. People climbed around columns and ran up around the sides to get as close as possible to the front. It was as if a dam had burst and people were flowing into every available space. It only got worse when they began to let a small number of people through to the staircase. The crowd pushed forward and people began streaming over the barrier that formed the left side of the line. We were all packed in like a sardines. One of the seminarians started saying, "This is how people get killed!" I remembered the nightclub fire several years ago where people were trampled to death. My father had warned me about going to nightclubs where such an event could happen. Little did he know the Basilica of San Pietro was far more dangerous. Luckily just as the thought of being trampled to death entered my mind, the Bishop managed to get through and pull us along with him. Safely on the other side of the line, I could breath. I was about to head up the Scala Regia when I looked around..where was my husband? I looked back at the mass of people and saw him a few feet back. He and one of the other seminarians had been left behind. I waved but they couldn't get to the front. The two policemen holding back the line simply with their imposing presence just shrugged their shoulders in the characteristicly Italian way which means, "What do you want me to do?" Just then a group of people led by a flag pushed forward. People in the line began screaming in protest. The police quickly stopped them but luckily this created enough space for Chris to reach the golf cart parked at the front of the line. He and the seminarian climbed over it and freed themselves. Inside most of the people made no pretense about greeting any of the Cardinals and whipped out their cameras to capture the frescoes. We made our way from room to room. We paused to gaze out of the window where the pope had appeared for the first time in public after his election to the papacy. It was enough to help us forget the insanity outside.

la chasse est arrivee!

We just arrived back from Geneva which is located in the francophone part of Switzerland. We left the sunny weather of Rome for a freezing cold wind blowing right off of a lake. The old city was charming but austere as you might imagine one of the centers of the Reformation would be. Our first stop was to a department store to buy a scarf for Chris. It was so warm inside that we didn't leave for several hours. This wasn't tragic, because there isn't all that much to do in Geneva. We made up for our sightseeing laziness the following day when we spent hours at the archeological site under the cathedral. Remarkably, there is evidence of heating in the remnants of Genevoise structures there all the way back to the 5th century. There is obviously a long history of coping with the cold and I have to think that the cuisine, which focuses heavily on meat and cheese, is clearly necessary to provide an insulating layer of fat.

We had fondue our first night. As much as I love cheese, I am not keen on meals which are made of only two ingredients. The next night I was looking for more variety. After a few months of Roman food I was anxious to have a juicy steak. Roman cuisine features the spare parts of the cow, the so-called "Quinto Quarto" which translates to offal (the similarity of this word to "awful" is no coincindence in my mind). When I told my father this he said, "What do they do with the good parts of the animal?"

When I saw that the menu at Cafe Papon, one of the oldest restaurants in Geneva, included filet, I was elated. Chris was a little concerned that his options might be limited since there was an extensive "Menu de Chasse" and he does not like venison. Apparently it is the season for hunting and the deer have arrived from Austria. Large signs at many of the restaurants in town announced "La chasse est arrivee!" Although he was tentative, Chris' fears vanished when we began our meal. For my first plate I ordered a salad with bacon, a warm cheese in a potato cup topped with rocket and little white things which resembled bean sprouts but tasted distinctly of onion. Chris also received a side of bacon with his pumpkin soup with truffle oil which was likewise excellent. We both ordered the filet, which arrived accompanied by two disks of sweet potato topped with roasted fall vegetables, a bowl of potatos au gratin and a little dense cake which resembled a biscotto topped with two mushrooms. It must have been the several glasses of Gamaret I had already consumed which gave me the courage to try the mystery "cake" inspite of the fact that I absolutely detest mushrooms. I was pleasantly surprised by the little white orbs which were dense and slightly gelatinous but melted in my mouth in a completely unfamiliar way. Given my inexperience with fungi it is probably understandable that I didn't realize at first that I wasn't eating mushrooms at all. My powers of reasoning were considerably slowed by the wine, but after the second bite I became a little suspicious of the strange food. I asked Chris what he thought it was and he swiftly replied, "Don't ask, just eat it." Needless to say, I didn't eat another bite and as soon as I saw that he had finished I called the waiter over and asked, "Que ce que c'est ca?"while gesturing to the remainder of the mystery food. The reply, in French, came through something like this owing to my poor understanding of the language: "Cow blah blah blah neck (waiter gestures to the base of the neck) blah blah blah spine blah blah blah" and then the final phrase which I understood perfectly, "If I had told you that before you wouldn't have eaten it."

I couldn't believe that after all of my efforts to avoid quinto quarto specialties in Rome, I had been tricked into eating some unidentifiable cow part (we are still not sure exactly what it was) in a perfectly innocent-looking Genevoise restuarant. I was happy when the plane touched down in Rome, where temperatures only reach freezing once every five years or so and you always know when you are eating the spare parts of an animal.