Routine Immigration

Can you believe this bridge dates back to 100 BC!? Most of Ponte Pietra was blown up in WWII and then rebuilt with original materials. Kind of amazing when you think about it (or walk on it, which I do a few times a week b/c it leads up to a great lookout point).

Well, life here is starting to feel kind of normal. I have classes to teach, places to go, people to see (sometimes)...Having somewhat of a routine feels good. After over a year of not working, I can now finally tell the difference between a Saturday and a Tuesday. I can now say "TGIF!" (not that I'd want to). And pretty soon I'll receive an actual paycheck! 


For the first time in my adult life, I have a job that doesn't require an alarm clock. I get to wake up when my body decides it's time to rise & shine. Long gone are the days of having to drudgingly crawl out of bed to start my coffee pot and get to work by a certain ungodly hour (only to find my vice principal waiting at the gate to tell me I'm five minutes late). I'm on a different time schedule now. I'd like to call it my Italian time schedule. It works for me.

Morning Friends

The longest part of my new morning routine is waiting in line for bread at the best bakery in town (which is only five doors away!). It often takes twenty minutes to get to the front of the line, where I always end up feeling tongue-tied and overwhelmed by the choices. The overly serious woman who works there wears a sequined hat everyday, maybe to offset her demeanor...and when she's ready she sternly says "Prego!" and I just say "pane" and point to one of the ten different types of bread...and then "brioche" and point to one of the ten different types of brioches...and then I sometimes point to something else, like the zucchini & cheese pizza encased in flaky puff pastry. My ordering skills are slowly improving and pretty soon I might be able to go in there and actually pronounce the specific names of the bread and pastries. Now, that's a goal! 

Routines make me feel comfortable and give me a sense of belonging when there might otherwise be none. They provide a sense of familiarity in an unfamiliar place. It's strange to live in a city where I don't quite fit in with the tourists, but where I certainly don't fit in with the locals either. I'm just kind of on my own, trying to understand the logistics of a new home, while at the same time trying to keep myself happy. And a routine is part of what makes me happy.

But talking about pastry choices and new morning routines becomes super ridiculous when one steps out of their "Me, Me, Me Bubble." I left my bubble last week while waiting in the immigration department of the police station (the dreaded questura). While hovering outside of my bubble, I realized how difficult it is for most people who move here to work and live and survive in a new country. Like, really survive. For most of them (I presume) it's not just about happiness and comfort and routines. It's about providing for families and creating a new life. 


When I arrived at the police station I was surprised to find 200 foreigners already lined up along the street outside of the building. About 150 more people lined up behind me. The gates opened at 8am and then one-by-one, we were herded into one of two very small rooms. Babies, kids, elderly folks, women, men...all from around the world. And then there was me...the only person from North America, quite possibly the Western Hemisphere. Most were from Algeria, Sri Lanka, Pakistan, India, Libya, Tunisia, China, and the Ukraine. It made for fantastic people watching, but it was also sad because there we all were, waiting for our numbers to be called so we could learn the fate of our futures. Would we be granted permission to stay and live here legally? And I felt like I was the only one of us who didn't really care one way or the other. I knew I'd be fine either way. The looks of exhaustion on those faces made me realize (once again) how easy life is for me. Many of these applicants had obviously been there before and knew the system very well, almost like the immigration department had become part of their new routine in Italy. While some left looking devastated, others left looking like they had just received the best news of their life. 


When my number was finally called to go in the back "interrogation" room (five hours after I arrived!), the stern man opened my passport and instead of questioning me, he flashed a big smile and said "U.S.A.!!!!" and then "California!!!!" and then "Hollywood!!!!" and that was the moment I knew I'd get my permission to stay. Then I left the building to start my afternoon routine and return to my bubble. 

Bike Riding

"Life is like riding a bicycle - in order to keep your balance, 
you must keep moving."

~Albert Einstein

There's an Italian expression, "Hai voluto la bicicletta? Adesso pedala!", to describe someone who has finally obtained their goal, but who then feels overwhelmed. It means,  "You wanted the bicycle? Now pedal!"  I had a dream to live in Italy and I made it happen. I got a job, I obtained my visa, jumped on a redeye flight to Milan, took a train to Verona, but then when I woke up the next morning in a new place,  it was suddenly all too real. I had one of those "Oh, crap!!" moments. Moving someplace foreign has rattled my confidence and made me second guess my decision making skills. (Not just the decision to move here, but practically every decision I've made for the last twenty years!) I think this is normal, though. Right?


Finding a place to live, figuring out how to get from point A to point B (and then back), communicating the most basic words, and just transitioning into a new way of living has been challenging. Even the simplest things can seem overwhelming, like where to eat lunch; how to buy a bus ticket; when to safely cross the street.  I've been feeling tired, overly sentimental, a little lonely, and allergic to almost everything. Apparently, these are all signs of culture shock (even the allergies!). It's seriously strange because it's not like this is my first time here. But I guess this is my first time really, really on my own in Italy.


Turns out, a visa isn't enough to live here. I must obtain a permesso di sioggiorno (a permit to stay), which according to Italian law, must be filed within eight days of arriving. It's actually a very confusing process due to all the logistics involved, but I'm almost over that hump (I think).  Finding a place to live was possibly the most difficult task, but I serendipitously stumbled upon a super cute & cozy apartment that has a sublease for the same amount of time as my visa. It's in a perfect location, just a ten minute walk to the center of Verona and just a couple blocks from a 14th century castle.


The next big obstacle is transportation. I'd like to buy a little scooter to get around town, but the search for one seems daunting...and riding one seems a little dangerous. I've always been a terrible bike rider. I didn't even learn how to ride one until I was embarrassingly too old. And now I've moved to a city where the main mode of transportation is by bicycle or scooter. There's some irony here. I just hope I can stay balanced while I pedal my way through this new place.

The neighborhood castle

One of the best things about living in Verona is being able to travel to another
country for the weekend...like Munich, Germany for Oktoberfest!

It might seem like I don't want to be here, but that's not the case at all. I'm just freakishly introspective. I feel privileged to have created change in my life...and proud of myself for overcoming my own fears to make this happen. And more grateful than ever.


p.s. My couch pulls out into a bed. Visitors welcome!

Stomachache

For months, I’ve had an aching feeling in my stomach about this whole moving to Italy thing. People always say "listen to your gut" but it's not as easy as it seems! Maybe my reluctance about moving to Italy has more to do with nerves than "my gut" or maybe it has to do with laziness, since finding an apartment, buying a scooter and maneuvering through the English-teaching niche seems like such an effort. Or maybe this aching feeling really is my gut telling me not to go. I have no idea. But aside from that feeling, there have been a few other things that are making me wonder if moving to Italy (albeit temporarily) is the right choice. 


The mean lady at the Italian Consulate who made me cry during my visa application appointment is one of those things.  It took me six weeks to get this appointment, which ended up lasting no more than ten minutes. I was so nervous about missing it that I flew home early from my family-time in Massachusetts because I knew Hurricane Irene would cause my flight to be cancelled. I drove up to Los Angeles with ALL the necessary requirements and paperwork. I arrived on time, opened the consulate office door, and there she was...Signora Sourpuss sitting there behind her glass partition and giving me the evil eye. It went downhill from there. Call me sensitive, but I really think her tone was borderline abusive. And maybe because I had just learned that my grandmother had passed away, I didn't have my invisible mean lady shield activated. I was sad and tired and simply could not handle Signora Sourpuss's vexatious ways. So after she chewed me up and spit me out, I started to cry in the middle of the consulate office. In front of everyone. Uncontrollably. I've since learned that tears are quite common in that office, and so are denials for visas. So what I thought was a slam dunk quickly turned into a crapshoot. The next day I resubmitted my application with the extra information she requested and now it's just a waiting game (a very long, anxiety-packed waiting game). 


I've spent most of my recent days in San Diego sorting through all my stuff and downsizing into a smaller storage unit. The concept of a rented storage unit is so bizarre, but sometimes necessary for someone like me who has made the choice to live out of bags for awhile. I've spent $1, 340 in the last year to store my stuff. That's insane!!!  As of today, I finally succeeded in dividing my things into two equal groups, one to keep and one to discard, which feels great...but the sorting process really got me thinking. Seeing my photos and fondue pot and my refrigerator magnets has me aching for a place to call home. I want to nest. But of course this is a normal feeling when one's life is up in the air and lacking stability. So I'm trying to stay objective. 


And most of all, the death of my grandmother has me reflecting more than usual about life choices. Reggae Mama was my icon for adventure and independence, but she was also very grounded and knew how to balance travel and family. So what would she do? She'd go to Italy, I'm pretty sure. And if given the chance, I will too. I think. 


Then, yesterday, I saw my super intuitive friend Amanda, who in a non sequitur sort of way while we were talking about fresh squeezed juice said, "You don't want to move to Italy, do you?" I assured her that she was wrong because I do want to move there, but she could feel my doubt and tasked me with doing some soul searching (one of my favorite hobbies). So..."What do I want? Like really, really want? I’m supposed to leave for Italy in two days, which obviously isn't happening since I don't have my visa (& they have my passport). But before I reschedule my flight, I'd like to know for sure that I'm going. My job starts on the 21st and I have business cards for my side tutoring business...but I need to prepare myself for Plan B, just in case. If Signora Sourpuss grants me my visa, I'll jump with joy onto that airplane and into a new life in Verona. If I don't get my visa, I'll join the 14 million other unemployed Americans here, but for some reason that doesn't seem so bad.  Hopefully I'll know by tomorrow!

Will I get to use my new business cards?????

Update:
The visa arrived two days later!!!!!! So I'm packing my suitcase and heading to Italy!

The End (which is always the beginning)

I spent the last three weeks in the Italian countryside analyzing the meaning of life. OK, not completely...I also spent my time eating, drinking, laughing, meeting new friends...and searchng for a job. And I'm happy to report that I found one: A teaching position that does not involve hours of preparation or recovery...A teaching job that allows me to simply show up, work, and then leave. The concept seems so outrageous to me! I won't get into all the details now, but just know that I'll be teaching English in Verona starting this September. Verona, by the way, is breathtakingly beautiful...not too big, not too small...and is only a hop, skip & a jump away from my support system in Olfino.


My first week in Olfino intentionally coincided with my father's biannual visit to his grandfather's homeland. My father is responsible for making my connection to Olfino possible....as a child, my grandmother would talk about this magical place, but my father is the person who actually brought me here eight years ago to experience it for myself. Since then, he's helped me maneuver around the area and better understand our ties to this little village. When he first brought me here, he told me that it would be my duty to stay connected with this little hamlet of Oflino in the years to come. My pleasure. :) During this trip, he made my job hunt in Verona so much easier...not sure how I would have managed it without him.

My dad with the seafood pasta at
Gino's in Olfino...delicious!




Beginning of an amazing meal at 
the Gozzi farmhouse 
(aka winery, aka cantina, aka vineyard)



Amabile is 95 and has visited Milan's Duomo
almost every day of her adult life.
She likes to recite prayers to me in Italian.

 

One night a week they have free from working at their restaurant
...and who do they take out to dinner? Me!!! I felt very lucky.

 

Regina & Maria were my neighbors in Olfino. I spent quite a bit of time with them,
pretending like I understood what they were saying to me. Maria (right) has alzheimer's and
Regina, about 20 years her senior, is constantly correcting her.

 

View through the kitchen window
of the Monzambano apartment

When my father went home, I moved two miles down the road to Monzambano. My grandmother's cousin, Luigina, lived in a beautiful apartment directly across from the Monzambano church. I remember my grandmother telling me stories of this town, of this apartment and of Luigina, who traveled the world as a seamstress for the opera. I had the pleasure of meeting Luigina a few times. She passed away over a year ago and since then, her apartment has sat practically untouched. Her sister offered it to me, since I needed to travel to Verona a few times that week and Monzambano has public transportation (a bus that comes twice a day!!!). When I went to look at the inside of the apartment with my father, we had just learned of the death of my grandmother's brother, Bruce, an incredibly strong & family oriented man who had very special ties to the Monzambano area. The first picture I saw when we entered the apartment was of my grandmother, who passed away six years ago. The second picture was of my Uncle Bruce with Luigina. And there I was, moving into Luigina's space, surrounded by her memories and her things...and pictures of loved ones who have passed on. In some ways it was really nice to stay in her home, but it was also sad and at times lonely. Items Luigina collected from her world travels were placed all over her apartment, which reminded me of her independence...She never married (although I hear she had many suitors)...and I can't help but wonder if my destiny will be similar.
  

Not sure if I would have made it
through this trip without Mery Sun...
translator, singer, chauffeur, friend.

 

Birra Team with beautiful Marta & handsome Omar

 My last weekend was spent "working" the beer tent at Olfino's biggest festival of the year, Sagra del Polastrel. At first I thought this "chicken festival" was quirky and cute....but while there I realized it's actually a very meaningful event for the people who live here. Olfino and the neighboring village collaboratively put it on...and it is quite a production...four nights of amazing food, music, reunions, pride and friendship. I felt very lucky to be a small part of it. I also loved all the attention I received as the "Americana" who came all the way to Olfino just for the festival. :)

I think that sometimes we need to explore, fulfill dreams, travel, search & reflect in order to realize what we've had all along. I'm at the point now where I can go in just about any direction I want. Having so many options feels amazing, but also a little scary. How does one choose? What is most important in life? New experiences & new friends in Italy? Or family & familiarity in San Diego? I think the answer is neither. A balance between the two is necessary for me to be happiest. Life is too short to not live out your dreams...but there is a fine line between fulfillment & loss. If we're too busy making our dreams come true, we miss out on time and memories with our loved ones.

Speaking of...I just learned that the health of my Grandma Mary ("Reggae Mama") has taken a turn for the worse. So instead of San Diego, I am on my way to Boston to see her. One year ago, my grandmother's 87th birthday celebration was the kick-off to "My Year of Me" and now, I'll be with her as I end my journey. Beginnings & Endings are always intertwined. 





 

Teaching (as a gerund)

So the other day I became internationally certified to teach English as a second/foreign language. Go ahead, ask me anything about grammar...gerunds, past participles, conditionals, any of the 12 verb tenses...oh wait, 13 with the "going to" form...I got it. I know it. And I'm ready to teach it.  But for some reason, even though this has been a longtime goal of mine, I don't feel accomplished or excited about passing the course. All I know is my "year of me" is about over, which means...Reality. Also, I just realized that a certificate is a certificate...and it really doesn't matter how well you do, as long as you get your stupid certificate. Four weeks in Florence without seeing the Statue of David because lesson plans are more important...was...a...mistake. But oh well.


Another taste of reality: I recently sent my resignation to my school district. This means I am "officially" unemployed...which, during these tough economic times, means I am "unoffically" crazy. Part of me can't believe I just quit my job, and part of me can't believe I did that job in the first place. I'm completely at peace with my decision, but that doesn't mean I'm not nervous about embarking into the unknown. I have some tentative plans to look for jobs teaching English, but I'm still uncertain about what I really, really, really want to do next.


Last night, in honor of our "graduation", Florence threw an enormous fireworks show over the Arno River. Coincidentally, it was also a huge holiday celebrating Saint John the Baptist. My roomie Roslyn and I hiked up the hill with our new friend Donald to watch the show from the steps of San Miniato al Monte. Beforehand, we had homeade pasta at Zeb's and then bought some wine to bring up to the churchsteps for the show. Only in Italy does the grocerystore clerk have a wine opener handy. It was a great way to celebrate the end of classes and the beginning of our next steps, whatever they may be.

Our celebratory fireworks show, in honor of us.

"Prisoners" in the Piazza

I just encountered the most culturally powerful moment of my time in Italy. It left such an impression on me that I feel compelled to share it with you. Unfortunately, I left my camera at home…so here goes my attempt at descriptive writing:

Set up in front of the Basilica of Santa Croce were bleachers surrounding a temporary arena. My classmate, Grace, told me that there is a special event tonight:  a sporting match with prisoners who fight one another….without any rules.  Apparently, her roommate went to last year’s event and saw one of the prisoner’s eyeballs pop out.  After a few hours of studying at the café, I had forgotten about tonight’s event…but on my walk home I heard a slow drumbeat coming from the other side of town. The closer I walked to my apartment, the louder the rhythmic drums became. As I approached Piazza Della Repubblica, there was a large gathering of people watching a parade of men walking to the slow beat of the drums. Men of all ages, but who seemed serious, almost solemn. My mind was focused on maneuvering through the crowd to get home, but when I entered the piazza I realized that this parade was something quite unique. Hundreds and hundreds of men (thousands, probably) were marching to that slow drumbeat, which was still in the distance…but getting louder every second.  They were dressed in ancient looking costumes with bright colors, stripes, tights, feathers galore, knickers, billowy sleeves, helmets or puffy hats, sashes, emblems, frilly collars, leather belts, and boots or buckled shoes. Oh, and sometimes swords.

Then the gladiators appeared…and I got the goose bumps.  A group of 40 or so men, all in matching athletic outfits, walked past me (some within an arm’s distance!). These were some of the strongest, fiercest men I’ve ever seen in my life. Their presence and energy were overwhelmingly powerful. Some were definitely disheveled, but many others were glistening, chiseled, statue-like figures (with tattoos) who had me in a trance. They walked to that slow beat of the drums….stood as tall as physically possible…and did not crack one single grin. Until…the woman next to me ran up to one of the men, hugged him, and handed him (his?) baby. Which made me cry.

Three more groups of prisoners proceeded, each “team” in different colored uniforms. Then came the drummers (finally!)...hundreds of them.  In the distance I saw flags flying up into the air – way above the crowd, which turned out to be propelled by the most masculine flag throwers in the world. Picture baton throwing, but with flags that occassionally look like they will land in the crowd. (Turns out, this is an important practice in Italy that dates back to Medieval Times.) OK, are you ready for the parade's finale? Eight people dressed in black hooded robes, carting an antique gurney. I'm hoping they were just symbolic.


*******It has been about fours hours since I wrote the above entry. Turns out, 1) The men are not prisoners....they're atheletes. 2) They are playing football (with minimal rules). 3) It's doubtful that an eyeball popped out last year. 4) This blog entry should be renamed "Perception of Prisoners in the Piazza"...because perception is a funny, funny thing.  
Here's a link if you want to check out more info and pictures of Calcio Storico Fiorentino.

You Know You're in Italy When...

Small children are familiar with Gucci and Prada.
You eat gelato everyday...usually twice.
Men wear scarves in the summer.
Veganism is nonexistent.
You can be fined for pouring wine incorrectly. (Not really, but it wouldn't surprise me.)
Octogenarians have a better fashion sense than you.
Conversations about food are meticulously detailed and last hours.
People drink espresso or wine at any time of the day.
Every town has its own signature pasta.
There's no such thing as a slow lane on the autostrada (or anywhere).
David's dingaling is a daily sight.
Being tan seems more important than the chance of skin cancer.
People get into heated debates about the correct wine to choose for each course.
There is a castle, an ancient statue, an art museum or a vineyard around the corner.
You are living "la dolce vita."