Rehab?

Sometimes the Italians don’t consider lyrics at all when using American songs in certain situations.  It can be quite amusing – and also just plain wrong…

Honestly, can you think of a more inappropriate background song to use as the answering service for the main line of a hospital?

This is real, I swear!  I couldn’t make this stuff up.  Reminds me of when the band played “Purple Rain” during the cocktail hour at our wedding reception.

Press 1 for a pediatric visit.

Press 2 for a dental visit.

Press 3 for a generic visit.

Return to Innocence

Do I want to move back to the US?  My answer tends to depend on the day and the arguement at hand.  Today, for example, the answer would be no.

Like so many people, I woke up this morning feeling sick and disgusted after following the Connecticut school shooting story until bedtime last night.  Since I feel so far away yet so connected at the same time, it’s jarring to view my own country struggle with a situation that’s practically inexistent in the country where I actually live.  I can’t help but analyze this tragedy by comparing it to the Italian reality.  And when I do, it only creates more anger, frustration, and confusion.  I may critique this country for many things – but Italy definitely has us beat when it comes to this issue.  Yesterday, we truly lost our innocence and soul as a country, in the most literal way possible.

Whenever one of our senseless gun tragedies occurs, the rest of the world definitely notices.  Here in Italy, I get the usual look of confused disbelief and the inevitable, “How is that even possible in America?” question.  Unfortunately, that question is an especially complex one to answer.  Similar to the whole healthcare issue, the Europeans basically shake their heads and shrug their shoulders.  They just don’t get it, and I can’t blame them.  They call us “cowboys,” but not in any good sense of the word (if there is one).  After these shameful displays, it’s completely justifiable that foreigners have come to define America as a reckless, gun-wielding society where you have to fear for your life at any instant.  We can’t even send our kids to school anymore without worrying about them never coming home.  Nowhere is safe, and nothing is sacred.

In my four years here, I’ve never heard a story even remotely similar to our school shootings.  In my husband’s lifetime, nothing of the sort has happened in this country, if ever.  So, I inevitably pose myself a very logical question: why do these horrific acts continue to happen on a repeated basis only in the United States?  Without even calculating gun laws, what makes our society so different, in that people feel entitled to lash out and massacre the innocent for no apparent reason?  And most importantly, regarding gun control, are we really so arrogant and misdirected as to think our way of doing things is better than what has been done for centuries (and worked) in so many other countries?

I believe things are different here for two reasons: clearly, the first reason is the difference in gun control laws.  Here’s a brief run-through of my understanding of how guns are regulated in Italy:

In general, only select groups of people who are determined to have a specific need to defend themselves are eligible to privately own a pistol.  These groups include certain types of merchants, like jewelry store owners, for example.  To obtain a license to own a pistol for protection of home or business, you have to deal with a lengthy and involved bureaucratic process, which could take up to a year.

During this time, applicants are subject to a background check as well as a thorough psychological evaluation (which apparently many do not pass).  Once a license is obtained, it must be renewed every year – but only after the psychological evaluation has been repeated.  The same is true for those requesting ownership of a rifle for hunting purposes.

Each firearm is assigned its own unique identification number, so it’s always traceable.  The few people who gain access to a personal pistol must go through training, and the gun must never be taken out of its assigned residence (i.e. home or business).  Only law enforcement officials are permitted to carry firearms in public.

The general sentiment is that guns are certainly more trouble than they’re worth, and the less of them around, the better.  The average citizen just doesn’t want the responsibility of having a gun.  Even if a burglar were to enter your home, for example, the law is such that if he is only carrying a knife (which is the most likely scenario) and you shoot him, you would go to jail.

The second reason why I believe things are different here (and no doubt the more important of the two) is the moral integrity of the Italian culture, which still prides itself on maintaining a basic sense of human decency and respect.  It’s a sort of unwritten code of conduct that isn’t a matter of law, but a matter of upbringing.  It’s reminiscent of something that existed in the US some decades ago, but has since deteriorated and practically disappeared.  The Italians probably think the same of their own country, but they don’t realize how in tact their collective conscience still is, compared to ours.

Religion may be the origin of this unwritten code, but since so many Italians are no longer practicing Catholics, I believe at this point it’s more a matter of tradition and a general sense of good will.  Despite how modern this society is, they have managed to maintain these ideals through their stong family ties.  Italians are creatures of habit, and they like the way they do things.  They carry over the same pride and attention to detail they’re known for in their cuisine, fashion, and lifestyle to their society’s code of conduct.  It’s instilled from the beginning, and although there are of course those who don’t follow it, they seem to be called out as ineducati, or uneducated/uncivil, and quickly shunned.

Italians use and live by this code without even realizing it.  I realize it, because I didn’t grow up here, but they don’t.  In this culture, certain known truths and rules just simply exist – always have, always will.  These unspoken rules range from the most banal to the most profound, but regardless, they exist, like: binge drinking is stupid and uncouth; when you enter a room or a store, you acknowledge who’s already present and say “good morning”; younger people give up their seats to senior citizens; no cappuccino after 11am; one expensive, well-tailored suit is better than five made in China for the same price; and perhaps the most important of all, i bambini non si toccano – you don’t touch children.  Children are literally sacred here, and as their track record shows, Italians do not mess with them.

Even the mafia, in all its warped and vile dealings, wouldn’t dare to touch a child for vendetta or something similar.  In fact, most violent crimes involving guns here are usually linked to some kind of mafia involvement, which means when they do happen, there’s usually more to the story.  Shootings are almost always linked to adults who have chosen a certain lifestyle, and suffer its consequences – not to innocent people randomly attacked while shopping at the mall for Christmas presents.

The US is the great melting pot, and there is beauty in that – but our diversity also comes with great difficulty in understanding and interacting with one another.  We’ve gotten used to being on guard all the time, because we can never assume someone will behave the way we would in any given situation.

The reality of our history is that the various immigrant ethnic groups have always banded together in solidarity.  They came from the same types of families, ideals, and culture.  They were more comfortable together because they automatically had a point of reference in each other.  Italians with Italians, Polish with Polish, Irish with Irish.

In Italy, everyone’s obviously Italian (at least, the overwhelming majority).  So when you come in contact with someone, you can pretty much guess how they will react in most situations.  Of course, personality is always a factor, but again, that basic underlying code of conduct exists at the core, and keeps everyone on a fairly level playing field.

I certainly don’t want to insinuate that crazy, twisted people don’t exist in Italy, because I know they do – but honestly, what happened yesterday would be unfathomable here.  Regardless of gun laws, I just don’t see it happening – and that deepens the discussion for me because it means our American society is void of critical ideals others still hold dear.  Those ideals must be discovered and appreciated again, and reintroduced into our society…  Essentially, we need a return to innocence.  It’s crucial to our existence, our well-being, and the future of our children.  Let’s just hope it’s not too late.

Foodgasm of the Moment: La Festa della Polenta

image

Yes, it actually is exactly what it sounds like: a polenta party.

This festa is just one of many held in the towns on the outskirts of Rome throughout the year – festivals in honor of food, or more specifically, in honor of a certain food that’s particularly loved and in-season.  There’s the festival of the strawberry, the artichoke, the broccoli, the sausage, the olive; you name it, there’s a festival for it.

Organized by each individual paese’s city hall, these festivals (often called Sagras) always have a small-town, no fuss atmosphere. The cooks, servers, cashiers, etc., are all local volunteers, and as they argue and anxiously flitter around, they give the impression that it’s a miracle they were even able to get the tents up in time to serve the food.

Polenta, for those who don’t know, is a classic Fall/Winter dish made of cornmeal, topped off with red sauce and sausage, or another kind of meat. It’s a recipe that’s practically as old as time, particularly popular in the North as well as areas with higher elevations and cooler climates. Simple and delicious, I fondly remember my own grandmother often making it for us.

As usual, when attending a public event in Italy involving food, you have to have your game face on. What begins as an organized line usually ends up a clump of hungry wolves fighting over the one, prepared tray churned out every what-seems-like-an-eternity. The mood is mostly upbeat though, since everyone knows the wait is always worth it. And with the prices as ridiculously cheap as they are, is anyone really going to mess with someone’s Nonna cooking in the back? No. That would make you a grande stronzo.

So, you wait. And when you finally walk away with that tray, it feels like you’re escaping with the holy grail – as those left behind glare at you with a mixture of envy and admiration. You take your seat at a picnic table, drink your red wine from a plastic cup, listen to some classic Roman folk songs, and simply enjoy.

image

Travel highlight: Civita di Bagnoregio, Lazio

Travel highlight: Civita di Bagnoregio, Lazio

This little jewel of a town is the stuff Italian dreams are made of.  It’s a cross between walking into a time machine and stepping onto a set of the most picturesque Italian scene you could ever imagine – except it’s no facade and certainly not Disneyland; it’s real, and absolutely gorgeous.

Located about 90km Northwest of Rome, in the province of Viterbo, it’s one of the best discoveries we’ve made so close to home and reminds us of how important it is to explore this area.

Appearing to be suspended in the middle of a valley, the town is only accessible on foot, or by motorino.  It takes about 20-30 minutes and it’s all uphill, but well worth the trek.  It was founded by the Etruscans twenty-five hundred years ago, and it’s population is currently all of fifteen residents.

In ancient times it was called Novempagi and Balneum Regium, before becoming known as Bagnorea in medieval times.  It was taken several times by barbarians between the sixth and ninth centuries, and was once a Papal State.  It’s also famous for being the birthplace of the philosopher St. Bonaventure in the 13th century.

Enjoy a glimpse of our visit a few months ago.

Love Letter to my Nonna

Written a week before her passing…

Not many people have a best friend who’s sixty years older than they are.  I do – but devastatingly, her health has taken a turn for the worst and she’s about to leave us.

It’s certainly not to be taken for granted that she’s blessed to have lived almost ninety-three years, but to me, she’s my Noni Netta, and she will forever be ageless.  She’s the backbone of our family, and has been a constant in my life I honestly can’t imagine being without.

The thought of this happening during a rare moment when I’m not able to travel is disappointing and extremely upsetting.  I want to be there, holding her hand as she did mine whenever I was scared, or unwell.  The only solace I have is the certainty that I couldn’t have been any closer to her than I have been throughout my life.  I know she can feel me there with her.  Our relationship has been incredibly special and I believe it transcends any limitations of space and time.

At this point, Alzheimer’s has cheated her out of all the magnificent memories of an incredibly full lifetime.  She’s frail and has stopped eating.  She doesn’t remember being abnormally healthy her entire life.  She doesn’t remember the exceptional ability to cook and the amazing appetite she had until a short time ago.  She doesn’t remember never resting until every guest was stuffed and had been offered every possible form of food available in the house.

She has forgotten that I’m married, pregnant, and living in Rome.  But I’ll never forget some years ago, when my husband and I were courting each other from across the world and the distance was taking its toll on our relationship, she comforted me and offered to buy me an emergency ticket to Rome to come see him.  What was important to us was always important to her, and our happiness was her priority.

She doesn’t realize that she and her broken Italian accent taught me what true culture was all about; that there was an entire world outside of my small town to discover.  She held her native country close to her heart all these years, and in doing so contributed to an upbringing unique to that of so many around us.

She inadvertently infused in me a passion and respect for our heritage and tradition so great that it has changed the course of my own life.  By directly experiencing her country and way of life, I’ve felt closer to her than ever before.  Her culture has enriched me and continues to do so every day.  And now I have a husband with the same adorable accent, and I love hearing it.

She doesn’t know she was the quintessential definition of strength: one of the first women in a small Italian town to ever give birth via c-section; taking shelter in caves while bombs dropped down from above during WWII; having the courage to leave her war-torn home and embark on a new life in a foreign country, never to see her own parents again; feeling completely lost and out of place and stuck in what she referred to as “Siberia”; learning a new language with only the help of the newspaper and television; creating a respected reputation and a beautiful home in a community far from her own reality; then, much later, carrying on for the sake of her family after losing the love of her life.

She doesn’t remember all the wonderful years of memories we created together at 931 Myrtle Ave: all the times we laughed, sang, and danced around the living room to “Peppino the Italian Mouse” on repeat on the turn-style; the hidden jar of biscotti that was never hard to find; the incredible smells coming from the basement filled with fresh pasta, salami hanging from the ceiling, and barrels of Papa’s best dago red.  When I think of my happy place, to this day, it’s Christmas Eve at Noni and Papa’s house, or any other after-school visit, for that matter.

She’s forgotten how obsessed she was with cleanliness, following us around with a moppina attached to her hand,making any mess disappear in seconds while never getting in our way of having fun.  She would eat over the sink to catch runaway crumbs, sleep on a tiny pillow (which she made herself) so her hair wouldn’t get messed up, and would never leave the house without a layer of Oil of Olay and some makeup on.  She was an expert at taking care of herself and others.

She doesn’t recall reading every health-related book she could get her hands on, mastering symptoms and illnesses all in a second language, and with a 5th grade education.  She had a sharper mind and keener intuition than so many well-educated people I know.

She’s forgotten how she’d repeatedly make the sign of the cross every time a thunderstorm would roll in – or how she prayed incessantly for our well-being at all times, rosary after rosary, blessing after blessing.  Her faith has been an unwavering constant her entire life, despite so many obstacles and strife.

She’s no longer able to repeat all the hilarious sayings and quotes that have become scripted staples to us over the years, and will undoubtedly keep us laughing for many more to come.  All the stories we shared, plans we discussed, and great advice she always gave…  I could talk to her about anything, and she always had a wise, pertinent, and optimistic viewpoint.

She has no idea how popular she was with everyone she met.  All of our friends loved Noni Netta.  Everyone recognized her kind, gentile spirit, sweet disposition, and the light of goodness that surrounded her.  Her calming presence has meant so much to our family in the past, once struggling with serious illness and the simultaneous loss of its most beloved members.  Little does she know that – even as an adult – her smile, warm embrace, and the smell of her skin could always set my world right.

All of this, and so much more, she no longer remembers – but we can certainly never forget.  We will remember it all for her.  What she has built will last in eternity because she is the foundation of who we are, and who we want our children to become.

The only real peace I’ve found in these difficult days has been when I sit and listen to our son kicking around in my belly, and imagine how well he will know her through me.  As I prepare to raise him, she will be there in my words and my actions, as there could be no better mother to emulate.  She is my definition of honor, integrity, strength, and love.

Now, as she struggles with her last breaths, I continue to reflect on how a life, just one life, can have such an incredible effect on the development of each of us.  Any success we have is owed partially to her, for the bold choices she’s made for our well-being, and the unconditional support and abundant self-sacrificing love she’s always given us.  Her idea of a punishment was always, “I kissa you two time”; I never needed to learn how to love or be affectionate because people like her showed me what it meant from the beginning…

We’ve been blessed by her presence for so long, and we’ve needed her.  But her destiny will soon be calling – and as she would say: “se è destino non manca.”  It was her destiny to be our Nonna, and very soon, it will be our destiny to miss her terribly.

Ti voglio un bene immenso,

Andrea