Category Archives: Life in Italy
Use your words Dan
The barking would not stop, it only grew in intensity, ranging from urgent to frantic. I decided to go investigate.
Toni and Marianna, our wonderful neighbors, have this little dog Bulma. We occasionally take Bulma for a run during the day, so we have a key to their house.
I went over, unlocked the door and before I could even get the door ajar her snout was in the crack pushing so hard that my opening the door made her slide backwards. I didn’t know what she needed, but she needed something.
As I walked into the house to get the leash, she rushed past me into the not yet great outdoors. We live in a European apartment, so outside your door is not quite outside.
As she spun in circles yipping I realzed I needed to find that leash, and fast.
But no luck, a quick phone call to Marianna to ask, “Dov’e il guinzaglio?” yielded no answer.
A minute later we were descending the stairs, Bulma looking her best with a prussik cord wound around her neck.
Once on the street, Bulma charged for all she was worth towards the nearest dirt. But wait, an enormous black dog blocked the way and did not hesitate to tear into her. Fighting her like a swordfish I managed to break the two of them loose and we continued on, when, not 10 feet further, and directly in front of our small neighborhood market, Bulma began to resemble a soft serve ice cream cone machine that would not turn off.
Mortified, I could only stare at the sheer quantity that was coming out of this small mammal.
The thought of running for it crossed my mind, but everyone knows me, I stand out in the neighborhood like a beacon as I am the only American for 50 miles.
Bulma’s choice of location caught the attention of the owner of the cafe across the street and she yelled across in the local dialect, “Excuse me, you better clean that mess up!”
Or maybe it was, “You idiot, what the hell is that dog doing on the cobblestones!!!”
This is where not being fluent in any of the local languages puts me in a very awkward position. I can order food, go to the store, get directions, have a basic conversation, but I cannot explain to the store owner that I need some paper towels, a trash bag and a sink to wash up in as this dog that doesn’t belong to me and is choking on a prussik cord just shit in front of your store.
But I gave it my best.
I don’t know the word for paper towel, so opted for a salvietta (basically a tissue) when what I really needed was a high pressure hose. Translated, what came out was something like, “But yes, good day, my dog who comes from the house next to mine has cacca’d, quite a lot, outside on the new street. Do you have something I can clean? I hope perhaps a tissue.”
She looked at me trying to figure out just where I came from, then out to Bulma with her neon yellow noose on, then at the massive, and spreading puddle blocking the entrance to her store.
The situation made more sense than whatever it was I had just said so she disappeared into the back and returned with an enormous wad of useful items. She handed them to me and made it clear that this is where her part in my story was finished.
Back outside I knew the inevitable would occur, and it did, people arrived and paused just long enough to make it clear that what I was doing was something they were extremely pleased to have nothing to do with of. Cleaning up this sort of thing on cobblestones is not easy.
Finally finished, the now weighty garbage bag in one hand and Bulma’s leash in the other, we strolled off to find a bidone to dump our spazzatura.
The cafe owner, having been enertained for the last few minutes yelled across the street, “Puzza?” Of course it stinks, “Ma, si, puzza, pero è pulito”.
Proudly, I walked back to the apartment feeling one step closer to learning my new language. Another incident handled without a dictionary.
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Europe's Missing Points
I feel at home, reasonably understand the system and feel like I can get just about anything done.
Yet each time we see Hollywood movies here, especially with Italian friends, I am reminded that I am quite different.
Marianna and I were watching Juno the other night and suddenly she gasped, “Oh my God, what is that?” I’d noticed nothing out of the ordinary but Marianna had zeroed in on something new to her, old to me. The massive Super Tanker filled with slurpy that little Juno was carrying in the film.
1. It was a 2 liter container of something to drink
2. It was a blue beverage
3. Slurpy?
“But why do you need something so large?” – I had no answers. In my head I was imagining all of the many people I see driving around in the US with super sized cokes between their legs, eating Big Macs while steering with their knees.
These daily reminders keep me honest, I never tire of studying the culture and comparing it to my own – it is one of the true joys of living in a foreign land. And to hear from Italians their impression of the US after they visit, is something precious. There is no shortage of laughter comparing cultures, and there is plenty to work with given the state of the US at the moment, and of course Italy is a never ending supply of comedy.
But for a year now something has been absent, something from my own roots that until today, I have not understood. This feeling, this visual component of American life that has been missing but I didn’t fully understand was missing, finally came clear as we watched another Hollywood movie.
The Big Lebowski is missing in Europe.
I don’t just mean the Big Lebowski himself, I mean the potential to have a Big Lebowski, to see them each day you go to town to buy milk. They don’t exist here. Ditto for Clint Eastwood, you just don’t see the Dirty Harry types. Lots of George Michaels, but sadly, no Eastwood.
These figures are products of the American culture. Anything goes, do what you want, do what it takes to get it done and screw you if you don’t like my style.
Janine and I’s own business, PatitucciPhoto, is a direct result of this lifestyle, this attitude and this freedom we have, not any freedom provided to us from the US government, but the freedom we Americans have in our thinking. If we want to go to the grocery store in our bathrobe, we can. In Europe, one can incorporate magenta and teal lycra into their wardrobe just fine, but wearing flip flops with jeans is something best left to savages. Finally, if we need to live in our VW Westfalia to make our business work, then so be it.
There have been a few instances where we have explained to our friends here that we did indeed live in a vehicle. From their reaction it was obvious they considered us barbarians, perhaps rightfully so. But to an American, “Hey, whatever, you did what it took to make it work.”
And just for the record, I would never go to the grocery store in my bathrobe.