Tag Archives: Life in Italy

Daily Stimulation

By PatitucciPhoto | Published May 25, 2009

We have been living in Italy now for over two full years. For those who have lived outside their own country, their own culture, and amongst another language, they know of what I speak when I say, “Daily stimulation”. Sure there are all the new “To do’s”. Phrases like, “Let’s go to Paris for the weekend”, and “Venice is two hours away, let’s do dinner…” are actually used. But, the stimulation that comes from just living within another culture is where the real excitement and satisfaction comes.

A trip to the doctor, to the auto mechanic, or maybe something as simple as ordering a gelato, can be much more than a ho-hum trivial matter. Simple matters which you take for granted in your own culture can suddenly be intimidating issues because your vocabulary is lacking a word or phrase. David Sedaris, while writing about living in France, commented that he sometimes wished vending machines sold meat so as to prevent having to speak to people and sound the fool. I understand this all too well. Not taking oneself too seriously is key for survival. Each day something occurs which teaches me something new, humiliates me or makes me shine with pride as I learn some new language skill.

Last night we met with a friend who had just returned from visiting with a famous Italian artist in a nearby city. At 82 years old, he is full of energy and still vibrating with enthusiasm for life. Our friend asked how he does it, how he maintains his drive. His response was that he has a life rule, to move to an all new place every ten years. In fact, his time is due and he is packing it up and heading for Boston, at 82.

I thought about this today as I went for my sport medical tests and discovered no one spoke English. My simple visit to the doctor became a struggle of understanding what to do with my urine sample. Then, while sitting at an outdoor cafe my Italian teacher joined me and I shared with her a recent funny story. I scraped along, searching for the right words to make it as amusing as I would have done in English and together we laughed at both the story and the juvenile way in which I told it. Later, as I was walking home I realized how happy I was, how being an adult bombarded with new experiences is truly a necessity to prevent falling into an abyss of boredom that comes with regularity.

Two years down, 8 to go, where next?

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Under the Watchful Eye

By PatitucciPhoto | Published March 14, 2009

I was a Catholic school boy, trained to feel guilty for nearly everything I did while growing up. At some point I began to wander away from the church, my drifting turned to speeding and soon Confession and Guilt were items I had left in my wake with the discovery of life and all its many wonders. One memory that still resides in my head are the eyes of the Christ figure. No matter where I sat in class, no matter what I did, those eyes were upon me. Christ on the cross is found most everywhere in Italy, trail sides, the random homes yard, in town, and even on summits. I still look at them, still wonder if I am doing right, but now with a lifetime of experiences, I smile and consider giving him a wink.

And so today as I rode my bike by a little scene outside a small chapel, not only were the eyes of Christ peering onto the vision before us.

My ride started just before noon, Saturday. As I so often do, I wander from town on a lazy road that winds it’s way through some farmland. Where the road crests there is a tiny chapel sitting entirely alone and receiving sun all day. Outside is a bench optimally facing south, it is a perfect place to sit, soak up warmth, and think of nothing. Today an older couple was just making themselves comfortable as I pedaled by.

A loaf of bread, some cheese, a tomato, an apple, and the obligatory, and influential, bottle of wine. Our eyes met, smiles were exchanged, and a pop of the cork sent me off down the small descent. This is a scene run across countless times each day in Italy.

Two hours later, returning to town, I was making my way back up the hill when I noticed that the couple was still in place, but in a decidedly different condition. He was laying on the bench, with his wife’s lap serving as a pillow, she was sprawled out, topless, and enjoying the rotational massage her husband was offering. The wine bottle, having served its purpose, was cast aside and ready for the recycle bin.

As I approached, I felt little shame in having a look. That is until I peered above them and regretfully made eye contact with Christ, hanging there outside the chapel. I held his eyes for a brief moment before his own gaze was redirected, comically, back down to the spectacle beneath him. The things he must see.

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Cow Adventures part II

By PatitucciPhoto | Published August 4, 2008


To stand witness to one’s demise and be able to offer absolutely no assistance is a strange feeling. One is left with the decision to either turn away, or to spectate the misfortune of others.

In my case, today, I was entertained at the highest level by three dairy cows. I opted for spectating.
While riding up one of my favorite passes, which traverses an impossibly steep hillside of forest and cow pastures, I happened to look through a gap in the trees at precisely the right moment to catch one of life’s little comedic scenes.
There, just 2 meters from the guard rail were three dairy cows, two laying down and one, staring into space, standing by. Something didn’t seem right, the look on one of the cows laying down was something other than peaceful. It was terror.
I stopped, casually propped my right foot on the guard rail, and took it all in. In less than 40 seconds, much would occur.
The problem became immediately apparent, what the two cows were laying on was not terra firma, it was a stack of small, cut branches between large pine trees, the branches provided zero support for the bulk that is a cow. I understood what was about to occur, I think even the first victim did as well. The cow’s choice of bedding for the chewing of the cud was caving in. A 60 degree, 400 meter, dirt slope through larches was all that awaited these cows. They struggled in vain.
And so for a moment we locked eyes. The look in hers was something I can only imagine would be similar to the Titanic, had it had eyes, as it rolled into the ocean and began it’s descent toward the depths and darkness. The look in my own was probably closer to those of a viewer of Reality TV, and the irony of the song playing at high volume from my iPod did not escape me, Rihanna’s “Good Girl Gone Bad”.
Grace is not a word often associated with cows and in this case it was no different, she began to roll. Her large, gangly legs paddled for all they were worth, but when 450kg of latte and bistecca get rolling, get out of the way. I only had to rise a bit out of my saddle to follow her as she cartwheeled down the hillside, I was able to track her for quite some time, but soon the distance grew too much and even the thundering, explosive sounds of her descent faded.
It was perfect timing as cow #2 now had a clear path to follow for her own trajectory down the hillside. Off she went.
All that remained was the third cow and myself. She had a bizarre, human like curiosity about what had just occured and much like myself, she was inching closer and closer to the drop to see what sort of devastation was below. It was almost as if she wanted to go get help for her friends, but sick curiosity had her sticking around at the scene.
I decided it was time to go tell the farmer, and so I clicked back into my pedals and rolled on, practicing in my head how to say in Italian that two of his cows just rolled down the mountain.
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Use your words Dan

By PatitucciPhoto | Published May 16, 2008

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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