Giving Thanks

"I think it is time to get some help." With a flurry of plastic gloves snapping and sweat rolling off the side of my face [it was still hot here then], with that one sentence I was agreeing to some sanity-creating household help. While I could clean the apartment myself, with the kids' "help", I felt too busy with other, more pressing, things: for instance, laundry for six people in a country where the washer machine is the size of a thimble and a "drier" means a six foot rack to hang up your clothes and wait.  Not to mention the endless ironing....   Michael had long carried a number of a cleaning service in his wallet, and it was time to start dialing that telephonino, now.

A week later, Chiara came into our lives. She is, as Maddy put it, the exact opposite what you would expect in a house cleaner. She is blonde, tall, young-ish [early 40s ... a baby, really], and pretty.  She reminds me a lot of Janet Jones, and if I could make the joke convincingly in Italian I might ask her if she were a hockey fan. But, she speaks absolutely zero English so my lame-o jokes are shelved.

Chiara tells it like she sees it. From her, I have enjoyed the following observations:

Your apartment is brutal without a deck or space for the kids to run.

How could you have an apartment in Mantova without screens on your windows?  Oh, the mosquitoes are awful. Disgusting.

You are thin for an American. It is surprising. Americans are very, very fat.

Your windows are very, very gross and I will have to come and clean them correctly next week.

Your kids might be lying about being sick. 

Chiara likes a few things. She loves Rome. She loves her kids. Otherwise, her responses are in-step with anything negative. Whenever we talk about Italy, it isn't too surprising, then, that she does not like much about her country or find too much hope for its future.

The school system is disgusting.

The people of Northern Italy are mean, selfish, and don't help those in need. The people in the South are better, but they have no jobs and no sophistication.

The economy is flat and there is only a very, very, small middle class. The rest are very poor or very rich.

Italy has too many immigrants and too few jobs.  It is a big problem.

The new leader of Italy will just be some other man who does nothing well.

Should Italy have a female prime minister? Why? She'd be the same.  It would not matter.

Last week, though, a glimmer of love for her country. Half-way through vacuuming the floor, she turned off the Hoover, looked hard at me and said,

But, you know, you eat well in Italy. Yes, you eat very well. That's it. And that's it.

I started to laugh, and she did, too. I had to agree with her in a way. Living in Italy has had challenging moments, to be sure.  There are days, dealing with unhappy children in a strange-to-us school system, tolerating rude shop-owners, fighting over small spaces, living in another language, where there seems to be little left to love. Days where I have looked at my husband and asked, "Why are we here again?" And then, it is time to eat.

Here is the thing: in my experience, Italy is nothing as it is portrayed in movies like Under the Tuscan Sun or EAT PRAY LOVE; it is not La DolceVita for many of its citizens, and the Italian experience of tourists is something else entirely. But, Italian food is as delicious as everyone says. In fact, it is so good, and so special, that a bad day can become good with a thin slice of Parmesan [Grano, please] a crisp "paradise" pear [from the local farm, of course], a generous pour of thick balsamic vinegar creme [from Modena, next door] all served with fine-cut prosciutto crudo [from two cities over, I insist]. Then, homemade meat Mantova agnoli [soft little pillows of meat-filled pasta], topped with Italian panna and a pinch of salt. Next: heavy, dark red tomatoes with aromatic olive oil and salt-and-olive oil focaccia Genovese to tear off and dip in any left-over oil. And the wine: for me, anything from Piemonte will do, but every region has an elixir of delicious and reasonably priced grape juice to elevate the mind and spirit.  All the fabulous food should be eaten with others, of course, in a lively and proper way; family meals are the first choice. Candles are a plus.  Thick napkins a must. Bubbly water as well as flat a natural condiment to the meal.  Slowly, too full and satisfied to remember the list of the day's complaints, life is, once again, bella.

Yes, we all eat well in Italy. So well that experiencing Italian food is a cultural experience: different in every region, with history behind every meal and typical product. Of course, dear Chiara knows this:  that, despite its difficult economic position, political unrest, and uncertain standing, Italy is truly wonderful and unique.

"What is that holiday you Americans have with the big turkey you cook all day? We see it in movies," Chiara asked me, since we were on the topic of food.

"Oh,  Thanksgiving."

"What will you do for it this year, since you are living in Italy?"

"Well, " I said, smiling broadly, liking not only this moment with Chiara but also her, "we are going...to McDonald's."

                                                                          ###

Siamo [We are] ...

"Siamo la quinta!"

Maddy, in a loud, bellowing voice, imitates her teacher as we begin to make our way back to the apartment.

"We are the 5th grade!" Allie and Nick repeat loudly, but in English, with the fresh focaccia in their mouths that I brought as an after-school snack. We giggle a bit, as we always do, and await the tale.  Maddy's teacher at Redentore, her school, is very good, but she is strict and is fond of yelling at her students when they do not preform to her standards.  We look forward to Maddy's stories about her teacher; whatever the tale, it always ends with her teacher yelling, "We are the fifth grade!" 

By the time Maddy has told of the offending action to warrant the 5th grade reminder, we are in front of the corner sewing store.  There,  I push my way past the kids.  The kids know to stop and wait for me, so with a great heave they swing their heavy backpacks off their shoulders and wait for my go-ahead.  Slowly, I begin my journey onto the crosswalk: one step, two ... cars whiz past me, until I am so far out on the crosswalk the next car has no choice but to stop or hit me. Finally, I hold out an arm, and with eye contact to the stopped driver, I wave the kids to walk across the road. They run quickly, the sound of rolling backpacks and tennis shoes filling my ears until I know they are all safely on the other side. At the moment the kids are safely across,  the car might swerve around me -- in which case I gesture, Italian-style, or the car might might wait and I will  have the luxury of walking across the road, in peace, where my kids wait. In the latter situation I wave, American-style, and say "grazie."

From there, it is a quick jaunt over cobble stones and pot holes, past the Chinese joint where we eat unfamiliar Chinese food every now and again, up the elevator with tales from Allie and Nick, and finally home to Rachel and Michael [most days] for a proper 1:30 lunch together.

And so, we begin to become Italian.  Or more Italian or less American, or somehow more one way and not the other or not one way and more the other.   I have found myself  ravenous at 1:30 for a hot, full, meal and wanting very little at night.  My tennis shoes are secure in a permanent home in the back of my closet, as my sole exercise is walking around town. I don't think much about exercise: in fact, it is hard to even imagine "working out" in the traditional sense of my life at home. 

There are changes in the kids, too.  They are more patient than before.  Probably since in Italy, patience is less a virtue than a necessity: a lack of it and you will only make yourself crazy.  Unless they are in a car, Italians will wait for you to do anything. No one will comment if, as you are walking along with your child, he suddenly, and irrationally, needs to "fix" his shoe and stop all foot traffic behind you. The Italians will smile and tell you it's nothing.  No one moans if the line at the COOP supermarket extends all the way to the  deodorant and there is one check-out person. The old lady waiting behind you will simply  start talking to you about what you are buying. And nary a complaint is heard if all  have to wait for a young woman to put on lipstick and fluff her hair so car doors can be opened.  Italy is so lacking in space -- personal and otherwise -- that the togetherness of daily life requires we all calm down, wait, and go with it.

Still, even with our embrace of mid-day meals, slow life, pasta as a first course, and harsh criticism as a way of teaching, we still needed our country fix, so we planned a stay at an agrotourism in Piemonte, Italy, the weekend before Halloween. After two terrific days here in Piemonte, we can home this afternoon to a huge, orange pumpkin, in our kitchen. The agritourismo's owner, Giovanna, with whom we have become friendly,  had gone to the market and purchased a beautiful pumpkin for us to carve. "I know this American tradition. I know how wonderful it is for the children." With that, she pushed back her grey curls and told us that she had candies for the kids and they could come trick or treating tonight at her house:  the house next to the one the were renting for the weekend. "I know Halloween is tomorrow, but you come anyway."

And so, Michael carved the pumpkin, and roasted pumpkin seeds [which we gave to Giovanna to try, and she liked], and we found a candle and lit it, too, and then we sang a harvest song, all scrunched around our pumpkin and cold from the night air. Then, after a hot soup, the four kids went around the house to try and find what they could  to "dress up"  before venturing next door. In blankets, and socks on hands and heads [Nicholas wanted to wear underwear on his head, but Michael said no], the kids went out to trick-or-treat next door. They came back quickly, each with a small bag filled with Italian candies and gels, and faces filled with smiles and happiness. As they dumped their bags on the kitchen table and shared their candy, it was clear that on this day, this 30th of October, in Italy, we had had a wonderful Halloween. In between Italy and America and here and there, we had found something else, that was only for us.

***

Little Surprise

    Whenever Rachel, our two-year-old, runs away from me when I tell her to come, or throws herself on the floor in a tantrum when I tell her no second cookie, or slaps my leg when I require her to sit in her stroller, I look at my other children in earnest and say,"This is why you should never have children until you are really ready. Until you have your education and have travelled the world." I don't know if this idea of parenhood ain't all easy is sinking in, or is one of many "Mom sayings"  that they will laugh and shake their head about later. ["What the heck was Mom talking about half the time..." is the beginning of a conversation I imagine my adult children having more than once.] Still, I persist, because while I love being a mother, I also know that I am happy I went to college and saw some of the world before I was required for two a.m. feedings.

     In America, toy babies are cute. They are to be bathed, to sweetly say "Mama," and --like the Waldorf one I got for Maddy when she was two -- to stay perpetually asleep.  In Italy, they take toy babies to a whole other level.  In Italy, they have toy babies that poop. Once these toy babies are fed, a stinky poop hits their diapers. Ka-ka complete,  the baby says, "Sopresina!"  This pooping baby is advertised on T.V., and in it, the "Mom" of the "baby" holds her nose while the "baby" poops with a loud fart. In the next scene, the little girl, with an [apparently] clean baby, gives the baby's bottom a little pat and smiles at the camera. All is well again.  Until the next feeding, one assumes.  If the pooping baby isn't enough of Mommy Reality, you can also get a toy baby with a green, mucus-like liquid that needs to be wiped away every few minutes.  One can imagine that after playing with these almost too-real babies, you not only become an expert diaper changer and snot wrangler, but wary of motherhood besides.  Cleaning poop, after all,  is only fun so many times.  I wonder if these little dolls help explain Italy's small population growth, at least a bit.
                                                                                                                                                      

      Often times, Italian men are blamed for the low population growth. Their unwillingness to move out of home. Their macho outlook that requires a wife to be too many things all at once. I really have no idea about any of that, but I will say that I see more Italian men at the playground with their kids, and at school picking up their kids, that I have ever seen in America. And while their gelled hair and up-turned collars might not scream "Men Who Help Do The Dishes," they are there, with sweaters casually tied over their shoulders, pushing swings, playing peek-a-boo, reading books, being funny monsters. They are there, throwing little girls in the air and giving them raspberry kisses. Perhaps they missed out on those Italian dolls when they were kids.
                                                                                                                                                       

      Still, gender roles are more strongly defined--or at least differently defined-- than we are used to at home.  My eldest daughter, Maddy, is athletic. She is fast and strong, and can throw a ball. On the other hand, in her class of girl-jocks at home -- those hockey stars, soccer lovers, martial arts experts -- she never feels like an athlete. Nor, truth told, does she usually have much enthusiasm  for playing sports with the other kids. But here, the fact that she wants to run at all makes her unusual. In gym class, she was the only girl who wanted to and was willing to play dodge ball, and the few times she has been outside at break, she runs around the yard.  The girls, she said, stand to the side with their "party shoes" on,unwilling to take part in any athletic fun. She is enjoying this new definition of self.                 
                                                  

     Somehow, though, these Italian girls standing to the side must take command of their shoes.  For they turn into Italian women who, perhaps in defiance of their gender role or in an embrace of it, learn how to bike with speed and skill while wearing three-inch heels and gorgeous clothes.  I see them all over Mantova, looking fabulous, high-heels on the bike gears, a tight skirt with a high back slit, a baby in the seat [with a wool hat but no helmet].  They zip past cars and Vespas, flying by me while navigating Mantova's cobble streets. Me: air Nike flats, loaded-up stroller, sweat pouring down.  How do they learn to do motherhood like that?

    There must be another doll I have missed.

                                                                  *** 

It's the small things

After [almost] two months living in Italy, it is no real accomplishment to declare that I know the Italian word "freddo" means cold and "caldo" means hot. However, last weekend in the early morning, when my littlest child woke and immediately began screaming to be OUT of her crib and FED immediately, it's something to say that I got up, half-dressed and fully groggy, and turned on the "f" faucet to wash my face and teeth. Up until then, many mornings greeted me with a blast of hot water, as I turned on "c", let it run a bit, and
splashed myself, burning my hands and face.  My first morning thoughts have often been a silent string of swear words, and a fresh feeling of incompetence. When I was awake enough to realize that my morning brain knew "c" equals hot, I took it as a small, but important, gain. There are others.

Maddy has been blessed with an extremely strict teacher, who wears big, silk scarves around her neck even when it's 85 degrees outside and another 10 inside.  She screams at the kids about not knowing their math, about not being up to 5th grade standards, about this and that.  She punches her fists on desks and lets out exasperated sighs.  She assigns and assigns homework and finds fault in almost every work,
even bringing children to tears.  Beyond that, the class stays seated  for five hours straight, doing work in their hot classrooms and grembule without more than a ten-minute break. Twice a week, this is
extended to an eight and a half hour day, with a half hour break for  lunch.   Yet, as miserable as Madeline is at school [and, despite her brave face, she is certainly having a hard time] she is learning a lot. Most
noticeably, her Italian is soaring along, she is even learning about parts of Italian speech and grammar, and her math -- initially behind the class--is now almost "in the middle" of the class.  She has gone from
expecting every answer to be right [American style] to being happy when she gets more
than half the answers correct [Italian style]. 

Her teacher, who had told Maddy her art was "too small for the page -- no good," and her Italian "wrong, wrong, wrong" asked to "have a word,"  with me.  In a hushed tone, while loosening her bright scarf wrapped around her neck, she told me that she was happy to teach Madeline and found her to be a good student. I stood there, not a little surprised, and managed a confused grazie.
***


When we decided living in Italy for a year was a great idea, Michael and I promised Allie that she could continue her gymnastics.  Promises were easy to make in Montana, and much harder to execute here. After many calls, and lots of searching, we found a gymnastics team in Mantova. The only issue was she had to make the team: no problem, we thought. Allie is a good gymnast, taking first in most of her meets in most of the categories.  She is dedicated and hardworking, and has a high threshhold for hard physical work. However, when we stepped inside the doors to the Mantova "Airone" gymnastics, we were surprised.

The kids were good. Really good. They all had perfectly fit bodies [gymnastics style], incredible flexibility and strength. Kids were flipping and splitting and hand-standing all around us.  The coach, a plain-looking woman in her late 40s, said she would allow Allie to practice with them for a few weeks and then decide if Allie could join them for the year.  With that, Allie practiced, trying her best with a new set of words and expectations. When we picked her up,  the teacher shrugged her shoulders, "She is behind in some things. Keep coming. We'll see."

And so Allie came. For the past two months Allie came and worked [oh how she worked] and tried her best. Until, tonight, the teacher asked Allie to stand in front of the team. In Italian, she asked,

"Do you want to be part of this team?"

"Si," Allie replied

"You understand what I am saying?"

"Si," Allie replied.

The teacher turned to the group of kids and asked, "Do you want Allie to be a part of our team?"

"YES!" they replied loudly, in English.

Allie came home with her new gymnastics team shorts [hot pants, black] and shirt [blue, with an Italian flag] and warm-up [flared pants].

"Are you happy?" I asked, ruffling her head.

She nodded."Si."
***

Posso giocare means "May I play?" in Italian, and it's an important phrase to know if you are under 12 in Italy.  Here, the most amazing thing happens when a few kids get together and begin to play: other kids -- I have seen as young as three years old--ask to join in the play.  They are not prodded to do so by their parents:  it's just part of the culture. Add a ball, and you have every kid within a city block ready to join.

In Varazze, after a lovely birthday dinner for my mother-in-law and a shot of melloncello [say YES if you are ever offered this yummy drink] my kids and nieces and nephews began playing a game of soccer in an old piazza.  As they toured around the old stones, balls whizzing, kids yelling, other, non-family kids were suddenly in the mix, too. And off they went: ten at night on a Saturday, kicking around an old ball on a cobble-stone street, sweating, laughing, playing.  I thought of the US and our teams and coaches and Sunday morning games, our soccer shoes, and mid-game-snacks and cheering-on, our fees and jerseys and regulation balls, and it hit me:  I must bring some of this delicious melloncello back to my friends.

                                                                     *****

Tuscany -- or, Italy for Tourists

Tuscany --  As we turned up the mountain to reach our little town of Radda in Chianti for the weekend, I felt a warmth hit my chest: this is as fabulous as it is supposed to be. I rolled down all our car windows, and like dogs the kids stuck their heads out, letting the fresh, cold air hit their faces, each one quiet with delight. I kept my head in, but threw out my hand, catching the evening sunlight as it hit my hand, playing peek-aboo through the grape vines. 

We reached our weekend apartment, where we stayed in an old [what else?] villa from the 1700s.  Inside, much was falling apart, not-working, or wearing-through. Our apartment in the villa, ambitiously named Principessa, looked much like an aging diva: still grand but only young now from at a distance.

 The villa is perched on a large hill, over-looking huge vineyards [most of it the villa's own], with a cold water pool, and large lavender plants surrounding a gracious yard. Within 20 minutes of our arrival we had found chairs, wine, and a sunset, and toasted to Tuscany, TV-style.  In short, it was perfect.

From our villa we were able to take an hours walk through vineyards and lush terrain, leading us to a small town from the 1000s. A little dog greeted us at the town's entrance--and this would be too silly to make up--he walked with us, bone in mouth and tail wagging,  jumping from one child to another, as we made our way through the historic town. When we finished our tour, he dropped his bone, and walked back home.

On the walk back to the villa, the hot sun on our backs, we picked figs and wine grapes, and shared water from our steel can.  Once "home", Michael took sun-dried tomatoes, rosemary and bay leaves collected from our walk, pancetta, onions, a generous pour of olive oil and small hot peppers and made a delicious late-afternoon pasta. With a small glass of brunello and a crisp apple, the meal and day were complete, save for a swim in the pool for the kids and chocolate for us all in the mid-evening. A perfect, if hedonistic, day.

In fact, from what I could tell from my weekend stay, everything in Tuscany is perfect.  The food is the best I have eaten anywhere in Italy, the Italians all speak English and do so calmly, the driving was reasonable and fairly friendly, and there was space and green everywhere. As much as I loved Tuscany, by the end I had figured it out: Tuscany was created for tourists and has nothing much to do with "real" Italy. In fact, while we ate the best Italian food [ever], I sat in company of two French couples, an English family, a German group, and an Australian, but the only Italians there were those serving us.

So, where are all the "real" Italians in the "real" Italy?  At least 200,000 of them are in Mantova, our home for the year.  Here, no one speaks English, space -- personal or otherwise-- is limited, getting anything accomplished takes a lot of time and energy, donkey is on the menu as a real option, and green is mostly a color of  parks and flower pots. As for the driving, I have been surprised how many Italians use the middle finger: isn't that an American gesture? So, OK, the Italians here speak a little English.

Yet, I would not trade spots to live for a year.  I feel as though our experience is authentic and, as frustrating as it can be, the joys that come feel won [and earned]. I will admit, though, when the kids asked, on the way back to Mantova, why we weren't living in Tuscany for the year, I skipped a beat and began my answer with eyebrows raised.

Mantova Style

For about 20 years, I have colored my hair. "Highlighted" is the more glamorous term for it, and basically I try and match the shade that I liked when I liked my hair color and before I had a load of grey: I was about 17 and it was honey-blonde. For the past four years I have gone to same hairdresser in Missoula, and I like her a lot, and I am in-and-out within an hour. 

Since moving to Italy over a month ago, the change in climate had done a number on my hair: it was time for a "touch up" and cut. I kept hoping that I would find a soft highlight job on a Mantovian and I could ask where to get my hair done. But, blondes in Italy are few, and I did not see one who had a nice, natural-looking blonde color. So, I began scouring the city for the perfect salon. What do you look for? A name? China Hair sounded like an odd choice in Italy; London Syle could be promising, but I didn't remember London hair being very good; there where loads of places with Bella this and that -- too obvious; finally, I came across Selena, a one-woman, pretty shop, on a busy street in town. For a couple of days I would walk past her place: she was always busy, with different clients. OK, I had found my shop.

Yesterday I went in for my hair appointment. With my limited Italian supplemented by loads of hand gestures and pointing to pictures, we agreed I needed to cut off quite a bit and have it "touched by the sun". Somewhere in there, as we were going through my hair, she held up a dry clump of hair and said, "This is ugly, really...." While she was correct, I was taken back by her honestly in assessment. Yet, I have found more than once that people in Italy comment on your appearance [or whatever] with a forthrighteousness unheard of in America.

Madeline told me the story that when all the kids in the classroom went around and said what they liked, one plump boy said he liked to eat his mother's cooking. The teacher shot back, "Yes, I think we can see that: you don't get fat from nothing." The whole class laughed, including the boy and the teacher. Wow.

So, my ugly hair was cut and colored. The cut is nice: she was right-on with what had to come off. But the color is ... well, let's say that I could fit in with a "Strippers from the 1980s World Tour" without a problem. I guess  in Italy, "touched by the sun" means going to the sun and holding your head to a sun ray.

***

Watermelons

Today was the fourth day of the kids in school, Michael working, and me with Rachel. Since we do not have a yard, taking Rachel to the park every morning is certainly part of my day. Today I found myself, as I imgaine I will often find myself, at Palazzo Te. Palazzo Te is a palace from the 16th century, built as a suburban palace but now is very much a part of Mantova's city. I love the grounds and park that surrounds it, as it is one place where green is plentiful and trees are tall, giving off cool shade. The palace's garden, and the playground nearby, are busy with children in the evening, and seniors and toddlers in the morning.

At 11:00, right after an amusing interaction with an Italian toddler where Rachel got shoved off a toy by a toddler and the kid's mom subsequently went into a tirade of scolding her toddler that included strenuous-and ominous- looking hand gestures, it was time for a snack. Nearby the park is lovely bar that we frequent; during August one pleasure here was ordering a slice of watermelon, and having them bring a very cold and sweet slice of Mantova's finest. Today, with the 80+ temps, seemed like another nice day for watermelon.

As such, Rachie and I sauntered over, parked the stroller on the side, and walked up to order [in Italian, just to say].
"May I have a slice of watermelon, please?"
Big, huge, belly laughs from the lady behind the counter were followed by laugher from the senior waiting to order her coffee. The whole place seemed to be in stitches,
"AH HA HA HA HA HA HA".
I looked at Rachel, What did I do?
When all the laugher died down, the waitress spoke,
"Singorna, it's September. I know it's hot but we don't have watermelon in September. I am sorry. Ha ha ha. Watermelon. Ha ha...."

I bought some popcorn and was on my way.

After bringing hilarity to my fellow city-dwellers, Rachel and I went food shopping. Indeed, no watermelon in the store. No berries, either. Lots of squash, though, and apples and pears. We will be eating seasonally here whether we like it or not. Can you imagine if we ate a pear in January? That's CRAZY. Crazy Americans.

Something like life

Today, the kids started their first day of school. Most of the primary-aged kids in Italy now wear a grembiule to school, the traditional Italian school uniform. In blacks or blues or pinks, these uniforms fall to the knees, are puckered at the sleeves, and may have white lace around the collar. This morning, as we walked to school, I was very much reminded of Harry Potter, as all the kids looked like they were attending a wizard convention, flying along the cobbled streets of Mantova as their cotton and linen smocks floated behind them. My kids slipped theirs on before entering their school, and at that minute I wanted to hand them each a long wand and a magical jelly bean. Neither were nearby so kisses and well-wishes had to do.

Since it was a short day, we picked up the kids at 12:00. Michael, on his way to a lunch meeting for work, quickly ran to Nicholas' teacher [who speaks no English] to ask my list of questions. Michael came back, questions answered, and with a smile.
"She said he had a great day."
I felt my heart melt. At that moment, out popped by little blonde son, arm extended.
"I got bitten by a kid," he said and held up a red-marked forearm.
"I hope you hit him back," Michael said, shifting his work bag from one arm to another.
"Nooooo," I exclaimed, thinking about our school rules at home where even a fight of defense will get you sent home.
"Well, actually I did hit him, in the chest," said Nick, not more than a little proud.
"What did the teacher say?" I questioned, thinking that we were about to have a "sit down" with school officials.
"Nothing. The other kid got in trouble for starting the fight. But, I made a new friend, too. He's very nice."

The girls arrived soon after: Madeline hand-in-hand with a pretty brunette and Allie smiling as she walked near a girl from her class.

Everyone agreed it was a good day, that the school was lovely, that the teachers were kind, and that we would be OK here for the year.

Michael went to his work meeting, and I walked home with the four kids, handing them biscuits while the three tried to tell me about their day over the 12:00 pre-lunch din of motor-bikes and cars, listing all the events of the day with energy and happiness.

Could it be possible we have started life here, or something like it?

Buona Sera

"Clip."
"Snap."
"Clip, clip."

It was my first night in Mantova. I lay in my bed, still jet-lagged, dressed only in underwear, a thin Rockin' Rudy's t-shirt from Missoula, and wetness from a recent cold shower coupled with the beginnings of sweat. Over our whirring fan I heard, quite loudly,

"Clip."

I followed the sound out to the big, open windows that look out onto my neighbor's back patio. There my neighbor sat, cigarette in his mouth, clipping his toenails. I stood there for a moment, struck by the shared intimacy of this moment -- and the close proximity of our living quarters. I was certainly going to know this man very well by next June.

We had met this neighbor a few hours earlier. Upon our arrival in the apartment, Michael called down to him, waving and explaining with a smile that we were his new neighbors. "I guess I figured that out," he said with a grumph before walking back inside.

While our apartment in Mantova has its best view on my neighbor's patio, we have come to be very grateful for it. With three bedrooms, including an upstairs bedroom space that is open and bright, a big bathroom, a washer that works well, and an always-available parking space, we have quite a sweet space by Italian standards. Top it off with a safe and practical near-city-center location, and we don't have much to complain about; or at least, if we did, it would fall deaf on Italian ears. So we are thankful, and adjusting.

Still, my new neighbor is intriguing. In a country where almost everyone in our life here is cheerful, helpful, and kind, he is a standout of grumpiness. As such, I have begun to spy on him when I can, and am determined to be-friend him one way or another. Since he has not introduced himself, I have knighted him "Tony."

First, reconnaissance on Tony: he gets up early and has a smoke. Initially, my American sensibility had me worried about the second-hand smoke curling into our apartment. I have now come to register his smoke smell as my invitation to peek [I have also shut tight the kids' windows at night]. He wakes around 7:30 usually, and has his coffee in a small little cup. Once the cigarette is out, I don't see him until the evening. [His wife comes later in the morning, hair in curlers, with her coffee in a big, saucer-type mug. In fact, the cup is so big most people would call it a bowl; as she brings it to her lips I am often reminded of Alice-in-Wonderland and her tea party. Her name is Gabriella, and she's quite nice.]

In the evening, beginning at 5:30 pm, Tony comes out for a drink. Many nights he has people over: big, masculine-looking people who laugh, drink, and eat on his little patio. During these parties, Rachel has taken upon herself to help my "be-friend Tony" mission by standing near our window, clad only in a diaper, a floppy hair-do, and a smile, yelling down below, "Ciao! Ciao! Ciao!" She gets greeted with big returns by Tony's family and friends.

The other night, as a joke, I asked Michael if he thought Tony could be a mafioso. "Well," he said, "someone has to get the Mantova watermelons around Italy." Really? How exciting!

Every night, I continue my half-smiles out the window. Rachel visits often. Sometimes, Allie and Nick stare below and wave when Tony looks up. They run, and giggle, and annoy and I let them for a while: surely, no one can resist a spying toddler and her gap-toothed, skinny-armed, older brother.


* * *

Ötzi the Iceman, the famous Copper-age European found in a frozen glacier in the Dolomite mountains almost 20 years ago, has it right. That is, if you HAD to be somewhere, frozen, for 5000 years, the Dolomites are a good choice.

Historically, the Dolomites have been tramped on by Romans, Slavs, Germans, Autrio-Hungarians... you name a major world power in Europe and it has found a way to lay claim to these beautiful mountains. Now it is in the "roof" of Italy, and a tourist can go and enjoy the fruits of all of these conquerors. And by fruits, I mean food. The food in the Dolomites equals the beauty of the mountains.

What I appreciated most about the Dolomites was not just the beauty and history of the place, but the fusion of Austrian and Italian culture and food. It was like finding my paradise! Yes, you can climb a very challenging mountain for an hour, after a stunning 20-minute gondola ride, but instead of reaching in your nap-sack for some nasty sandwich when you are hungry, you instead find yourself upon a lovely little restaurant, high above it all, with the option of being served after your climb. Usually that meant a hearty vegetable soup [for me] and schnitzel for the kids [all] and some interesting homemade speck/pasta dish for Michael. Top it all off with a fizzy wine from the region and enjoy the walk down, relaxed and full, looking at the lovely flower boxes and quenching your thirst by sipping cold water from the carefully-placed watering fountains...[at least] 100 years old. ***

After our relaxing and re-energizing week in the Dolomites, we were back in Mantova. It felt good to get away and come back: somehow the act of leaving and returning makes the "returned" to place feel more like home. And so it was with us: kids were happy to see their rooms and see if our neighbors were out smoking [they were]. The heat had broken a little, too.

More than anything else, this week was first about our kids' school orientation. On Wednesday night, we put on our casual best [the masculines in our family pulled out

their collared shirts, the gals in summer dresses] and headed to meet the people of the kids' new school. As we sat there in the school theater--me thinking more than once how I would LOVE to have a real stage back home to work with --I watched all the moms and a few dads pile in. Everyone was laughing and hugging, and generally saying "welcome back." Michael turned to me and said, "Moms are the same everywhere." He was right: at once I felt at home among these women: some fashionable, some casual, some young, some not-so-young ... but all there for their kids. I smiled at everyone, not for the first time unsure if my happiness read as openness or imbacility.

The kids' school is lovely. A 180 from their education back in Montana, but filled with a lot of care and love nonetheless. The girls will go to school MWF from 8 - 1, with no break, and then T/TH from 8:-4:30. They all will wear the traditional Italian school smock while at school. In terms of "learning hours" [read: not lunch] they will have SEVEN hours more school a week than they are used to at Sussex. Nicholas will attend kindergarten downstairs from the girls, and go to school from 8:00- 1:00 everyday, giving him the same hours of school learning as he would have had had we had stayed in Missoula. There are 600 students in the school, and yet the teachers had already come up with a plan to make sure our kids' year was positive. I feel so humbled by [and thankful for!] the time and care the staff and teachers have already put forth to help our family. Would I have been so accommodating?

***
Today, I was yelled at by an old lady who was super agitated by the fact I asked her [formally and with a smile] to move so that I could push my stroller on the sidewalk and not take my lovely 2-year-old stroller-first into the street. She went off on some tirade of Italian while yelling at me to "Go! Go!" [that's all I got in specific words, but her meaning was certainly clear]. The volatility of emotions here is still surprising coming from Montana: I think Montanans might be the LEAST volatile people I have ever been around [of course, when every other neighbor has a gun and is willing to use it, perhaps it's best to stay cool-headed about things]. Strangers here have shared with me such a private and wide range of emotions: from the waitress who caressed my cheek for being a "wonderful Mama" [no kidding, she took the back of her hand, held my cheek, said I was a wonderful Mama and then poured our water] to the old ladies who stop to compliment me on my children and bless them and me, making crosses over their heads, to the old man swearing at me in the store for having Rachel stop him in his tracks ["Mama Mia" ... and on it went for a solid minute], and on and on. No wonder my favorite operas are all from Italian composers:the music is emotional and true, and their inspirations could have come right from the streets.

Perhaps they found inspiration from the neighbors, too. The other night, I opened the windows to let in some air. I stole a peek at Tony and his plate of pasta, and began to head to my kitchen. "Buona Sera," he called out in a gruff voice. While I was shocked to hear his voice sent in my direction, I called back quickly, "Oh! Buona Sera! BUONA SERA!"

***

Language

Dr. Stanley Coren, the author of The Intelligence of Dogs, said in an interview that dogs understand about 160 human words. I'd say I have about 75 Italian words down perfectly, which include words like "pasta" and "bella" and other words that everyone knows. I can almost conjugate two verbs, and that's with some serious mental gymnastics. Yet, tomorrow we leave for Italy for 11 months, where I will be one-half of the team in charge of our family of four small children. Thank goodness for them, the other half is fluent in the language.

For the past six months the kids and I attended Italian lessons once a week: we sang children's songs and played color and number bingo. I learned a lot of animal names [if you want to know how to say spider and frog in Italian, I am your gal], and the strange-to-us sounds their animals make [shouldn't cats meow the same in every language?]. The Italian lesson book our teacher used had a lot of vocabulary surrounding witches and insects, so I am all ready for dinner with an Italian Wicken. Can't say I hope for that.

I have packed Italian books, verb drills, and phrase books in my suitcase, and Michael gave the older children a little sheet of "just in case" phrases. These take up little of the space where I have crammed one year's worth of material life in a pink flowered suitcase. It's curious to see what each of us, with our one bag filled of "what we can't leave behind" has picked to pack. Those bags sit now, six of them, waiting for the adventure that begins at 5:00 am tomorrow morning.

My dog, Piper, will begin her adventure tonight as she is dropped off at my parents' house for her year with them. With the bags out and the commotion in our house, Piper knows something is happening. She follows me around, never letting me out of her sight, and often leaning into me a bit more than usual. As I pat her head, feeling happy and a little sad, I understand what she's saying.