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!"

***