"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."
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