Thankful

On Sunday, just when the temperature in Naples decided to drop 15-20 degrees, our power went out. Attempts to manually reset the circuit breaker were in vain; it was soon clear that our warmth, and the preservation of the food in our fridge, were entirely in the hands of an Italian repairman.

We knew the chances of getting someone to come out on a Sunday were slim to none, so we decided to tough out the afternoon. We bundled up under layers of blankets and, seeing as the big glowing box--thanks to my teacher friend Sara for the euphemism--was no longer glowing, we had to find some way to entertain ourselves:

We've actually been playing a lot of Scrabble lately. Yours truly, the word-lover, is always trying to persuade a less-than-enthusiastic hubby to join her in a game...and then losing to his ruthless tactics.

Scrabble has really coaxed out our competitive streaks. It all started a few months ago when I finally achieved that elusive 7-letter play, worth 50 bonus points. I thought the game was in the bag...until a few rounds later, when Alan effortlessly replicated the move. Future challengers to the Scrabble throne, beware: when he's not busy constructing monster words, Alan's deftly claiming each Triple Word Score as his own.

The game was fun as always, but it couldn't last forever. We tallied the final scores at around 8:30 PM. It was cold and there was no rubbish on TV to keep us up. And we were tired. So for the first time in a long time, we actually made it to bed before falling asleep on the couch.

The next morning, I found myself on the edge of my seat: would our power be restored? As I snagged the last five minutes of hot water in the shower, I thought of the many everyday blessings I tend to take for granted:

• Heated homes, warm clothing, and blankets


• A working fridge with at least a week's worth of food inside, a microwave to nuke leftovers, and a gas stove that we can use even without power


• A warm bed and a heat-radiating husband to take the chill out of my hands and feet


• 24-hour access to the internet


• A daily hot shower


• Hot water for dishwashing


• Warm sunlight streaming through the windows


• A supportive naval base to precipitate repairs in the apartment

As you can see from that last bullet point, things were (thankfully!) back to normal by Monday afternoon. I was so happy to be able to plug in our space heaters again. But I was also painfully aware of how many items on the list above--which I'd consider basic necessities--are not as widely available as we'd like to think.

We are now knee-deep in Christmas preparations, but it is important to keep counting our Thanksgiving blessings. A couple of weeks ago we threw a little party with exactly this theme. For obvious reasons, this year I have found myself particularly thankful for friends old and new. So it was only fitting to invite all our Naples-area friends over for some Christmas cheer.

We had almost 20 guests, so the nearly all-homemade menu was a little daunting. In the end, though, everything turned out beautifully (unlike my pictures, which are, more often than not, blurry). You may recognize a few repeats from earlier food-centered blog entries...

Appetizers (from left to right): Canapés three ways (cheese, smoked salmon, salami; entirely and delicately made by Alan); ham, cheese, and carrot in puff pastry triangles; roasted red pepper and pine nut tartlets; roasted butternut squash dip and various dippables; goat cheese, pistachio and chive dip with crudités...



Dessert Table: for the first time I tried my hand at some family Christmas cookie recipes. The Christmas trees and stars are sablés; the oval cookies are almond- and rum-flavored. The breads are Apple-Nut and Cranberry-Orange. (Not pictured: Champagne-Pomegranate Punch, a clear favorite.)





We had a great time mingling with guests and sampling the fruits of our labors. Best of all, once it was time to collapse on the couch, we had a clean--save for the kitchen sink, of course--Christmassy apartment, decked out with hostess gifts of red and white flowers, stockings hanging on the windowsills, and our very first Christmas tree!



You'll notice the tree is not really well-endowed. During the week leading up to our Christmas party, there wasn't too much time to think about a tree: I was beyond busy with English lessons and prepwork in the kitchen, and Alan was pulling some early mornings at work and sacrificing naptime in favor of errands all over town.

Here's how I got through those first couple of hectic weeks on the job: every morning we'd agree on where Alan would get our much-anticipated tree, and every evening, on the metro heading to my last lesson of the day, I'd think about the wonderful second wind I'd get once I saw the great evergreen.

Well, as is wont to happen in Italy, we hit a few snags. In the first days, we couldn't figure out where to go. Then we tried the base. Alan struck out there the first day he tried, so the next day he called to ensure the trees had come in. He got the answer he wanted, only to find out (in person) that the trees in stock were artificial...and going for 100+ dollars!

So it was time to Christmas-tree-hunt, Italian-style. It took us a while to figure out that florists are the go-to Christmas-tree people, but we feared the lack of visible price tags. Finally, I spotted some small, nearly naked trees at the local grocery store, and immediately called Alan to tell him we had a backup plan.

Long story short, we ended up with a grocery store Christmas tree. Pro: it was 13 Euros. Con: it kind of reminded me of this...



I guess I have been spoiled over the years. For as long as I can remember, my family has gotten a real tree--usually one that isn't too many inches shy of our ceiling. So you can imagine my disappointment when I saw this little rinky-dink Charlie Brown Christmas tree. I should have been prepared for something like this; I don't think real trees are such a big thing here in Italy.

Nevertheless, we got our second wind and started unpacking our new decorations: lights, the standard ball-shaped ornaments, snowmen... and a random Italian find--owls and squirrels. Here is the finished product:



I don't think I've ever actually seen A Charlie Brown Christmas, but I'm familiar with the story. As we stood arm in arm to marvel at our first tree, cheerily decorated with blinking red lights, it felt magical. It didn't matter that our tree was thinning and its top went nowhere near our ceiling. We had each other, and we had many other loved ones both abroad and here in town. We had jobs, food in our bellies, and a cozy bed to retire to. And as my college pastor was fond of pointing out, if we had had a hot shower that morning, we were rich.

As we all know, it's easy to get sucked into what has unfortunately become a consumer-driven holiday. To go one step further: it's almost just as easy to treat your friends and family to special Christmas gifts. Sure, our party took time and money, but it was entirely our pleasure to host our friends.

After a year+ of missing some basic American customs and amenities, and--more recently--after our brief experience without power in a foreign country, my number one Christmas wish is for the strength to share with the less fortunate. I pray that I remember never to take anything or anyone for granted. The more acutely aware I am of the tremendous resources at my disposal, the easier it will become to remember that none of this is really "mine," and the easier it will become to share.

So, in addition to our beautiful first tree, we've still got our little Thanksgiving pumpkin on the table, and Thanksgiving blessings still fresh in our minds...

Funny Student-ism #2

A lot of my more advanced students are working on developing their vocabulary by studying various nouns, adjectives, and verbs from the same root. For instance: hatred/hateful/hate.

This evening I had just gone over one such exercise--a doozy, I must add--and it was high time for some comic relief. Luckily there was a real gem in one girl's workbook. It went a little like this (her answer is in bold):

Sean hurried to the hospital once he realized he had been bitten by a poisoned spider.

I'm not sure if this stuff makes other people laugh, but it's just what I need after confronting endless rain and closed funicolare stations. Kids who thank you for the lesson, an eager student who tells you you're good at miming (a necessary skill when you're teaching English vocab without resorting to Italian translations), a couple of teenagers who actually laugh at your corny jokes... for a teacher, this is the life.

In a Nutshell...

To catch you up in just a few words: as of last Monday, I am now giving private English lessons to Neapolitan students aged 7 to 21!

I really enjoy the work. For the most part, the students are very driven to learn, and they perform at much higher levels than I had anticipated. Additionally, I interact with a lot more locals now: I see the homes of my students and speak with their parents, but most of my Italian comes out at the bus stop when I'm commiserating with fellow travelers. (I have been known to wait forty whole minutes for the bus).

I'm tired and still adjusting to my new workload, but I enjoy having a structured schedule again--not to mention those extrinsic rewards I mentioned in my last post! Most of all, it's refreshing to teach again, especially in such a friendly environment. After little more than a week on the job, I can already see the seeds I've planted sprouting away in my students' brains.

It's not always fun and games, though, to scurry from house to house amid raindrops and Neapolitans who are seemingly incapable of hurrying and/or sharing the sidewalk. But the students have a way of making it all go away: this morning, for instance, I was explaining the idiom "in a nutshell" to one of the more advanced ones. When I asked him if he understood, he said with a serious look, "Yes...I think so. So...when you just want the gist of something, you ask your friend, 'tell me a nutshell.'"

I'm really happy to be teaching again.

Napoli: Year in Review

Oggi stiamo festeggiando un anno a Napoli. Today we celebrate one year in Naples!

A lot has happened since we moved to Italy exactly one year ago:

• After years of dating a Navy boy, and the months upon months of separation that went along with that, I finally felt like I had him all to myself.





• By the same token, I finally joined the good ol' Navy Wives Club. That's not an official term, but I capitalized it anyway because the military is certainly a world unto itself. I still have trouble following along when veteran wives pepper their conversations with military acronyms. And no matter how much people try to push it under the rug, your husband's rank follows you everywhere and influences many an interaction. But, much like a college town, the environment on base is a refreshing cross-section of Americana: underneath that little military bubble that links us all, you are surrounded by people from all parts of the world, from all walks of life--and that is very interesting.


• I enjoyed a much-needed sabbatical from teaching. After only two years in the profession, I did not by any means earn this break. But when the opportunity arose, I welcomed it with open, if tired, arms. This year has allowed me to recharge my batteries, enjoy newfound free time alongside a more relaxed hubby, and reflect on the path ahead.


• I became a stay-at-home wife. I'll admit it: I'd always yearned for this. For one, I admired my stay-at-home Mom for the neat home she kept, the Martha Stewart-grade meals that came out of her kitchen, and the constant care and attention she was able to provide us. (To this day, she always makes time to take a phone call from one of the "kids": at the drop of a hat, we can have that childhood-favorite recipe, that elusive important date she stored in her calendar 10+ years ago, or just an empathetic listening ear.) Second, I kind of envied the low stress levels I noticed in friends who didn't work outside the home.
  
  As is usually the case with greener grass, though, once I got to the other side I discovered it was not always a picnic. Don't get me wrong--this past year I have really enjoyed a slower, calmer pace of life. But I have missed certain things about professional life: routine, regular interaction with others... Not to mention that, for me, motivation to clean house--extrinsic or otherwise--is sometimes lacking. Like I always say, I'm a better chef than housekeeper! That said...





• I am slowly perfecting the art of the picked-up house, the daily-made bed, and the promptly-cleared kitchen sink.


• My culinary skills are improving with each repeated recipe, new technique learned, and improvised dish.


• In exploring Naples, I am chasing away my fear of the unknown. I am far from fearless, but I do feel pretty confident navigating the streets of an unfamiliar European city.


• I learned my fourth modern language! My Italian's far from perfect, but somehow I always get pushed into the role of translator...


• We celebrated our first married Christmas at the Vatican. The multicultural Mass was moving and grandiose, and perhaps best of all, included the same recessional played at our wedding:
  
  



• We celebrated our first anniversary with a simple picnic on the balcony. After a lot of traveling and gourmet eating and romantic European living, it was great to relax at home in each other's company. It was perfect.


• We learned to drive--Neapolitan style, that is.





• We got taken advantage of by Neapolitan scoundrels hoping to make a quick buck. We've since learned to be aware 110% of the time...though as the oven repairman once told me, it happens to everyone here--no matter how Neapolitan you are. That made me feel better.


• We made new friends! They are warm and fun and thoughtful. They invite us over for dinner and introduce us to corners of Naples we didn't know about. They lend us books and give us restaurant recommendations and commiserate with us about the constant stares we attract from the locals. We're all in this together.


• We enjoyed extended vacations in Tunisia and the UK.








• I was thrilled to learn that Easyjet offered a direct flight from Naples to Basel. I've since taken advantage of it multiple times and enjoyed several happy reunions, including in September, when we all got together to celebrate my Grandmother's ninetieth birthday!





• We acquired a second bed for the guest bedroom, and were honored that several friends and family members decided to come all the way out here to break it in. Sara, Mom & Dad, Faye & Christian, David & Debbie, Sam: your visits brought us a lot of joy.









• I watched a lot of Little League baseball and was very proud to point out the coach whenever Moms asked me, "which one's yours?"


• I watched a lot of AFN commercials. For those unfamiliar with AFN (which stands for Armed Forces Network), it broadcasts some of the most popular American shows to soldiers stationed overseas. We don't, however, see the same commercials you do. Instead, we get poorly-produced public service announcements which state the obvious...to say the least. After a few days of these spots, you'd think everyone in the military was a depressed, abusive alcoholic with a gambling problem. Here are a couple of awkward, duh-inducing examples:
  
  
  
  

Yes, we have learned and experienced a lot this year--though clearly, we don't attribute any life lessons to AFN commercials!

There's a lot more excitement in store for us here, especially now that we have fully acclimated to life in Naples. I can't wait to experience it all...though the blog is starting to have some trouble keeping up!

Back to the Blogosphere

September proved to be quite the whirlwind. I am happy to report that, almost one year into our Neapolitan adventure, life has done a 180 and I have finally found my niche here.

Unfortunately, with all the excitement, I have fallen significantly behind in my correspondence and blog-writing. I am working on reversing that trend, but October has been--and will continue to be--about ten times busier than September. That's a good thing, especially when I think back to the first lonely months in our apartment.

But being busier also means I need to make time for catching up with family and friends. To all those who have taken time out of their busy schedule to write or call or leave a comment, I am profoundly grateful. You helped fill a void during those first few months of transition, where everything and everyone was new and unfamiliar.

Naples is home now. (Yes, even on those days when some jerk cuts us off and we dream of moving back to a place where traffic patterns make sense). So now it's my turn to take the time to tell you that, despite--or because of!--the excitement here, I miss you and am thinking of you.

Who's the culprit behind my going from 0 to 60? For one, my wonderful new friends, who are constantly getting me out of my cocoon of an apartment and into cafes, pizzerias, markets, shops, parks, churches, museums, and little alleyways I didn't know about before.

Culprit #2 came into my life a few weeks ago: I have a job again! It took a few months of getting acclimated to my new surroundings, then wading through an incredibly paper-heavy application process, then waiting for the 2010-2011 school year to begin...but I am finally working in schools again. I decided to substitute teach so I could keep my schedule flexible for travel and visitors. I may expound in future posts, but for now I will just say that a substitute's job is never, ever boring!

Culprit #3 is travel: we've just returned from a 13-day whirlwind tour of the UK, and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. We had so much fun that upon our return, we felt we needed a vacation from touring around! Our hosts for much of the trip were dear Londoner friends Faye and Christian, without whose hospitality such a long holiday--as the Brits say--would not have been possible. (Remember those Flying Dinars? Pounds disappear even faster!)

The festivities started the very first day. I had planned a girly day, but by the end of it I think all members of the party were happy to partake. We started with a quick ride through the city and ended up in the cozy lobby of a chic London hotel. There Alan and I experienced our very first High Tea--a delight! Unfortunately, most of my pictures turned out blurry, but I managed to snap this one before we started devouring politely nibbling our crustless sandwiches:



As you can see from the picture, Christian decided to make it a Champagne-Tea, and there were no protesters!

High Tea is quite a civilized affair. Even the menu was sophisticated, with its oenological descriptions of the teas: full-bodied, capricious and slightly flowery, with notes of oak...

We nevertheless ended up making quick work of the sandwiches--among which was the requisite cucumber and cream cheese--as well as the scones with clotted cream and a-do-ra-ble little jars of jam. By the time we got to dessert, our stomachs had caught up with our eyes, but we "forced" ourselves to finish (what I remember as being) the tartlets of strawberry and cream, the champagne-and-fruit red gelée, and the white chocolate mousse encased in thin bittersweet chocolate.

We ended the evening at the Phoenix Theatre for a very liverpudlian musical: Blood Brothers. Though a bit outdated, and heavy for a musical, the performance evoked laughter and taught us a bit of British slang. (E.g. "going to a do" = going to a party.)

As one is wont to do after a musical, I left humming the theme over and over again. I particularly enjoyed the opening number, Marilyn Monroe--the tune recurred throughout the show. (Yes, the actors spoke with that very accent!).



Back to the culprits which have kept me so busy: you'll have to stay tuned for #4, which will make an appearance next week. We are very excited! In the meantime, I'll be sifting through hundreds of trip photos and posting the highlights.

Hmph!

The Neapolitans are back. They've recaptured the city.

I had almost forgotten what real Neapolitan driving was like. We'd had the roads to ourselves for the past month, but it wasn't going to last forever: yesterday on the way to pick Alan up from work, I encountered a traffic jam so serious there was--gasp!--a cop to direct us. In one day, I went from running free as a graceful gazelle in the desert to baahing with the million other goats in the herd.

Why get agitated about this traffic in particular, you ask? Well, the base is literally next door to the airport. There was only one possible explanation for this sudden, grand reopening of the Bumper Cars at Naples Amusement Park. The Neapolitans must have chosen this day to fly back en masse from their exotic, month-long beach vacations.

As I exited base with hubby in tow, I explained why I had been a little late. A big sigh accompagnied his response: "just when I was starting to like Italy..."

To be fair, we do like Italy. We reminded ourselves that lawless driving is a thing of the south. And as I've said ad nauseam, we are more than happy to put up with Naples' more unpleasant aspects for a couple of years. For now, the good really does outweigh the bad.

But when I run into someone in the side streets of our neighborhood, and I throw myself out there with a smile and a buongiorno, and that person just walks past with a hmph! ... well, that's when I have trouble liking Italy.

You have to understand: that hmph is pretty common around here. I was lucky enough to get that this morning, as many times I get nothing but a big, long stare. Alternatively, I'll get the buongiorno back, but with a hurried haughtiness in place of a smile (you see, I was doubly blessed this morning).

I guess I need to step back and realize this is not the birthplace of southern hospitality. I probably take those Italians by surprise when I dare to say "hi" in the street! Yes--sometimes, when I come across a very polite or kindhearted person, I am gratified. But those reciprocated greetings say it all: the polite/kindhearted buongiorno-sayers often act like they just stumbled across a misplaced object. The smile they flash me is one of grateful serendipity.

Like I said, though, the good outweighs the bad. Yesterday there was the wave of returning travelers; today, like clockwork, there was the year's first crisp fall air. I'm looking forward to saying "arrivederci!" to mosquito bites and beads of sweat rolling down my back. And I'd be totally content if they didn't say it back.

Revisiting Naples

Today I was a tourist in "my own" city. With Naples at our fingertips and many tomorrows and next weekends left, getting to know the area is a work in progress. But little by little, I am putting the pieces together and discovering how whimsically romantic Italy can be when you're not jet-lagged or crunched for time.

A couple of friends and I had set out this morning with one goal in mind: to see the much-talked about Christo Velato. This sculpture, done by Giuseppe Sanmartino in 1753, is a triumph of marble work: a serene Christ, just taken down from his cross, lies wrapped in an almost-sheer lace-tipped cloth. The draping of the marble, which flows just as delicately as cloth, somehow reveals more about the lifeless body than do many crucifixes. The veil shields us from nothing but Christ's nudity: the holes are still prominent in his pierced feet, as are his bones and thin layers of muscle. The sculpture tells the story of a long period of suffering--lest we forget, the crown of thorns sits at the feet of Jesus--finally brought to an end by a very tangible last breath.

The Cappella Sansevero, which houses this sculpture and a few others, did not disappoint. Like most holy places in Italy, no spot was left unadorned, from the frescoed ceiling to the polychrome marbled altar. But the real draw was Sanmartino's opus at the center of the room:

As if this were not enough to inspire wonder and awe, I quickly identified Mozart's Ave Verum Corpus playing in the background. I have always found this piece hauntingly beautiful, but it holds a particularly dear place in my heart as it was sung at both my wedding and that of my parents.



The Museo Cappella Sansevero is tucked away in a side street just off the bustling Via Benedetto Croce. The contrasts on this stretch of road, which is actually the historical heart of Naples, are many, and...well, very Neapolitan. The area is literally overflowing with churches, whose answer to the cramped, noisy streets outside is a vast interior of peaceful grandeur. On our way to see the veiled Christ, we decided to stop in two of these churches: the typically Baroque Gesù Nuovo, and the more austere Santa Chiara.

It is hard to believe that such resounding quiet can be found just two steps away from where, seconds ago, you scrambled to avoid the honking motorcyclist barreling towards you.

It is hard to believe that such opulence exists just meters away from a grimy via lined with street vendors and laundry fluttering on the clotheslines.

Because so many of the city's big, important buildings are found along via Croce, Spaccanapoli--so-called because, translated literally, it "splits Naples"--attracts many tourists. I don't come here often because I don't do the tourist thing often, and it's a little far from the quieter area where we live.

But I should have known that, about 4 years ago as a tourist and nothing else, I would have ventured here. Naples was not entirely new to me when Alan and I arrived last fall. Back when I was based near Paris, I had taken a short trip there with my cousin. Funnily enough, we did not really come to see Naples but Pompeii...and from our brief stay we concluded that this dirty, loud, violent city was not for us.

So it was with a chuckle of nostalgia, and a bit of irony, that I stumbled upon the giant, grey-with-soot walls which house the Gesù Nuovo. When I entered the church, I thought to myself, I've been here (the scaffolding you see in the picture was there last time; thankfully, it's gone now). And when we peered into Santa Chiara, I told my friends, "yup...definitely been here."

To think that, for months, I have held my head low when confessing to others that I had not yet found the chance to visit Naples' most important churches!

It conjures funny emotions, revisiting places you saw when you were younger. You see things in a totally different light. As a recent college grad visiting Naples for a whirlwind two days, I had trouble finding the beauty in this place. Now that I am older and wiser--or so I like to think--and I now call Naples home, I can place it within a larger context: gorgeous views from the hills, layers of history, some of the best soul food on the planet, a people with gruff exteriors but tender hearts...

So in my haste to see and experience new things, I should remember my 23-year-old self, which would swear to come back every time she left a new place. I'm glad I kept this promise.

And I'm glad I'm making more promises with every new place I discover. Before returning home, I finally made the very slight pilgrimage to Virgil's tomb (it's a fifteen-minute journey from our place, and yes, I know I should hang my head for not going before).


This is where lovers of the poet come from all over the world to pay homage. They drop little messages scribbled on bits of notebook paper, old receipts--whatever they can find--into the cauldron-like thing you see on the right.

The park itself is a lovely corner of green space just next to the train tracks of Mergellina station. As you climb the steps to the tomb, you see little inscriptions next to the flora: trees and plants are labeled, and, where appropriate, it is noted how many times Virgil alluded to them in his works. From the top, you can catch a bit of the bay of Naples, along with the city view. And, if you're lucky (like we were today), you'll hear an old man playing his mandolin on an isolated bench.

What a wonderful little nook to revisit my Latin and build on my Italian! I'll definitely be back.

Mantua me genuit, Calabri rapuere, tenet nunc Parthenope. Cecini pascua, rura, duces.

"Mantua bore me, the Calabrians snatched me away, now Naples holds me. I sang of pastures, countrysides, leaders."

Estate: Buzzwords of Summer 2010

Can you believe how fast the summer has gone by?

After our Tunisia trip--which, weeks later, I still intend to wrap up in the blog--we didn't have any big plans for the summer. We thought we would just chill out here and avoid the tourists everywhere else. We dared to think fall was a long way off.

But somehow, even the lethargic days of summer must pass...and paradoxically, they seem to go faster than the rest of the year. I wonder how much longer we'll be hearing that sexy voice on the radio whisper "estate" (summer--doesn't it sound so much better in Italian?).

We've enjoyed our share of little sunny adventures, and for once in my life, I can honestly say I'm ready for autumn's cool breezes and busier schedules. But after a few months ending in -ber, when I find myself tugging at an itchy wool turtleneck, I may recant. This is what I will reminisce about as I await our second Italian estate.

• Heat: I can no longer enjoy one of my favorite summer pasttimes--"defrosting" in a steaming-hot car after turning almost blue in an arctic grocery store.
  
  I'm sorry if I sound like a broken record on this subject, but a Mediterranean summer without air conditioning is tough, even for the fleece-donning likes of me. (I am not complaining--we have too much to be thankful for--just describing). For a while in July, we'd step out of the shower almost as sweaty as when we had stepped in. Which leads me to...

• More heat: Unfortunately for us, our fridge chose exactly this time to go kaput on us. We ended up mourning the loss of many frozen vegetables, dairy products, and meats. Not to be outdone, we enjoyed a brief jaunt into vegetarianism as we awaited a replacement fridge. For a week or two our pantry was the go-to meal source, supplemented only by a few fresh fruits and vegetables. Every day looked like this: oatmeal for breakfast, warm pasta salad for lunch, and beans and rice for dinner. We felt lighter (if a bit anemic), and our wallets felt heavier. It wasn't exactly fun, but it taught us a lesson in reasonable grocery shopping.

• Fans: The next best thing to A/C!
  
  We have invested in a few of these for the apartment:

And I have joined the ranks of old ladies fanning themselves at the bus stop:

• Relief: The fans help a little, but I'm referring more to the afterglow of a summer thunderstorm. After a much-needed downpour, we finally feel a little of the breeze everyone assumes we have, in light of our proximity to the water. And then...

Un arcobaleno!

• Bug bites: Buzzword, indeed! Nature's A/C (ie, open doors and windows) - screens + lights on in the evening + sweet-smelling blood = dinnertime for mosquitoes.

Eau d'Insect Repellant: Sticky, not entirely subtle, with hints of orange blossom

• Grilling & Picnicking: Cooking in the kitchen gets hot. Why not pass off the duty to the burger chef...
  
  
  
  ...or avoid heat altogether?
  
  
  
  
  
  A few slices of the knife, a generous shake of olive oil and balsamic vinegar (it's delightfully sweet here), and you've got yourself a tasty Insalata Caprese. Toss in a little basil and not only is it aromatic, but it's also a nod to the tri-color Italian flag!

• Ferragosto: The Italians, like the French, are a very rested people. I found some statistics online via the World Tourism Organization: on average, Italians receive 42 paid vacation days per year. (This does not include frequent coffee breaks and daily riposo!) Compare this number to the 13 days the average American gets in a year.
  
  Anyway, Ferragosto technically refers to August 15th, the day Catholics celebrate the Assumption of Mary into heaven. (For the record, the church next door was nearly empty yesterday, save for a few little old ladies...fanning themselves, of course!) Everything shuts down on this day--and if the 15th falls on a weekend, things shut down the following Monday, too. I was at the store on Saturday to pick up a few things, and it felt like the evening before a "big" snowfall in the Southeast: everyone was getting their provisions before it was too late.
  
  Actually, things shut down for much of, or even the entire month of August. That's right: this is the favorite vacation time of Italians, so don't expect to get anything done right now. The other day, some friends were discussing public transportation closures and described a sign they had seen recently: "Closed for Renovation during the Month of August." Hah! You'd think they could have come up with a better lie... Speaking of public transportation, I can't believe I forgot to mention strikes (scioperi), which are very popular during non-holiday times...especially Fridays!
  
  While I'm on the theme of vacation, I should add that Italians like to fare il ponte, or "make the bridge"--ie, if a national holiday falls on a Tuesday or a Thursday, they go ahead and take the Monday/Friday as well. Coincidentally, there exist literal translations in Spanish (hacer puente) and French (faire le pont). Why does it sound so stilted in English? I'm thinking it's not purely a linguistic thing.
  
  For an American, seeing shop hours reduced even more can be a little annoying. But having the road to ourselves more than makes up for it!

• Grandi Successi: For many of us, music is an instant trigger of emotions, especially nostalgia. As part of their prize giveaways, one of the local radio stations has been playing summer hits of decades past. I love hearing an old favorite: the memories of summer camp, swim team, and beach trips come flooding in. Here are two Italian hits that I have come to identify with summer 2010:
  
  
  
  
  
  (I realize not everyone has the same passion for foreign music as I do, so I'm going to skip including the lyrics. For those that are interested, though, I recommend googling them; the lyrics from both songs are really lovely).

Finally, this song has nothing to do with Italy, but for me, its lazy pace conjures up images of a bronzed old man taking a siesta under the shade of his straw hat:



Here's to making the most of these last few weeks...bathing suit, I'm not quite done with you yet!

Lessons in Italian Cooking & "Moonshine"

A lot of people ask me what I do with all my free time. Cooking is a biggie--and a lot of fellow expat wives would agree. Eating out can get prohibitively expensive and, with the dearth of ethnic restaurants, it can lead to pizza- and pasta-overdose. (Of course, the Italian diet is much more varied than just pizza and pasta, but these are nevertheless pretty big staples.) Not to mention the fact that we eat dinner up to 4 hours before Italian stomachs start grumbling: in the summertime, most everything is closed until 8:30 pm.

So I have (happily!) accepted a fate that involves aprons and spatulas. Of course, it helps that I have a strong interest in cooking. (Hubby's numerous enthusiastic requests for seconds/thirds are also big confidence-boosters!) But, as with anything you do regularly, it is easy to fall into a rut.

Fortunately, there is a lot to inspire us here: the fresh produce we find in neighborhood markets, the clean flavors we taste in restaurants, the fresh-baked bread we smell just steps from our apartment building...

A few weeks ago I was with friends at the well-known and very Neapolitan Trattoria da Nennella. I will expound in future posts, but for now, suffice it to say that I took one bite of their Pasta Pomodoro (simple tomato pasta) and thought to myself, "why can't I do this??"

It's true: since we've been in Italy, pasta has been become an old friend of ours, in restaurants as much as in the kitchen. We have expanded our horizons beyond the classic Bolognese and love a good vegetable sauce. But nothing I make comes close to what I found in my plate at Nennella's.

I asked my Neapolitan friend Alessandra if she could replicate it. Without missing a beat, the answer was an emphatic, "of course!" She promised to teach me the technique soon, which prompted Alan to take a break from noodle-twirling and give his hearty blessing.

I've since confirmed my hunch that, for all its simplicity, Italian food is all about relying on the freshest ingredients and the right techniques. A steaming plate of this always satisfies:



(That was Alan's portion, by the way. This could explain why I buy so much food...)

Pasta con Sugo di Pomodorini (Steamed Grape Tomatoes with Pasta)

1. Fill a large stock pot with water, and add sea salt liberally (at least a tablespoon). The water should taste pleasantly salty. Cover and bring to a rolling boil.
2. In a large frying pan (make sure it has a cover), heat a good dose (enough to cover the bottom by a couple centimeters: at least a quarter cup) of high-quality olive oil.
3. Drop in 4 or 5 unpeeled cloves of garlic, stirring occasionally to avoid burning.
4. Drop in about a half kilo of fragrant cherry or grape tomatoes, which have been rinsed and stemmed. Reduce to medium heat and cover to steam, stirring only occasionally to avoid burning. Cooking will be quick (about 10 minutes).
5. As the skin on the tomatoes starts wrinkling, gently poke them to release their juices. Cooking is just about finished when all tomatoes have popped. Remove and throw out garlic cloves.
6. Toss in a good handful of fresh basil leaves and simmer for a little bit.
7. Once the water is boiling (and not a second before), drop in your pasta (about 3/4 package for this amount of sauce). We tried linguini and vermicelli, and both were great. Stir with a long-handled meat fork to avoid sticking. Cook according to taste; if you want an al dente "bite" to your pasta, I recommend cooking under the amount of time directed on the package. Taste frequently to avoid overcooking.
8. Once the pasta is cooked, drain the pasta and add it to the tomato sauce. Mix the two together with some tongs and serve immediately, garnishing with a few leaves of fresh basil. If desired, sprinkle with freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano. The dish marries perfectly with an earthy red wine--we had a Lacryma Christi (from the Vesuvius region) and it is our new favorite.

A wonderful cook and teacher, ready to dig in:


Another Italian staple I have learned to make is limoncello, the ubiquitous after-dinner drink. As I find most liqueurs taste of strong cough syrup, I am not a huge fan. But, from what I hear, the beauty of limoncello is that you can easily make it to suit your own tastes.

I joined an ICR (intercultural relations) class on base to learn the process, but it is so simple I could have saved myself the trip...though I always enjoy the company of other housewives.

The bulk of the work comes in peeling a bunch (about ten) of fresh, organic, medium-sized lemons. The best lemons for this are a teeny bit underripe, but not green, and have unblemished skin.

Here I am with the other ladies, hard at work with our peelers. The easiest way to peel is from bottom to top; take care not to take any of the bitter white pith--your peels should be very thin and fragrant.



You'll need a two-liter glass jar (preferably with a large lid; I had old wine bottles which worked fine but will pose some problems for step 2). You'll put all your lemon peels and 1 liter of grain alcohol (readily found in Italian stores, but I'm not sure what to look for back home) into this large jar. Close tightly with the lid, and store your baby limoncello in a dark place.



For 15-20 days, you sit back and let your concoction work its magic, gently shaking the jar every so often. At the end of this period, strain the lemon peel from the alcohol and add simple syrup. (Heat 1 liter of water together with 600 grams of sugar. Once the sugar has dissolved, let the syrup cool before combining it with the alcohol.)

Mix your limoncello well and let it rest for another 15 days. Keep it in the freezer to make it extra-refreshing on a hot day. The rest is up to your taste buds!

Hopefully, this is just the beginning of my cooking apprenticeship. A few days ago, I actually had a couple of friends over who were interested in learning how to make ratatouille. We had so much fun that we decided to make it a regular thing! We'll rotate houses and cooking styles (my friends are well versed in Asian dishes, especially Filipino ones). I wonder how you say Buon Appetito in Tagalog?

Straight out of a Movie

One of the cool things about living here is getting to see firsthand things we've previously seen only in books or movies. Last Saturday, during a boating excursion to the island of Ischia, we took advantage of one such opportunity!

A few days before, we had enjoyed Il Postino, our first non- man-movie in quite a while. And, as promised in my previous post, there were both tears and subtitles. The saddest part was finding out that the charming lead actor, who had put off heart surgery for the sake of his work, died the day after filming was completed.



I was immediately taken with the film's Southern Italian seascapes and rough Neapolitan accents--these are things that have become so familiar. Add to those romance and poetry, and we had ourselves a winner: I ranked it among my top ten favorite movies; Alan gave it an impressive 4/5 stars...which, by the way, is more than he gave Commando! (In all seriousness, there's absolutely no comparison). It's the story of a simple postman who delivers oodles of admiring letters to exiled Chilean poet Pablo Neruda. (Neruda's work had already swept me off my feet years ago in Spanish class at UNC). An unlikely friendship ensues as the inquisitive postino learns lessons on love and figurative speech from his wildly popular and talented mentor.

I would recommend this movie to anyone and everyone: hopeless romantics, fans of poetry, nature-lovers, anyone in the mood for a beautiful story. Do yourself a favor and rent it ASAP...you'll never feel so high on life as when you watch Mario stammer his admiration for the barkeeper's daughter. Except maybe if you come to Italy and check out the scenery yourself!

As we enjoyed mimosas aboard our rented motorboat last Saturday--"this is the life" was uttered several times--we were pleasantly surprised when our friend pointed out one of the Il Postino beaches. Part of the movie was filmed on these Procida shores:



The girls enjoyed lounging and sunning as the boys took turns driving the boat. We made a few pit stops on the way to cool off with a quick dip and to "use the facilities." (My family, who is well acquainted with my unwillingness to swim in the ocean--it stems from countless jellyfish attacks during my youth--would thank my small bladder for helping me shed some of my phobia!) Our last stop before lunch was an adventure in hot springs: Ischia is famous for its volcanic soil and thermal activity, which purportedly have medicinal properties.

I wish someone had warned me of the risks associated with this place! Once we neared the shore it became clear the way to the thermal pools was paved with craggy rocks. Unfortunately, the jagged edges were interspersed with smooth, algae-covered stones. Between being tossed by the current and slipping on slick seaweed, we crashed into our share of sharp rocks. Cuts and bruises abounded...

The small hot spring was crowded with muddy-faced Italians, but the temperature was quite pleasant. None of us really wanted to face the same obstacle course back to the boat, but we had no choice...or did we? I was the only one brave enough to try an alternate route: backtrack even further to the shore, then dive into deeper, rockless waters. I almost suffered a serious burn on the stones between the spring and the shore, and when I finally got back into the water I collided with a boatful of teenagers. (They made no effort to steer away as I bopped my head on their litte raft, but found it in their heart to warn me: "Attenzione!" How sweet...).

By this time we were ready to forget our bleeding and our stinging, so we headed to a seaside restaurant nearby.

"Parking" and shuttle service:


A very casual, waterfront, tiki hut of a restaurant:


Trio of antipasti: fried anchovies, cold seafood salad, bruschetta (note the peach wine in the background!)


Afterwards we filled up on our perennial favorite, pasta con vongole (clams). A few of us took advantage of the nearby lounge chairs and mattresses to partake in riposo. One last afternoon dip in the water, and it was off to return the boat!

Despite the cuts and bruises and oddly shaped sunburns we suffered, it was a spectacular day on the water. This was definitely one of those days that lived up to the romantic stereotype of Italy!

I have so many other adventures to record here, but before I do, enjoy the dreamy simplicity of Pablo Neruda's verses:


Your Laughter / Tu risa

Take bread away from me, if you wish, / Quítame el pan, si quieres,
take air away, but / quítame el aire, pero
do not take from me your laughter. / no me quites tu risa.

Do not take away the rose, / No me quites la rosa,
the lance flower that you pluck, / la lanza que desgranas,
the water that suddenly / el agua que de pronto
bursts forth in joy, / estalla en tu alegría,
the sudden wave / la repentina ola
of silver born in you. / de plata que te nace.

My struggle is harsh and I come back / Mi lucha es dura y vuelvo
with eyes tired / con los ojos cansados
at times from having seen / a veces de haber visto
the unchanging earth, / la tierra que no cambia,
but when your laughter enters / pero al entrar tu risa
it rises to the sky seeking me / sube al cielo buscándome
and it opens for me all / y abre para mí todas
the doors of life. / las puertas de la vida.

My love, in the darkest / Amor mío, en la hora
hour your laughter / más oscura desgrana
opens, and if suddenly / tu risa, y si de pronto
you see my blood staining / ves que mi sangre mancha
the stones of the street, / las piedras de la calle,
laugh, because your laughter / ríe, por que tu risa
will be for my hands / será para mis manos
like a fresh sword. / como una espada fresca.

Next to the sea in the autumn, / Junto al mar en otoño,
your laughter must raise / tu risa debe alzar
its foamy cascade, / su cascada de espuma,
and in the spring, love, / y en primavera, amor,
I want your laughter like / quiero tu risa como
the flower I was waiting for, / la flor que yo esperaba,
the blue flower, the rose / la flor azul, la rosa
of my echoing country. / de mi patria sonora.

Laugh at the night, / Ríete de la noche,
at the day, at the moon, / del día, de la luna,
laugh at the twisted / ríete de las calles
streets of the island, / torcidas de la isla,
laugh at this clumsy / ríete de este torpe
boy who loves you, / muchacho que te quiere,
but when I open / pero cuando yo abro
my eyes and close them, / los ojos y los cierro,
when my steps go, / cuando mis pasos van,
when my steps return, / cuando vuelven mis pasos,
deny me bread, air, / niégame el pan, el aire,
light, spring, / la luz, la primavera,
but never your laughter / pero tu risa nunca
for I would die. / por que me moriría.

-Pablo Neruda

The Things You Do for Love

It's no secret that marriage is give-and-take. Here are some of my own small sacrifices of late:

• watching ESPN for more than just UNC basketball...ahem, a lot more


• turning down my favorite song in the car so we can analyze and appreciate the "seductive" sound a Dodge Challenger SRT8 makes as it roars by


• bundling up in the summer so Alan can set the A/C as he pleases


• eating more hamburgers and fries than I can count (ok, so maybe that one's not so difficult)


• keeping that outdated white leather loveseat he acquired before we were married


• watching man-movies

As I've mentioned before, we spend way too many evenings at home on the couch. And as I have been neglecting the Netflix queue, a lot of that time has involved science fiction, big explosions, Arnold Schwarzenegger...or all three at once.

Earlier in the week I had endured the nonsense that is Terminator IV, so I immediately picked up on the "I'm-sorry-but-not-really" vibes in Alan's voice when he told me a few days ago that another Netflix movie had made its way to Italy.

Normally, this is a happy occasion for me. Those DVDs must have to trek through Siberia and back before finally landing in our mailbox. But with the way things have been going lately, I'm convinced all the tough-guy movies muscle and blow up their way over here much faster than any of my girly dramas do.

Not surprisingly, that's exactly what Arnold did in this 1985 triumph of brawn and one-liners:



I'm pretty sure that you can find Commando in the dictionary under the heading "Awesomely Bad." Arnold manages to check off every single box in the list of awesomely bad movie components:

• ~10 minutes of opening scenes, in which suit-clad bad guys wreak havoc on innocent bystanders. (In stark contrast, Arnie is portrayed as a gentle giant who enjoys lots of father-daughter time--especially when it involves sharing a laugh after she smudges ice cream in his face.)


• During a fight scene, just enough concentration on Arnold's part to pull out a witty: "I eat Green Berets for breakfast...and right now I'm very hungry!"


• Lots of screentime for an all sinew-and-veins John Matrix (how's that for a manly name?!) to parade around shirtless...or better yet, in a Speedo.


• The prototypical cheesy 80s action movie soundtrack.


• Hundreds of expendable soldiers from a fictional but extremely evil South American country.


• A complete lack of suspense.

The trailer does a great job of encapsulating the "complexity" of this movie in just a couple short minutes:



I'll admit it: watching this man-movie was nowhere near as difficult as I thought it would be. If chuckles and popcorn are all I have to endure for love, then bring it on! Until then, it's my turn to tinker with the Netflix queue: as of now, we'll have enough dramas and foreign films to last us through 2011. Somewhere, somehow, someone's...going to endure a lot of tears and subtitles.

Pizza + Art = Typical Naples?

As much as I'd like to report otherwise, we don't always take advantage of the endless things to do and see around here. Our usual excuses range from "x costs money" to "we'd be more comfortable on the couch." The first is valid, especially when

x= 2(30€ meal + y·calories)
and
y=8 courses of antipasto, then pasta.

But the second... not so much.

Fortunately, the excuse fairy spent last Saturday with the rest of Italy: lazing at the beach. So we fished a couple of metro tickets out of my purse and headed to our first stop: Antica Pizzeria Da Michele.

This is not the first time I've mentioned Da Michele. Thanks to its simple but effective business model, it is perhaps the most renowned of all Neapolitan pizzerias. It specializes in one type of pie--the Margherita--and the rest of the menu (if you can call it that) is but a slight variation. For vegans--I guess that's the only clientele that would be interested, because who wouldn't want that delightful melted mozzarella di Bufala?--there is the cheeseless Marinara. For bigger appetites, there are the Doppia (double cheese) and the Media (bigger than the popular Normale). E basta!

It's okay that there are no toppings here. The Normale is that good: wood-fired, elastic, yeasty crust. A bright red tomato sauce that actually smells like tomatoes. Just the right amount of creamy-yet-stretchy grade-A mozzarella, and a couple of fresh basil leaves. I challenge you to find a better pizza. Incidentally, this guy claims to have found ten!

We had waited a long time for this day: it was Alan's first experience Da Michele. It was my fourth--I make a point to take all my visitors there, even if it's a bit of a hike--but I was happy to oblige. The best part was that there was no line...I guess it pays to get there before the 2 PM lunch rush. And at 4€ a pizza, you can't beat the price.

Another big plus Da Michele* is the seating. At first, you wish you had some privacy--unless you have a huge group, you will share your table with perfect strangers. But for me, it's as good an opportunity as any to practice my Italian...and get the scoop on Naples from the people who know it best. As always, I left the restaurant richer by a couple of bonnes adresses: now I know the place for calzones!

We weren't missing our couch yet, so we busted out the map and located the closest air-conditioned oasis: MADRE, Naples' contemporary art museum. I'm usually a fan of older stuff--especially in a city that's chock-full of ruins and Baroque paintings--but MADRE was practically next door. And as willing as I am to revisit pizzerias, I wasn't about to pay a fourth visit to the world-renowned Archaeological Museum (though it's a must-see for first-timers).



I happen to be the proud owner of an "artecard," which, for the one-time fee of 40€, allows me to visit all regional sites of art and archaeology free of charge for a full year.

This little piece of plastic may eventually lead to an ancient artifact overload, but at least my wallet won't suffer! That said, I don't think I will ever use it to go back to MADRE...

Alan and I were immediately struck by how, well, ugly the art was. A lot of it looked like the handiwork of a kindergartner. No surprise there--people have been debating for years what exactly constitutes art. For example: did he really just paint a big orange square? throw a pile of rubble in the center of a room? slap a bunch of blank canvases on the walls?

Intrigued by the pictures of hands next to several of the works, I took the time to read the explanation. It went something like this:

Exhibits marked with the hand symbol are meant to be used. Society is normally uncomfortable with the idea of using art, preferring to observe it from a distance. The artist would like to challenge this notion, thus giving his work another dimension, one that wholly depends on how the viewer interacts with the art.

One of the first pieces marked with the hand was a dressing screen of sorts. Here is what I remember of the instructions I found on the wall:

The visitor is encouraged to use this piece by removing his/her clothing and staying behind the screen for the next 10 minutes. Of course, given the public nature of this place, some may feel a slight discomfort and are encouraged to notify the museum guards of their intentions.

Suffice it to say that we did not use the art. Especially once we noticed that, as in all the rooms, there was a surveillance camera here!

As we went on through the exhibit, we unsuccessfully hid our chuckles and arched eyebrows from the museum attendants. (Incidentally, these were the only other people in the building.) Eventually we came upon a set of three white "adaptives." They seemed to be made of plaster, each with a long handle. Again, the visitor was encouraged to enter a vestibule covered in newspaper and manipulate the objects in front of a mirror. We passed, but Google Images found me someone who was more enthusiastic:



Like it or not, the art managed to dust the mental cobwebs we'd been developing on the couch. We kept complaining that it had been a giant waste of time, but at the end of the day, we had smiles on our faces and fodder for discussion. Was it a typical day in Naples? Maybe not: no crowds blocked the path to our pizza, and no Caravaggios graced the walls of MADRE. But then again, Naples is full of surprises...

*I keep repeating this name over and over again, so for those interested in the grammar: da is the Italian equivalent of the French chez, which you've no doubt seen in pictures of bistrots. It literally means "at the house of," and it's one of those seemingly rare examples where the Italian/French is more concise than the English!

Zen and the Art of Slogging through a Tedious Classic

You may have noticed I've been tinkering with the sidebar. For those who don't like math, I've added a clock that says, "while the day's first cup of Joe gently coaxes your eyes open, we're reheating last night's leftovers and hearing you wake up via Facebook statuses."

For fellow aficionados of music and foreign lyrics, I've dabbled in HTML long enough to figure out how to embed and resize YouTube videos of Italian hits. (Unfortunately, I don't know much beyond that, but I was pleasantly surprised at how easy it was to Google step-by-step instructions in plain English.)

Finally, for my bibliophile friends, I've posted a picture of a book under the heading Currently Reading. Actually, that's a half-truth: I really put that picture up as a barometer of my reading speed. It was supposed to be my virtual kick-in-the-cerebral-pants.

On April 30, 2010, I found Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry into Values in the itty-bitty (read: short on selection) library on base. The wannabe intellectual in me recognized this as a work acclaimed for its life-changing philosophical musings. Eager to impress everyone around with my highly sophisticated choice of literature, I checked it out and immediately dove in.

Progressing through the book was not unlike Benjamin Braddock's car ride in the final scenes of The Graduate:

The Graduate Slows Down @ Yahoo! Video

At first, I thought it charming and inspirational that the schizophrenic protagonist could clear his head by embarking on a Midwestern motorcycle trek. When he started discussing Classical versus Romantic thought, I found myself intrigued by his view of duality. But when he attempted to define Quality in two phases--nonmetaphysical and metaphysical--I began to wonder if this book was threatening my own sanity.

I almost made it through half the book--and, since my library does not fine for lateness, what should have been a big fee--before admitting to myself that I was not up to the task. No, I would no longer drag myself through Robert Pirsig's convoluted thoughts! Free at last, I happily traded Zen for my book club's latest assignment--Pride and Prejudice--and devoured 138 pages in one afternoon.

In taking up Pride, I have also lost some (more). I am reminded of the four-eyed high school student who practically campaigned for title of "Most Intellectual" in the senior yearbook. And the college student who discovered the key to nerdy boys' hearts was her small green Oxford Classical Texts. (Upon seeing them in my arms, one pale guy in thick horn-rimmed glasses exclaimed, "Whoa, you read Latin? Totally rad!") And finally, I am reminded of the teacher who sometimes struggled with the phrase I don't know.

At some point, we are all guilty of hiding behind something. How much does what I read say about who I am? who I want to be?

In the end, as much as I am "done" with Zen for the moment, I hope I will have the courage to pick it up sometime down the road. The reviews on Goodreads certainly reflect the turmoil I feel about it, while upholding it as an insightful read. I admit that I am not quite ready (mature enough? dare I say...intellectual enough?) to tackle such a book. It's OK that I prefer a girly read about 19th century love matches and miscommunication. (Hey, it's a classic, too!) That's who I am right now, and I can't say I didn't try to expand my horizons.

There's still hope for this wannabe intellectual. After all, there are few lovers of grammar and etymology more passionate than I. Maybe one day I will add Mr. Pirsig's brand of philosophy to my list of interests. In the meantime, I am comforted in knowing that 121 publishers rejected his book before it hit the printers.