IDIOTSynCRAZIES....

The continuous mysteries of living abroad...


1. "Thunder, Lightning, and Italians singing YMCA???"

Last night the Gods had an argument. They opened up a flood of wrath, rain, thunder and lightning. I don't think I've ever seen such a storm--not even on the Pacific. The rain came down hitting like the UC Berkeley marching band's drum section, and every couple of minutes the sky would light up and it would be as bright as day for a flash, and I would count 1...2...KABBOOOOOOMMMM!!!! Sometimes I wouldn't even make it to 2. The storm was so close and the thunder so powerful it shook the entire apartment, rattling the windows close to the breaking point, and making the cat scream and hiss. But somewhere through the noise of the rain and thunder another sound came closer and closer: "it's fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A!!! Oh, yeah, it's fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A!!! YMCA, YMCA, yeah yeah, YMCA!!!" At first I thought I had lost my mind, but instead I came to realize the Sicilians had lost theirs. There was a group of about 30 people walking through the streets singing YMCA at full volume, and horribly mispronouncing everything and forgetting most of the words anyways. They seemed oblivious that the flood gates of storm hell had opened up, and anyone with some sense would be repenting on any bad behavior. I know I was. But, no. What irony...they were singing the most notorious Castro District-happy song on earth (in the most Catholic country on Earth) in the middle of a nightmarish storm. What a strange, strange place I live.


2. "Trying to understand why the Italian post-office doesn't send letters after noon."

Continuing onto other head-scratch-worthy things...I went to the central post office a couple of days ago. It's a MASSIVE Mussolini-era austere marble building with enormous columns and no Baroque fluff. It was 2pm on a Tuesday. I had my post-cards in hand (which I've already procrastinated on for two weeks), and was feeling smug about being so thoughtful and remembering to get them sent. So, I went to the line which indicated ability to send mail. I waited for ten minutes in line, and then the post-office guy said in perfect English, "Oh, sorry. We don't accept mail after 12." What?!?!? This is a post-office! What the heck is the point of not sending mail out? What is the point of having the biggest building in the world, if it only does what it's supposed to do from 9am-12pm?!?!? 3 hours!!! My jaw actually, literally dropped. I think for the first time in my life, I was speechless. I just turned and walked out, defeated.


3. "Waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting.....tick tock tick tock."

Ok, I'm continuing the gainFULLY-employed thing. Which doesn't work the way it does at home. At home, you have an appointment/interview at a certain time, you meet at that time, then you are given further instructions and a timeline for the rest of the process. Here has been my experience:

Wed 12:30pm ...appointment at "School B"
I arrive at 12:00 to be responsible and early. Am wearing fashionable Italian dress so as to fit-in.
Am told person to talk to won't be available until 1. Agree to come back then. Take self and fashionable dress around corner for a drink. Spill drink on dress.
12:50 pm, come back. Use scarf to strategically hide unfashionable stain.
1:35 Still waiting. Wonder if I'm on candid camera.
1:45 Meet with above mentioned person. He breezes in, un-apologetically for being 1:15 late. Then he tells me he only has 15 minutes, can I come back tomorrow at 11am? Uh huh.

Thurs 10:50 ....I arrive for second appointment.
11:30 above mentioned person shows up. Doesn't act like anything is amiss.
1:30 pm, meeting is over. Half the time spent being questioned about California and the Beach Boys (latter of which I know almost nothing about). Half the time being taught method. Ok. Asked to come back the next day at 11 to give sample lesson.

Friday 11:30 ....I show up 1/2 hour late. Nobody notices.
Actually give 11am sample lesson at 12:15pm-1pm. Asked to come back after lunch to go through textbook of school. Also asked to come back on Monday at 11 to give another lesson for a different level.
Take 2 hour lunch. Come back and secretary is perplexed why I took such a short lunch. Apparently, it's usually 3 hours. Speechless again.
Stay for 1/2 hour and then leave. Nobody notices.

Monday 11:00 I arrive "on time" for lesson.
At 11:30 I go out to ask secretary when I'm suppose to start.
Told that the meeting has been postponed until 2:30pm. Nobody called me. And nobody is sorry or seems the slightest bit surprised by this delay.
Take proper 3 hour lunch. Flirt with old smelly waiter, and read La Repubblica (in Italian) cover-to-cover.
3:15pm-4pm give second lesson.
Told I will have a contract within the next two days.

Wednesday 1:16pm. Get phone call saying the owner of school won't be back until next week on tuesday. Must wait until then.

Time actually doing anything: 4.25 hours.
Time spent waiting: 7.75 hours + 1 week for contract.

Unbelievable.


4. Learning what "Che bordello!!! Tuoi piedi sono distrutto. Che cazzo fato?" means in Italian when getting a desperately-needed pedicure. Translation? "What a whorehouse!* Your feet are destroyed. What the f*** did you do?"

I think this is fairly self-explanatory...especially if you read my prior blog on what happens when you combine an hour walk with stilettos and cobblestones.

*Oh, and "what a whore-house" is an Italian idiom for "what a mess!"


5. "Hugh Grant on Hot-or-Not???."

Ok, so due to the fact I am waiting, waiting, waiting... I have been spending absurd amounts of time on the net...doing, well, nothing...I have come across several fun new websites. My favorite is:

http://www.videojug.com/

This is a fantastic website, the motto is "Life Explained. On Film." Very funny, and has everything from how to kiss passionately to how to cut an onion w/out crying.
But I can only watch so many videos.

So, I was bored enough to join Hot-or-Not. Yeah, I admit it. My photo has been rated overall by 300+ people as a 9.5/10.




That's fairly satisfying (too bad I don't look like this in real-life). I got a message that said, "Someone thinks you're HOT! He wants to meet you! Click here: http://www./hotornot/meet/??id=

And since I had nothing better to do, I clicked. In the few seconds that the page took to load, I was fantasizing about some beautiful man, who is witty and successful, and profound, and very Hugh Grant-ish.

Uh-huh.

For those of you able to see the link, I think you'll agree what a great fortune has been bestowed upon me. I don't think he could be any more mature, deep, or desirable.

For those of you unable, or unwilling to look at my future husband, then just know that I like his extreme mullet, his double-wide trailer in Kentucky, the fact he wants to meet "hot chicks" and his two daughters (who are my age) from his TWO previous wives. That's such a turn-on. And, really, the missing front tooth doesn't bother me that much. It's about what's inside, right?

So much for having a 9.5 rating count for anything. Ok, a response:

Dear Universe,

While I truly appreciate this grand gesture in sending such a fine male specimen via Hot-or-Not, I find that I am simply too intimidated to initiate further contact with BillyBob, age 43. And while I know that you would never make a joke at my expense (ha ha), I would be greatly relieved if you gave me something else to do. Like work. I'm loosing my mind here. I cannot continue to have the most exciting part of my day be "You've got mail!" And I really don't want to wait anymore for, well, anything. So, if we could speed it up, that would be great. Oh, and Universe, please send money. Because I am really, really scarily poor and it's not a lot of fun. Thanks! -Me.

I hope that works. It's appreciative and yet somehow maintains my dignity, don't ya think???



6. "Espresso and weight-loss." Size 12 and counting down...Also known as "The difference in food philosophy between the USA and Italy."

There are three main differences:
A) There isn't sugar, chemicals, or preservatives in EVERYTHING. Almost everything is fresh, and minimally processed (if at all). And people buy fresh food everyday from the little outdoor farmer's markets--there aren't supermarkets here.
B) The portions are WAAAAYYYY smaller. For example, if you order pasta, most likely you'll get a hand-full of pasta, and maybe 1/2 cup of sauce. Order the same thing at home, and you'll get a bowl of pasta the size of your head, drenched in sauce (with extra sugar, thank you). A large soda or coffee here would be an extra-small at home. A regular french-fries is meant to be shared by multiple people, and usually is. And while you order an entire pizza to yourself, it's extra-thin crust, and very light on the toppings.
C) People snack and drink espresso to curb hunger. My favorite is the aperitivo between 5-9pm. It's meant for after work, where you buy a glass of wine or something similar, and free munchies are brought out...usually bruscetta or little bites of cheese. This means you don't go crazy at dinner around 9. Oh, and after dinner, YOU WALK!!! It's called a Passagiatta, and it's tradition.

I have a few friends who have lived in Italy. ALL of them lost weight when they came here, and gained it back when they went home. It's easy to be thin here, and I'm loosing weight every day. I feel better, and I look better.


7. "The cigarette pant leg, and the first time I think the Italian fashion sucks."

The rage here is the cigarette-leg pant, aka the super-skinny jean. You cannot find a pair of jeans in a different style right now, and for the first time in my life, I think the Italian women are wearing hideous clothing. NOBODY LOOKS SEXY IN THESE!!!

If you're skinny, you look like a skinny stew chicken.

If you're fat, you look like a bloated stew chicken.

If you're in between, you look like an in-between stew chicken.

Seriously, ladies...don't kid yourselves. NOBODY (not even Kate Moss) looks good in these things.

I am putting up two pictures. One is of a slim-boot cut, the other is the skinny jean. Which looks better? The bootcut is ALWAYS going to balance out hips, thighs, and leaves a little to the imagination.





8. My always-entertaining chats with Caroline. For example-- "Caroline: 'lesbian drama makes men look like skittles' ...that is going to be my next poem's title. Me: send me a copy."

The conversation went something like this (of course edited to make us sound much wittier and punctually correct)--

Caroline: I wish I were a lesbian, it would be easier.
Me: No it wouldn't.
Caroline: Well, I'm sick of this man thing.
Me: You went to women's college with me.
Caroline: So?
Me: Cardinal rule of surviving women's college?
Caroline: Don't ever get involved in a lesbian lover's quarrel.
Me: Exactly. Lesbian drama makes men look like skittles.
Caroline: 'lesbian drama makes men look like skittles' ...that is going to be my next poem's title.
Me: Send me a copy.


9. "Cell phones, gas tanks, and explosions. Million-dollar bills. Dude, where's my pot?" And other news stories I read to keep in touch with home.

http://cosmos.bcst.yahoo.com/ver/250.1/popup/index.php?cl=5135133

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20071129/ap_on_fe_st/odd_million_dollar_bill

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20071128/ap_on_fe_st/odd_highway_pot


God Bless America.


-Ciao Ragazzi

Well, it's been a while since my last blog. Both a lot and nothing really has happened. As promised, I will be including the funny pics of me wearing a US Navy flight suit. Also, this week has been a tough week--workwise, and personally. It's harder than I thought to be so far from home, but I'll get to that. This is going to be a very long post, because I have a lot on my mind.

So: starting with the previous weekend.

I had a FANTASTIC time with Joseph. I was spoiled rotten with hotels, gifts, attention, food, and fun. He's a peach, and I'm bummed that he's headed back to the states and I probably won't ever get to see him again...but like the mental chessplayer that I am, I've calculated that he and I should be in California again at about the same time, and there was definitely a strong connection, so I hope we stay in touch. He's been good about it so far, despite his hectic flight schedule this week (his payment for getting last weekend off).

Friday night we agreed to meet at the central train station in Palermo. I figured it would take somewhere between 2-3 hours for them to come from Catania (where the base is)...so I planned on a 10pm at the earliest meeting point. At 10 pm I situated myself in front of the train station wearing my bright ginger colored coat, with my mp3 player and a cell phone to keep myself occupied. For the next hour every time a car stopped in front of me I would look to see if it was the boys, but instead it was inevitably some horrid sleazy Italian man who was convinced I wanted to get in the car with him.

This phrase really came in handy: "Mi dipiace, ma non vado con gli uomini stranieri nelle macchine." Which means, "I'm sorry, but I don't go in cars with strange (unknown) men." I feel like a child being approached by child molesters!!!!

I had one a**hole actually accuse me of lying, and called me Pinocchio because he was convinced I was a prostitute (despite being covered from head-to-toe in conservative clothing and an incredibly bored and non-sexual expression)...

...and which point this phrase comes in handy: "non sono una puttana e tu sei un cornuto. Lasciami stare." Which translates to: "I'm not a whore, but you're a fool [and this is THE worst insult you can say to an Italian man...it's the equivalent to calling an American woman the "C" word]. Leave me alone." And homeboy STILL didn't get the hint! So I just moved position. I was being propositioned (again) by another, and I was pretending not to understand Italian when the guys showed up. I just ran up to Joe and kissed him (at which point the Italians abandoned hope and left). He was so shocked. But I didn't care, I was sooooo happy to feel safe and respected again.

I NEVER thought I would appreciate a big, strong, red-blooded, REPUBLICAN (gasp, I know), American military man so much in my life. But suddenly I could breathe again. I could move again. I could just relax and not be afraid. Most of the Italian men are really sweet and wonderful and I have several friends who are incredibly chivalrous and respectful...but there is a minority of especially horrid and vocal Italian men that just ruin the reputation of the rest of them. I can never imagine my friends Ennio or Davide or Antonio EVER pulling BS like that...which is why I spend so much time around them...because I feel safe and cherished at ALL times. And they don't tolerate other Italian men treating me any other way when I'm with them. But when I'm alone, I feel like I've walked into the lion's den. Yikes.

Sooooo...the guys had arrived, and we set off to find the hotel. Turns out they had arrived in Palermo at 10:15, but had then gotten lost for the next 45 minutes, and having no cell phones or Italian language skills, it took a while. We thought that would be the end of it...but no such luck. My trusty Google map was totally, utterly WRONG. And the point on the map where the hotel was supposed to be didn't, well, actually even exist. Um, right. So, we walked around for 2 hours up on street, down another and nothing. I finally sent out an SOS message to 5 of my friends in Palermo, and bless their hearts, ALL of them had responded within minuted. Ennio actually drove to where we were and saved the day...he took us right to where the hotel was. Oh--did I mention that we had walked right past that address at least 4 or 5 times, and when I sent out the distress signal we were about 100 feet from the door (but just around the corner). Good grief.

As a side note, I got one of my favorite text messages ever from Ennio: Aspettami li che vengo...: ) x natale t regalo il gps. Which means: Wait there for me, I'm coming. For Christmas I'm giving you GPS.

lol. Classic. I probably need it.

Finally made it to bed around 3am, but I woke up at 6 FREEEEEEEZZZZZIIINNNNGGGGGG. The stupid hotel didn't have any heat, and this was the beginning of a bitter cold spell. There was no way I was getting back to sleep being that cold. So I woke the boys up to and we went and got breakfast.

We left after breakfast and went back to Catania. Bill had an early morning appointment on Sunday--at 4am. Yikes. I hadn't driven through the central part of Sicily before, but it was beautiful (well, the part that I was awake for because 1/3 of the way through I made like Sleeping Beauty and curled up in the back and slept soundly). See pic below:






We dropped Bill off at the base, at which point Joe found out he had a meeting the next morning which he had not known about. His sailor's mouth came out and I heard a string of curses that caught even me off guard. But, like he says, when you're in the military it's a 24/7 job. So his unhappy self knew he had a 5:30am wakeup call--on a Sunday. But we made the most of our day in Catania, and found the train station and got the logistics down for getting me back to Palermo the next day, and we had a great lunch at a little tratoria. Back at the hotel I did something that I don't think I will ever forget--I took a long, luxurious bubble bath while he napped away. It was bliss. After showering for the past few weeks in my apartment which has the world's smallest hot-water heater, and you only get HOT HOT for 3 minutes, lukewarm for another 5, and then cold after that...I can't even tell you what it was like to soak in a roasting hot bath with a good book (The Golden Compass III if you're interested).

That evening we headed to Catania to go to the Hard Rock Cafe because we were both in the mood for some good ol' American food. I was going to have the ribs and some COLD milk--not like the tepid shelf-stored crap they have here...NOTE: I LOVE and ADORE the Italian food, and prefer almost everything, but it's impossible to get a COLD glass of fresh milk unless you go to the Hard Rock. So...we follow the many signs which were posted on the street to get to the restaurant, and after a few wrong turns, we arrive at the restaurant, and ummmmm, can we say lights out and boarded up? Nobody had bothered to remove the tourist info and directions despite the abandoned premises. So that was 8:30pm. We talked about what to do, and decided to go to a town nearby to a restaurant he really liked and was familiar with. We arrived there at 9. We walked to the place, walked in, and were about to be seated when he stopped walking suddenly, turned heel and quickly led me out. WTF? Welll...he saw a bunch of his superiors having dinner (ahhh...those would be those 4 guys I saw with the short hair sitting in the corner) and TECHNICALLY he was supposed to be in Palermo WITH Bill...because they aren't ever supposed to go off base alone. And not only was he NOT in Palermo, he wasn't with Bill. So he would have been in big trouble. Ok, new plan. We drove around the little town for another 1/2 hour to no avail. So we headed BACK to Catania...and it took us another 40 minutes to get oriented and find someplace. By the time we parked, got in the stubborn door, and were seated it was 10:30. Sooo...two hours of being lost, refused, or narrowly escaping him being in trouble. But dinner was really good, and we had fun anyways. But you can see that only a few hours of sleep and a whole lot of time being lost had taken its toll. See photo:




And this would bring us to the part about the flight suit. Ok, ok, I know it sounds crazy, but I can't tell you how delighted I was to wear it. There's something that is just so sexy about a uniform, and also it's something that as a civilian I would NEVER get to do unless I hadn't come across this little stroke of luck found in a big sexy military guy.

Before putting it on, I rubbed an entire handful of my yummy vanilla spice lotion (most of you know EXACTLY what this smells like) all over, then got into it, and rubbed myself all around until the lotion wasn't on me and was instead on the inside of his flight suit--and a lot on the collar. Then we took pictures of me being the goofball that I am. See below:





Remember the meeting he had the next morning? He told me after that he was standing at attention and the guy standing behind him was like, "Dude, Joe, what did you shower with? You smell like a woman!" All he could say was, "Shut up." But he was smug when he recounted it, and I knew he secretly loved it. It made him smile, and it made me laugh.

Mission accomplished.

So, that was my weekend.

---

On Monday, I had a hard day. Things were mounting in my mind, and I had been off for a decadent weekend with a great guy, and it was back to reality. Things that were bumming me out:

1. I still hadn't heard anything from the schools and I was getting impatient about work and money, etc. I was getting pessimistic about my prospects, and starting to rearrange the possibilities and consider back-up plans, and I just didn't want to do that. I took no news as bad news.

2. And I missed Joe. I didn't think I would, but I did (and still do). I like him a lot, and I think he's just a really special person. I'm getting REALLY good at quickly recognizing men who are compatible with me, and it's hard to let them go. But, at the same time, it's good that we only had a little time together because I'm leaving for other parts of the world, and our schedules and lives are at very different points. Besides, it's one thing to have a delirious weekend, it's another thing to actually make a relationship work...because reality sets in and you see different sides of people. So, I am very grateful for the time because it was perfect for what it was. And this is all terribly presumptuous of me anyways, because this doesn't take into account his wants and needs. I'm just going off my own thoughts and calculations. Situation normal. Only child syndrome.

3. This week was Thanksgiving, and I realized that I really missed my family. This past summer was easy and I was never homesick because I new that I would be home in a relatively short amount of time. And I was on vacation, so really didn't have a care in the world. But when you live somewhere and are trying to make a life work, not having your most reliable and precious support-system is difficult. I don't have even the slightest regret about my decision to move overseas, and I consider this to be one of my greatest character tests for myself, but I can't help but wish it was easier to see/talk to them. And the Italians don't give a hoot about Turkey Day.

4. I realized how much I miss having my girlfriends around. I've gone from being at a women's college where I was constantly surrounded by my sisters who I could talk to, cry on, and generally just get stuff off my chest... to being in a country where female friendships are shaky at best. And trying to establish trusting female relationships while being an American girl is highly unlikely. They don't trust me at all--mostly see me as a threat. They know their beaus/husbands would cheat in a second if I offered--not because I'm especially perfect, but because I'm a)an American (i.e. independent and uninhibited) b) tall and fair (i.e. exotic), and c) friendly (i.e. not a cold bitchy Italian woman). They know it, and I know it, and they know I know it. And the men don't give a damn either way. So, while I have made a couple female friends here--one is a British woman, and the other has an American mother and Sicilian father but has the American mindset...finding true Sicilian female friends is going to be damn difficult because they would rather hate each other (and me), than anything else.

That's something that really bothers me here. Last night I went out with some friends and my boss's girlfriend, Viviana, saw him talking to a girl, and she immediately pulled me aside and started talking about how ugly the girl was. That seems to be a constant theme here. Women tear each other down, and compete with each other. It seems to me that a smarter philosophy is to view women as allies, not enemies. Divide and conquer...and that's what the men have done to the women here. In places where women create alliances and trust, they put up with WAAAAAY less crap from men, because they know men are secondary in importance to their self-esteem and happiness. I know that men will come and go, but my girlfriends are my heart and soul and will be with me forever. '

Besides, nothing shows pettiness and insecurity more than blatantly criticizing someone else's looks. True, the girl wasn't especially beautiful, but SO WHAT?!?!? It's not in the least bit important. I sent the girl a compassionate thought and thanked the goddess for my looks, and moved on. But Viviana wouldn't give it a rest. She talked about that girl for the rest of the night and more this morning. And it's like that with most of them...they size each other up and then spit poison. It's stupid and I've got better things to do.

So, I've been bummed because I don't have anyone to really talk to who will care and/or understand the nuances of my language. But my half-American, half-Sicilian friend is looking good, and she knows EXACTLY what I am saying, and has a more American mindset and agrees with me that the mindset of the Sicilian women is foolish. In general, of course.

5. The hardest thing has been the memory of Eli. This week marks 5 years since he was killed by a drunk driver. We were 19 at the time. It was Thanksgiving. I can't believe it's been this long, and while my memories have faded, the hurt hasn't. My heart still breaks when I think about him. I knew him longer than anyone other than my parents. I still remember getting the phone call that there had been a terrible accident and he was in the hospital dying. I remember walking into the intensive care unit and seeing Sal (his mom and my mom's best friend and basically another mother to me) sitting next to him, holding his hand. He was unconscious, and he looked like a doll because his head was swollen and totally still. His feet were bare, and very soft. I gave him a stuffed elephant that was very plush and had pink ears...he was later cremated with her. I bought 2--and the other one (a gray boy elephant) is on my bed in the next room right now, and I sleep with held closely. I remember getting the next phone call that he had been taken off life-support. I remember hitting the ground and just sobbing. I remember picking up his cousin (and my first love) Josh at the airport because he flew from Michigan for the memorial. Pics of Josh and me taken that week:




I remember the next night writing the eulogy I would give, and I remember at one point, putting my pen down, getting up, and then just starting to howl and scream. Josh came running, and had to hold me up because I couldn't even stand it hurt so much. I just beat against him and cried and cried. I remember seeing his other best friend Antonio (who would die two years later in a similar accident) at the memorial, and he couldn't even speak. They had gotten into an argument not too long before, and hadn't made amends. I know that ate at Antonio until his death. I remember watching Eli's father lie on the wet ground, and use his bare hands to scoop soil over his son's ashes in the small hole where the urn had been placed. I remember holding Sal with another of Eli's friends Sean on his knees, with Stevie (the redhead and an Auntie) and Debrin (another Auntie) clinging to us. See pic:





I remember all of that, but I find my memories of time we spent together slipping away, and that grieves me terribly. But I have some pics, which keep memories alive...

See us in the bath at age 4:



See us at a school dance at age 14:



(and now Im 24, another ten years later, and this blog is a replacement for a current photo).


And I'm not at home to go to his grave and talk to him. And that hurts a lot too. But I know he's keeping an eye out for me, and hanging out with Antonio somewhere, causing after-world mischief. But I miss him terribly. I miss them both terribly, and I just can't believe that they lost their lives in separate accidents, but eerily in the same way. I'm the last of the three of us alive. And that frightens me in a way. I wonder sometimes if I'm doomed to suffer the same fate, to make it tidy. But, I don't spend more than a passing thought on that because I feel like I have MAJOR things to do in life...and I can't dwell on things out of my control.

So, in the meantime, I am here typing away and putting my heart on my sleeve. Yep, miss alpha-female has some chinks in the armor. Who woulda thunk it? But, it's a new week, and I did eventually hear from the school and have semi-positive news about work and money, I'm keeping in touch with Joseph as much as is practical, I'm trying to cultivate friendships with women, and I'm holding good thoughts and love for Eli, where ever he is.

Again and again I marvel at the strangeness and wonderfulness of my life. It's a good life, and never ordinary. I maintain gratitude, and I ask for things I want, and those things usually arrive. But there are always surprises and tragedies. It's a journey.

But, it's the path that I have chosen, and I have no choice now but to keep walking down it.

Until later, I leave you with the poem by Robert Frost that my English teacher Mr Toone in 8th grade taugth me:


THE ROAD NOT TAKEN
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.



---Ciao Ragazzi.

Yesterday morning I woke up to hearing a helicopter, sirens, and yelling. I thought WW3 had broken out. Not exactly, it turns out. Between talking to my friend Linus who witnessed the whole ordeal, and talking to some of the people at the market, I've pieced this together: A mafioso had been caught stealing, and was on the run (on his vespa) from the police. He had almost managed to escape by driving into the market around the corner from my house which has a lot of overhead cover (to escape the police helicopter) and people (to blend in and escape the police on the ground). Unfortunately, he was driving so fast that he lost control of his bike and crashed into a market stall and an old woman. Then a brawl broke out. My friend Linus saw the whole thing and regained his wits in time to video-tape the subsequent events. So, while the fight was going on, the helicopter was circling MY roof. I saw it at first, but then it settled on a position above my roof and out of view. But it sure was LOUD. I managed to video-tape the sound of the helicopter, and the arrival of the police as they went flying down across a street at the end of my block. You can barely see them--they look just like little flashes of light they were going so fast. Check out the video that Linus and I combined from the two perspectives:




The police have been on a major mafia crack-down lately. The authorities are swarming in the city, and the police presence has doubled. It's all very exciting. They took down the top guys (and are on the hunt for the ones they didn't catch but have evidence against) and somebody ratted them out, and now everyone else is scrambling to get to the top. The business owners are all delighted because this means they don't have to pay pizzo (payment for protection from for and
against crime at their place of business). It's all anybody is talking about.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20071105/ap_on_re_eu/italy_mafia_arrests


But, enough about the mafia. On to other criminal topics.

For the first time in my life, my justification for being in a country is being looked at. It's nothing serious, but one of the schools has to make sure I am not in the country "clandestinely" or on an expired visa. I'm not, but with the Italian gov't the way it is, who knows whether or not the paperwork dissapeared somewhere. It's a strange feeling and something I had never even thought of. We really take citizenship for granted. I'm not taking it for granted now.

Lastly: I was walking home the other day, looking darn cute in my dark turquoise dress and heels (no blisters this time), and I SWEAR this guy wearing a prison jumpsuit riding a vespa stops in the street and procedes to ride along side of my slowly, trying to get my attention and talk to me. I'm adding it to the book of "You know you're in Italy when...a guy in an orange suit with tatoos and missing teeth on the weeniest motorcycle in the WORLD tries to pick you up." Good grief.

A strange day with the Goddess...

Italian religious zealots, Japanese guys who speak Italian (badly), and getting lost with two American Navy pilots...all with ancient Greek Goddess temples as the backdrop. Agrigento: home to the Valley of the Temples.

My day started after going to bed at 4am. I was out and about with friends...we didn't finish dinner last night until midnight and then we went out. Davide and I ended hanging out at the port and he played his guitar and sang American songs, and I explained the deeper meaning of them...especially Hotel California (can we say Hell?). So, trying to get up this morning at 9 to go to Agrigento to check out the temples was a task. But I'm glad I went.

Originally, I was supposed to go with these two American girls, but we just couldn't coordinate. So, I found myself on a packed regional train sitting next to a lovely couple from England here on a long weekend. Across from us was this old scummy looking Italian dude with about three teeth. Next to him was a young punk-rock Italian girl about my age. Twenty minutes into the trip he turns to her and says, "So, do you go to church?" She said, "No." And off he went. For the next two hours this guy didn't take a breath or a pause telling her this that and another thing about Christ and God and the Spirit, yadda yadda. She just sat, silent, looking at him as he ranted and raved. I knew it was safe for the Brits and I to have a conversation in English about what he was talking about. Mamma mia. He pulled out his cross, and some pamphlets that said "Vita di luce" or "life of light." I've never seen anything like it. Her station stop was before Agrigento and this guy actually got off the train and proceeded to follow her and continue to preach at her. The gall. Poor girl.

Arriving at Agrigento (sans map, food, coffee, or sleep) would prove to be an adventure. I mistranslated what the guy at the info desk said...not "you SHOULD take the bus to the temples, it is very far." I thought he said "you COULD take the bus, but it is NOT very far." heh heh heh. Riiiiiiiight. Five miles later on foot, I arrive at the temples. But not before getting followed by a creepy Italian dude, and chillin' with some Japanese guys who didn't speak English but did speak VERY bad Italian. THAT was interesting.





So, I FINALLY get to the temples, and I wander around taking pictures. I brought a flower as an offering to the goddess...and it starts to rain. I forgot my umbrella...which was by the door SPECIFICALLY so I wouldn't forget it. Go figure.







The wind picks up, blows my flower away, and I've had just about enough of this, and I turn the corner and see these two guys taking pictures. I heard English and thought, "what the hell...I'll go see if they'll snap some pix of me." Turns out, they're American Navy pilots stationed here in Sicily. Joe is from San Diego so we start talking about the fires, and so on. I sort of slipped my way into the "help me, damsel in distress...see how huge that hill is and I don't want to walk back to the train station, do you have a car by chance?" and off we go.




We had a blast. The Goddess sure has a sense of humor. Just last night I was remarking about how I don't really like American guys, and lo and behold, two of the nicest, funniest, coolest American guys I've met in a long time pop up just behind the goddess temple as she takes my offering. go figure. again.

I spent the next couple of hours with them, totally lost. We drove in circles about a hundred times because the Italian road engineering leaves a lot to be desired. And since it's Sunday, nothing is open and I hadn't eaten all day. my head was pounding but I was laughing hysterically with them at our directional predicament, so it didn't matter. We drove in circles. We walked up crazy stairs, and then down. Joe and I flirted (a lot) because he is just my cup of tea. The three of us have a date for next weekend...and the best part is they are bringing one of the flight suits, and I get to wear it and take pictures...including the helmet. I cannot tell you how excited I am.








We finally ended up at the same pizzeria we had found two hours earlier (but was closed because the Italians don't eat dinner at 5 or 6). We had a great dinner, and the boys took me to my train and got me on, safe and sound.

What a strange, strange day it's been. Missing American lesbian co-travellers...toothless Italian preachers...Italian-speaking Japanese tourists...a rainy, windy day at the temples...and two very funny American guys on my corner of the world.

Che bello.

More adventures await, I'm sure. And I will certainly be posting me myself and I in that flight suit.

Ciao ragazzi.



p.s. I highly recommend visiting my photo page for this one (to see all the amazing shots of the temples)...
http://www.flickr.com/photos/laurelfedor/sets/72157603097775547/

Ciao Ragazzi,

it's Saturday afternoon here in Palermo and I am FREEEEEZINNGGGG!!! WOW, it's cold. Which is equally strange because there is cloud cover and that usually means a atmospheric blanket. The weather seems unpredictable here. There is a lot more thunder and lightning than in California. I had a conversation with my friend Jake (the American guy whose room I am taking over next month when he leaves), and he joked that his knee was aching so it's going to rain. He said he's used to the weather now and can feel what to expect. Last night it was soooooo windy. I went with some friends for a great dinner at one of the port towns about 1/2 hour away, and the wind was blowing so strong that great sprays of sea water were blown across the promenade and into the parking lot. My hair was cute when I left, but after being in that wind, it was a disaster. My friend Davide took pictures:





We had an incredible Italian seafood dinner. I had my first taste ever of sea urchin, and they were so awkward to pick up, my Italian friends just laughed and did it for me. You scoop the orange part out, put it on bread, and then eat. I didn't think it really tasted like anything other than a salty cream. But the mussels in tomato sauce was DIVINE. I love mussels anyway, but these may have been the best ever. They were cleaned really well so there was no sand to crunch on, and none of them were bitter. Mmmmmmm....






Later we went to this big couchsurfing party at a music bar that is actually about four blocks from my apartment. I have walked past this bar every day and thought about going in but didn't have an excuse until last night. There were sooooo many people. It was crazy. Something I think is strange is the color scheme here. The Italian girls all wear black. Nobody wears color at all. I fit in because I was wearing a black shirt and jeans (although if I had wanted to be ultra-chic I would have worn my black pants as well). I miss the colors that I see on people in the states. The Italian women wear lots and lots of accessories and their clothes are usually highly embellished. I like things that have eye-catching cuts and necklines, but that are essentially simple with maybe one strategic detail. And I love color. I knew about the dark neutral colors are more popular so I brought those, but I am getting bored with the monochromatic scheme. Oh well.




I had another one of those: OMG, I am in Italy moments. After dinner Davide was driving us back to Palermo, and I was sitting in the front seat, an Austrian girl named Brigite (say: Brig-ee-tay) was in the backseat, and we were speeding along a Sicilian highway. I saw the Wind Corporate offices (big cell phone company), and various billboards in Italian. I peered at the Sicilian houses lit up on the hills, and I remained quiet while Davide sang along to "You're beautiful" by James Blunt. James Blunt - You're Beautiful


My life is brilliant.

My life is brilliant
My love is pure.
I saw an angel.
Of that I'm sure.
She smiled at me on the subway.
She was with another man.
But I won't lose no sleep on that,
'Cause I've got a plan.

You're beautiful. You're beautiful.
You're beautiful, it's true.
I saw your face in a crowded place,
And I don't know what to do,
'Cause I'll never be with you.

Yes, she caught my eye,
As we walked on by.
She could see from my face that I was,
F-ing high,
And I don't think that I'll see her again,
But we shared a moment that will last 'till the end.

You're beautiful. You're beautiful.
You're beautiful, it's true.
I saw your face in a crowded place,
And I don't know what to do,
'Cause I'll never be with you.

La la la la la la la la la

You're beautiful. You're beautiful.
You're beautiful, it's true.
There must be an angel with a smile on her face,
When she thought up that I should be with you.
But it's time to face the truth,
I will never be with you.

Davide has a great voice and can play the guitar (as well as draw and speak nearly perfect English). I knew he was partly singing to me because he has a major crush on me, and I don't feel that way about him. It was just a moment where I had to smile at what a miraculous existence I lead. To be speeding along a highway in Italy listening to someone sing to me, after having eaten a delicious and authentic dinner, on my way back to a strange city...how far I have come from my childhood in Mendocino. How far I have come from my shyness, my insecurity, my constant feeling of awkwardness, my frustration of being different. So I lead the life less traveled, and I am grateful.

Grammuur hell and Italian orthopedic shoes...

OK, pop quiz...

Who knows the difference between a transitive and an intransitive verb?

Can you write a brief paragraph on the formation in English of the comparatives and superlatives of adjectives?

Ok, an easy one: What tense is this in: "By the time we move to Liverpool, we’ll have spent 3 years in Wigan."

Geez, everybody knows that it's future perfect progressive! Right?

OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dying a slow grammatically correct death. I have to fill out 10 pages of this crap to get hired. I still haven't found index cards yet, and I need them for both learning Italian and English grammar rules. May just cut up a bunch of paper. Oh, easel finally showed up. Two paintbrushes are missing. Go figure.


My favorite news story of the day:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20071108/ap_on_fe_st/tallest_man

My second-favorite news story:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20071109/ap_on_re_eu/italy_mafia_s_commandments

Note the location (Palermo).



So the last couple of days have been a mad dash around the English teacher world. I am trying to get hired by a couple of the schools and it is a major effort. I've never had to do so much to get a job before. This is the first time where I wasn't recruited in some way, or simply offered a job for whatever reason. But, it's not really that bad...I am in Italy after all.

Firecrackers are still going off nonstop.

I'm going to a party tonight with my boss to mingle and sell the company to potential clients. So I must look extra cute. Will take lots of pictures.

Feet are still beat to hell, and I discovered a blood blister on the bottom of my foot yesterday that is the size of a quarter. Good lord. That reminds me, I LOVE this country for another reason: orthopedic shoes, Italian style. See picture below. After my 1/2 mile walk in Stillettos, I decided that I needed a pair of shoes that would be really cute with everything...because wearing tennis shoes with a skirt and nylons is not so sexy. Really. 80 Euros is well worth the price to save my feet and ankles from a catastophic injury. And they are patent leather. What more could a girl ask for?




Hmmmm, Sicilian men. An interesting bunch. I walk down the street and feel like those Hollywood actresses that are swarmed on the red carpet. I get revved at by guys on vespas, honked at by guys in cars, whistled at from guys in windows on upper floors or on balconies, followed and talked to by guys on the street, moaned at while clutching heart by the guys stuck at their store, and so on. It's like a big party that I didn't know I was invited to. I'm a regular celebrity...even in a sweatshirt. I need a brown paper bag and bad posture. Or a taser with an extra-long reach. Ok people, for Christmas or my birthday I want a taser.


I think I can finish with that.

Microwaving eggs and a lack of Midol...

New lessons learned:

1. Wearing new stilettos to walk to work the 1/2 mile over cobblestones has the possibility of leaving a blister the size of Jupiter on your Achilles heel. See exhibit A:



2. A man and his cat is a beautiful thing. See exhibit B:



3. Cat doesn't give a damn about me. See exhibit C.



4. Putting a whole egg (still inside shell) in microwave thinking it would be an expedient way to warm egg up so as to feed to cat as bribery for affection is not a good idea. Note to self: poke hole in egg first so the pressure doesn't make egg explode violently all over microwave rendering it impossibly smelly and disgusting. Especially since cat still doesn't give a damn.

5. Don't forget the midol. Trying to explain cramps to a flustered Italian pharmacist is fairly humiliating.

6. There is no such thing as index cards in Sicily. Really need index cards for language learning. I have no idea how to conjugate "To Like". For example, to say "I like those books" is not that easy... because the literal translation is: "To me is pleasing those books." Mario likes that girl is "That girl is Mario pleasing." Christ.

7. The word for book is Libro. The word for free (as in yes, I am free tonight) is Libero. The two are often confused and it may sound like "Yes, I am book."

And now, I am tired and hormonal, and going to bed.

Ciao Ragazzi.

Making a life...

So, it's about 10pm here. I am sitting on the couch blogging away and my boss, Liays, and next door neighbor, Stefano, are playing chess, smoking cigarettes, and insulting each other in a mix of Italian, French, German, and English. Stefano is a total genius and a little too enthusiastic about chess (called skukkhi in Italian SO STRANGE) so I think he will probably smoke Liays. He's in his late 20s, and kinda reminds me of Kramer, and is finishing his third bloody degree in something. I still don't have the translation. I adore him.

The cat is perched on the recliner, keeping watch over her humans. She is a constant delight and frustration. She's still in that insane and unpredictable kitten stage...so at about midnight she goes nuts and zooms around the place attacking anything she can sink her teeth and claws into. I have many, many battle wounds from that.




I'm listening to an artist by the name of Bonobo. He's British and does ambient trip-hop. Kinda like Morcheeba. I first heard him when I was in this little Tuscan town called Lucca. Lucca is one of the only remaining walled towns. I rented a bike and rode around the top of the wall...after falling over a couple of times. Turns out you CAN forget how to ride. Blasted thing.

I’m making a life here. Next month I move into an apartment with 6 other young people. I get my own room, but it’s going to be quite the adventure. I had dinner with them on Sunday and we all sat around the big kitchen table eating pizza (the real Italian kind) and they argued in Italian. It was great. I know my Italian will get REALLY good living there. I like everyone as well—especially the girl Sylvia whose parents own the place. It’s big and beautiful and takes up the entire top story of a great old building in downtown Palermo. In fact, we have the roof and can go up and see the harbor and the mountains and the whole city. I get the room because an American guy (from San Fran) named Jake who has lived in Italy for the past 3 years is finally returning to the states to finish a PhD. He’s totally a mellow Santa Cruz stoner type. Oh, and my rent is 160 Euros/month which is about $200…for the same place in the Bay Area is would be AT LEAST $800. And I probably wouldn’t like my roommates as much, or get to speak Italian. I’m imagining that the experience will be like my favorite movie L’auberge Espanole…The Spanish Apartment. Rent it!

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0283900/

Well, my resume has been translated into Italian…Jake and Sylvia did that. I sat looking at it for a long time having a weird moment. Never ever did I imagine that at some point in my life I would have my resume in…well, ITALIAN. Che cazzo? .....don’t translate that, it’s very rude. I have a lot of those moments where it occurs to me where I am and why. And I either get giddy or a little freaked out. But not much, because really…it’s not like I can’t wave a white flag and go back to the States. But I refuse to do that because this is proof to myself that if I can live around the world for a few years and make it work, there’s nothing I can’t do at home where the constant language and (more importantly) the culture barrier doesn’t exist. So, I’m going to be brave.

The song playing now is a remake of Chris Isaack’s “Wicked Games” by Hilton FM, and the chick singing just knocks it out of the ballpark. I want to tear at my body and explode into the song. I want to lick my headphones (which are state-of-the-art noise canceling German engineered DJ headphones). I want to quit everything and become a singer (though I can’t sing at all). It’s that good.

Ok, back to reality. Tomorrow morning I will call the other language schools and ask about jobs. Of course, I work for Liays, but I need some supplemental income as well. Wow, I sound like a damn adult. Hmph.

Note to self: realizing the inevitability of responsibility is a wee bit unnerving.

Also, very exciting is tomorrow I will have my first official Italian lesson. I’m already feeling fairly smug because a guy here told me that my Italian after 9 weeks of travel in Italy and no formal study is far better than most people he met in Sienna who were in a 3 month intensive 40-hours/week Italian language program. I really just kind “picked it up” by asking a lot of questions and consulting my handy dictionary, “e perche faccio atenzione” [and because I pay attention]. I was shocked. Then again, my 9 weeks was really a 24-hour-day Italian lesson. I’m just now being disciplined about going through my Italian verb workbook and doing a chapter per day. In approximately 5 weeks, I should be able to conjugate virtually everything and will also be living in an apartment with a bunch of crazy Italian speaking people…none of whom are shy about correcting errors. I anticipate by February that I will have the language down pat.

I’m on Italy time now. Goes as follows:
• church bells start at 4am
• the market noise starts at 7
• the firecrackers start at 7:15 (end at 2am)
• I get up at 9
• 9-1pm the day goes according to plan (or not)
• 1-4pm is the 3 hour lunch (1hour to eat, 2 hours to meet your lover)
• 6pm is Happy Hour (Italian style)
• 9ish is dinner
• Go to bed around 1am…read for an hour then dream in nonsensical mix of English and Italian.

DINNER at 9pm:



I’m sorry if this blog is really about nothing in particular. I’m kinda on cruise control, and still adjusting to being here. OMG, the cat just climbed up the guest mattress that is leaning against the wall vertically, and TIMBER down it and the cat went. Lol.

But the cat’s fine, the mattress is fine, and I am better than fine. I am contentissima.

Ciao ragazzi!

Stalkers, Italian Style...

I decided to come back to Italy and enjoy my single-ness whole-heartedly. Ok, so I spent a few hours with my indelibly sexy Italian beau, Mirko...who I absolutely adore (see photo below). But, he's in Rome and I'm in Sicily 12 hours by train away. So, we chat on the phone and stuff, but I have clear head space.



Well, I did.

This past summer I made the acquaintance of a guy named Alessio. He had really pretty, sparkly eyes, a million-watt smile, was fun and crazy (in a good way at first). He was a ball of fire. So we went on some dates, had a romantic text-messaging love affair (because I was traveling a lot), and things were going well until...the dreaded phone call from his wife. OMG, the bastard's married with 2 young kids. I had NO idea.

I was furious that he would be such a jerk and a liar. I wasn't hurt for me, because my feelings really weren't wrapped up in him (I still REALLY liked Mirko, who was away for August vacation), but I was livid that he would betray his family in such a casual manner. I knew that affairs are very common in this country, mostly because people marry so young and because they can go to a priest and confess and everything is forgiven. But most of the married Italian men I met who hit on me were at least up-front about their marital status. They explained a mistress would never replace a wife, and that it was imperative the wife be kept in happy ignorance. I felt like this at least gave the mistress the opportunity to make a choice of whether this kind of relationship was one she would be willing to tolerate. But since I was never given this choice (which I would have turned down), and because he was so cavalier in pursuing me and not careful to protect her, I was put into a position that I really resented.

So, I told her the truth. To my surprise, she was actually really nice to me. She wasn't angry at me, and treated me with a tremendous amount of respect and sympathy. I sent her every text message he had sent me over the few weeks, because I rarely erase texts and because they were fun to re-read. I continued to forward the messages he was still sending me. I knew I was leaving in a week to return to the States, so I wasn't that preoccupied about finding ways to avoid him. But, nonetheless, I asked her to not confront him until I left. She ALMOST made it, but two days before I left I got an angry message from him. And that was when the real drama began.

When I got his message, I was on a train back to Rome from the far south in Reggio, Calabria. But he didn't know that, he thought I wouldn't be back for another day or two. I told him I was trying to enjoy my day at the beach and if he wanted my cooperation he needed to back off. That lasted until the evening when the texts resumed. I would have turned my phone off, but I was busy contacting all of my friends to say goodbye and I wasn't going to let some lame Italian liar ruin it for me. It was nice getting sweet texts from my friends reminding me that I was very special to them and that they would miss me and to keep in touch. His texts were, well, not-so-nice.

He called me a liar and a home wrecker, and all kinds of interesting Italian words I didn't care to look-up. My favorite though, was the one that said the only thing I was afraid of was the truth. I howled with laughter despite myself at this. I replied he was living in a teenage fantasy world. But, mostly, I just ignored his accusations.

This really suits the adage that when you point a finger at someone, the other three point right back at you. He told me that he was going to wait for me at my apartment the night I got back and I was going to "fix" the situation and tell his wife I had made the entire thing up...OR ELSE. So "crazy in a good way" quickly turned to crazy in a very bad and scary way. So, I booked a hotel room not terribly far from my apartment and hatched a plan to get my stuff early in the morning when I knew there would be a million tourist groups around (because I was a couple blocks from the Vatican) and I could blend in with the other tall and fair people, grab my stuff and get out without much exposure. I swear, I should be spy.

As much as I hated paying for a hotel room the last couple of nights, my mother told me before I left that if it ever came down to the money or my safety, I wasn't to hesitate to spend the money. And because it was August, all of my Roman friends were gone on vacation, otherwise I could have stayed with them. But for peace of mind, and not having to sneak in and out of my apartment and be constantly worried that he would be waiting outside, the money was sooooo worth it.

You can imagine the message I got when he realized I had tricked him and was not at my apartment as promised. I forwarded that message as well to the wife with one last sincere apology and best wishes for the future.

So, I left Rome with some terrific memories, a clear conscious because I knew I did the right thing, and a whole new host of friends, and an offer to come back in a month and help my friend get his language school up and running.

Fast forward to my second day back in Italy. Lo and behold my phone rings. Guess who??? Alessio. Damn, damn, damn. Double damn. I had been gone for 10 weeks and the bastard was still trying my phone. And this time, instead of it being off, it had had service resumed. Next morning at 6:45am my phone rings again and his number pops up. An hour later a number I didn't recognize calls twice, but I knew it was him. And then the anonymous calls start. Every hour for the entire day. I never answered, because I was trying to decide what to do.

So, I called Mirko and asked him what I should do. I told him the entire situation. Mirko was a cop for 10 years, and has total faith in the law system here. Now he works as secret service at the UN, and is a trained killer...but really just a big teddy bear. Truthfully, I feel safer with him than anyone other than my own father. And he adores me. So, who better to ask for help? He told me to wait another day and then answer the anonymous call, and then follow his instructions. An anonymous call came in this morning, and I answered, and the person (most certainly Alessio) hung up after a few seconds without saying anything.

So, I composed a text message (as per Mirko's instructions) that said the following:

Si. E vero, sono in Roma ancora. Basta. Non mi chiami ancora o chiamo 1. tua moglie 2. la polizia 3. l'ambasciata d'Americana 4. miei amici. Arrivederci.

TRANSLATION: Yes. It's true, I am in Rome again. Enough. Don't call me again or I will call 1. Your wife 2. The police 3. The American Embassy 4. My male friends. Goodbye.

I'm obviously not in Rome, so this should throw him off my scent just in case the threats of action don't persuade him to leave me the hell alone. But I got a return text about a half hour later (in Italian of course) that basically said, "I didn't call you. I have returned to my life. Bye." lol. Riiiighhht, he didn't call. That's why his number came up on my caller ID twice. But, whatever. I think this should be enough persuasion.

It was funny because when I explained the situation to Mirko, he couldn't believe I had told the wife. That is unheard of. But, I'm an American woman, so my rules and value system is different. He said that by telling the wife I ruin his family. But he instantly corrected himself and said, "no HE ruined his family. Not you." That was the reassurance I needed, because I really hated that I had broken what seemed to have been a happy family.

So, I am going to run my credit out on my current number, and then get a new number and let my friends and family have it. That should tie up any loose strings. But I have registered with the State Dept, so they know I'm here. And my friends all know there is a crazy man on the loose, so if anything happens, they'll know who to look for first. And, of course, Mirko has been really wonderful and said that when I am Rome he'll never be further than a few steps away from me and will be my own personal bodyguard. If he can keep a diplomat safe, he can do the same for me. : )

So much for clear head-space.

My only regret about all of this was that I didn't listen to my gut-instinct when I met him that kept telling me something was off. But I was really bummed Mirko had gone on vacation and I didn't know if I would ever see him again, so I just attributed it to me being emotional and went ahead and dated this jerk.

However, I have no regrets about my subsequent actions. I am proud of myself for telling the truth, and then holding my ground on it. I am also glad that I didn't let the current harassment continue and that I made a very firm threat (which I will follow-through with if need be). I'm glad I didn't hide for more than was long enough to get council and compose my thoughts. I wasn't meek or apologetic. I have been firm.

It's unacceptable that a man thinks he can bully a woman into submission. I REFUSE to allow some pathological liar and psychopath run my life or control my thoughts. So, I write this as a way to totally clear my head and hopefully put and end chapter on this drama. It's better than Shakespeare. Well, not really. And, actually, hopefully not. Because in the tragedies somebody always dies. But, in the comedies, vengeance is served with a lesson and a laugh. That's what I'm going for.

Ciao Ragazzi.

Rain, Rain, Go Away...

It's 3 in the afternoon and it's raining. I am sitting in my apartment in Palermo on the old couch looking out the open french doors to the balcony and the windows in the apartment across the alley. All the non-main streets here I would classify as alleys. The cat is curled up sleeping. Which means I get a momentary respite from her still-kitten crazed behavior. I'm listening to Britney Spears, but will soon redeem myself by putting on some Massive Attack or other more worldly and intelligent music. But right now she's singing to me to get naked. I would, but it's too cold.



With the rain, I can't really get any work done. We're still in the mega-advertisement phase, and I wanted to go to the tourist offices to gather some info, but it's raining. Yeah, I have an umbrella and good shoes, but I'm cold and lazy. So, I'll hang here with the cat. I miss my own, but she's a good substitute. And she's hilarious.




Still haven't adjusted to the time. Yesterday I got up at about 9am, which was an excellent start, but then my 4pm nap lasted for 6 hours, and after strolling around at night I managed to wear myself down enough to get back to sleep at 3am. I set my alarm for 9, slept through it and woke up very groggy at noon. Determined not to take a nap today and instead go to bed early and get up at a normal time tomorrow. Yeah, you should all feel really sorry for me. Jet lag is such a drag. Practically the worst thing in the world. lol.


Last night on my stroll I ended up in this funny little area with a bar, an impromptu fire-pit with a BBQ, and about 100 punk-rock Sicilians. If they hadn't been speaking Italian they could have easily been the coffee-shop crowd in California. All in black, lots of piercings, skull patterns, patched punk bags, studded belts and bracelets, etc. The works. I guess there are some looks which are apparently universal. I ended up chatting with this feisty red-headed Sicilian girl about my age named Faviolla. The whole conversation was in Italian and I got about 80% of what she was saying. She complimented me on my speaking skills, and that totally made my day. It came back fairly naturally. There is still a lot that I am remembering, but bit-by-bit...

Ok, listening to Massive Attack now, as promised. Feeling instantly smarter.

I am still heavy with thoughts. There is so much to do, and I am feeling a little lost still. I'm stressed out about money because I'm not getting paid yet. I have this apartment for the rest of the month and then I need to make further arrangements. And it's not my space, it's somebody else's space, and I am just inhabiting it for a while. Luckily, I have found that there is LOTS and LOTS of apartments and rooms to rent for very cheap here. I am looking at several, and they average about 100-150 Euro/month. That's about $145-200/month in the city center. And food is ridiculously cheap as well. I can easily live on 5 Euros/day by going to the out-door market and making my own espresso.




I wonder, too, what I should write about in these posts. A part of me thinks that it should only be to chronicle my overseas adventures, but there is another part of me which desires very much to run some of my ideas across the screen that I would put in the book that my friends have been encouraging me to write. However, I don't feel like that is appropriate for the audience of family, friends, and colleagues. So, perhaps that will need to stay in the emails to those involved only, and this will remain the space to grow as a world citizen.

Strangest thing in the world: I am craving cereal. I don't crave cereal at home. I also woke up today wanting fish and chips. I'm a very bad adopted Italian. Shame.

Well, enough for now. Ciao Ragazzi.

5 Lessons In Italy

SUBJECT: Ciao Ragazzi!

(That means "Hello Friends/Family"),

I love the Italians..what a strange and wonderful group of people. Aside from the obvious, today has been a lesson in five more reasons:
1. Serendipitous missing luggage.
2. Customs and passport control.
3. The trains sans Mussolini.
4. Taxi Theft 101.
5. Learning one's true value.

1. I have arrived in Palermo safe and sound although my shoulders are mighty tired after carrying all of my luggage. I had to check my artist's easel at the airport in Rome today because for some GRAND IRONIC reason, the Italians consider such a piece to be highly dangerous and forbidden on the flights. The Americans and the Germans were fine with it. So, with two huge suitcases (one of which was temporarily misplaced but is now here, whew), one garment bag, and one artist's easel...only one piece of luggage was lost...go figure, the artist's easel. I think they made me check it so that they could steal it.

2. I was all ready and prepared to explain to customs why I was carrying such a large amount of baggage for what ia be a purely vacational trip back with a one-way ticket. I had my China teaching contract ready to show them I won't be staying here forever, a signed document that says my family would be willing and able to rescue me should something happen, a copy of my transcripts that show I am a recent USA college grad (so travel visa good for one subsequent year in the EU), a recent bank statement showing I have funds to survive on and won't be a bum, and some emails from friends in London saying I am always welcome to go there. I was all ready to explain in Italian or English..and guess what? No customs. No passport check, no questions, nothing. I expected to come into Rome go through customs, get my passport stamped, and do it again in Palermo. But I got off the plane from Germany and walked right out of the airport. Then, because I was on a domestic flight this morning into Sicily, I didn't have to do anything. I am thoroughly perplexed. But as an American on the train to the city center explained, the Italians don't really give a damn just as long as you are spending money on trinkets and expensive tours. And as my boss explained, since I went through Germany I got an EU stamp, and I can go anywhere now without having to do the customs. Who am I to argue?

3. So, the train from the airport was supposed to leave at 10:40am, and take 25 minutes to get to the city center. That puts me in at 11:05. Riiiiggghhttt. We finally pulled in at 12:45pm. It took 2 hours to go what should have been a quick trip. So much for making the trains run on time. But, you know what, it really didn't matter because I got to gaze out at sheer cliffs and pass by one of Sicily's famous street markets, and listen to old Italian couples bicker. La dolce vita indeed.

4. So my boss meets me at the central train station. He thinks we should take a taxi to my apartment because I have so much luggage, even though it's walking distance. He approached a taxi driver, explains the directions and asks how much. The taxi driver doesn't bat an eye at saying 35 Euro. That's $50 to go about 10 blocks. That's $5 per block. My boss scoffs and says 5 Euro ($.75 per block). They settle on 10 Euro, and the taxi driver has to deal with the luggage. And I know that there are loads of tourists who don't know what wretched thief's the taxi drivers are in this country and they just pay it. I've heard of the taxi drivers in Rome taking people to their hotels from Termini Station and charging the 100 Euro when it turns out the hotel is like 3 blocks away, but because it's so disorienting when you first arrive, nobody knows that. But people have to make a living somehow. Luckily, I'm hip to that and I work for someone who is also.

5. I should make a "You Might Be A Redneck If.." into "You Know You're In Italy When..." the guy across the aisle on the airplane offers to pay the guy sitting next to you 50 Euro (about $73) to switch seats so he can hit on you. And the the guy next to you doubles the price. According to the exchange, I am worth approximately 85 Euro. So, Daddy, the next time you consider selling me to the Arabs, I'm afraid you won't get that much. Wow, I actually know how much I am worth for a conversation. I leave this example for last because it really hit me that I was was back in Italy at that exact moment because despite hearing people speak in a different language, the funny differences in food, the strange gestures, and polished clothing, it could really be any foreign country until you get bid on for a conversation. Then you know you're back in the only place on earth where that would happen: Italia. Che bello (that's just beautiful).


But, in all truth, I can't believe I'm back. It's surreal and intimidating because I'm not just a tourist anymore. My Italian is coming back bit by bit...and I expect sometime next week to wake up, walk outside, and have it all come spilling out again. But in the meantime, I am taking a day to get time-oriented and a few days to get settled and unpacked. And right THIS moment (subito), I am sitting in my friends' living room and he is making dinner (or lunch...I really have no idea what time or day it is) and it smells divine. One of the perks of my life is a French friend who knows French cooking, but uses the Italian ingredients that he bought at the outdoor market this morning. And outside noisy Italian teenagers are setting off an endless string of firecrackers...but it never sounds like gunfire which I (sort-of) got used to while at school in Oakland. And a crazed half-Italian, half-French cat with an entirely rude name is currently drinking out of my water cup. And it's all ok, and makes me smile.

What a strange existence I am living. And I wouldn't trade it for the world. Thanks to all of you for helping make my dreams a reality. I love you all and miss you already.