Texans in Italy

This may launch me over the cuckoo's nest

2007-12-08T16:11:00.000+01:00

It's not that I haven't had anything to say recently. When you're in your eighth month of pregnancy in a foreign country, your gripes and musings really stack up.

There's the obvious gripes of not being able to get the foods I crave: Jif peanut butter, Mexican food, soft cookies. But a wonderful woman at the US Embassy gave me two jars of Jif a few weeks ago; I can appease any food craving with a little peanut butter. Plus, the last time I wrote I had a serious aversion to all foods Italian, so really...things on the eating front are looking up.

And then there's the embarrassment and frustration at the doctors' offices....like the time I went to the OBGYN with Jack and S (female friend and translator) and I was told to get in the stirrups in full view of Jack and S with no towel, blanket, or gown for my modesty. At which point the doctor felt my insides and declared me "morbido, morbido" (soft, soft) in a manner that said the recipient of this news should be filled with pride...and yet somehow I wasn't.
Or when I went to the public hospital to make an appointment for my five-month-ultrasound and was told that there was a six-month-waiting list for that ultrasound. (!?!)
Or the time I went for a urine test and learned that some hospitals are BYOB: Buy Your Own Bicchiere (from the vending machine in the lobby).
Or the other day when I had my third ultrasound and was told by my doctor (using the first English phrase she's every muttered to me) that my baby is "just a little bit fat."
Or the time that we took Nora to the doctor (again) because her eczema was acting up (again), and we wanted to see about getting an allergy test. And the dermatologist looked at Nora and (two minutes after meeting my child) told Jack that "this child worries too much. She's too serious. She carries the weight of the world on her shoulders. And maybe her parents fight in front of her too much. She doesn't need an allergy test; she needs to go outside and play." Among the trees and grass and pollen that I suspect she might be allergic to. I relay this story to you two months post-visit. Nora's arms remained covered with bumps and a rash until we refilled the prescription from a doctor we'd seen at a different hospital.

There's the anxiety of having a baby in general. Looking for and buying supplies, deciding on names, etc. We still don't know if the baby is a boy or a girl. We had the doctor write down the sex, cut out the incriminating photos, and send it to my parents. So they know. As do any inquiring minds who emailed my father. But we're still in the dark. (Our money's on it being a boy, and we have no idea what we would call it. If it's a girl, Sofia is the front runner.)

Work has changed dramatically for me; we're living in a much larger apartment than the last time I wrote; and Nora's school gave the parents a calendar at the beginning of this school year. Life is good.

But none of those things have inspired me to write. Right now the thing I think about most is not the Christmas season or the work that I've let pile up or the shopping I need to do or the human I'm growing. No...the tiny creature that's consuming my thoughts lately is much, much smaller than my four-pound kicker.

We've got ants.

At first there were just a few. They showed up in our bathroom every once in a while. They weren't drinking the water or going after the toothpaste. Just strolling across the floor. It was a little disconcerting. These were not the orderly, purposeful, single-file American ants I was used to. But I laughed at them and called them Italian ants. Just making a passeggiata across my bathroom. How very Italian of them.

Since then they've started to blitzkrieg. Random, separated by a week or more, attacks. Go to bed; everything's fine. Wake up, and the cabinets in the kitchen are covered. Bleach. Buy ant baits. Go on with your life. Go into the restroom and discover that they're attacking the cough syrup. And the lice medicine (i.e., poison) we bought last year. They were swarming the poison.

And that's just it. It's not so much the ants that are making me crazy; it's that I don't understand what kind of ants I'm dealing with. These ants eat poison. These ants scurry and hide when I come after them. It's almost impossible to get them all because ten will be clinging to the backside of the Mentadent. Since when do ants hide? Since when do they do anything but walk in a line, get the food, turn around, deliver the food. They're not supposed to think, hide, plot, attack. But that's what these ants are doing.

So what can I do? I clean. Not at all my favorite past time, but lately Jack has been making jokes about my OCD behavior. ME! Instead of starving the ants or discouraging them from living in my home, it makes them walk farther for things like cough syrup or dirty clothes in the hamper in my bedroom! They walk over and around the ant baits, but apparently are not interested in going inside. I tried buying poison from the hardware store, but the man wouldn't sell it to me because I'm pregnant. And Jack seems to think he's right!

Does anyone have experience with these ants that defy everything you ever thought you understood about ants? Can they be stopped in a way that won't give me a two-headed baby?

Help. Please.

FOOD!

2007-11-15T18:52:00.000+01:00

One of things we appreciate most about Italy is the food. Duh!

It all starts with simple, high-quality ingredients that vary by region, giving each region its own identity and version of"Italian Food." The food from Puglia or Calabria, down in the South are vastly different from the heartland in Emilia-Romagna or the northern region of Lombardi.

Below is the market in San Cosimato, Trastevere, Rome, where we get our ingredients. We get fruits and vegetables from Bruno (below).

All sorts of meat from this family of butchers (even though they're Lazio fans).

The seafood stall has all sorts of beautiful and strange creatures. Here are the Vongole: littleneck clams.

Of course, some people are too feeble to walk to the market everyday. So the market comes to them. Sometimes with a pulley.

Wine from Biaggio and Rosa. Below is Nora buying wine all by herself. She has no idea I followed her.

This is the fig tree outside of our window. We couldn't eat them fast enough in the summer. So good...

Sometimes we bring ingredients back with us when we travel. This is taken on the island of Ischia in the Bay of Naples, where the peppers are left to dry in the breeze.

So, when we get all the ingredients together, we've learned to prepare them in classic ways.

Mussels are cooked simply steamed in a large pot with a few inches of water in the bottom. After they open, they are drizzled with dry white wine, parsley, and red pepper flakes. Sometimes we throw in diced, cooked tomatoes. We always soak up the broth with a fresh loaf of bread. Sometimes I throw in some anise liquor to spark it up--a real treat. A little cilantro instead of parsley at the very end adds a nice flavor too.

Below is the fish from Cetara, on the Aegean seaside village in Campania's Amalfi Coast. The focus is on simple seafood.

Below is the pride of the Cetarese fishing fleet: anchovies. Here they are whole and very slightly breaded and pan-fried. They're about the size of Nora's biggest finger and have none of the same nasty flavor as the super-salty anchovies thrown on pizza al over the world. These are light, crisp, and addictive. See Nora below, becoming addicted.

Below is a whole sea bass, a langostino, and something that translates as "flying squid fish," or cuttlefish--all grilled, with a slight citrus bend.

More fish in Cetara, this time it's tuna and swordfish (tonno e pesce spada), smoked and sliced paper thin. It's like carpaccio, but with a distinct smoky flavor. Nora loved this and still craves it. Unfortunately, Cetara is the only place I know that makes this dish. Also on the dish: marinated anchovy and octopus.

This was so unique and interesting, I had to order it: gnocchi with a sauce of broccoli and squid ink on the island of Procida.

On the other sea, the Adriatic, the food is similar, but the preparation is very different. Here's Portonovo in the region Le Marche. Nora thoroughly enjoyed the complex flavor of the seafood risotto with a prawn.

My primo piatto: Tagliatelle with Vongole (clams)--excellent.

We learn how and why things are prepared as they are, then experiment with modern twists.

Amatriciana comes from the town close to Rome named Amatrice, and is basically a sauce of Pancetta (or Guanciale--cured pork jowls), garlic or onion, and tomatoes served over pasta--spaghetti, bomboletti, or bucatini. It is far and away Brandy's favorite. It's her barometer--she uses it to judge a restaurant.

Cooking at home (below) I sometimes add a diced, dried hot chili pepper. Or I caramelize some tomato paste on the side of the pan while cooking the rest and add some white wine.

Everyone asks us if we eat tons of gelato. Well, I'm with a pregnant woman and a young daughter, so the answer is...of course! I'd be a dead man otherwise. Nora's favorites are straciatella (chocolate chip) and nutella. Brandy's favorites change every week, but some she likes are pear/cinnamon, chocolate/banana, and semifreddo (like a mousse). Mine are spicy chocolate, orange chocolate, and chocolate mint. Below is Nora ordering away.

Sometimes we need a little taste from home. Here is Nora showing off her enchiladas. Of course, we have to make some changes. I normally wouldn't put basil on top of chipotle enchiladas.

Cetara on the Amalfi Coast

2007-11-12T17:01:00.000+01:00

CETARA, AMALFI COAST, CAMPANIA, ITALY

We soaked up the last of the sunny days this year in the village of Cetara on the Amalfi Coast down in Campania. It's between Salerno and Amalfi and is one of the very authentic villages on this popular coastline, still depending heavily on its tiny fishing fleet.

Cetara hasn't really been discovered yet. I couldn't find much mention of it in any guidebooks--which is a big plus. But my favorite food writer, Carla Capalbo, stayed here for several months while writing her most recent book "The Food and Wine Guide to Naples and Campania."

There are 2 beaches in Cetara. The first is at the end of the main road in town and small--about the length of a football field. Here's Nora talking to the fisherman who were using this sunny day to paint their boats.

The other is on the other side of the marina. This is where Nora and I swam with about a dozen others. The water was cool but not unbearable. Much like Barton Springs (about 68 F, 20 C). But it was too cold for the baby-maker. Sadly, Brandy only watched from the beach.

The town is known for its anchovies (alici). Don't even think of the super-salty blech! kind from that nasty pizza you had years ago. These are marinated, delicate, and flavorful. They're so far removed from that taste you are recalling right now. Here is Nora shoveling them down.

We played in the tidal pools and thought about catching some sea urchins. The water was more clear and green than the photo shows.

Here's the beautiful siren herself.

And another that looks like a painting to me.

One of the bet restaurants in town is Acqua Pazza. It's right in front of the main beach. The other 2 incredible restaurants are within an amalfi-lemon's throw: il Convento and San Pietro. I don't think I'm going to comment on this photo in front of Acqua Pazza.

The next time we go to Amalfi, we'll go to Cetara again, as well as the next town down the way: Erchie. Here's the bird's eye view.

To see more photos, visit my picasa photo page.

--

Morocco, Africa

2007-11-05T17:51:00.000+01:00

Morocco: Casablanca, Marrakesh, and Rabat

Here are some pictures from our quick 5 day trip to Morocco. The Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca (Dar El-Baida). The minaret is the highest in the world (210 meters, almost 700 feet) and the Mosque is one of few in the world to be open to non-Muslims.

Welcome to Marrakesh. Jack and Nora arriving at the train station after a grueling train ride through shifting desert sands. Not really--the comfortable Belgian-made train was a quick and pleasant 3 hours from Casablanca.

Marrakesh has a number of nice homes converted into very small hotels called Riads. They are usually 4 or so rooms surrounding a cool garden courtyard in the old part of town (the Medina) and are great places to get away from the craziness of the narrow alleys of the Medina. This one has doors that suit Nora's size well.

The zellij tile work of Moroccan architecture.

This is one of those things that really stands out in your imagination: the huge plaza in the heart of the Medina--the Djemaa el-Fna--a place that really defies description. Where else can you find the snake charmers...

Colorfully-dressed guys selling water...

Or serious religious men wearing Crocs?

Some views of Djemaa el-Fna once the stalls open with food cooking away.

Here we are riding camels.

Carpet buying in the Creii Berber--the Berber carpet Souk. After about 45 minutes of looking and negotiating and trying to figure out what makes each carpet unique among the piles of them, you break for some mint tea with the shop owner and come up with your final price.

The Place Rahba Qedima, where you can buy ingredients for all kinds of potions--chameleons for luck in your love life, live scorpions for some potion, and caged hawks, live turtles, squirrels and gazelle heads for some other reason. I'm a bit sketchy on the details. It was overall a very sketchy little back-alley market.

The Spice Souk--full of vivid colors and smells. The spices are earthy and no longer arrive after a 52 day camel caravan from Timbuktu.

More cool Islamic architecture in Marrakesh.

Nora really loved the camel ride. She got the friendly one. He seemed to pose for my camera. I was on the mean camel who eventually bit Brandy's butt.

We took a horse carriage back to the Riad one night. It wasn't the ridiculously expensive ride like you find in Rome. To tell the truth, it was the first time Nora, Brandy, or I ever rode on a horse-drawn carriage. Our driver was much nicer than this photo would have you believe.

We headed to Rabat for the last day of our trip and were pleasantly surprised by its large and open streets. And the endless ocean was a welcome site, the opposite of the labyrinthian Medinas.

I apologize to the entire Arab world. It's surprising that we Americans have such a bad public image.

NEXT STOP...THE AMALFI COAST IN ITALY.

Trip down to Isola Ischia

2007-10-22T19:14:00.001+02:00

We've decided to do many more short trips to amazing places because--well, why the hell not?

One of our first was to the island of Ischia, the biggest island in the bay of Naples. It was gorgeous and with the 200 mph fast-train from Rome to Naples, it was a very nice day-trip on a beautiful Sunday.

Here's the map of the island.

The Aragon Castle in Ischia Ponte

Peproncini at the market. Very spicy.

Mt. Vesuvius from the window of the ferry.

Brandy and Jack on the ferry. Photo by Nora--hence the low perspective.

Brandy and Nora on the beach at Ischia Ponte. Photo by Jack.

Our lunch of seafood, white wine, and fizzy water with the castelin the background. Photo by Nora. Nice eye, no?

The sun setting meant it was time to go home. Boats in Ischia Porto.

Our next trip is to Casablanca, Marrakesh, and Rabat in Morocco. We leave Thursday and return the following Monday. Wish us luck with the camels, the souks, and the medinas. My friend Carlos recommends only the funky-cold ones.

Brandy's belly

2007-10-15T18:49:00.000+02:00

Month 6

Month 5

Month 3

Summer in Mexico

2007-10-15T17:22:00.000+02:00

when you reach a certain point, and haven't spoken with someone for months, you're not sure where to start. i'll start with an apology. it's been too long--i know. but i'll try to update you here and know this: we are going to write a entry each week. here's a sneak preview: gripes about the price of strollers; a love of socialized medicine; short trips to beautiful places; general dislike of italian customs; general praises of italian customs; our upcoming trip to Casablanca, Marrakesh, and Rabat in Morocco; italian food and wine; and of course many pictures of the little one growing in Brandy's belly.

this first entry will cover our trip to Mexico. Nora was there from early july until early August. lucky kid. she stayed with my parents ("i nonni" in Italian, "los abuelos" in Spanish--though she addresses them in the German "Oma and Opa") in Ajijic, Jalisco, Mexico.

We went to Guadalajara a few times and to the beach in Nayarit--a beautiful place named Chacala.

Without further ado...

Nora sampling the wine like a good Italian

From Mexico, summe...

the several hundred year-old church in Ajijic

nora in my parents' backyard, looking up toward the mountains. it was the rainy season, so they're shrouded in the clouds.

the beautiful dessert made just for her at an incredible Italian restaurant in Ajijic (huh?!)

the sunset in Chacala, Nayarit

riding in a fishing boat to an uninhabited beach up the coast

brandy at the secret beach looking like Ursula Andress (who lives around the corner from my office in Rome) in the the James Bond movie "Dr. No"

cute street sign

mangos sabrosas

nora has now convinced both of her grandmothers to get her a kitten from the pound. this one, named Purrrrr-fect, is being cared for by my wonderful parents. suckers...

nora and my mom at the zoo in guadalajara

my brother Chris, my dad Patrick, my mother Maryann, sister Abby, her girlfriend Laura, baby's mama Brandy, and I are about to throw Nora to the dogs

food cart on the beach in Rincon de Guayabitos. that snack on the right? fish-on-a-stick, my friend--fish-on-a-stick.

my friend, my surf idol, my travel buddy, my favorite inanimate object

What in/around my desk is 4 cm long?

2007-07-19T15:11:00.000+02:00

The metal end to a key--before you get to the rounded bit at the top.
A small paper clip--not a big one.
The plastic lid to a flash drive.

And...that's about it. I thought I'd be able to find more, but everything else is bigger.
A bottle of white out is 7.5 cm.
The cap to a Sharpie is 5 cm long...so is the big paper clip.

Four centimeters is TINY.
So please excuse the quality of this photo. I've blown it up so that you can MAYBE make out that there is a 4cm-long baby growing in my belly. Hanging out on a hammock--is how Jack describes this fetal pose.

Do you see it above the white "hammock"? It looks like it has a speech bubble coming out of its mouth. I think that's it. It seemed so much clearer when it was on the tv.

Even though I'm only two months along, the doctors thought it was a good idea to get a sonogram (ecografia) before we left for the states. Since it's so tiny, it is not possible to know if it's a boy or a girl. But Jack likes to be surprised anyway...so nobody will know until approximately February 9. The doctor counted limbs, length, heartbeat, and other things I couldn't translate. There were no problems, and the baby seems healthy.

The only bad side so far to being pregnant is that I've developed a horrible aversion to Italian food. ALL Italian food. I can't stand to see it, smell it, think about it. I know technically there's no such thing as "Italian food." There are so many regional differences that you call it Tuscan food or Roman food, etc. My problem, however, seems to be that I can't stand cooked tomatoes, sliced meats, sausage, most cheeses, and oil. If you have any suggestions for what a girl in Rome can eat without those ingredients, I'd love to hear them. Until I go home I'll continue with my rotation of burger, chicken, veal. All with mashed potatoes.

Il Palio in Siena

2007-07-16T10:47:00.000+02:00

Forget the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain--that's been taken over by wine-soaked American college boys and drunk Australians getting their kicks Hemmingway-style. Il Palio--probably the shortest horserace in the world--is the real deal.

And it's a bare-backed race.

Held on the 2nd of July and the 16th of August in Siena, Tuscany, Italy, the race and its pageantry looks the same as it must have 400 years ago, when they stated racing in the smallish main piazza called the Piazza del Campo.

The view of the piazza on a normal day.

Before that, in the 1400s, the horses would scamper all through town. When the race moved to the Campo, the small track only had room for 10 of the 17 neighborhoods, or contrade, to race at a time. The confusing arrangement of guaranteed spots and lottery draws keep a different blend of 10 of the 17 racing each time. Actually, it's even more confusing than this sounds: there is room only for 9 horses to line up on the track. The 10th horse lingers behind the lineup and starts the race while running an arc behind the pack. It's very confusing and a nightmare of timing to get all the horses together at the right time. In this race there are no starting gates, just authentic Italian orderly chaos.

The joy of Il Palio is its timelessness. The only souvenirs being hawked are the banners of the 17 contrade. Each contrada has its own banner and its own rival. When all is said and done, one contrada losing is not as painful as that contrada's rival winning it all. Tears flow from the old and the young when this happens.

The morning of each Palio starts with a practice run, followed by the blessing of the horses--in the church. It's considered good luck if the horse poops--in the church.

The contrade are:
Aquila (Eagle), Bruco (Caterpillar), Chiocciola (Snail), Civetta (Owl), Drago (Dragon), Giraffa (Giraffe), Istrice (Porcupine), Leocorno (Unicorn), Lupa (She-Wolf), Nicchio (Shell), Oca (Goose), Onda (Wave), Pantera (Panther), Selva (Forest), Tartuca (Tortoise), Torre (Tower) and Valdimontone (Ram)

And the winner this July 2 was...nope, not yet.

The entire piazza goes berserk when the race starts. The whole race consists of 3 laps around the rim of the piazza and lasts less than a few minutes. A horse can lose it's rider and still win, as long as the horse still has the Contrada insignia on its head when it crosses the finish line. It only ends when the cannons fire, signaling the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place crossings, at which point the berserk factor goes way, way up. The winning horse is taken to a nearby church to have its hooves painted gold. Yep, gold.

The party goes on all night.

Nora, Brandy, my visiting father Patrick, and I braved the crowds and craziness and had an incredible time. We've never been so crowded for so long. Once in the piazza, you pretty much are stuck until after the race. No running to the bathroom, no breathing room for the mildly claustrophobic (Brandy), and no place to sit down (sorry, Dad). You just tough it out and see the most exciting race in the world.

This July, the exciting race was won by Oca, the goose.

See more at:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palio_di_Siena

The Best Souvenir from Italy

2007-07-10T12:21:00.000+02:00

This is a very strange way to spread the news, but here it is:

This is Brandy's belly with our baby inside. We're all very excited and Nora is out-of-her-mind with happiness to finally be a big sister. She promises not to torment him-her. He or she will appear sometime around Valentine's Day, 2008, so plan your February trip to Italy.

!!!!!!!

Jack, Brandy, and Nora

father's day at the beach

2007-06-21T09:29:00.001+02:00

i thought that hopping on a train and going to the beach sounded like a good idea. and since it was father's day in america and i'm an american father, i got to make the decision. brandy didn't even know where we were going.

i think she was pleasantly surprised.

Portonovo, Le March, Italy

This town is far enough from big cities and is so off the beaten path that most tour books don't mention it. It is not on the way anywhere, so you really have to go out of your way. Those who do are rewarded greatly. The water is crystal clear and the landscape is like the chalky limestone hills of Austin, Texas cut abruptly by the Mediterranean Sea.

The beaches in Italy are a bit different than what we are used to. Most Italians go to be seen and talk with their beach friends--who may be the same friends they talk to every other day or they may be friends they only see at the beach. Either way, the 2 reasons to go to the beach are to talk and to develop an extremely dark tan. The threat of skin cancer doesn't stand a chance compared to the Italian needs to look good and be social.

Here's Brandy looking good and being social.

The food is wonderful. Seafood obviously is the big star. Here is a sequence of Nora trying a snail cooked in a tomato&garlic sauce.

ok, ill try it...

Chewing...hmm, strange texture...

nope, definitely not a winner.

she also had some gnocchi with prawns. it was excellent.

and i had some tagliatelle with clams (vongole) and a grilled sea bass (spigola). they were both excellent and the fish was the freshest i've ever had. here's a picture of the pasta.

Another thing that's different in Italy is the beach itself. Many are pebbly, some are sandy, some are just plain rocky, and others feel like you're walking on Nerds candy--smooth and not painful to walk on (almost massage-like), but definitely not fine enough to be sand. This beach had them all. The main part of the beach is sandy and then pebbly. By scrambling across some rocks and wading through some knee-deep water, you get to a different beach. It had some of the nerds candy sand and some good old fashioned sand. This is where we went.

Here we are crossing the rocks:

Here's Nora wading through the knee-deep water.

And here's the view down the beach.

Ah, what a view...

The water is nearly perfect--a little cold but very pleasant on a warm day and clear as can be. the only thing missing is surfable waves. Well, you can't have everything...

Update on Bush's Visit

2007-06-11T13:06:00.000+02:00

After recommendations from the Italian government and Secret Service, Bush decided to cancel his visit to Trastevere. It seems that the narrow, winding alleys of Trastevere were too difficult to secure. (That's a major understatement, by the way. That they ever dreamed they could logistically pull off a visit to our tiny piazza is beyond me.) See the mayhem Bush's visit caused below. This is what I what I was afraid would happen below my house. Unfortunately for our friend Maria it happened below hers instead. Sorry, Maria.

We managed to stay completely clear of the whole thing. Nora and I went to the park (Villa Pamphili) and had a wonderful time. If you could see past the police posted every five feet along the path, it was very peaceful and serene.

Dub-ya is starving my family

2007-06-06T16:01:00.001+02:00

George W. Bush will be in Rome on Saturday. Just look where the tiny piazza that he's chosen to speak is located!That's Piazza Sant' Egidio. Notice how it's located at the end of Via della Scala---MY STREET!!
Oh help me. We'll be lucky to leave our homes at all on Saturday.

Trip to Lecce, Puglia

2007-06-05T10:45:00.001+02:00

Puglia (pronounced Poolia, like Julia) is down in the heel of the Italian boot.

Lecce (pronounced much like the Spanish word for milk--leche) is the beautiful town in the middle with its own style of architecture: lecce boroque.

People in Lecce are short. Even Nora has to duck to get in.
This is the hotel we stayed in. It's in a 16th cenury palazzo and only set us back about 45 euro/night. Highly recommended with a great rooftop view. There are actually 2 in the palazzo: The Centro Storico B&B
and The Azzurretta B&B.
The owners are brothers. The brother we stayed with is named--i kid you not--Toolio.

I am a deadly weapon. You've been warned.

Here's a common mode of transportation. Not really, but it does remind me of the bigwheel I had as a kid.

This blurred view of the Puglia countryside between Bari and Brindisi. It looks like an impressionist painting. You can probably photoshop a Monet painting pretty easily from this.

Nora likes to make her mom nervous. OK, maybe I encourage this behavior.

The happy travelers in Santa Maria di Leuca.

The water is really that color. The limestone filters the water and the light sand reflects the sunlight. It looks clean enough to drink (not recommended).

These next 2 are taken from the very tip of the stilletto heel of the boot. It's the first place in Italy to see the sunrise in the morning.

These people were having a picnic and catching sea urchins, clams, oysters, fish and other stuff that they eat raw in Puglia. Don't cringe; it tastes great.

More beautiful water, if you like that sort of thing. Again, not drinkable. Who knew?

Very trusting people. Who wants a boat?

Crazy kids--horsing around. (Sorry.)

We decided to go different ways. The beach north of Otranto, Puglia.

I'll miss her, though.

United again, surfing the rocks of the Adriatic Sea.

Brandy doesn't like to run around in the sand as much, but she doesn't judge us for our childish behavior.

--------------------------------------------------

Relief and Revelation

2007-06-04T11:40:00.000+02:00

Update on our 9months of bills situation: really not so bad. Our total amount for nine months of bills looks like about 3-4 months of bills in Texas. I guess that's the upside of living in a shoebox. An air conditionless shoebox.

That was the relief. Here's the revelation: In the middle of all of this piles-o-bills anxiety, I ran out of hair product. And ever since the ogre at the airport took my new bottle of Bumble and Bumble, I've been bouncing around from mousse to paste to cream...none of them good. Frankly, I don't think the Italians have a clue what to do with curly hair. It looks as though the women here brush their curls...even when dry!! (Ask a woman with curls if you don't know.)

So with the end of each tube or can or bottle, I've had to search for another mediocre replacement. But this time I didn't want to spend another precious Euro on something mediocre--not when I had nine months of bills looming over my head. On the other hand you can't just go around with curly hair and no product whatsoever.

That's when I remembered something a wise stylist once told me: Curls only need moisture--that's all your product needs to do--keep 'em moist.

Olive oil.

Please let our couch cushions reveal lost riches.

2007-05-29T09:49:00.000+02:00

One strategy I employ when faced with conflict is the "Just ignore it and maybe it will go away" technique. Not a wise (or very effective) strategy, but one that brings me instant (albeit temporary) gratification. The thing is sometimes it works. In my younger years, I ignored a ticket...and it turned into a warrant. But THEN I ignored the warrant, and it went away. That is not the only instance of effective "wishing away" a problem. I'd say it has had a 10% success rate, which is terrible statistically, but just good enough for me to continue using it with crossed fingers that THIS time is that magical 1 in 10.

We don't receive mail at our apartment. All letters and packages from friends back home are sent to our office address because we have NEVER (save two rare examples) received a thing in our mailbox. Including bills. At first I asked around. "No. Don't worry. It often takes four months to receive your first bill." Bills here only come every two months, and you often miss the first cycle and get hit hard with the big four-month bill.

Nine months later, still no bills. At this point I don't talk about bills; I don't think about bills, because if you talk about the problem or even think about the problem then you are not fully ignoring the problem. I do, however, walk quickly, eyes straight ahead, past our leasing agency, which is located next door to our apartment. I suspect Jack has been doing the same thing because yesterday he said "they caught me." Our landlord would like to meet with us about our lease and to give us our bills.

So let's see that's 9 months of electricity that is reportedly 5 times as high as it is in the states; plus 9 months of gas that is reportedly 3 times as high as it is the states; plus 9 months of phone usage that charges by the minute for all local and long distance calls plus extra for all calls to cell phones for a grand total of...

perhaps a new philosophy on conflict resolution.

Another thing to give thanks for

2007-05-28T13:06:00.001+02:00

We all know that trying on bathing suits is a horrific experience that we all dread. An event that brings joy to no one except the makers of miracle creams and machines, the writers of diet fad books of the week, and the creators of Cathy. For without the fear of bathing suits our dear Cathy (and her readers) would be content and happy in their own skin. And happy women don't buy miracle creams, machines, and diet fad books of the week. But I digress. This is not a soap box for me to tell women to love their bodies just the way they are. Clearly I am not above getting a little crazy thinking about my ass. I thought that the women in America should know that they have one more thing to be thankful for.

You have not experienced the pain of trying on bathing suits until you've tried on a bathing suit in Italy.

So far it's been rather challenging to get a shop keeper to help me look for shirts, pants, and shoes. Not so when you're looking for bathing suits. They descend upon you, look you up and down, surmising your Euro-size, and then hurry you into a room with your unfortunately mismatched sizes (bigger than you'd like on the bottom and smaller than you'd like on the top--or perhaps that's just me).

At this point you're in the tiny room with the florescent bulb, which is reminiscent of shops back home but smaller, so you're literally on the mirror. There's no hope of achieving a better reflection via distance or angles. You're exposed. With shadows and dimples you'd never noticed before, now very prominently displayed under the greenish flicker of the florescent light, with your (what you thought were) high-cut panties sticking out like your granny's under the bottoms of the bathing suit that was cut for the impossibly perfect ass, all in a reflection that is a mere 12 inches from your body.

And then the curtain is pulled back. And now you're really exposed. And the shop keeper examines you and assures you that the bottoms are not too small. "This is Italy. You're German, so you don't know, but that's how we wear bathing suits in Italy." At this point you stammer back in your poor Italian that you are NOT German--as if it were that mistake that took your dignity--but the "same-difference" look on her face when you tell her that you're American does not help you regain any shred of dignity.

You yank the curtain back and hastily put on your street clothes. When you walk out you ask how much the cheaply made piece of tiny cloth costs. 65 Euros (that's 90 dollars) so you thank the woman for her time and walk on to the next store under the naiive assumption that this store and this woman were an overbearing exception to the rule.

Three shops and three humiliating experiences later you realize that last year's bathing suit is actually much nicer than you'd remembered it, and you go home.

We found Mexicans!

2007-05-21T12:16:00.000+02:00

And more importantly real Mexican food! In Piazza della Repubblica on Sunday evenings, the sidewalks are lined with street vendors selling tamales, pozole, rotisserie chicken, tacos, burritos, sodas, and beer. Plastic containers of salsa and peppers hang from the fence, waiting to douse your meal. Bad music blares from boom boxes, and everyone sits around eating deliciously bad for you food.

(Discovery made on way back from train station after a fabulous weekend in Umbria. Details and pictures to come.... Right, Jack?)

This one might get filed under TMI--Too Much Information

2007-04-26T10:28:00.000+02:00

Going to a doctor in a foreign country is always a bit of a challenge. Even if you speak the same language. Jack likes to tell the story of my embarrassing misunderstanding in an Irish hospital.

About 8 hours after Nora was born, a nurse was doing her rounds in my ward. She went from bed to bed asking all of the moms a series of questions. When she got to my bed she asked me "Have you piddled yourself yet?" I had never heard the term "piddle" before, and I was still not used to the way the Irish throw that reflexive pronoun around. (e.g., They might say "Has himself come by today?" Instead of "Has he come by today?")
Anyway...I didn't know what piddle meant, but it was obviously a euphemism for something...something...something that a nurse wouldn't want to say in a room full of people...something embarrassing...or naughty...piddle myself?.. piddle myself? what is something embarrassing or naughty that I do to myself?
?!
Why would the nurse ask about that? I wondered as I whispered and sputtered"n-n-No. No I haven't piddled myself today." To which she replied, "Well you really should try." It was at about this point that my brain registered the second possible (and in retrospect, only sensible) meaning for "piddle."
"Oh right. Pee. Yes, actually I have peed today."

And that was all in English. You can imagine the problems one might have at the doctor's office when one doesn't speak the language at all. Luckily in this country, you can go to the farmacia and tell them what you need, and (for the most part) they'll give it to you without a prescription.
No--I haven't tried asking for any of THOSE medicines. And obviously I wouldn't go in and prescribe myself an antibiotic for symptoms I didn't recognize, but there are some things that you know you have when you have 'em, and you don't need a doctor to tell you that you need antibiotics.

Recently I was able to get a prescription for Augmentin at my local farmacia with no problem. But then...as often happens when I take antibiotics...my body's chemistry got all out of whack, and I had to make another trip to the farmacia. Unfortunately, while prescription items are relatively easy to get, over the counter items are literally behind the counter, and are physically impossible to reach without asking. (Even Band-Aids are kept safe back there.)

This story ends with me peeking out from under my hands saying "ok ok. Ho capito. Ho capito." (I understand. I understand.) As the man behind the counter is demonstrating for me (and the rest of the farmacia) how to operate a vaginal suppository.

Mortifying. When are we coming home?

We're Coming Home

2007-04-25T14:30:00.000+02:00

Nora goes to Mexico July 4th with Jack's father.
Jack and I join her on July 26th.
We head to the brown beaches of Texas on August 5th.
We all come to Austin somewhere around the 11th of August.
Nora and I go back to Rome on the 21st of August.
One (or all) of these dates may be a little wrong...but they're close.

The Ladies

2007-04-12T15:10:00.000+02:00

There are obvious questions people ask when someone moves to certain locations. Knee jerk responses based on media and stereotypes. Iconography that exists because...it's typically true.
Ireland--Drink any Guiness lately?
Texas--Have you learned to ride a horse?
Chicago--Windy?
New York--Been mugged yet?

"I live in Italy" brings on an onslaught.
How's the pizza? Is the food really good? Are you eating lots of gelato? The appropriate answer to each of these being "duh." Italy is known for its fantastic cuisine and wine, and for good reason. It's every bit as amazing as you might imagine.
The other obligatory questions are Is the fashion great? and Are the people really beautiful? My answer to these is Yes. Irritatingly so. Complex-inducingly so.

The concept of La Bella Figura in Italy powerfully shapes the image of all its people. This concept could not be more foreign to an Austinite. In Austin going to the store with no makeup, bedhead, and jeans and a t-shirt that narrowly passed the sniff test is not only acceptable but might even be regarded by some as confident. A statement that you don't care what other people think of how you look (or smell) because you've got intelligence and character and substance. The image is not important.

I'd now like to call your attention to the policeman at the right. This image was found by googling "la bella figura." The policemen here are all about it. Look at his white cuffs, gloves, and (rumor has it) Armani designed uniform. Traffic cops here stand on a raised platform in the middle of the street and proudly motion their white-gloved hands at the frenetic motorini and Fiats as they whiz by. A noble profession here--to be in the public eye looking good all day long. (The reason that police have nothing to do but sit around looking good all day can also be explained by la bella figura. Committing a crime would make a brutta figura. And we can't have that.)
I enjoy watching the police looking regal on their raised platforms or leaning on cars in the piazza. Just as I'm sure Jack enjoys watching the much more beautiful and manicured Italian women maintaining their La Bella Figuras all over the place.

Polished beautiful women strut in their stilettos down the cobblestone streets. Fancy outfits, fancy shoes, perfect makeup. All. The. Time. Just out to get your morning coffee? Not until you've showered and picked out your perfect Prada for the occasion. And they're truly beautiful...all of them.

Part of the reason I'm posting about this is because someone should, and Jack probably feels like he can't without facing physical retribution. And I don't have the energy right now to be vague and employ double entendre for comedic effect, so forgive my bluntness. I'd just like to know why everyone talks about the Roman Nose--which doesn't really stand out over here--but nobody ever talks about the Italian butts--which stand out quite well.

Seriously...grandmothers in stilettos and skinny jeans with gravity-defying butts. All the brash and offensive things you've ever heard guys say, I THINK THESE THINGS. Not to objectify of course; I'm just awe-inspired. I tried googling Italian Butt, Italian Ass, Italian Rear, etc. to show you what I mean, but apparently nobody else thinks archiving a good ass in jeans a worthy project. (Thongs, yes. Jeans, no.)

So there you have it. What has Italy done for me lately? Given me a complex about my backside. I'm just hoping that the nature vs. nurture debate comes down on the side of nurture in this case, and that by the time I come home, all this Italian food and cobblestone streets will have nurtured my rear into an Italian form, and that the Italian butt is not all in the genes. (pun begrudgingly left due to lack of caffeine and creativity)

Barcelona!

2007-04-05T15:07:00.000+02:00

We finally took a big family trip: a long weekend trip to Barcelona. The weather was lovely and the food and drink were divine. Barcelona won some big soccer championship that weekend and Ronaldinho was deified by Barcelona.

The beach was windy (hence the jacket) but that won't stop Nora.

Nora scaling a light post in front of the Arch de Triomf. I think that's how it's spelled in Catalan.

They like bikes in Spain.

Mmmmm...kitty.

Antoni Gaudi's Sagrada Familia church reflected in a pond.

Another, this one has the real one and the reflection.

Such a good traveler:

Munching on tapas, sipping wine and Cola Cao (hot cocoa) for Nora.

Pointing out the million kinds of fish tapas.

One of Gaudi's apartment buildings. He did not like straight lines, since there aren't any in nature.

A Gaudi apartment and office building.

Nora and Jack from the Parc Guel, overlooking the city.

Another view from the top.

The columns aren't even in straight lines.

Brandy's favorite part of the trip: the Labyrinth. It was so cool. The walls were about 12 feet high and it was quite a maze. We were all happy to find the middle and one another. I was dreading having to explain to everyone how we lost Nora.

Yeah, Labyrinth!

Groovy, baby...

Homeward bound.

Nora's School

2007-03-30T10:46:00.000+02:00

I hear that this is everyone's favorite thing to read about. Probably not coincidentally, it's one of my favorite things to gripe about. Particularly today.

Gripe Number One:
I am FAR from being a Type A, plan ahead, everything neatly scheduled months in advance on iCal individual, but get me going on the lack of calendars provided by the school, and I certainly start to sound like one.

Next week is Easter--a religious holiday that was never fully given vacation holiday status at the University of Texas. Generally we had to wait until the day of Good Friday for the governor to decide. University employees would sit staring at their email inboxes, awaiting the news. The email would arrive and deliver the announcement: the University is officially closed after 12:00 today. And the offices would cheer and the students would throw their dirty laundry into the car and head for home. I remember some of the out-of-state students complaining that they couldn't make travel arrangements and what a pain it was. Ever the self-centered teenager, I didn't give the governor's midday decree two thoughts. I wasn't flying anywhere; I wouldn't start driving before noon anyway; what did I care?

My point? I am slightly familiar with the holidays being announced at the very last minute, and it didn't bother me. Then. Now, on the other hand, it seems utterly ridiculous that we have to wait until the week before Easter to read a handwritten (by Nora) note in her diario that school will be closed from Wednesday of next week to the following Wednesday. A whole week off for Easter! A whole week of vacation with no mention? I was fine with the one-hour notice of five hours of vacation, but this is different! Right? There is a distinction to be made here, isn't there?

Gripe Number Two:
Along with the handwritten note was a tiny slip of paper announcing that, once again, the teachers would be on strike. And this strike "may or may not affect the school schedule TOMORROW." So in case you found no problem at all with the ambiguity of schedules in Gripe Number One, I challenge you to find a defensible position for Gripe Number Two.

Gripe Number Three:
For the third time this year I received a phone call from Nora's school. As I am the Foreign Mother that does not communicate well in Italian, they simply give the phone to Nora and let her explain. Today's conversation started with "My tummy hurts, and my throat is clogged up." Your throat is clogged up? She must have consulted MadLibs for that one and inserted [body part] before [common complaint]. And apparently that works here in Italy as probable cause for being sent home. No accompanying fever--in fact no temperature taken at all. Just a seven-year-old's complaint of a clogged up throat.

That's all I have to say about Nora's school today.

The ancient port of Baia, near Naples

2007-03-29T15:02:00.000+02:00

This is the ancient city of Baia, on the northwest edge of the Bay of Naples. It's home to an amazing bath built into the hillside. It's unlike anything I've ever seen and must have been a big clue to the power of the Roman empire whenever someone sailed in. I met Dar and his archaeology students down there for the weekend.

In the 17th century, this place was a hot spot for British (and others) on the Grand Tour. On the top of the photo is a bit of graffiti from 1776. Damn hoodlums...

Many years ago, an earthquake hit the area and part of the city was sunken under water. In the photo below, we were sailing over what was once the city streets and buildings. You can scuba/snorkle in the bay area and see columns and mosaic floors through the crystal-clear water.

Below is a picture of the castle on the edge of the bay.

We took the boat out to the island Procida, where they filmed some of the movie The Talented Mr. Ripley. It was a gorgeous day and we stopped for a nice lunch. The Castle on the top of the hill is 16th century and now abandoned.

Putting along into the harbour:

The views from the shoreline:

This was the first course of my meal. Sea urchin gnocchi with squid ink and broccoli sauce. The name alone would make any child squirm. It was amazing.

This cracks me up: the sign on the boat says "Wet Paint." Hah!

Italian Road Trips, Part II

2007-03-15T16:55:00.000+01:00

Because Brandy can't stand seeing a "Part I" without a "Part II," the unimaginative title continues on. This trip took us to Florence. It really needs no introduction, so I'll stop now and let the pictures do (most of) the talking.

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This is us pretending to hate Florence. C'mon, who hates Florence?

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And here's crazy Nora.

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Nora and Emilia

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And here's Nora pointing out a statue to Emilia