Surprise!

Blogging has been a good form of therapy for me as I have been settling into this new life in a new country. It has allowed me freedom to express some of the differences between life back home and life here, as well as the similarities, although of course it is the differences that are most striking. It has been a creative way to document the memories we are making here. Another facet of blogging that has been a wonderful surprise to me is the formation of new relationships with new people that otherwise I would never be able to know. It is always fun for me when someone new stops by and leaves a comment on my blog. Who are you, and where do you come from? I am filled with curiosity, and am always happy when I can trail someone back to their blog and learn about them. Sometimes inevitable friendships form. I just love my blogging buddies! So what does this ramble have to do with the next part of this post? You'll see!

It was late afternoon when buzzer for the gate sounded. "Chi è?" I asked. Who is it? "Signora there is a package for you." "Ok," I replied, "I'm coming." This time, the delivery man was friendly and cheerful and just a bit curious. "How do you pronounce your name Signora? Amberrrr?" "Yes," I replied, "although gli Italiani have an easier time saying Ambra." He smiled and agreed. "Where are you from?" he asked next. "I am from the U.S., from Oregon, it is the state above California" I gave my standard answer to help him orient Oregon. I think when most Italians think of the U.S., when they do at all, they are familiar with certain states they have seen from tv programs. They know New York, Florida, California and Nevada- for Las Vegas. Then he asked me what nearly everyone here asks me: "What is the nicer life, here in Italy or in the U.S.?" This is always such a tough one for me. I looked into his designer sunglasses, and said "Well, they are both equally nice, even if different." This is such a lame answer! I know it, and yet I cannot help myself. There are days that I still wonder what on earth I am doing here, and then there are other days when I am perfectly content here. It is too difficult to explain even to myself, let alone a stranger, and one who is making polite conversation with me.

During this conversation, as I was signing my name, I was trying to peer at the return address. Hmmm, it was from Italy. From a man I had never heard of. I quickly scanned the destination address and sure enough, it was addressed to me. I said "Buona giornata" to the delivery man and went back upstairs.

I was thinking: Hmmm this is from an Ale... M...whoa! A long name with extensive R trilling and double consonants. I kept repeating his name to myself to see if it would jolt a memory. Nope. Then I was thinking: What could I have ordered online? Oh yes, the last thing was the Hypnotherapy Birthing cds. But they came last week. Hmmm.  Strange. Who is this person and why did he send something to me? Filled with curiosity I opened the package. Ah, sweet! There were two adorable little baby boy outfits by Nike, and three beautiful books, in ENGLISH (joy! joy! joy!) for me and each boy. Wow! Then I opened a card and found that all this generosity came from my Blogging Buddy Liz, whom I have never met in real life yet, although I hope to soon. I am so touched. First because she thought of me, but especially that she thought of me during such a turbulent time in her own life. She had sent this care package to us in her man's suitcase when he made the 5,000 mile journey back to Italy, and then he had sent it to us. Mystery solved. Thank you so much Liz, baci!

So from 5,000 miles away my friend gave me a smile, a friend I would not ever have made except for blogging! Cheers to Blogging Buddies!

Here is Gabriel giving his stamp of approval for his baby-brother-to-be's new duds!

First Day

With a bit of trepidation in my heart, I walked to my youngest son's school this afternoon, to fetch him home after his first day of school this year. This year he is going to a brand new school; and for the first time ever, a school without the reassuring presence of his older brother.
Last night while tucking him into bed he leaned in for a hug, sucked in a deep breath and said a with a little tremor "I hope they like me." I smiled at him and reminded him that no matter what, I love him and know he is a very likeable boy. Earlier in the day he had chosen a t-shirt to wear to school the first day, that has a photograph of his class from last year screenprinted on it. He said he wanted the other kids to see that he had already been in another Italian school.
Today as I waited outside the gate, lost in the press of the parents and grandparents waiting for the children to come out of the doors of the school, I searched the faces. Finally I saw my youngest son (as I write this it occurs to me that in a couple of months I won't be able to refer to Matthew in this way, he will be my middle son!) and I jumped up and down, waving my arm high above heads to try to attract his attention. He saw me. I saw a slight smile appear then he moved with purpose through the sea of people toward me. We didn't try to hug or even speak, we walked away from the crowd. Finally when there was breathing room I turned and hugged him and looked at this sweet boy. I knew he had a good day. His face reflected calm and satisfaction. "They were nice. I won a game of "find four" against some of my new friends four times! One of them wanted me to pretend I didn't trap him in a move, so I said Okay... Mamma, I don't think they even know I am American! I only spoke Italian." We smiled at each other and walked home.
Later he drove home the point with his older brother Gabriel who starts middle school tomorow. Gabriel had been waiting at home full of curiosity about his brother's day at school. Matthew told him all about it and gave this advice: "Don't tell them that you are American. Just let them think you are Italian. Then once they get to know you, you can tell them." "Why?" we asked. "So you have a chance to make friends. Otherwise they will think you can't speak Italian and they will want to ignore you, or will always think you are too different, like my class did last year."
Oh my child, I understand you more than you think I do! But maybe this goes too deep for now.
In the two and a half years that my children have been here, I have seen them grow tremendously. Gabriel is so comfortable in Italian that he is almost complacent. His teachers last year commented that he deserved the high grades he received and that they graded him no differently than an Italian boy who was born here, and they were amazed like us at how quickly he was able to master the language other than a few strange verb usages here and there. All of his work, history, geography, mathematics etc. is conducted in Italian. With Matthew it has been more of a struggle. He is proud, and rightly so of his newfound mastery of Italian, thrilled that it is good enough that his new classmates don't see him as "foreign."
I am sitting here this evening feeling emotional, but mostly grateful. One of my children had a great first day! We worked very hard to get Matthew inserted into this particular class in this school. We are hoping that the Montessori method will make a difference in his educational success. We were told that there was no way he could be admitted into this class, too many other children were ahead of us on the list. So we were persistent for a while. Then I gave up. Then the powers that be called my husband and told him they had room for Matthew! We met his teacher and were duly impressed. So now I have such a hope for a fantastic school year for this boy.
One down, one to go. Tomorrow will be Gabriels' first day in middle school. Oh the drama and theatrics that have been present in our house due to this fact. Have I told you about Italian middle schools yet? Mamma mia! I will have to fill you in even if all our information comes through the grape vine of course, as he hasn't actually attended one yet.

Any Questions?

For those of us who are familiar with the exodus of gli Italiani each year, empty streets in the city during August are a common sight. What makes it so significantly striking however, is that almost every other time of the year parking spaces are difficult to find, making double parking or even parking on sidewalks common. This is the little street where we live, during August when almost everyone was on vacation.

Here is the same street in early September. People are starting to come back to the city. The parking still isn't desperate yet, as you can see.

I must admit I like the (relatively speaking) quiet slow pace of this city in August. Yes more shops are closed, but the big supermarkets are still open, and I know that anything else we will need will become available again in September. I think it is a fair trade off for the breathing room, and less elbow rubbing that takes place in August. But what else would a true country girl from the wide open spaces of Oregon think?

Impressions

Our quickie vacation in Toscana was filled with sun, fun, an occasional rainy afternoon, crowds of people, magnificent art, impressive fortress-like hilltop towns, and the sound of many different languages as tourists from around the world flocked to see this jewel that is Italy. My children, mom and I walked away from this vacation with different impressions, some of which I am happy to tell you about. Matthew now ten years old was absolutely thrilled to make the trek up the worn marble stairs to the top of the Pisa tower. This was a promise come true for him that I made before we ever moved to Italy. I was the only one of our family who did not climb, I stayed down and kept our dog company. At nearly six months pregnant, I considered that climbing with a large group of people, and worrying about slowing them down was something that I was NOT interested in doing.
After seeing a random billboard Gabriel became intent. He cited that since he wants to be a writer, he needs to learn as much as he can, and so he viewed the museum of Torture in Siena. Matthew was not even interested, and when Gabey came out he was a little white and told me that the torture was worse for the poor women, than it had ever been for men. Hmmm... Poor boy, what did he see? No, I am sure I don't want to know. Gabriel, the easygoing boy that he is enjoyed all of our outings, not asking for something from us every ten minutes, like his little brother. Only one evening when after walking in the heat all day and making plans for dinner Gabriel asked to please stay "home" in the agritourismo with his brother and the dog. So under the watchful eyes of our wonderful hosts at the agritourismo, we left the boys, the dog, a cell phone, and two margarita pizzas. We adults took the opportunity to go out for dinner together and eat a "bistecca fiorentina" at a restaurant very close to the Ponte Vecchio. The steak, when it arrived in front of me was so huge that without even meaning to I started laughing. This amused our waiter. I told him that I hadn't expected half a cow! Our steaks each weighed a pound and a half! Needless to say, we didn't even attempt to finish them.
My mom and I enjoyed a beautiful day at the Uffizzi. Being pregnant and losing valuable bladder space, I must use the bathroom more often than I like and so I became intimately acquainted with the bathrooms at the Uffizzi. One of the times we were there, we ran into another American woman who was marvelling at the clean, modern, spacious bathrooms well stocked with seat protectors and paper! I had to agree, these were by far the nicest public bathrooms I have ever yet seen here in Italy. We take these conditions for granted in the U.S. but here it is something to marvel about. I did find it ironic though that with all the fantastic art in the corridors above us, we were gushing on about the bathrooms!

Le Macine, the agritourismo where we stayed was wonderful. It was only four kilometers from the center of Florence, so that was convenient. But for those who love the "country" it was idyllic. The house was built in the 1600s, and had beautiful wooden beams across the ceiling. We had a refrigerator, and a little cookstove. Our hosts were wonderful, friendly and outgoing. They didn't speak much English, but enough I am sure for travellers who don't speak Italian. Every morning they served a big beautiful breakfast to their guests at one long wooden table with chairs and benches set around it to accomodate us all. Coffee, tea, hot milk, cookies, cakes, bruschetta with wonderful home made olive oil and fresh tomatoes, fruit salad,bread and home made fig, berry and prune jams, home made salame and home made juice were there each morning. I am sure I am forgetting something. This was the most diverse and bounteous spread I have ever seen served for breakfasts at an agritourismo. The day we left we bought about 20 bottles of their wine, and a 5 liter container of olive oil from them. I was told the wine was to help me bring in the milk when the time comes for the new baby. I had to laugh! Lots and lots of water will help, but I know that the old wives tale here is that wine for the mom will bring milk for the baby. Well, anyway I will certainly enjoy a glass of that wine in the afternoons after the baby is born. I tasted it, and it is good. I like a homemade wine. This one tastes mellow and a little sweet, a good sipping wine.

Overall I must say that I was charmed by the warmth and smiles of any of the Florentines that I interacted with. Of course this is generalizing, but they seem open and friendly. I must have become a little more used to the people of Torino, salesclerks who will never smile at you, and a general unfriendliness or at least an unwillingness to offer any kind of customer service to their customers. Not so in Florence from what I saw. For example in the Piazza Signoria my mother and I had just bought a few trinkets from a vendor and said "Buona giornata" "Have a nice day" to them and walked off when one of the vendors called me back. He handed me a stack of postcards- for free! For no reason! I was so amazed. It was the first random act of kindness I received from an Italian that I didn't know in the two and a half years that I have lived in Italy.
My mom and I walked off talking about how nice that was, and how unusual, and then we came near the entrance of the Uffizzi where a street musician was playing the guitar. We listened and were entranced, and eventually plucked out a cd from his guitar case after placing in it the appropriate euros. We told him how beautiful the music was and he smiled and nodded. We put the cd in the car to listen to it. The cd cover shows the same musician, and the skill level was the same. But that hauntingly beautiful classical music that had so captivated us? It was replaced by technically dazzling, but rather cold arrangements. Sigh. Who knows, maybe we were simply romanced by a magical afternoon in Florence, the whimsical weather that was slightly rainy interspersed by glorious sun, too much art to fathom, and a handsome young guitar player who could pull heartstrings with a haunting barely remembered lovesong.