Mission Statement

So there is no misunderstanding, this blog isn't just another ex-pat site full of information and miscellaneous advice (unless you consider learning through my mistakes and observations a type of advice). My vision for this blog is to let people in on the truth of what it means to live in this crazy and lovable country. If you want to continue glorifying and romanticizing Italy, then some of what I have to say may be hard for you to hear. Consider yourself warned.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

The Massage Monologues, Part I




     Looking back on my time in school earning a degree in massage therapy, I can guarantee you that there is nothing that my teachers could have said that would have prepared me for what it would be like to work in the spa of a luxury hotel in the middle of Rome. Though they definitely tried to prepare us for how to handle the occasional inappropriate client, I'm afraid that even their imaginations couldn't begin to fathom what I would be up against.

      I was lucky enough to find work rather easily in one of the most prestigious hotels on Via Veneto. Given the caliber of the hotel and it's upper crust location, one can imagine the kind of guests it attracts. For instance, I can say first hand that the Saudi Arabian princes and princesses that I have had the honor of meeting through my line of work have been some of my most courteous, gracious, and modest clients. I admit that initially I was wary given the middle east's reputation for how it views women, but as it turns out there was nothing to worry about. Then one afternoon the president of [small middle eastern country that will remain nameless] arrived. Apparently a pseudo-democratically elected presidential dictator just doesn't have the class of royal blood lines.

      It was towards the end of my shift and he was to be my last client of the day. He was staying in the cupola, which for all intents and purposes is a house within the hotel. It is two stories, with a full gym and spa, complete with sauna, steam room, jacuzzi, and a stunning nearly 360° view. Of course he would be having an in-room massage. (Actually this was already his second massage in two days. I learned from the previous therapist that he had insisted upon receiving the first massage within the steam room. Shockingly, she actually appeased this ridiculous request, setting up an unfortunate precedent that I knew I would never be able to uphold.)

      The appointment was for 4pm, but we were to wait until his assistant called down to the spa to say that he was ready. We waited. And waited. At nearly 4:30 I told reception that I was leaving since I was meeting my then-boyfriend (now-husband) at around 5:30 and who knew when we would actually get started once this guy finally called. So I got changed and was about to leave, when as life would have it, the call came down that He was ready. Part of me wanted to stick it to this egocentric asshole who clearly believed that no one had anything better to do than wait on him, but I guess curiosity got the better of me. So I changed back into my white spa pants and headed up along with the esthetician who would be doing his facial.

      The hallway outside of the door to this “room” had been set up almost like airport security. There were tables upon which his personal security officers examined anything that would be brought inside; sheets, towels, massage table, etc. Of course we were both given a generic pat down and then forced to leave our cell phones, my MP3 player, and my mini speakers outside in a box. (No music for this massage.) Fair enough. I mean he was the president of a small country after all. When President Obama stayed at the hotel, he didn't have a massage but I'm sure that if he had, the security measures outside of his room would have been similar if not even more stringent.

      Once inside I admit that both of us were somewhat in awe of the accommodations. I had never imagined that hidden inside the hotel's labyrinth of hallways was an entire house. I felt like I had just entered the wardrobe and found myself in Narnia. We were led through the hallway, catching glimpses of the decadent and very purposefully designed interior rooms. The only clue that we were not in a real home was the lack of personality, which really lent the whole setting a very Twilight Zone kind of feel. Eventually we arrived at the small interior elevator which brought us directly up into the private spa and gym.

      Again, awe. The elevator spat us out into a small alcove which led directly to a large, frescoed, sun-lit room with an entire wall of windows facing out onto a private terrace. In the middle of this room was an enormous in-floor jacuzzi that could easily have accommodated up to 10 people comfortably. To the right two side by side doors, one in frosted glass and one in wood, led to the steam room and the sauna, respectively, and the work out equipment could be seen through yet another doorway. The president was still nowhere to be seen, so we took our time figuring out the best place to set up the massage table. This ended up being next to the jacuzzi, a choice that would come back to bite us in the ass.

      At last, probably about an hour after the original appointment time, his royal presidentialness made his appearance in slippers and white fluffy bath robe. He greeted us, without eye contact, putting forth his hand as though expecting us to kiss the jewels in his rings. We immediately perceived that, in addition to a challenging language barrier, we would have to deal with unabashed middle eastern sexism and self imposed class snobbery. Not a good combination. Luckily the concept of laying down on a massage table can be easily communicated with fairly simple gestures and, even more luckily, when he dropped that bathrobe, he had underwear on.

      For the next half-hourish the massage and facial proceeded normally. Eventually it was time to turn him over onto his stomach, at which point the esthetician's job was done. However he insisted that she massage him as well. She and I warily looked at each other, but since she had some minimal training as a massage therapist and since she had to wait for me to finish anyway, there was no real reason to refuse. After another half-hourish, we concluded the appointment with only that minor glitch.... Or so we thought.

      Once he was all covered up and we were simply waiting for him to get up so that we could fold up the table, he began gesticulating and saying things we didn't understand. His assistant/translator informed us that he wanted to extend the massage another half hour. I was already super late as is and getting antsy, sure that my boyfriend was starting to wonder about my whereabouts. I politely declined, and then turned to the esthetician. She locked her big, innocent, Swedish, blue eyes on mine and just said, very quietly, “Please don't leave me here.” I almost laughed. It was this poor girl's first week on the job.

      “I'm sorry, we aren't available. We have clients waiting for us downstairs,” I informed the assistant. He communicated this to Mr. President, who, based on his reaction, didn't seem to hear or understand. He indicated the table and said something else, probably the same thing he had said before.

      I shook my head and tried to smile. “No, I'm sorry. We really have to get going.”

      Still no sign of comprehension, though I'm sure that even his limited English vocabulary included the word “no”. The assistant seemed to be doing his best, but clearly this lack of understanding was conceptual and had little to do with language.

      I looked at the other girl again, at a loss for how to extricate ourselves from this situation. In truth I was finding the whole thing border-line amusing and expected to see that sentiment mirrored back at me. Instead I was confronted with those alarmed eyes and again, “Please don't leave me here.” I can't imagine why she thought that I would ever do that, but it was clear that for all intents and purposes I was in this alone.

      Then, before we were really aware of what was happening, the president got up from the table, pulled off his underwear, and splooshed into the jacuzzi. Not missing a beat, he began gesturing for us to join him. The two of us stood there speechless as I internally cursed the previous therapist who had agreed to do the massage in the steam room.

      “You come to massage here.”

      “No.” I indicated our clothes. “We have to go.”

      “Is okay. Is okay. You take off.” And he mimed for us how to do that. It couldn't possibly be that two inferior beings would deign to say “no” to Him.

      “No.”

      I turned to the assistant, who at this point appeared both embarrassed and entertained, and asked him to please explain that we were not going to continue the massage in the jacuzzi and that we were already late and had to leave, though I do believe that he was probably already doing his best to communicate this. Given the apologetic look on his face, it was pretty clear that of the two he was the one with a better sense of the inappropriate, or at least that he had more experience dealing with emancipated women.

      After several more back-and-forths regarding our willingness to enter the jacuzzi, the president abruptly lifted himself out and wrapped himself back up in the fluffy bathrobe. With a nod of confirmation from the assistant, we wasted no more time in folding up the massage table and gathering together sheets, towels, oil, etc. The president was now engrossed in the contents of a black binder and surrounded by several men in dark suits who had appeared out of nowhere. It felt strange to leave without saying anything so I glanced in his direction, trying to figure out how to handle our exit. Apparently he saw me out of the corner of his eye because he raised his arm and shooed us away.

      It was such a relief to finally be out of there, changed, and waiting for my boyfriend outside. That whole post-massage debacle had eaten up another half hour, bringing the total time dedicated to that appointment to about two and a half hours (which I had already made sure I would be paid for). My boyfriend pulled up and I collapsed into the front seat as he leaned over to give me a kiss.

      “So how was work?”


*If you are the copyright holder of the photo used in this post please contact me if you wish for it to be removed.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Please leave a message after the beep... or not.



      My family was one of the last families I know of to get an answering machine. In fact, I believe I was already off living on my own by the time my parents finally caved to the pressure. I know it was a constant source of frustration for friends and family members alike who would call and listen to the endless ringing on the other end, hoping with each new ring that either one of us would finally breathlessly pick up the phone or that the answering machine would put them out of their misery. I really don't know why there was such resistance towards purchasing and implementing this helpful device. Possibly procrastination. Or possibly because my mother is Italian.

      It turns out that Italians are answering-machine-phobic. I had no idea, but looking back I should have recognized the signs long ago. What I had chosen to perceive on a case by case basis, were actually symptoms of a national disorder. I would call my aunt and uncle in Rome and the phone would ring endlessly. I would call friends on their cell phones and instead of going to voice mail, the line would just go dead... or better yet, first a recorded voice would inform me that the number was momentarily busy or unavailable and then the line would go dead. The only messages I would receive on my land line's built in answering service were from friends and family in the US. And when I wanted to set up an outgoing message on my cell phone it turned out to be an impossibly confusing ordeal, like the phone company was telling me to not even bother. But still I wasn't getting it. I kept thinking how strange it was that no one I knew had some sort of answering machine set up. Meanwhile, by default, I became dependent on the text message as a substitute.

      Then I made two startling discoveries. First I discovered that were someone to call and leave a message on my cell, I would actually be charged for listening to it! Since this almost never happened, it took me a while to catch on. But once I was aware of it, I basically stopped listening to those rare messages that I received. Luckily, upon receipt of a message the phone company would send an automatically generated text telling me that a voice mail had been left by a certain number. I would then scroll through my contacts to see if it was someone I knew, and if it was I would call them back directly, skipping the costly in between step of actually listening to the message. The second discovery was that if I de-activated my voice mail altogether, I would receive a different automatically generated text, telling me the name (or number, if it wasn't someone in my contacts) of the person who had tried to call me and at what time. Needless to say I too soon became someone with no voice mail box.

      So what's this about? Why is there such a cultural aversion to the answering machine that even the cell phone providers assume that most people won't take advantage of that particular feature? Is it issues over talking to a machine? Is it performance anxiety regarding one's ability to improvise a compelling message on the spot? Is it a sense of pointlessness since all most people usually say is Hi. I called. Call me back.? I do have one very weak theory having to do with a general distrust of anything not taken care of face to face (or voice to voice) which I think could make for a very interesting ethnographic study, but I'll leave that one to the anthropologists.

      Meanwhile, when my now-husband and I moved into our house about seven months ago, and were gradually furnishing it via various consignment shops and flea markets, it seemed only natural to me to purchase an answering machine when I saw it there on the shelf. He went along with it, though I'm now sure he was just humoring me. As soon as we got home we recorded the outgoing message and had his sister call us to make sure it worked. It did! And that was very nearly the last message we've gotten. In fact I got so sick of coming home to seven blank messages and to the machine picking up after too few rings when I actually am home (of course the caller always hangs up as soon as the recorded message starts), that a few weeks ago I unplugged it altogether. And the irony of it all is that I now have neither answering machine nor voice mail box. Apparently I become more Italian everyday.

*If you are the copyright holder of the photo used in this post please contact me if you wish for it to be removed.

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Italian For Beginners


     There are a few simple vocabulary and pronunciation issues that I'd like to clear up once and for all because they drive me crazy. Some of these things are going to be hard for people to accept, but I just have to get them off my chest. I don't expect to change the world (or America) with these corrections, but at least I'll know I've said my piece.

1. Gelato means ice cream. Not Italian ice cream. Just ice cream. Specifying that you are going out for “gelato” is just weird. When Italians visit the US they call the ice cream there gelato. Get it? For them it's the SAME THING. Of course the ice cream in Italy and the ice cream in the US (or anywhere else for that matter) are slightly different. Every country has developed its own style and its own variation for preparing it. But notice that while Italian bread is quite different from American bread, we don't call it “pane”. We call it Italian bread. Why should ice cream be any different?

2. Do not add an “s” to an Italian noun ending with the letter “i”. Ex: cannolis, raviolis, gnocchis, etc. Those words are already plural without the “s”. It's like saying appless or orangeses. It doesn't work. Now if you really aren't comfortable with pluralizing a word sans “s” then at least say cannolos, raviolos, or gnoccos (the "h" gets dropped). It's still weird but at least it's technically grammatically correct. Additionally, if you are talking about only one of said item (most specifically in the case of cannoli) then the “i” becomes an “o”. It is metaphysically impossible to order one cannoli.

3. Panini means sandwiches. Here we have a combination of problems 1 and 2. First of all, panini is already plural. One of them is a “panino”. So, like I said, if you really must use an “s” then please call them “paninos” and if ordering just one please say “panino”. Second of all, an Italian sandwich is still a sandwich: stuff between two pieces of bread. Why Americans think that panini are made with a special type of bread and must be toasted is a mystery to me. (As a matter of fact, 99% of panini are NOT toasted. A toasted sandwhich is simply called "toast".) It's true that in Italy panini are usually made on a roll of some kind and not from sliced bread, but that's not enough to classify them as a different type of food. Especially since there's nothing saying that a panino can't be made using slices of bread. Be careful though. If you're in Italy and see what looks like a generic triangular American sandwich (white bread with something or other in the middle and the crusts trimmed off) that is called a tramezzino. Interesting, no?

4. (Okay, just one more of this kind. I promise.) Biscotti means cookies. Again, already plural. And again, just cookies. ALL types of cookies. But NOT that somewhat crescent shaped baked sweet that may or may not have hazelnuts mixed in and that may or may not be half dipped in chocolate. In Italy those are not a kind of cookie/biscotto. Those are called tozzetti. It's okay if you want to continue calling them biscotti, but just know that in that case you can call chocolate chip cookies and oatmeal cookies and shortbread cookies, etc. biscotti as well.


5. Some Italian words that have made it over to the US have, for some reason, kept their regional accent. This is most noticeable in the word “ricotta”. If one looks at that word and pronounces it as written but with an American accent, one will say “ri-COT-uh”. And that is actually much closer to the actual pronunciation than what most people end up saying when they believe they are making an effort to say it Italiany. These people say “ri-GUT”. Now I'm sure that somewhere in Italy there is some dialect that turns “c” to “g” and drops the final vowel, but just know that that IS NOT proper Italian pronunciation and that if you go to a restaurant in Italy and say that word you will get weird looks.
**Please note, more or less the same rule applies to "prosciutto". It is pronounced "pro-SHOOT-oh", not "pro-JUTE".

6. Minestrone, mascarpone, calzone... The final “e” is not silent. Nothing, seriously nothing, sounds more American than turning the “o” in that last syllable into a diphthong. Now, to be honest, even if you make the effort to vocalize the final “e” (with the "eh" sound) but say the rest of the word with your normal accent, it still doesn't sound good. So I have no idea how to help you. Sorry. Maybe just avoid ordering those things.



7. MozzarellAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. Not mozzarell. Perhaps I should have said this sooner, but the only words used in Italian that don't end in a vowel are words that come from other languages. So if, when you've just finished saying something in Italian, you find that your mouth is closed because it did not just finish pronouncing a vowel, then you've done something wrong.

**And the helpful tip of the day: If you want an espresso with milk/a cappuccino with no foam (known as a “latte” in the US), you must order a caffè latte. Otherwise you will just get a glass of milk. Additionally, an “espresso” in Italy is just “caffè”. So you don't have to specify and it's actually a little strange if you do.

     In closing, no one expects you to pronounce Italian words without a trace of an accent. I was surprised to learn that, in the same way that an Italian accent is charming in English, so too can an American accent be charming in Italian. (I know. I don't get it either.) But there is a difference between pronunciation and blatant grammatical error. Let's all try to keep that in mind and spread the word. It's true that we won't all feel comfortable correcting friends and strangers who order paninis and who like biscottis with their latte, but remember that in correcting these mistakes you are actually helping these people. And more importantly you are helping me. 

*If you are the copyright holder of any of the photos used in this post please contact me if you wish for them to be removed.

Friday, October 1, 2010

The Hunt For Antica Taverna




      About a year and a half ago while strolling casually through the crooked cobbled streets near Piazza Navona, my husband and I discovered a fantastic little restaurant. The prices are moderate, there's outdoor seating year round (with heat lamps if needed), the rigatoni with egglplant and ricotta is to die for, and there's always room for dessert. This is one of those restaurants that you want to bring guests to. The only trouble is finding it again.

      If you've been to Rome then one of the things that you've probably fallen in love with is getting lost in all of those narrow winding streets, so different from the checkerboard layout of our own cities. In your wanderings you came upon some fantastic bakery or gelateria or restaurant and you ducked inside, thinking how lucky to discover this little hidden corner of the city. It was definitely a once-in-a-vacation moment which you lived to the fullest, tasting everything and taking as many pictures as possible to show everyone back home. You weren't worried about finding that spot again because the next day you had plans to visit the Vatican and two days later you were flying home. I envy you.

      After our first time at said restaurant we naïvely continued on our way, not remotely concerned with taking note of specific landmarks or street names. After all, we had come upon it so easily. And it's not like we were lost or anything. Of course we would easily be able to find it again. (sigh)

      Obviously the day came that we were once again strolling through Rome and thought how lovely it would be to revisit that little spot for lunch. Certain that we remembered how to get there, we headed off. After an hour or so of following our instincts and turning down the narrowest and cobbliest streets possible until we were legitimately lost, we finally admitted defeat and ate somewhere else. But we were troubled. Even though our bellies were full, it had become our mission to find that restaurant. We thought hard and tried to retrace the steps that we might have taken that first fateful day, beginning from the north end of Piazza Navona. (Here I'd like to add that before looking at a map I was 100% convinced that the north end was actually the east end and that we had walked north, not west. So much for my sense of direction. Additionally I was convinced that when we exited the piazza in the supposed direction of the restaurant, we were walking parallel to the river and to Corso Vittorio Emanuele when in reality, if we continued straight, we would find them both smack in front of us. This type of error is common of one who is used to the grid-like pattern of the streets and avenues of Manhattan and to a river that doesn't curve. And this will f**k with one's sense of direction mercilessly...) Anyway, I don't know how, but we did eventually find the restaurant.

      Which is why, when I had a friend visiting Rome for a few days, we (or at least I) felt certain that THIS time we could find the restaurant on purpose and on the first try. I confidently set off in the direction that had last proven successful. At each turn I exclaimed that whatever I was seeing was something we had definitely passed the last time we found it. The best part is, I believed it. But after at least half an hour of leading everyone through the hidden back streets of Rome, I had to swallow my pride and once again admit defeat. I was eventually forced to ask the waiter of another restaurant (who was out on his cigarette break) if he knew of a restaurant with more or less *this* name. (We didn't even remember the name of the restaurant. It was pretty pathetic.) Miraculously he seemed to know what we were talking about and gave us very good directions that led us exactly there....about 100 meters and one semi-parallel street over.

      Though the proximity of the restaurant did help to redeem my self-confidence just the tiniest bit, after that evening we realized that we were going to have to practice finding this place... We also took a business card, the existence of which we had been previously unaware. The card even had a small map on the reverse side so we figured we were golden. If it had only gone as simply as that, but, unbelievably, the story is not over.

      One beautiful day in late Autumn my husband and I were going for a stroll near home when he put his hand in the pocket of his freshly washed jeans. His fingers touched a fragile, soft piece of paper, which he pulled out, hoping to find forgotten money. We both bent over his hand curiously to examine the cloth-like bit of white pulp that he pulled out, when it hit me.

      “I know exactly what that is.”

      “Wha-.....Oh no!!!

      Yes, it was the one and only business card that we had taken from the restaurant. Complete with name, street address, phone number, and...map. What could we do but laugh until we were practically crying at the irony of it all?

      Clearly the universe had provided us with a challenge and was waiting to see if we were up to it. Let's just say that we're not quitters. We went into heavy training. Every chance we got we made it a point to see if we could find that restaurant, even if we weren't hungry and weren't planning on stopping for a meal, though often we were and we did. We began trying to find it coming from different directions and taking short cuts. We took turns blind folding each other and going to random points in Rome to see if the other could find it from an unknown starting point. (Okay, we didn't actually do that...but maybe we should have!) And finally we were ready.

      Several months later, when another friend was visiting from the US, we got our chance to show off. We casually mentioned this great hidden little restaurant near Piazza Navona that we could go to for dinner. We set off, finding it without a hitch, and had a wonderful meal. Afterwards we led him through the windy streets to one of our favorite gelaterias. It was a lovely night and we were proud of ourselves for not only showing my friend a good time but for giving the impression that navigating that labyrinth of streets was second nature to us.

      We have been back to that restaurant many times since, both by ourselves and with guests, and while I won't say that it's ever a disappointment, I think both of us to some degree miss the sense of adventure and treasure hunt that previously encompassed these outings. So now we're constantly on the look out for the next hidden gem, but we're not leaving it up to luck. We ALWAYS take a business card and, when possible, we program the exact geographic coordinates into my husband's hand held GPS navigator. Yes, maybe we're dorks and maybe it's cheating, but we're not taking any more chances.



*If you are the copyright holder of the photo used in this post please contact me if you wish for it to be removed.