These Italian Shoes Are Made For Walkin'

    There is almost nothing that makes me feel more like an American... no, like a New Yorker... than going for a walk in Italy. I lived in New York City for ten years and during that time walking was a mode of transportation, a way to get from point A to point B. I'm sure I'm not the only New Yorker to develop a kind of personalized walking technique. Mine involved long strides, always looking at least ten feet ahead to allow for maneuvering time, efficient use of crosswalks, keeping to the right of the sidewalk in heavy pedestrian traffic, and using Broadway's diagonal trajectory as a kind of worm hole through Manhattan space-time. The rules of NYC pedestrian etiquette are many and unspoken, which is why to an Italian tourist, suddenly thrown into the swarm of millions of seasoned city walkers all at once, I know that it comes across as chaotic and stressful. But I guarantee that there is an order and a beauty to it. An order and a beauty that that same Italian tourist will interrupt when he stops at the top of the subway stairs to get his bearings, or when he slows down to look up at the skyscrapers, or when he holds hands with his family of four, forming an impossible-to-pass human chain. You see, he is not walking.... He is going for a passeggiata.

    Passeggiata translates literally to “a walk”. But culturally it's so much more than that. It's a social event, it's a date, it's a way to relax. It is, most importantly, NOT just a way to get from here to there. Allow me to explain. On a summer night, after dinner, people may go for a passeggiata. If they live in a small town that means they'll stroll through the town piazza, chat with neighbors, get some ice cream, stop on a bench to look at the stars. If they live in a city it means they'll people watch in the windy streets, enjoy the music of street performers, buy watermelon from a vendor, relax on the steps of a fountain. Sure they may stop at a pub for a drink or decide to get some tiramisù at a sidewalk cafè, but that is all part of the passeggiata.

    A passeggiata can also be a hike through the woods or a day spent exploring nearby towns. It can be for exercise, to kill time before a movie, or to help you digest a big meal. It can be a solitary, meditative moment, a romantic date, or a group excursion with friends. There are no rules for the passeggiata save for one: there is almost NEVER a clear cut route or destination. And that is the very part that I struggle with.

    In New York I was a walker. I would regularly link together various errands, creating a strategic and efficient connect-the-dots of streets and avenues. I might glance in shop windows as I passed, but for the most part I was focused on my next goal and on getting there as quickly as possible. If I was going to the pharmacy, I was going to the pharmacy. If I was going to the park, I was going to the park. What I passed on the way was of little importance, partly because New York City “landscapes” tend to be repetitive and lacking in what I consider pause-worthy wow factor, but mostly I think because the “goal habit” is hard to break.

    Either this is just how I'm programmed or living in New York City for ten years has really taken its toll, but it turns out that I now have no idea how to go for a simple pleasure stroll. I need a destination and I need it bad. Often on my husband's day off  he will propose going for a passeggiata somewhere and I truly wish that I could muster more enthusiasm for something that I know he enjoys so much. But tragically, the idea of wandering for the sake of wandering does not stimulate us in similar ways.

    The difference between walking and passeggiare is evident not only in our perspective on nature walks, but also in the way we walk through the city streets. I'll never forget the first time I showed my husband my Manhattan walk, the walk that I had been forced to stifle for months. I released myself into it, like a strong dog finally being let off her leash, and when after several moments I finally turned to see his reaction I found him about twenty meters behind me, bewildered and running to catch up. I immediately slowed back down and have gradually been losing that walk ever since. It's just not feasible in a country of passaggiata-ers.

    Ultimately my question is this: Is it an Italian vs. American difference or is it a world vs. Jessica difference? I find it hard to imagine that I'm the only one and am inclined to believe that this must come from having grown up in the instant-gratification-seeking, summer-blockbuster-watching, reading-the-last-page-of-a-book-first (I don't actually do that) turn of the millenium American culture. It's a journey vs. destination way of living life. It's the difference between working to live and living to work. And when I think about it like that I obviously choose the former.

    It's now officially summer which is prime passeggiata season. Down in Rome the evening street fairs along the river and under Castel Sant'Angelo will be in full swing every night while all of the small towns in our area will start having their own individual weekend festivals, complete with truffle tastings, fried pizza, and group dances at sunset. Outside our house the temperature will be mild in the early evening when the jittery silhouettes of bats start swooping low in the sky and the subtle scent of jasmine hangs on every breeze. When my husband suggests that we go for a passeggiata, maybe get some ice cream, I will have to overcome that old familiar feeling that without a point B there's no reason to walk away from point A, because by now I should realize that I'm always so happy when I do.

Dr. Who's Paying For This?

     On May 3^rd, at roughly 11:30pm, my husband and I were involved in a rather serious car accident with a Lamborghini. My husband's 1981 Alfa Romeo 33, which he had been meticulously restoring for the past few years, did not survive the crash. We, on the other hand, somehow emerged with only five stitches in the back of the head (him) and pretty bad whip lash (me). We were very lucky, but that is all I will say about the accident itself.

      About fifteen minutes after the accident, which admittedly felt like an eternity at the time, an ambulance showed up and took us to the nearest emergency room where my husband got stitched, CAT scanned, and sonogrammed for internal injuries while I had the scrape on my forehead disinfected and my neurological responses tested. The next day we went to our own doctor for an antibiotic prescription to prevent an infection of my husband's head wound and he was given two weeks of paid sick leave from work. In the meantime my neck had started hurting and so back to the emergency room we went, where I was x-rayed and subsequently informed that my cervical curve was temporarily straightened and that I should wear a neck brace for at least a week. Ten days later my husband went back to our doctor to have his stitches removed. At no time during any of this ordeal did anyone ask about insurance coverage or payment of any kind. Only the antibiotic cost €2.50, and only because we chose the name brand. The generic brand would have been free.

      Now, I don't honestly know how this all would have gone in the US, but I'm willing to bet not like this. At best there would have been the hassle of co-pays and deductibles and at worst there would have been the knowledge of paying the very arm and leg that we hadn't lost in the accident. In fact, I believe that the reality of medical care in a country with socialized medicine is so far from the reality of medical care in the US, that most American citizens truly can't comprehend what it means. I know that I initially couldn't.

      The first time I went to the doctor in Italy was a surreal experience. I probably didn't even really need to go, but I admit that I was curious. I called ahead, thinking I needed to make an appointment, but was told to just show up. After visiting with the doctor, it felt too strange to simply walk right out of the office so I went to the reception desk to see if there was something I needed to do, sign, pay... The receptionist just smiled and shook her head. But I still couldn't bring myself to leave.

      “You're really really sure? That's it?”

      “Yes.”

      “So I can just go?”

      “Yes.”

      Her eyes indicated that she was possibly entertained by my troubled expression. Finally, with an embarrassed and apologetic laugh I explained, “I'm sorry. This is new to me. I'm American.” The receptionist responded with another smile and an understanding nod. And I left.

      It's been a little over four years since that initial visit and though I'm able to preach about the beauty of socialized medicine, I find that it rarely occurs to me to take full advantage of it. Living in the US, uninsured for years, I would never think of going to the doctor for something as minor as a sore throat and a cough. This “habit”, for lack of a better term, turns out to be exceedingly difficult to rid myself of and leaves my husband at a loss for words. In the midst of a recent episode of bronchitis, I had to be nearly dragged to see the doctor. In the end I grudgingly went and was prescribed antibiotics...again free.

      As much as Americans don't truly know how different it all could be, the same goes for Italians, who generally (and I think obviously) take for granted the only system that they have ever known. My husband is one of these, and even after countess discussions on the topic I think he still harbors a profound shock that a country as civilized and revered as the US could be so backwards and barbaric when it comes to the health of its citizens. As for me, I didn't realize just how far removed Italians truly are from us until I overheard a neighbor complaining that her chemo-therapy drugs (whose market value is thousands of euro) would be costing her €9.... Take a moment with that.... To further understand her situation, know that this woman is middle-aged, unemployed, far from financially stable, and nonetheless going through chemo-therapy for breast cancer at no cost to herself other than this €9 prescription. People in similar situations in the US have been known to go bankrupt, die, or both when confronted with such an illness. Of course illnesses and circumstances such as these are an extreme and are therefore something that relatively few of us actually have to deal with. For that reason it's easy to fall into complacency, coming to regard the doctor as a luxury to be taken advantage of rarely and learning to ignore and/or live with our various aches and pains.

      So when a friend of mine from NY came to visit a couple of months ago I immediately jumped at the chance to have her experience the other side. She suffers from migraines and we had gotten to talking about how her insurance stopped covering one of her prescriptions, having arbitrarily decided that a cheaper (and ultimately ineffective) medication should suit her just fine. I took her to my doctor, he wrote her a prescription for the proper drug, we went to the pharmacy, and IT WAS FREE.* Needless to say, she too returned home preaching about the wonders of socialized medicine.

      I'm not saying that there are no flaws. Sometimes hospitals look a bit run down and sometimes you're tenth in line at the doctor's office. Those who can afford it may choose to go to a costly private clinic instead of roughing it with the rest of us. But that is an individual choice. No one will ever die because they couldn't afford a treatment, or worse, because their insurance company wouldn't pay for it. Maybe the most fundamental and life-changing thing that Americans can't imagine in all of this is the peace of mind; that in the midst of life's unexpected catastrophes one will be taken care of, no questions asked and no co-pays paid.

*Only medications that are considered “life-savers” or “quality-of-life-savers” are free. Others will cost several euro.

Doggy Bag Afternoon

      My husband says that I'm digital, one or zero, all or nothing. I either don't have to pee or am in emergency pee-pee dance mode. I'm either covered in goose bumps with teeth chattering or the heat is sucking the very life blood from me. I'm either the life of the road trip or I'm zonked out and drooling on my own shoulder. And I'm either ready to eat an entire tofurkey or I'm so full that I'm unbuttoning my pants in public places. Obviously over time I've adapted to accommodate my various physical needs and as a result I have an uncanny radar for public restrooms, dress in multiple layers even in August, and have a sixth sense when it comes to waking up for my train stop. The one thing that I have not learned to do is order the proper quantity of food at restaurants.

      Looking back on my life I acknowledge that my eyes have been notoriously bigger than my stomach from the very beginning. I believe that my lack of adaptation to this particular trait is due entirely to the existence of the doggy bag. I grew up in a land where it didn't matter if you didn't finish what you ordered because you could bring it home and eat it for lunch the next day, where if there was even a bite of something left on your plate the waiter would offer to wrap it up for you. I am now living hungrily ever after in a land far far away from that one.

      When I first arrived in Rome four years ago, so automatically did I take the doggy bag for granted, that it didn't even occur to me that it was something that could be different from country to country. I suppose a clue could have been the first time that I asked to take something home and the restaurant did not physically have the proper container in which to put my left-overs, bringing them to me (after looking at me oddly) in a small pizza box. I think I just looked oddly right back at them.

      The sequence of events over the next few months is foggy, but somehow it eventually came to my attention that in Italy the taking home of left-overs is generally looked down upon. I was incredulous.

      “But that's such a waste.”

      “But it's food that I've paid for. Why shouldn't I be able to take it home? What do they care?”

      “But that's such a waste.”

      My argument was valid, but repetitive at best. Still, everyone to whom I pointed out the logic of my thinking and the flaw of the Italian custom agreed with me. Yes, there should be nothing wrong with bringing left-overs home from a restaurant, but no, they would not be doing it.

      It wasn't until I really probed my pre-husband on the matter that we began to form an idea of why there is such a stigma associated with something that makes so much sense. His hypothesis comes down to an anti-post-war mentality. Italy was a country that suffered extreme poverty and hunger after WWII. Nothing was wasted. As the country's economy slowly climbed back to prosperity it became a matter of personal and family pride to be able to afford freshly prepared food everyday. Somehow, three generations later, this has stuck and therefore one must be a terrible cheap skate or seriously impoverished to want to bring something home from a restaurant.

      So I decided to personally start changing this ridiculous rule of etiquette. I decided not to care what others thought of me. I decided that the next time we went out to dinner, I would walk into that restaurant, look at that menu, and order my heart out without worrying about having to finish everything right then and there. And then I would boldly ask what no Italian had asked before: to take home my left-overs!

      But in the end it proved more difficult than I had imagined. At the close of our next meal out, when it was clear that what was still on my plate would be staying there, I looked imploringly at my husband and asked him to ask, but he just shook his head and suggested that I speak with a thick American accent so that my faux pas could be attributed to my being a tourist. I scowled at him, but began planning out what I was going to say, making it sound as nonchalant as possible. And when the waiter came:

      “No, no dessert thank you. Just the check.”

      What?! To my shock and dismay it turned out that I did actually care what they thought of me. And as a result no left-overs were brought home.

      In the long term, this situation will never do, especially not for a shamefully inaccurate eye to stomach ratio such as mine. Either I am going to have to learn to be That Person, or I am going to have to learn how to order food. With the help of my husband, we've been working on the latter task, but it really is deceivingly difficult as I'm always tragically convinced that I'll be able to eat everything I've ordered. My husband is the one who bears the brunt of this in the end, forcing himself to finish my dinner as well so that it doesn't go to waste. He has come to dread the tell-tale moment when I look at him sadly over my far-from-empty plate with defeat in my eyes.

      “No. Seriously? Already? Did you even touch it?”

      “Yes, but I'm full. Do you think we could ask to take it home?”

      “Sure. Go ahead and ask them.”

      “They'll think I'm crazy.”

      “Maybe.”

      “Can you ask for me?”

      “No.”

      “Please?”

      “No.”

      “Alright, well I guess it will get thrown out then.”

      “Oh, give it to me.”

      He blames me for the pounds he's put on since we've been together... He may have a point.

      This doesn't mean that I've given up in my quest to bring the doggy bag to Italy. Choosing my venue carefully, I have on several occasions thus far succeeded in asking to have my dinner wrapped up. These were moments of personal triumph for me and, I believe, important first steps in what I am now calling the “Doggy Bag Movement”. Which is why, as I write this I am reaching out to anyone who while in Italy has sadly watched their dinner go to waste, to anyone who likes cold spaghetti for lunch, to anyone who resents being too full to order dessert... Let's all of us make a pledge, and in so doing help the Italian people as well!

I pledge deliverance from the customs of the restaurants of Italy, and proclaim this right which we demand: one doggy bag, on the table, undeniable, with lunch tomorrow and dessert tonight for all.

Let Them Eat Pizza!

      I am sick of Italian food. There. I said it. And I'll add something else. I miss the variety of NY, where going out to dinner means choosing a restaurant based on the ethnic cuisine one happens to be in the mood for. Got a craving for Ethiopian food? Thai? Mexican? Indian? Raw? Fancy nouveau American? For every random craving there are at least ten potential restaurants within walking distance from wherever you are... including Italian. (Don't actually look up that statistic.)

      As I write this I can already hear the public outcry and the indignation, reminding me that I live in arguably one of the best food countries in the world. And my response to all of you is this: I don't care. When I go out to dinner I can already predict what most of the dishes on the menu will be, and I'm talking antipasto, primo, AND dessert. (I don't eat meat so I ignore the secondo, but I'm still pretty sure it wouldn't impress me with any surprises.) As I scan a menu it's possible that I may find one thing that's a little “different” and I'll probably order it even if the ingredients aren't things I'd normally be drawn to. Ex: trofiette with radicchio pesto... I don't even really like radicchio that much, but at least this dish was making an effort.

      I'll tell you what I miss. I miss being able to order something like a warm beet salad with roasted fennel and walnuts on a bed of arugula drizzled with a raspberry citrus vinaigrette. I miss butternut squash soup and truffled mashed potatoes. I miss the food of trendy NYC restaurants where the chefs treat their menus like an expressive form of art, playfully combining unexpected ingredients to create surprising new flavors. I miss veggie burgers on multi grain bread with sweet potato fries and fresh field greens. I miss crunchy vegetables! (Sorry folks, but I gotta bust a bubble here. Italians do not know how to cook vegetables without turning them into baby food.)

      Sigh.

      I have to admit that even I would never have predicted this predicament. I mean people come to Italy looking forward to the food that they will eat. Thousands of diets are suspended here and thousands more are begun upon departure. And yet I am totally uninspired by the idea of going out to dinner.

      My gastronomic crisis hit a peak several days ago when I was out and about in Rome at lunch time. Lunch-on-the-go is possibly the most variety-less meal that exists in Italy and, unfortunately, this is a meal that I have to deal with at least two or three times a week. The choices are basically pizza, a sandwich, or an arancino (large fried rice-ball stuffed with something or other). Pizza is usually the easiest, but no matter how many different types of toppings I try, it's still pizza. The vegetarian sandwiches tend to be rather flavorless. And I'm sorry, but large fried rice-balls just don't feel like the healthiest and most well-rounded choice. But this selection is what I was faced with yet again on Tuesday.

      As I weighed my options and determined that I didn't want any of those things, my mind focused and I saw clearly what it was I craved. A big, hearty salad. That's it. So simple and yet so unattainable. And as I looked at the pizzas and golden brown fried surfaces laid out before me my focused mind began to panic and despair.

      “What do you want?” my husband asked me as he was making his decision.

      “A salad.”

      Silence.

      “I want a salad. That's what I want. I don't want anything here. I need a salad bar,” I replied in an increasingly whiny and desperate tone.

      “This isn't NY.”

      Oh God. How true that was. I thought about my last job in NY. Right across the street was a deli with a huge create-your-own-salad counter. My eyes glazed over as I began to mentally toss mixed baby greens with shredded carrots, parmesan, kidney beans, walnuts, cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, and a balsamic vinaigrette. Or if I didn't want salad they had about five different choices of hearty, delicious soups. Or I could build a complex vegetarian sandwich of cheese and avocado and lettuce and tomato on pumpernickel toast. And oh, the options at the food court on the lower concourse of Grand Central! The more I let my mind wander the more I wanted to cry.

      Meanwhile my husband just rolled his eyes at me.

      “You know what you're like? You're like those Italians that we make fun of who travel to other countries and still want pasta two times a day.”

      This was the wrong thing to say.

      “It's one thing to be away from home for two weeks and not be willing to taste new things! It's another to live somewhere for three years and miss something!! I can't even look at another slice of pizza!!! All I want is a healthy lunch!!!!”

      I believe the “discussion” ended more or less there.

      But now that I have had some time to mull things over, I actually think that there is a direct correlation between the lack of variety on the menus in Italy and the Italian tourists that can't go a day without pasta. What I am coming to understand is that the majority of Italians want familiar food, whether they are in Time's Square or Piazza Navona. So a restaurant owner in Italy can't stray too far from the classics because he knows that that's what people are expecting when they open the menu. A random dish with a twist might make an appearance, but for the most part if he wants to stay in business he's gotta give the people what they want. So in Rome there will always be bruschetta al pomodoro, fiori di zucca, prosciutto e melone, bucatini all'amatriciana, tonnarelli cacio e pepe, pasta alla carbonara, spaghetti al pomodoro e basilico, panna cotta, tiramisu, etc. etc. (Are you hungry yet?) Yes there are some variations, but there is little element of surprise.

      I'll concede (because my husband is reading over my shoulder and sputtering all over me) that this is not unique to Italy and to Italian restaurants. Chinese menus, Japanese menus, Indian menus, Mexican menus, etc., even diner menus, are all pretty predictable once you get the jist. (Maybe French and Spanish menus too but I'm not familiar enough with those cuisines to feel comfortable adding them to the list.) So this sort of leads me back to my first point. I don't care, or even really notice, if each restaurant serves the same dishes as its counterparts when I can whimsically choose a different ethnic cuisine for each meal. I'm spoiled. I'll admit it. It turns out that while Italians are spoiled by their pasta, I am spoiled by the variety I was once accustomed to!  

      In closing I would like to say that, despite everything, I still love and respect Italian food. This week I had a little melt down. I'll get past it, though I won't go so far as to say that it won't happen again. In the mean time, if someone is looking for a business opportunity in Rome, I'm thinking that a salad bar could be right on the money. Just make sure that it serves pizza too.

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

 

Tipsy Turvy

      If pressed I would have to say that the absolute biggest cultural difference between Italy and America boils down to one thing: Americans tip, Italians don't. This may sound to some like a minor technicality, but I guarantee you it is not. This is a difference woven into our very ways of living life and seeing the world. One can learn to adapt to the other but, like trying to use a pen with your other hand, it will just never feel right.

      For about seven of the ten years I lived in NYC I waitressed on and off and on again, from lunch and dinner cruises on the Hudson to a Jewish Steakhouse in TriBeCa to a local bistro in Astoria to trendy, celebrity-spotting joints in Chelsea and the East Village. Though each place was drastically different from the next, one thing never changed: Italians rarely tipped...enough. (Before anyone gets all up in arms and offended by the singling out of Italians, I will clarify that this was generally true of all Europeans and of certain resident American ethnic groups as well. Now let it go and let me get on with my point.)

      Of these negligent tippers, I have determined that there are three varieties.

1. Those for whom “When in Rome...” has no international translation.
2. Those who try to tip but can't actually comprehend the reality that 5-10% is still a really crappy tip.
3. Those that want to be precise and therefore ask their server what the proper percentage is and still manage to get it wrong, perhaps having understood it as a joke.

Oh, many are the times that I have approached a recently vacated table with pathetic optimism only to find that my worst fears have been confirmed and that all that up-selling and bilingual banter had been in vain. I have discussed ad nauseam with my fellow servers various solutions to the problem, such as having a “tourist” button on the computer that, when pressed, would print out a self-adjusted check with 15%, 18%, and 20% tip options pre-calculated. And I admit that in extreme circumstances I have asked permission from my manager to just go ahead and add the gratuity to the check myself.

      Now let's look at the other side of the $20 bill. An American traveling in Italy will most likely over-tip because the hardest thing to digest is the fact that even leaving NOTHING is ok... Seriously. Often there's a “bread and cover charge” of a couple of euro per person itemized in the bill and that, even though it isn't a percentage of the total, is sort of like the tip. Of course no one complains if, in a show of gratitude, someone decides to leave more, but just so you know, in that case even €1/person is fine. (Because that extra little show of gratitude is fundamentally what a “tip” is supposed to be.) I've lived here for about three years and I still just can't get used to it.

      That's why this is a familiar scene that plays itself out every time we go out to dinner:

(A Roman trattoria. 10pm. The check is brought. The couple glances at it and counts out some money. Then...)

Me: How much should we leave?

Husband: We don't have to leave anything.

Me: I know, but....

Husband: A couple of euro?

(They empty their collective coins out onto the table and come up with €2 Euro.)

Me: Are you sure that's enough?

Husband: Yes.

Me: Really?

Husband: Really.

Me: ….Maybe another euro.

Husband: (sigh) Whatever you want.

      We also have an American version of this scene.

(A dimly lit NY restaurant. 10pm. The check is brought. The couple glances at it and pulls out a scientific calculator while the waiters looming in the background cast ominous candlelit shadows on the dark walls, apprehension in their eyes due to the Italian accent.)

Husband: 20%?

Me: Yes.

Husband: Before or after tax?

Me: Well, I always do after, but some people do before.

Husband: Ok, so...

Me: But we have been here for a long time.

Husband: So?

Me: Well, so our waiter couldn't turn the table....And we didn't order very much.

Husband: So?

Me: Well, so already his tip will be smaller.

Husband: So what do you want to do.

Me: Oh, just leave $25.

Husband: But that's like 35%!

Me: I know but he was really nice and he felt so bad when he spilled that wine on me. And you know he's expecting almost nothing since you're Italian. So you can prove the stereotype wrong!

Husband: (sigh) Whatever you want.

      So why is there such a discrepancy in our public displays of “gratuitous” appreciation? Well, here is the nitty gritty of the situation. Italian waiters are paid by their employers, American waiters are not. Or should I say: Italian waiters are paid by their employers, American waiters are paid by their customers. When I informed my Italian friends and family of this fact, they were more or less horrified. And when I informed my American friends and family of the equal but opposite fact, they were more or less in awe.

      While I realize that changing the tipping system in the US would probably be even harder than changing our healthcare system, I have to admit that the more I talk to people about it the more I come to see how F'ed up the whole thing really is. Because really, the salary of employees should be something that is factored into the costs of having a business. As my husband says, “Why not have a percentage on the bill that pays for rent and electricity as well in that case?” I've tried to defend it and I've tried to find reason in it...and ultimately I just can't. These conversations always end with me saying, “Look. It's just the way it is and it's not gonna change.”

      But what's really funny to me is how insecure this has made my husband when it comes to paying for anything in the US.

(A bookstore. A salesperson helps to find an item which is subsequently purchased.)

Husband: Do we have to tip him?

Me: No.

(A make-your-own-sald counter.)

Husband: There's a can for tips. Do we have to leave something?

Me: You can leave some change if you want but it's not necessary.

(Getting out of a cab.)

Husband: 20%?

Me: No no. Just add a few dollars.

      To be honest, I'm unable to explain who we tip and when and how much. Like Cubans who are born knowing how to salsa, it just seems to be knowledge that we Americans have in our blood. So when we go out to dinner and we see the prices on the menu, we automatically factor in tax and tip without a second thought. But in Italy what you see on the menu is what you pay, and as a result the entire dining out experience is different.

      So does the fundamental difference between our cultures really boil down to that three letter word? I don't know. Why don't you come visit me? I'll take you to this great little place I know. We'll choose a small table in the corner where we can chat and people watch for hours without the waiters caring one way or the other. If you only want pizza and a soda that's fine, no one will roll their eyes or try to convince you to order anything else. Eventually we'll have to ask for the check, because it's considered rude to rush people out by bringing it before it's requested, and at that point they may offer an espresso or limoncello on the house, just because. Then as we're getting up, if you feel like leaving an extra little something on the table as a token of appreciation be my guest, but if you don't no waiter will give you a dirty look on your way out or tell his friends what a cheap skate he waited on that day. But y'know, maybe it's not really such a big difference after all. You decide.

An American in Faleria

      I didn't know that I was American until I moved to Italy. In fact, prior to that I had probably never before even said the phrase “I'm American”. Now that may strike you as odd, but consider the fact that I grew up in a predominantly white, upper middle class town in the suburbs of New York City, and that I was born in Italy, spoke Italian, and had a mother with a very thick Italian accent. People have definitely been labeled “Italian” for far less...just take a look around New Jersey. So if ethnic classifications came up, I always said “I'm Italian” (or “I'm Jewish”, but that's material for another blog).

      To be honest, I loved this detail that set me just ever so slightly apart from my peers. It was my thing. When we'd visit family in Italy and they would refer to me as “American”, I felt robbed of an integral piece of my identity. I just did not identify with being something as boring as “American”.

      But when I moved here, I realized quickly that I could no longer get away with saying “I'm Italian”. I became The American, and little by little I have come to embrace it in almost the same way as I had embraced my previous label. And actually I feel far more exotic here as an American than I ever did in Westchester as an Italian. Of course this may have something to do with the fact that we bought a home in a small town with a population of roughly 2,000 and a median age of about 91, where most people have only ever seen an American on TV. To a good portion of these people my husband is a foreigner and he grew up one town over.

      Now almost all of the Americans that I can think of can imagine nothing more romantic and picturesque than moving to a small rural town north of Rome where I can step outside of my door and within five minutes be walking down a dirt path surrounded by a landscape of olive groves on one side, hazelnut trees on the other, and rolling hills in the distance. Up here it's just a short drive to your average, quintessential, medieval hilltop town or to natural springs where we can fill our own bottles with restaurant quality sparkling water. Our village even has it's own abandoned castle.

      But talk to my fellow Falerians, and it's like telling someone you've just moved from Paris, France to Antimony, Utah. They just think I'm crazy. Which is why I get the sense that everyone knows who I am, in a suspicious, waiting-for-me-to-make-trouble kind of way.

      I had been so used to being relatively anonymous all my life, that when I first learned of my notoriety I was taken a bit off guard. It was last Spring, shortly after we had officially moved into our new home. I was out on our front patio taking advantage of one of the first warm, sunny days to hang some laundry outside to dry. A woman that I had become friendly with stopped by to say hello as she was passing by so I had the front gate open to the street. As we stood there chatting, an elderly woman who I had never seen before walked past with her grandson. The standard “buongiornos” were exchanged before she said, “So you're the young couple that finally bought this house.” I nodded and smiled. Then she added, “You're American aren't you?” I nodded and smiled again, but inside I was thinking, “What the-?”

      When she left I turned to my neighbor in shock. “How on earth did she know that?” I asked rhetorically.

      “Oh, everyone knows everything around here. You don't think it's big news that an American moved in?” she responded with a smile and a twinkle in her eye.

      After that I started noticing the way people would stare after me wherever I walked, especially the little old ladies sitting on the sidewalk in their folding chairs or on benches gossiping with one another, whose chatter would suddenly fade as I approached and whose eyes would follow me until I turned the next corner. I started making a point of smiling and saying hello in an effort to become That Nice American Girl, but each time it was like they were seeing me for the first time and I gradually stopped.

      Instead I accepted that no matter what I did I would be The Eccentric American Neighbor. So I stopped being careful. I pet the stray cats and put food out for them regularly, I did yoga in front of my kitchen window where anybody walking by could see me, I sang at the top of my lungs, and I hung my skimpiest and most colorful underwear out to dry.

      Then one day as I was just getting out of the shower I heard someone yelling outside. At first I thought it was merely someone calling casually to a friend from a window. But then the words and the voice got to me. It was my next door neighbor, Wilma, yelling for help, and there was nothing casual about her tone. I threw on the first thing I found and with my hair still dripping wet and disheveled ran out of my front door and up the stairs to hers where she was on the landing, supporting her elderly mother who appeared to have lost her balance and slipped from her chair. Apparently she had been yelling for several minutes but no one had come until me. Together we got her mother situated back on her chair as other people finally started showing up, curious about the commotion. As each new person arrived Wilma, still frazzled, told of how she had been yelling for help and how I had come running straight from out of the shower.

      Unfortunately, it was obvious that her mother was still not well and as several people moved her indoors I went to call an ambulance. Later that day I learned that she had had a stroke.

      To be clear, I am not in any way making light of this situation. It was a tragic day that luckily didn't end in further tragedy. As for my part, I don't believe that I did anything extraordinary. But let's just say that in the same way as the gossip about an American girl moving in travels fast, so does the news that that same American girl came running to the aid of her neighbor in need. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but for weeks afterwards I felt a difference in the stares that followed me. From suspicious and guarded, I felt them soften into something warmer and friendlier.

      It didn't last. Sure it boosted my public image for a moment and at least one other first responder continues to acknowledge me with a smile when we pass one another, but for the most part the town memory, especially of the older citizens, is short and has apparently defaulted back to suspicion, wariness, and general unmasked curiosity. It would probably take a great deal of personal interaction and town involvement to crack this shell and I'm certain that I do not possess that level of commitment. So I fully accept that I'll probably always be the The American.

The Frequent Flyer

      I have flown back and forth between NY and Rome roughly 30 times in my life (maybe more) and half of those trips took place within the past four years. I've also flown round-trip from Rome to Bangkok, from Rome to London, from Rome to Amsterdam, and from Rome to Cairo and one-way from Rome to Paris, from Berlin to Rome, and from Madrid to Rome. There have been other miscellaneous trips within the US, within Brazil, within India, within Malaysia, within Costa Rica, and within Thailand. I'm not bragging, I'm setting myself up as a qualified expert in air travel.

      The first flight that I remember was of the NY to Rome variety when I was six years old. My mother and I were going to visit relatives for the first time since moving to the US three years earlier. I'm sure I was more excited about being on an airplane than I was about the actual trip. Before we even taxied away from the gate my nose was smudging the plexiglass window. The flight itself is a blur but I remember my mother preparing me for take off and I remember laughing with her as I felt the weight of my body pushing back into the seat as we accelerated and then lifted off the runway. I remember being enthralled with the world growing smaller and smaller beneath me while my ears clogged, popped, and clogged again. I remember being terrified of the loud, suctiony flush of the toilet (truth be told I would probably still ask someone else to flush for me if that weren't weird) and I remember loving the compact little meal they brought us with its dishes set up like a game of Tetris. And eventually there was Italy growing larger and larger beneath me. My mother and I joined right in with the applause as we bumped onto the tarmac. (It would be years before I found out that this was a uniquely Italian thing.)

      Fast forward 26 years. I'm no longer an easy-to-please six year old. (Oh how I wish I were. It would make air travel so much more pleasant.) Flying has become routine. I do not know how many different airlines I have flown with and I have no brand loyalty. I simply enter my travel dates into Orbitz and pick whatever is cheapest with the shortest lay-over. Recently that means I've been flying mostly with Delta or Alitalia which are practically interchangeable since they're in code-share with one another. (Oh yes, I know the lingo). So I can say first hand that not only have the quality of air travel and the customer service therein gone way down hill, but that Alitalia is by far the worst of them all.

      I'm not a high maintenance cynic either. If I'm reasonably comfortable, watch a good movie, manage to sleep a little bit, and am given a moderately decent in-flight meal, I basically consider that a good flight. So when I say that Alitalia is the worst, you get the picture.

     

      Two specific flights helped to solidify this reality for me. The first was a trip from Rome to visit a friend in Cairo. It wasn't a long flight so my husband and I were definitely more accepting of the cramped space, the broken TV monitors, and the overall shabby appearance of the plane than we would otherwise have been. (Please note that this was months BEFORE the economic crumble of 2009.) Then came the meal. We're vegetarian so when booking our flight we requested the vegetarian option even though it's usually disappointing. They brought us our special tray with the main dish covered in aluminum foil. Beneath the foil was boiled rice with a section of cubed carrots on one side, a section of cubed potatoes on the other, and two limp stalks of asparagus draped over the whole thing. Yum. Evidently the “vegetarian meal” is also the “vegan, gluten-free, sodium-free, every-diet-restriction-imaginable meal”. But that's what there was so we dug in. My husband began with the carrots, I began with the potatoes. The RAW potatoes. We were speechless. Not only was the whole thing without a single molecule of flavor, but one third of the dish was inedible. We did our best with the roll and cheese, the limp salad, and the bland fruit plate. (As a side note, I've never understood why the vegetarian meal on every airline always comes with a totally flavorless fruit salad made up of several pieces of unripe melon, one or two large seeded grapes, and a hemispherical slice of orange instead of the delicious looking junky thing they give to everyone else for dessert.) In the end we managed to find the episode rather amusing. Clearly someone had made a mistake in the kitchen. It can happen.

      The other flight was roughly one year (and one other Rome-NYC round trip flight not with Alitalia) later. We were flying to NY once again, this time for our wedding and with my future in-laws in tow. We happened to book our flight with Alitalia only because it fit the stringent criteria I mentioned previously. From the moment we got on the plane it wasn't looking good. The cloth head rests on our seats clearly hadn't been changed from the previous flight (evidence: several hairs), there were cookie crumbs on my husband's seat, there was some trash in one of the seat pockets in front of us, the arm rest had a jagged piece of bent plastic jutting out from its underside, the color balance of the TV monitor closest to us rendered it impossible to watch or even look at and at least half of the rest of the monitors were completely broken, a nearby exit sign dangled at a slightly askew angle, my husband's tray had difficulty remaining in the upright and secured position.... Need I go on? Yes... I need.

      Meal time! Vegetarian meals not only for us but for my mother-in-law and sister-in-law as well. Only slightly different from the Cairo flight: boiled rice, boiled carrots and peas, and the tell tale limp, mushy asparagus. We searched desperately on our trays for some butter or salt to add some small hint of flavor to what otherwise was only texture in our mouths. There was nothing but unsalted margarine, which at least added some moisture to the meal, but not flavor. So I stopped the hostess.

     “Excuse me, can we have some salt?”

      “No.” Cold stare. (Translation: I'm busy and you're wasting my time.)

      “There's no salt?

      “No.” (Translation: Stop bothering me.)

      “There's no salt anywhere on the plane ever?”

      “There's only sugar. Company policy.”

      My moment of speechless incredulity gave her the time she needed to get away. We turned back to our vegetarian delight and did our best.

      Later a snack was served. The non-vegetarian snack was a fragrant, roll-sized, meatless pizza pocket. MEATLESS. Why then, you might ask did they bring us this: a salad of limp raw shredded carrots and cabbage with what turned out to be raw cubed potatoes. Again with the RAW POTATOES. And no salad dressing to be found. Our laughter was of the incredulous sort and not actual amusement. Once is a mistake, twice is... What the hell is twice?! I stopped the hostess again even though in her eyes I had clearly become That Person.

      “Excuse me, but these are raw potatoes.”

      “Oh. Sorry.” (Translation: What do you want me to do about it?)

      “I'm really sorry but this is just inedible. Aren't there any of those pizza rolls left?”

      “I'll see what I can find.” (Translation: Pain in the ass.)

     She came back with one for each of us. At this point they were the most delicious thing we had ever tasted. Several moments later she stopped by of her own volition, looked at me with a fake little smile and said, “Is THAT edible?”

      So... thumbs down for airplane cleanliness, thumbs down for airplane maintenance, thumbs down for airplane food, and big thumbs down for customer service. A bad flight. (And, interestingly, no applause upon landing.)

      I could actually continue railing on Alitalia (don't even get me started on the rude flight attendants for our return flight), but I won't for now. Instead I will fast forward once again to several weeks ago when we were flying to NY to spend Christmas with my family. We were relieved to be booked with Alitalia only until Paris so that the long leg of our journey would be with Air France, which we had heard good things about. Unfortunately Paris was in the middle of a blizzard and closed it's airport so our flight out of Rome got canceled. After eleven or twelve hours of waiting around in the airport they finally booked us on another flight for the following day. Alitalia to Geneva and then Swiss Air to NY. Since technically the flight that had been canceled was the Alitalia flight, we were in their hands and we just knew this wasn't a good thing. They sent us on a wild goose chase to four different kiosks before booking us a hotel for the night. Then the next morning they didn't send enough airport shuttles to the hotel so were forced to pay for a cab which they might reimburse us for in a few months if, after reviewing our claim, they deem it valid. None of this surprised us.

      Anyway, one day behind schedule we arrived in Geneva. And then we boarded for our flight with Swiss Air. Until that moment I hadn't realized just how bad Alitalia really had become. Sadly, I had come to take for granted that air travel in general had gone down hill unless one could afford to shell out the big bucks for first or business class. But here the flight attendants greeted us with genuine smiles. The seats were pristine with their perfectly placed pillows and blankets. The magazines were in the seat pocket in perfect order. There were inches to spare between our knees and the seats in front of us. Our personal, seat-back TV monitors were perfectly calibrated for optimal movies-on-demand viewing pleasure. I could almost hear a distant choir singing in perfect harmony as a light shown down on me from above.

      The one worry was still the meal. What with all of the re-booking confusion we were pretty sure that our vegetarian meals hadn't been carried over to this flight. So I politely stopped one of the flight attendants to ask if there happened to be any vegetarian meals available and she said that they always have a vegetarian option. “I love them,” I said weakly to my husband.

      And the meal was actually quite good. Afterwards, in addition to the apricot tart, they brought us vanilla ice cream. And shortly before landing they came by with a basket of Swiss chocolate. Need I say more? I need not.

      Several days ago we flew home. The long leg of our journey was with Delta (not as a code-share with Alitalia thank god) and it was a decent flight, but didn't remotely compare to Swiss Air. After our lay-over, we flew to Rome with Alitalia once again. The plane was clean, pretty new and well maintained, the flight attendants were friendly. We found it frustrating and ironic that for a 1 hour flight they manage to get their act together, while a nine hour flight with them is a disaster. That was until we discovered that they had lost one of my suitcases.

      “Yeah,” I thought, when we were the only ones still looking expectantly at the now empty conveyor belt. “This feels more like it.” And internally I broke into belated, bitter applause.