Or are we meant to be kind?

After an entire year, we finally, at long last, got our antenna fixed (it had been hit my lightning) and our television hooked up to Italian TV.

Our favorite restaurant in town has one television going.  It is there, really, for Mamma, the owner's mother who works with him.  Being Americans, we usually show up rather early in "Italian time."  That is, we prefer dinner around 7:30 pm, unlike the locals for whom lunch is the major meal of the day and dinner is more like a late snack.  So, we are often the only people there at that hour, with perhaps a couple of kids or a lone man having a beer and pizza.  That is how we discovered "L'Eredita."

"L'Eredita," (The Inheritance) is a quiz show involving words and facts somewhat like the old "College Bowl" game, or "Jeopardy" or "Password."  The Italian twist is that it includes four young, gorgeous models who show up in thigh high skirts and heels and dance for about 30 seconds at the start of each show. They are called "Le Professoresse"...The Professors.....hahahaha.....because at some point in the show the contestants need to guess the meaning of a very obscure word and the "professoressa" explains the meaning when someone finally guesses, or knows in very rare cases.

I have become hooked on this show because it helps me learn to hear the language and helps me realize how much I understand.  It teaches me words and facts, too.  While it is very formulaic, it is also fast paced and most shows here keep the advertisements confined to the beginning and the end of the shows so there are no interruptions.

By the end of each show there are three people out of seven left standing, the others having been eliminated.  Those three come back for the next show.  The top person, at the end, has to try and guess the one word that ties 5 other words together, not in the etiological sense, but in the ideological sense.  For instance, last night, three of the five words were "contract, foto, good" and the answer was "matrimony."

I was surprised that one new contestant last week appeared to my eyes to have autism.  He was little louder in his speech than most, he occasionally hand flapped, but he was very good at the game and lasted an entire week, which is a lot.  The other "survivor" has been the big champion every night, getting to the last stage of the game.  He is tall, has big blue eyes and light brown hair and reminds me of a younger Peter Fonda.  The young man with autism is also tall with thick, dark hair and wears black rimmed glasses, somewhat resembling "Waldo" from "Where's Waldo?"

I have to add that throughout the five shows this kid was on, no one made any mention of a disability, no one gave him preferential treatment and the audience always cheered very heartily when he scored.

But, last night he and the "big" champion had to square off in a timed match, with questions being lobbed like ping pong balls back and forth at lightning speed.  Before they started the kid said, "The best ones!" in English, which surprised me and obviously also the emcee, by the look on his face.  They both were neck and neck but the kid with autism ran out of time just seconds before the Peter Fonda guy.   With that, he clapped in recognition of the winner and went to go offstage, but the champion guy said, "Wait"...aspetta… and marched across the stage and shook his hand, then they hugged.  The audience was going wild.  I was in tears.

And I wondered, would anything like that have happened in the U.S.?  Is it just my imagination, or are people kinder here?  Is it because they come into contact with others every day?  They chat, they greet one another, they have community.  Personally, I believe because of that compassion is more easily fostered.  It shows in everyday encounters and it even shows on a TV game program.

Grazie, Niccolo (Peter Fonda) per essere un gentiluomo.

And when October goes, the snow begins to fly...

October 24th was, for a very long time, a difficult "anniversary" day for me.  It marked the day my father left, a day I can never forget. I would acknowledge it silently, briefly as the wave of inevitable melancholy would wash over me.  Not so much because I lost my father that day but because I lost my childhood.  I lost my entire family.  Nothing was ever the same again.

Now, however, that anniversary has been turned around, not only through the mere passage of time, but because a year ago, it was the day I came to live in Italy.  There was trepidation  mixed with excitement and absolutely no time to dwell on the events of more than fifty years ago.

I arrived by myself, to a house lacking heat and hot water, with very little in the way of "furniture"...tired, cold, dirty, hungry.

Here we are, one year later.  The heat is on, the hot water is wonderful, the toilet is now attached to the floor (!!), our furniture is here, there is a fridge full of locally grown vegetables and nothing processed, food with ingredients that are pronounceable and recognizable.  There is an oven that actually works.  The damage to the walls has been repaired so there are no unwanted drafts or visitors. The balcony is safe.  I can wash and dry the laundry.

In this year I have so far lost eighteen pounds, strengthened my legs and knees and still manage to have lots of wonderful meals and the occasional gelato.

We have already applied for our next Permit to Stay (Permesso di Soggiorno) so that worry is off the list.  Recently we found an above ground cantina (storage space) just a couple of doors away, so our back room can now be transformed from a closet into an actual room, a reading room/guest room of sorts.

This year, rather than a piece of toast and year old (but still remarkably good, thanks to it being semi frozen) wine...there will be prosecco and perhaps a hot casserole dish, a fresh salad and a piece of bread that is heaven with each bite.  There will be music playing under the chandelier in the living room.  Harry will be happily napping on his cushy couch.

This year, October 24th will be a celebration.

When you're a stranger, faces look ugly.....

I have two bills I need to have automatically debited from my account.  It is because I started out here with another bank and found out that it is not the best one for local banking....it was a bank that caters to international customers...and that is what we were as we bought our apartment while still living in the US.

It turns out that it is a VERY inconvenient bank.....and the nearest actual branch is an hour away...and we have several banks at our fingeI nertips right here in town.

SO, I finally switched to the Postale.  The Italian Post Office is also a bank...and a bill pay center....and a tax pay center...it is a very busy place.  But if you have an account with them, you can be assured that wherever you go in Italy, there will be a freaking Postale.

I closed the other and opened this.  Then, naturally, the bills were not getting paid automatically, so I waited for the email bills.  The gas came first and I went to the offices, which are nearby, and they cordially took the new information and I went on my way.  Only to find out that a mistake had been made and I had to go back because my bill was not paid....errrrrrrrrrrrrrr….AGAIN, with the same information...Voila!  It worked the second time.

The other utilities do not have offices nearby.  I have to have the account debited through the Postale.  There is one...small...problem.

The man in charge of "Customer Service'  is an asshole.  Hahahaha.  Yes. He is. He really is.

He apparently does not like "Stranieri" *foreigners.    There are lots of Brits here, some Germans, people from Denmark, Scotland, Norway....He does NOT like foreigners.

I have enough command of the language now to do this, to get this done.  He is...….remote.  Prego, Signora.....yeah,..sure.   So, I sit down, I have my form for the automatic debit, the form HE printed out to prove I have a Postale account, and my three ID cards that I have with me all the time.

"Where is your Codice Fiscale?"..That is like a Social Security number.  >>MY Codice Fiscale?  It's on my Permesso, it's on my SSN,....I HAVE an account here!

"I need your Codice Fiscale"...he "HAS" to make a copy of it...well, guess what?  To open my account he had a copy of it, and my passport, and my Permesso...it's all there,..somewhere...in the freaking computer...….My husband trekked back home to bring back my Codice.

My husband returned with my Codice and this ASSHOLE looked at him...like...what?  Do I want that?  AHHHHHHH....you ASKED for it...…..he went to get it...here it is.  No. No. I need documents.  I need your passport.  OH, hell , you don't ...I have a BANK ACCOUNT HERE!!!!


Oh...you know what?  The computer is down.   Gosh...sorry....I can't finish this...Where is the woman who speaks Italian? (He means my instructor)  "She is not available today.  But I speak enough to do this"......Oh, well....computer down....so sorry.

I went back today hoping the younger guy who is not foreigner phobic would be there but he was not.  I will poke my head in again tomorrow.

I love living here but even Paradise has its drawbacks now and then.  **Sigh***

Oh, baby, it's a wild world....

When I arrived the boiler had broken.  It was uncomfortable, but not dangerous.  However, to fix it properly, it really needed to be relocated inside the house, which meant also relocating the refrigerator.   Since the refrigerator was also on its' last legs, I had no problem with that.

But when the new fridge was delivered and the old one carted away, it was discovered that the refrigerator had been plugged in UNDER the sink...in an exposed outlet.....where it would have been possible for water to leak....or even just moisture ro accumulate.  It was very dangerous.

We had electricians fix the outlets below the sink so that they are now not entirely exposed, should there ever be a leak.  And now, nothing is actually plugged in there, either.  It is a ridiculous place to have an outlet.

After living here awhile, my husband kept saying the toilet moved.  Moved?  Yeah, as in rocked when he was on it.  Turns out it was not attached to the floor.  It was just....plunked there.  I shudder to think of what could have happened had it moved just a little too much one day.....a flood?  I don't know, but we had that taken care of as well.

In the cold of winter, even though I knew the inside of the oven was gross, we decided to try turning it on anyway.  The whole house blew.  Poof...darkness.   Once again the electrician came and told us the outlet and the plug were both ancient and worn.  It was …..dangerous.  We had a new outlet installed and bought a new oven.

Spring approached and we began walking farther....and noticed that the underside of our balcony in the back didn't look so good.  Pieces of cement were breaking away and falling.  Potentially, they could hit someone.  Eventually, the balcony would not be safe to walk on.  We very recently had that work done to reinforce the balcony and waterproof it, too.

We had an American chandelier and didn't know if it could be mounted here in Italy.  The guy who put in our oven said he would do it.  "But, is it safe?  Should the lamp be rewired?  Really, you don't have to do this....we will call an electrician."  "No, no....no problem....I used to own a lighting store."  Errrrrrrrrr.   He would not take "no" for an answer and proceeded to install the chandelier.

We had to get adapters for each bulb since Italian bulbs didn't fit the sockets.  However, he made it work.  Somehow.  And, in spite of our worry, it seemed to work alright.  Except three months later....poof....darkness.  Yeah, well.....not a really big surprise.

Soooooo, we found a nearly identical chandelier but Italy compatible.  We had an electrician put it in. No troubles, no problems....until the old one came down.  "Who did this?"   Ahhhhhhhh…...the entire thing was ready to fall out of the ceiling.  The "hook" it was hanging from inside the ceiling came right out.  Zip.  Wires helter skelter.  A total mess.

We now have the look alike up...bulbs that fit, the lamp isn't going to fall anytime soon, it is in there nice and solid now and running on compatible voltage. The thing is, even with an "Italian" lamp...the wiring inside was a shambles.

Five dangerous things....really dangerous things....so much for inspections.  I understand old appliances and damaged walls....but...FIVE dangerous things!  We are lucky to have discovered them before any calamity happened.

Touch me! It's so easy to leave me...all alone with the memory of my day in the sun.....

I don't think I've mentioned my new purpose in life.  I can hardly believe it myself.

There are too many feral cats here.  And they are all adorable in one way or another.

Well, someone had kittens several months ago..about the time my daughter was here in late March and early April.  Three little kittens.  Two gray and one all black.  Sweet babies.  The neighbor across the street pointed them out to me...and she would drop...literally drop...some kind of food into the street from her window two stories up, for them to eat.

With that, I started noticing them more...and identifying them.  It became apparent that one had a badly injured eye...just a wee baby....it was very upsetting. I was not even sure an eye was still there.

Gradually, somehow, the idea ...the grain of compassion grew....and we decided to get some cat food and start feeding them, too.

Once that started....well...names followed...because you get to identify who is who.  There was the injured one with a bad eye...so he/she was "Pirate."  The little gray who looked sort of unkempt all the time..he was "Scruff."  The black one who was freaking fierce about protecting food...like a nightmare...became "Incubo"  which means "nightmare" in Italian...but now she..(Yes, I think she is a she) is just "Ink."

After those babies became accustomed to being fed at a regular time every day, Mamma and Sib came along.  I remember Mamma.  No, not the TV series...I remember this cat....running around last winter with her baby...who is Sib...short for Sibling...maybe half sibling, maybe full...who knows?  But, they are all family and they know it and now, so do I.

As the summer wore on, we found a wonderful veterinarian...he speaks a bit of English...just enough so we can communicate with our broken Italian....because Harry had a mole on his arm decide to grow and it had to be removed.   I asked the doctor if he would cooperate with me to neuter these feral cats, not matter what their sex.  He said he would. (Machismo runs deep here and most MALE dogs are not neutered.)

So, at this point...my mission was to make sure the kittens became strong enough to undergo minor surgery.  First, naturally, would have to be Pirate, with the awful eye.  Awful, awful eye...bulging out of its head...looking bloody..whatever beast did this should have just finished the job.  This little kitty needed help.

I scooped her up in the middle of eating (sorry, baby) and we marched her to the vet. Yes, she was a she....I was able to check.  Little Pirate was very weak and the vet was not hopeful.  "The eye is lost" and also..."Malato"..."sick."  Yeah, I kind of knew that....but what I didn't count on was that her little life was lost.  We brought her back...she had had a shot....and I had been given a prescription for two kinds of eye drops....

That evening she ate a little and sat on our mat in our courtyard and just gazed out at the piazza.  I sat with her.  I never got a chance to use the eyedrops on her...I never saw her again.  I believe that was her last night...most likely.  Little Pirate.

I still had eyedrops for Scruff, whose eyes were sometimes glued shut from the goo they oozed.  I scooped him up and wrapped him in a towel and brought him into the courtyard where we have a bench.  He panicked and was fiercely fighting to escape but I managed to get drops in both eyes and to clean them both off...before I put him down and let him go like a bat out of hell.  He forgave me rather quickly, though.  His eyes looked one hell of a lot better.

His eyes looked better for days.  Then..not so great.  The next time I just lifted up his little head while he was eating and got some drops in.  He wasn't happy but he put up with me.

Each time I got drops in, his eyes got exponentially better.  It was amazing.  Then the right eye was totally normal...so I just had one eye to concentrate on...now he looks all bright and wide eyed, like a regular cat.

Scruff and Ink are the only two I can handle very much.  Mamma and Sib are still wary, although I have managed to lightly pet each of them from time to time.  They don't like it!  Scruff, however, leans into pets and wiggles his butt and is beginning to look forward to and love his pets.

Tonight, I was warrior woman.  After a thunderstorm, I went to feed the usual gang and there was an interloper....an orange boy with a collar.....who causes trouble whenever he comes around.  Mamma is clearly afraid of this one.. Sib is too but Sib becomes protective and screeches to the high heavens.  It can be blood curdling.  So..I put the food down and then went about discouraging the interloper.

BTW, I think this guy is the one who delivered the mortal blow my little Pirate...I have little compassion for this particular cat and it would give me great pleasure to capture and neuter this bastard.

There was a supermarket flyer in someone's mailbox so I took it and started brandishing it like a weapon at this cat...he was sneaky and trying to find other ways to get at the food but I was there to stop him.  His next tactic was to pretend that he was retreating....going down this alley...bye, I'm gone.....yeah...only to reappear down the road, having come up the next alley.  I'm no fool, cat.  I got your number.

I managed to protect "the family"...they watched, too...and Scruff, I swear, had "the look of love" in his eyes....they ate and I took the tin in when they were done.  Bastard cat came back to nothing.  Not feeding you...bud.  If you were nice, I would, but you cause problems wherever you go.

So...this is my new purpose in life..to try and control the feral population of cats in this little hill town in nowhere, Italy.  Wish me luck.  I need it.

May each day in the year be a good day...

It is an awful little room.  Painted in a garish, too bright and too saturated yellow.  The lower half of the walls is scuffed and dirty.  The floor is a houndstooth  placement of nondescript gray ceramic tiles.  Two terrible fluorescent lights adorn the ceiling.  Behind the half wall and glass at the far end are two computer stations with a small counter.  On the sides are two matching black metal mesh "benches" each with an attached table on the end. The benches seat three apiece, so people also use the end tables as a place to sit.  This is the immigration office at the Questura, the province, or county police station.

Today we had our appointment to renew our Permesso di Soggiorno.  We obtained the kits by ourselves and I filled them out.  All I did was follow along the copies we had from last year, for which we paid an attorney an exhorbitant fee to complete.

My husband, in his deep anxiety, went to work on the "documents."  Even though this is a renewal, there were no clear guidelines as to what to provide, so he did what he did the first time: three entire months worth of bank activity, all the letters from Social Security and our pensions proving what we get, copies of our passports, our Permesso, our citizen of Penne cards and our National health cards.

Then we sent it all in to the Questura.  At that time, the post office arranges an appointment, which was surprisingly just two weeks away.

Sometimes his anxiety rubs off on me.  What if you made a mistake on the forms?  Are you sure you got the phone number right?  Should we have included this?  Or that?  Will they take our fingerprints again?  It never ended.  So, I became concerned that if there were questions perhaps my Italian is not sufficient yet to handle not only the questions but the answers.  As a result, I asked our Italian teacher, Marisa, to accompany us.  (Yes, of course, we would pay her for her time.)

Right away she offered to drive us, so that was a plus.  Getting up at the crack of dawn to catch a crowded bus filled with school kids is not so much fun.

My day started at 5am with a flash of lightning so bright it woke me.  A huge thunderstorm was moving in.  Then the deluge.  I felt sick and nervous.  I was thinking about having to drive down the hillside in torrential rain. Maybe she will cancel. Then we will have to scramble for a bus to get there on time. Luckily, the rain eased up and Marisa showed up right on the button. Her son was in the car, bumming a ride to a friend's house along the way.

She dropped us off by the Questura and went to find a parking space.  I was surprised not to see people milling around and piled up out in the street outside the Immigration office.

Walking into the ugly, tiny room, one seat was actually available.  An officer I recognized made an announcement that today was by appointment only.  So when a man came in and was right next to me looking to "take a number" like you do at a deli counter in the supermarket, I said "Oggi, appuntamenti"..Today, appointments.  He walked out rather glumly.

The officer I recognized was the same man who had issued our Permesso last year and I recalled that he spoke some English.  Lo and behold, when he was done with the person already at his counter, he called our name.  Marisa was not there yet and my stomach was in a knot.

He smiled.  He said, "You are from New York?"  I said "Si."  He said, again in English, "I remember you. I looked at your files yesterday."  I said, in Italian, that I remembered him from last year.  He pulled out our kits and said, "You have many, many, many documents."  Errrrrrrrrr.   I knew my husband had overdone, overthought and overprinted.  I laughed a bit and said, "Mio marito e nervoso,"  My  husband is nervous.

He separated all the bank statements and said, "These are not in Italian."  Yeah, well, they are American banks.  I thought, but did not say that they are numbers, which are neither English or Italian but I held my tongue.  Then he called someone else over to look at the documents.  That guy didn't say much, just leafed through.  Then he says, where is proof of where you live?  Well, we did bring a copy of our deed for the house.  "This is in English, too."   Aggghhhh!!!  I thought he was going to send us away, and besides our address is on every card we have, the Penne card, the health card, the previous Permesso.  With that Marisa came in and I told her, "It appears we have a problem."  The officer looks up and says, "No, there is not a problem."  I'm confused.

After a bit he gathers up the majority of our documents and hands them back to us.  He does, however, take our "official" cards...and then he starts to check our fingerprints.  As he is doing this, he tells me he was in New York twenty years ago.  Did I live in...something unintelligible?  "Excuse me?"  He says it again and I am still baffled.  Marisa says, "Manhattan."  Ahhhhhh....Yes!  I did live there for a while and I worked in Manhattan for years.

He checks my husband's fingerprints first.  They have a little electronic doodad that holds one fingertip at a time.  He checked only his index fingers.  Then it was my turn.  Without a word he asks me to do it again.  (In the States I could not pass the ink fingerprint 7 points of identity.  Only electronic ones work on me.  Haha, I have no fingerprints!)  Well, I don't know if he was finally able to match it, but then he had me also do my middle fingers.  All the while, he was, in effect, giving ME the finger....showing me by demonstrating when to put it down on the doodad and when to lift it up.  I began to stifle a laugh.  Is he playing with us?

Finally, he is satisfied that I am me, and says, "You will get a text when they are ready."  Really?  That's it?  We don't have to go inside the police station?  You don't need anything else?  No, buonagiornata!  Wow!

Afterwards, I said to Marisa, what were the odds we would get the officer who has a bit of English and remembers us?  We stopped for cappuccino.  My husband was in shock.  I was relieved.  THAT was easy.  Marisa noticed the "finger" too and we both decided the officer was having a little fun with us.  In a slightly intimidating but good humored way.

It appears they are going to let us stay another year.  Now can we go home?

I said do you speak-a my language?

Agggghhhh...….I have studied via Duolingo.com for what?  Three years now?  Not sure...I think three years.  I added Babbel in February because they give out "certificates" which are supposed to prove you have proficiency...but I hate Babbel...I hate it.  I sit there sometimes wondering what the hell they want from me.  And this after two years of Duolingo?

And it turns out those "certificates" are  most likely useless...they are meaningless.  You have to pass a test in the country you have moved to.  Period.  Stuff your certificates.

Yes, I have learned....because we also have a woman who, in person, now gives us lessons...and she said "You are well on the way."....oooooooookaaaaaaaay.

Sooooo….what I am leading up to is that there are many regionalisms.  This is something that Americans should understand...we have MANY of them...the Old New England...Ayah!  The Southern drawl.  The Midwest...Yah!..not to mention the California "valley speak."  So..you get it.

Well, try to get it in another country and another language....holy wow.  It's difficult.

This is what I just found out this week...we learn via the computer sites how someone asks you something...and it is usually in the "formal you"...hopefully people remember their old language lessons since English really does not have the "formal you."  In any case...when asking someone to try something....in Italian..it would be "Provate?"..."Do you want to try?"   Do you want help would be "Volete aiutare"..the formal "you" being the "want" part....sorry, I know I am putting you to sleep....but here's the thing.....they don't do that here...……..

They use the whole infinitive....the other day in the supermarcato...my husband swore up and down that the manager lady asked him 'Aiutare?"....I asked..."Are you sure?  Are you sure that's what you heard?"  He swore that was all she said.  I was perplexed....since aiutare is the "infinitive" and literally translated means "to help."

But today...in Con Amore...the gelato store...there was a flavor I had never seen or tried...it said "Vaniglia/cioccolato"  but it didn't look like vanilla and chocolate...ish...and the girl behind the counter asked "Provare?"...which literally means "To try",,.the infinitive...instead of "Provate?"....Wow....so...my husband was right...he heard "Aiutare"....it must be a regionalism peculiar to here.....

My whole point is...you can learn a lot from the online programs.....and you will most likely be understood for the most part....but there are always regionalisms....anywhere you go.


By the way...the vaniglia/cioccolato was vanilla with small gobs of chocolate fudge in it and it was Fantastico!