New Word: Terremoto

In Italy, there are a lot of earthquakes. Like, everyday, somewhere, there’s an earthquake. I know this because I check the Instituto Nazionale di Geofisica e Volanologia (INGV) website every morning. And sometimes in the afternoon. And sometimes, before I go to bed.

In Italian, these events are called “terremoti”. A rather literal and descriptive word meaning, as I translate it, “land motion/s”.  I, however, call such an occurrence a “terror-moto” because I am terrified of them.

I’ve seen the destruction they cause. We were in l’Aquila, a provincial capital, whose center was, for all intents and purposes, destroyed by an earthquake in 2009. This quake happened at 3:30am, had a magnitude of around 6 and lasted, I’m told, for thirty seconds. Buildings collapsed. People died. The rubble is still around, behind fences.  Military squads are posted around the center to keep people away from the more precarious structures and buildings outside the center are riddled with cracks and holes. It's a terrible reminder of the rapid devastation a quake can inflict.

I lie awake at night, planning possible escapes. Around here, there are bridges built by the Romans that are still standing, yet the cement bleachers by the community pool built in 2009 are a crumbling mess. Our house was built in the ‘80s and everyone assures me that earthquake proof standards were met.  I feel  the house shake when a particularly heavy speeding truck lumbers past and I see the cracks. I’m not sure I believe them.

Our bedroom sits atop a pillar that goes 3 stories down to the side of the hill that leads to the river. The one window opens onto nothing but the drop down to the back driveway. The door leads to the hallway, to the bathroom with a window on a terrace on the street. If I can make it to the hallway, maybe I can make it to the terrace. If it’s still there. I’m pretty confident that if I make it to the street and head in the direction of Rome, the large building on the embankment across the road won’t fall on me. If I haven’t broken both ankles from the leap off the terrace.

This is what I was thinking about the night I felt my first quake. As I lay in bed, I heard a rumble, kind of like when the big trucks hurtle past, ignoring the “Slow down! Inhabited Center” sign. This rumble, though, worked its way up through the building and shook the bed, headboard to footboard, up against the wall for a couple of seconds. A magnitude 2.0 about 10km away. Not too bad. But worse than the one I felt in my fifty story office building in Manhattan. Not as bad as the last one I felt two months ago.

I was asleep. Like, truly asleep. As I turned over, the bed started shaking. A lot. I grabbed V. He snored.

I debated whether or not to wake him, whether or not to go to the bathroom, whether or not to keep breathing. This one lasted maybe 5 seconds which is an eternity when you can’t decide if another one’s coming that will cause your house to fall down with you in it and if so, would your husband rather be awake when it happens or not. Turns out that was it for the quakes that night. Also, it turns out, if I ever feel another terremoto, the husband would prefer to be awakened.

Myth vs. Truth (or, Your Guide Book/Friends/Family May Have Lied a Little)

-Italians don’t drink to get drunk.

Spend time in any small town and you will see that they do, tho usually not as belligerently as people where you’re from.

-The “primo piatto” of pasta is small, more like a taste of pasta to get your stomach ready for what else is coming.

Maybe in larger cities, but in many small to medium towns, the first plate is a meal in itself yet is still followed by a secondo. It is also the primary reason I blame for gaining 5 kilos in 7 months.

-Italians are such warm, open people.

Ok.  This one’s kinda true.  So many Italians I’ve met will tell you the most personal (often cringe-worthy) facts about themselves.  Unfortunately, they will also ask you the most personal, cringe-inducing questions.  I still haven’t figured out how to respond when this happens.

-Only tourists drink cappuccino after noon.

Not true.  Around here, some locals  do, but they call it cappuccio.  And when they order it, they do so with attitude: “Un cappuccio, per favore, eh?”  In Italian, with an “eh?” at the end. Makes all the difference.

-Your Italian grandmother is the only one who knows how to make sauce correctly. 

EVERYONE’s grandmother is the only one who knows how to make sauce correctly. Just ask them.

Holy Water

We were sitting in the pub in Acquasanta having a half-assed half-Italian-half-English conversation with one of the girls who works there when a man with a bald head and a long white beard shuffled in wearing jeans, a sweater and sandals without socks.

I thought I’d seen him around town during Christmas-time wearing a monk’s tunic and maybe I had.  He was in the pub now to ask if he could bless the place.  Turns out, he’s a hermit, maybe a Franciscan friar, who lives in a house up in the surrounding hills. Going around blessing businesses and homes is something  he does before Easter.

The owner obliged. She and the girl behind the bar moved over to him, explaining as he looked over at us not moving from our barstools that we were Americans. That seemed to be all the explanation needed. They bowed their heads and he began the prayer. We heathens, I mean Americans, stayed where we were.

Near the end of his spiel, he took a little silver wand-type thing, which added quite a bit to his modern wizardly appearance and shook holy water about the girls, the restaurant and even us Heath-americans as he stated, “In nome del padre, e del figlio e dello…”

I watched as he aimed the shaker in our vicinity and with the words “Spirito Santo” got a direct hit of holy water in my left eye. Alessandra’s shoulders shook as she peered up from her bowed head and stifled laughter, droplets hitting the top her head.

An hour later, standing outside the bar, a burning ember from a cigarette landed in the exact same eye. Seems someone somewhere in the spirit world took exception to my newly blessed eyeball. That eye hurt for hours.

Two days later, our doorbell buzzed, then our neighbors’. V opened the door to the vestibule the apartment doors share and found the same hermit, asking if he could bless our houses for pasqua.

Since both doors were open, V tried to suggest that the man stand in the vestibule and bless us all at once. The neighbors giggled.

“No, no. It is for each house, for each family,” they explained.

“No due per uno, insieme?”  I ventured, getting only more giggles from next door and a strange look from the hermit in return.

We let him inside.

Just within the doorway, he handed me a card featuring Jesus and some apostles and began the prayer, container of holy water in his hand.

Not taking any chances this time, I bowed my head. 

5 Tips for Running in an Italian Hill Town

1. Ignore the Stares.  You will be stared at.  By everyone who passes you.  While many of them are staring because they’ve never seen anything quite so crazy as your lycra-clad ass chugging up the hills, most of them are just looking to see if they know you.

2. Resist the Urge to Run Against Traffic.  This is ok on the straights, but around the multitude of curves, you risk scaring the oncoming driver so badly that he has a heart attack behind the wheel and kills you both.

3. Keep the Music Low. If you must run with an ipod, keep the volume down so you can hear the cars, trucks and buses that will zoom around the curves next to you. It’s much nicer to hear their approach than be startled into their path as they’re within a hair’s breadth of your mid-striding ankle.

4. Wear Bright Colors. This not only helps the drivers to see you, but also distinguishes you from cinghiale and other wild animals that hunters may be after.

5. Smile at the Locals. It unnerves them and their startled visages will provide amusement to power you up the hill past their olive trees/orange trees/pumpkin patches/chickens.

Maybe No

I actually said something in Italian so well that I got a compliment. And it was from someone who once told me my “accent ees simpatico but ees not eetalian”. This time, I rolled my “r”.  My “t” was very clearly a “t” and not a “d”.  I was delighted.

So what if all I’d managed to say was, “I ate before”?  I said with purpose.  I may have even stuck an “eh” at the end for emphasis as I refused the bread and cheese. My friend was so happy that I'd said it correctly, he didn't force the issue.

Two hours later, he made the observation, “Ora capite l’italiano” (or something like that).

To which I replied, “Huh?”

As I was realizing what he’d said, that now I understand Italian, he mumbled in English, “Maybe no.”

Asian-Italian-American Food

Italians are obsessed with food.  Living here, I seem to have become so, too.  However, my obsession runs toward those foods that are not Italian.  That is why I was so delighted to find a slew of Chinese markets near Civitanova and why I made this, um, asian-Italian-fusion dish:

Udon noodles with octopus (frozen), bietola (local), soy sauce (available in EVERY supermarket….for what?) and sriracha (spicy Thai nectar of the gods).

And this:

Tofu (from Chinese market), kung pao sauce (see former), broccoli, zucchini, broccoli/cauliflower-hybrid-alien-thing, pepper, onion, garlic and strange flat green bean type-things.  All vegetables local.

It pains me to hear that some politicians in Italy are trying to make it difficult to grow and sell “foreign” produce here.  Not only might the above have been better with some bok choy or bamboo shoots, but did no one tell these folks that tomatoes are not indigenous to Italy?  The idea that introducing other foods might somehow sully what they’ve got is difficult for me to understand.  They can have their amatriciana and carbonara, their porchetta and caccio e pepe.  Why can’t I have (and why don’t they want) a little stir-fry now and then? 

I know, I know, I just got back from France and was a little disturbed by the latest fads—hamburgers, bagels, cupcakes and I’m a little saddened that Laduree has opened an outpost on Madison Ave.  When I lived in NY I liked thinking that I had to go to Paris for a really good macaron (or to the Bouley Bakery for an OK one).  But I could still get all the French food in France that I could want.  Knowing Italians, I don’t see them abandoning their beloved recipes any time soon.  I just want a little cheddar cheese* now and then.

And I know I come from a land that doesn’t have its own cuisine.  What is “American food”, anyway?  To the people I meet, they all think it’s hot dogs, hamburgers and peanut butter all the time.  I try to explain that we can make almost all the things make:  olive all’ascolana, porchetta, fresh ravioli filled with fresh ricotta, amatriciana with real, local guincale but I can tell they really don’t believe me.  How can they?  While in the US there’s the option of locally grown and produced food, in Italy it’s often the only option.  Thankfully, I’m sometimes able to find another.

*Speaking of cheese (and on an entirely different subject), I was informed the other day during a discussion about fat and cholesterol and the abundance of both in the local cuisine that mozzarella is not cheese.  It is mozzarella.   Therefore, pizza is not bad for you if you’ve got high cholesterol. 

You’ll be pleased to know I tried my hardest, in broken Italian and English, and with nothing else but my own belief to defend the notion of all that is cheese and why mozzarella is indeed that.  I fear my argument was lost in translation……..

New Word: Retromarcia

The other day, F. was talking about all the things he needs to fix on his car, including the speedometer.  I had thought he’d disconnected it along with the odometer, like people used to do so that when they sold their cars, the true mileage wasn’t recorded.  F. hadn’t done this, but it did remind him of the story of a guy in town.

Apparently, in an effort to keep the mileage from increasing on his odometer, this guy drove everywhere “retromarcia” .  All through town.  Everywhere.  In reverse.

Retromarcia also happens to be a term for a popular birth control method, from what I've been told.  At least around here.