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. 

I Know What You Did This Morning (or Essentials for Lab Tests, Italian-style)

You can find out many things necessary to live life in Italy from expat websites.  You can learn how to get the Codice Fiscale, necessary for obtaining everything from a cell phone to a car.  You can get information about visas, stay permits, citizenship.  You can find the best places to buy peanut butter and who might have barbecue sauce.  You might find how to get a card for the healthcare system.  You might not find how to navigate the health system with its tickets and receipts, clinics, hospitals and ambulatorio.  And, unless you know a local, you will not know these two essentials:

Today's Run, in Pictures

Today’s my nephew’s twelfth birthday.  He’s running a Thanksgiving 5k today in Tampa.  The same 5k his mom and I ran four years ago (during which, I'm pretty sure he was sleeping).  

Wish I could’ve been there with them today.  For one thing, Florida's flat.  But really, I just thought about them the whole time I did my own run around the same time as theirs. 

out and back, 6k

For him, here’s my run today, in pictures:

Becoming Italian, Part 3 (or Crisi di Identità)

So, I got my Carta di Soggiorno.  Now, I had to get it updated to show I live in the new Province so that I could register with the new Comune.

Ah, Ascoli, I knew I liked you, but after visiting your questura, with its l lovely chair-filled room, its lack of crowds and its little tray in which to place my documenti, (not to mention your glassed-in teller area), I think I may be in love.

Giving Thanks? He Don't Wanna

We were at the hotel for dinner.  L. had just flown in from a business trip in Denmark.  She had gotten on the wrong bus from Rome’s Termini Station and Instead of passing right thru our town, where she could’ve hopped off, it took her down thru L’Aquila and more of Abruzzo over to the coast and up to San Benedetto, where she found a cab to take her here, adding approximately an hour and a half to her all ready lengthy day of travel.  We thought some handmade taglietelle with truffles might help.

Being Counted

On Wednesay, we returned our Censimento to the office at the Comune.   The Italian census is much different than the US version. 

The Italian census is sixty-two pages long.  Filling it out is required by law.  Not doing so is punishable by a fine.  If you’re not lucky enough to have a form with a number on it to enter into the online site, you must complete it by hand.

food facts, le marche edition

Italians are, um, particular about their food.  Growing up in NY, you learn this at an early age, surrounded by so many of them, all of whom believe their mother’s sauce is the best, their grandmother’s way of making [insert Italian-american dish here] is the ONLY way to make it.

Well, the East Coast Italian-American community’s got nothing on these folk.

Top 5 food-related facts of le Marche that I’ve learned:

1-Salt does not go into the pot of pasta water until the water’s all ready boiling.  I don’t know why this is, but it is.  To do so earlier is evidence of idiocy and/or poor upbringing.

2-You can put onions in a pan. You can put garlic in a pan. You cannot put them both in the same pan.  Some of those who choose to go with onion also remove it prior to serving whatever the actual dish is.

3-You can eat fish. Or you can eat meat. You cannot eat them at the same time, during the same meal.  “Terra e mare? Insieme? Mai!”  Bacon around a scallop would be blasphemous.

I’m dying to make the classic Surf & Turf of my youth.  A steak and a lobster tail on one plate. Totally blow their minds.

4-You never use butter.  Except, you do. Only you don’t admit it. Tagliatelle with truffle sauce?  Some chopped up truffle, some olive oil, a little bit of butter.  I know this because, in addition to the tons of butter you see at the grocery store, the waiter in town was explaining the recipe but left out the butter.  He gave it up when I pressed him, looking over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard..  Try to tell that to the folks around here who eat it, tho, and they’ll protest in horror.

5-Putting mustard on a bologna sandwich is a sin.  Adding cheese to that sandwich?  Beyond. Scandalous.

Forget about the “sauce” vs. “gravy” debate.  That's not a topic for a non-Italian like me, but know this:  here it’s sugo or salsa in general, ragu if meat’s involved. E Basta.  Now, the pronunciation of Italian ingredients in the US and who utters them correctly? Nobody there does, except maybe Mario Batali. Everyone else?  They’re speaking dialect (not Italian) and in NY, it’s usually the Naples variety.  Take that, every Italian-American I grew up with on Long Island who made fun of how I said “mozzarella”!

Talking Turkey

Back in July (July 4^th, to be precise), we had dinner at “Caucci”, as the hotel/restaurant in the middle of the main “piazza” (really, now, the stretch of road on which you can park and choose to take your coffee from one of 3 bars or walk up the Corso where you’ll find 3 butchers, 2 bakers, a few hair salons) is known.  Small town italy means businesses are known by the name of the person who owns them, not by the official name. Il Sole Pizzeria Ristorante is “Cappelli”; the Angolo di Fortuna, selling scratch-offs and cigarettes, is “Malaspina”;  Bar dello Sport is “Laura”, etc.

So, there we are, eating our prosciutto crudo and cheese, drinking our wine, when D., the waiter, brings up what’s been brought up earlier that day, by everyone looking to have a conversation.

“Quattro Luglio. Indepence Day?”

“Si, si.”

Again, mentioned by others earlier in the day, “On this day, you eat turkey?”

This is funny for several reasons. The first of which is the Italians hear ”holiday” and immediately want to know what you eat to celebrate it. The second, an  American holiday must mean turkey. Third, the Italians I’ve met all suffer from the same delusion that all I and my fellow Americans eat, ever, is hamburgers.  And maybe hot dogs.  And French fries.  All covered in gobs and gobs of ketchup.  With a side of more hamburgers.

This day, I tell them, is the hamburger holiday! On this day, we gather around the barbecue, at the beach, wherever we can, to indulge in that most American meal of hamburgers, hot dogs, potato salad and beer. Strangely, they’re not impressed. I bet it’s ‘cause they think we don’t know how to celebrate a holiday, what with eating the same things we eat everyday.

Next, I explained that turkey is for thanksgiving. Which is in November.  D., F., and E. all offered their tidbits on what that involves. In Italian, so I was a bit lost, comprehension-wise. I got something about the turkey. And the leg.  And putting the leg in the oven. Wait. I explained, half in English, half in Italian, it’s not just the turkey leg….we cook the whole turkey. In the oven.

“No. Impossibile!”

“Questo e mazzo!”

This is mad! Total disbelief. The craziest thing they ever heard. Maybe Italian turkey’s are bigger than ours?

I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.  Thanksgiving is now just around the proverbial corner.  

Or maybe, I'll just make a chicken.