Sono Americana

I've made a quick grab for computer time while the parents are at the dentist (my poor, poor stepfather).

I've been here for six days so far and it still doesn't feel as foreign and strange as I thought it would.  I don't find myself flailing out in public, not understanding a single thing.  It's not like I've never been in a situation where everyone was speaking a language I didn't know before.

My best friend speaks Spanish fluently and her husband is Chilean, so I'm used to having no clue what is going on.  I've also gotten used to two things: (1) interpreting what's going on via facial expressions/body language and (2) not being afraid to ask what the hell is going on.  Aside from the lovely South American folk I've spent a lot of time around, I also lived with my brother for almost a year and was subjected to several meals during which English was never spoken.  I remember going out to eat for Jason's birthday in Fayetteville (NC) with other soldiers and two Arabic translators - the only people who tried to speak English with me were the guys from Lebanon and Iraq.  Thankfully, I had to leave halfway through the meal to go to work.  However, I did discover during my time there that you can usually figure out what you need to, as long as you REMAIN CALM.  Sure, sometimes I get that deer-in-the-headlights look (and yes, my mother laughs at me every time - so cruel), but the only time I've really gotten upset about it was after 23 hours of sleep deprivation, when the German customs officials were being rude.  Now that I think of it, that would have pissed me off in any language.  There's no need for that, now is there?  I'm glad I have another chance to go through Frankfurt so I won't hate them forever...of course, that depends on what happens, doesn't it?

I was, at first, afraid to walk the dog by myself because things are so different here and I understand very little Italian (although I am learning).  But everyone adores Morgan.  There aren't that many big dogs around and there are virtually no Olde English Sheepdogs, so he's always a hit. Italian grandmothers come up and let him lick their faces (which I find amazing - he has terrible breath) and speak to him as if he was a child...which he thinks he is anyway.  Seriously, what kind of beastie sucks on a binkie while he sleeps?  And if you think that's strange, wait till you see him give the cats a tongue bath.  They enjoy it.  I don't know who is weirder.

We haven't done a lot of touristy stuff, just a lot of walking around.  You can't help but see beautiful (not to mention ancient) things everywhere you go here, so it almost seems silly to pay to get into a museum.  Yesterday, my mom and I decided we would go to the Japanese museum.  We got there and were told that the museum was closed because of a concerto (which we could hear, it was lovely).  Instead of despairing at time wasted, we decided to walk around the grounds.  It was amazing.  And it took as about an hour to see all of it (mainly due to the fact that it was mostly uphill and we took a lot of pictures).  Then, instead of going straight home, we decided to walk through a huge tunnel below the museum to get to the funiculare (spelling might be wrong - this is a sort of trolley/train thing that goes uphill - not as exciting as I thought it would be, but still...).  There's nothing quite like walking through a tunnel on a thin sidewalk, with cars racing past you (nothing between you and them but exhaust) and having to breathe in the smoke coming from the cigarette of the woman in front of you. Not an experience I plan on reliving, but it put us back out into daylight right in front of a little shop that sold polymer clay, which my mom needed.  And I was happy to find a perfect little velcro wallet, which (unlike those in the U.S.) actually fits my passport. 

We caught the funiculare from there, then started walking back home.  On the way, we stopped at a little shop and had a fun chat with the ladies who worked there...okay, Mom did, but I enjoyed listening.  They were very nice and told her how to say a few things in the local dialect.  We bought fresh pesto, trofie, Milanese salame (what I've always known as Genoa salami) and Jenn's present...

Random note of the day:  Pepperoni Focaccia is NOT focaccia with spiced salami on it.  Pepperoni is Italian for bell peppers.  The girl at the bakery down the street thought it was hilarious when Mom told her what we call pepperoni in the States.

I love all these little shops.  I know they aren't particular to Genova, or even Italy.  Every big city I've ever been in has had corner stores that sold great food and made shopping easier for single people (like me).  It's just that I've never actually lived anywhere with this kind of shopping, or even had a prolonged stay in such a city (all my trips to NYC have been less than a week, at least as far as actually staying close to Manhattan).  I was charmed by the string of shops we went to on my first day here.  But it's more than big city living.  The Italians eat very fresh food.  When we buy focaccia, we need to buy a small amount or it will get stale quickly (no preservatives).  So you go out each day, or every other day, and buy a small amount of very fresh food.  You end up eating a greater variety because of this and you save money because nothing is rotting in the fridge - you've eaten it all. How my Italian grandaddy must have been horrified at the average American refrigerator, stuffed to the gills with highly preserved food grown lord-knows-where.

It is a much healthier way of doing things: the freshness, the lack of preservatives, all the walking and (especially unusual for me) the socializing.  I have a transportation pass that gets me onto the elevator, bus and train for the week, so I'm not constantly shelling out money, and most of the places you would want to go can be walked to.

I've been wondering to myself lately if I can really just go back to Martinez and not want desperately to get the hell out.  I love to walk here.  I walk long distances every day, too (my calves are incredibly sore, but no shin splints oddly enough).  But I have no desire to walk around Martinez - there's nothing to see.  I have to take BART or a car to get to most of the places I'd want to walk around.  I'm starting to really understand how difficult it must be for Meg, having come back from months in London and feeling stuck in Concord.  You guys, we need to find some Europeans to marry.  Preferably rich, attractive, generous ones.  Let's work on that.