Election Day

Dear Readers,

I often forget that Italy is a democracy, but two weeks ago I was reminded of the fact because Florence's mayoral elections were held. I was eager to use my new Tessera Elettorale (voter's card), having been granted citizenship not too long ago. The tessera--like so many Italian documents--is oversized, covered in fine print and official seals, and beautiful to behold. There are 18 squares on it, meaning I can use it to vote in 18 elections (receiving a stamp for each one)--after which I get a free cappuccino, and presumably a new card.

My husband Paolo and I headed down the street to the elementary school, which had been transformed into the official voting station. I was somewhat disappointed not to find tables of coffee and donuts on offer--like you see in America on election days--and that festive atmosphere created by jovial, white-haired, volunteer ladies' auxillary-types. Alas, not a bombolone in sight, just a bored-looking policeman hanging around to make sure things were kosher. We found the classroom where we were supposed to vote, but hung around first in the hallway in order to read all the election posters pasted over the walls. These posters not only listed the candidates and their respective political parties, but listed all the coalitions that were aligned with that particular candidate. Each candidate, and each coalition, has a graphic symbol or logo all its own--kind of like brand recognition. The symbols on the posters were colorful and about the size of pancakes--presumably so the illiterate peasants can make them out--and were so numerous and bizarre as to boggle the mind. I was relieved to see that we were not the only confused souls studying them, trying to tease out their esoteric significance--many voters were squinting and furrowing their brows over them, as if they were gazing upon hieroglyphics on ancient papyrus scrolls.

In Italy, politics, like pretty much everything else, is governed by a herd mentality. The coalitions group around, then dissipate, then reform and regroup around the candidates and political parties--rather like fermenting bacteria in a petrie dish. It's all about who is sleeping with whom. This time around, for example, the Partita Animalistica (Animal Lovers) and the No Tramvia (No to the Tram Line Short-Sighted Fools) groups--along with about a dozen others--were aligned with the right-wing, Berlusconi-backed party, whose candidate, Gialli, was an ex-soccer player with a penchant for tight jeans. The candidate for the left, the 34 year-old Matteo "Baby Face" Renzi, had an equal amount of coalitions lined up on his team. (I'm pretty sure I saw a We Love Cuddles coalition, a Virile and Vegetarian group, and one called, cryptically, Goodbye to All That). There were also the neo-fascists, the communists, the former porn stars--apparently anybody can form a coalition and/or a political party. The thing is, these coalitions are with one party one day, and tomorrow they might just as likely be with someone else. Call it electoral whoring, or high school, or what you will--such is the nature of the political beast in the Bel Paese.

I waited my turn until motioned forward into the classroom. There were three tables: one marked Women and one marked Men, and the one in the middle had large cardboard boxes on it for depositing the ballots. I sauntered up to Women and presented my card and I.D. A genial young man droned in an official voice, after locating me in his enormous ledger, "La Signora può votare." (The Madame may vote). This was announced with a flourish after every person (Signore for gentlemen, of course), doubtless part of the Drama and Spectacle of Election Day. I was handed a sheaf of ballots (there were also EU Parliamentary and Regional elections) and a pencil, and told which cabina to squirrel myself into.

The four ballots, or schede, were indeed lovely to behold: jewel-toned marbled paper in shades of saffron, verdigris, rose, and violet, each one bearing an official seal. They unfolded origami-like into a size considerably larger than at first perceived--and on each was listed the candidates and their clusters of coalition logos. Oddly, there was no line for putting your "X". I saved the largest ballot for last, the one for the Mayor of Florence. Once unfolded, this ballot was nearly the size of a bedsheet--seriously, my outstretched arms banged into the sides of the cubicle as I tried to read it. It was the only way, I suppose, that they could fit all the coalitions onto the ballot. I made my choice, then spent 10 minutes trying to fold the damn things back the way they were supposed to go, cursing under my breath and stamping my feet in frustration, no doubt to the perplexity of the others manning the tables. I emerged, feigning an air of ease and savoir-faire (my hair probably standing on end), and returned to the young man, who steered me over to the man by the boxes. My ballots were taken and solemnly and most carefully placed in their respective slots. While this was going on, I noticed a dour-faced woman with an enormous, tanned, hypotenuse of a nose at one of the tables--furiously stamping a mountain of papers. What these had to do with the actual election I could not fathom, but she certainly leant an air of bureaucratic authenticity to the proceedings. I relinquished the pencil, and was given my card back--one stamp closer to my free coffee.

Well, after all that, we found out that the mayoral candidates from two of the main political parties did not have enough of a percentage of the vote to win out one over the other, and there was to be a ballotaggio, or run-off election. So we went back to the polls today. Everything was as before, including Furiously Stamping Nose.

So there you have it, dear Readers. We will have a new mayor in Florence, and we will have laid waste to countless trees in order to do it. Such is the nature of democracy, Italian-style.

My Best Regards,

Campobello

Bloomsday boon

Dear Readers,

The inimitable Mr. Joyce himself could not have sent me a better gift this June 16th: the internet, bless its virtual soul, has ferried to my shores a long-lost Dublin friend and neighbor.

His e-mail to me, bobbing up in my inbox like a message in a bottle, unloosed in me the rattle and hum of university days in a grayish city in an emerald isle:

"Dublin 1989. 101 Upper Dorset Street – spacious, fabulously-decorated, fully-furnished dump on the North Inner city (complete with plentiful supply of mice and non-functioning refrigerator). Upstairs: two young impressionable female “Yanks”. Downstairs: – a few semi-sober locals (male) – deeply impressed by their new exotic neighbours upstairs."

And to think I was merely going to celebrate the day with a pork kidney for breakfast. Dear Dave, this is much, much better. Thank you for finding me!

Yours in serendipitous pleasure,

Campobello

Four-way Stop installed in Florence

Dear Readers,

I could hardly believe my eyes when I read recently in La Nazione that Florence was to try out an American-style Four-way Stop at one of its intersections. I had to check it out for myself, so I headed over to the corner of via Ficcanaso and via Pelo di Gatto at about 10:00 am. (I must admit I was skeptical, since the concept of taking turns is about as alien to Italians as serving potato chips as a contorno). I stationed myself under a shady tree and proceeded to observe.

An ancient green Fiat 500, driven by a wizened gnome in a tweed cap, puttered right on through his Stop without the slightest hesitation.

A minute later an Alfa sedan reached the intersection and stopped, but the Lancia who approached from the other street saw this as weakness and took the opportunity to speed on through. Hearty curses from Alfa.

A Bravo, whose driver was a withered prune leveraging herself via the steering wheel so she could see over the dash--and sporting mega-size black blinder-style sunglasses--without so much as slowing down at her corner, braked dead center in the middle of the intersection and looked around frantically. Four cars immediately surrounded her on all sides and started blaring their horns. She was pelted with oily bread crusts*, but managed to drive off while crying out prayers to the Holy Virgin Mary.

A Carabinieri car rolled through with admirable indifference.

A truck, whose cab held 12 African immigrants, stopped, looked both ways, then proceeded prudently ahead. An Ape (essentially a motorized tricycle with a platform on back, for those of you who've never seen one), stopped, but instead of actually waiting for the truck to clear the intersection, jerked forward right into the truck's wheel well. The Ape's load of Sicilian oranges disembarked in a most disorganized and haphazard fashion, scattering the road with bright blobs of color. The 12 Africans piled out, began shouting in tongues, and gesticulating wildly. The Ape driver, a grizzled man in a dirty white tank top with great tufts of, apparently, a medieval hair shirt peeking from beneath--got out, yelled at the Africans for getting in his way, then sank to his knees, moaning to the heavens about his fallen fruit. Meanwhile, about twenty-five cars had piled up on all sides, horns clamoring and epithets volleying. It seemed things were at an impasse until one of the Africans lugged out a giant garbage bag filled with *designer* bags and belts. Ape guy was presented with a Rolex watch, which he instantly snapped around his hirsute wrist, looked at admiringly, then drove off satisfied.

Four cars arrived at the intersection at the same time. They all stopped. They looked at each other. They smiled. They shrugged. Then they all lurched forward in the same instant, only to come to a screeching halt, their four front bumpers forming a neat quadrilateral. Heads craned out of driver's side windows, "Ma che cazzo fai?! Toccava a me!" (What the f*** are you doing? It was my turn!) "No, macchè sei grullo [blockhead]! Toccava a me!" "Ma vaffanculo!" Just then an ambulance's siren signaled its approach, so the drivers, disgruntled and muttering to themselves and grinding into reverse, pinwheeled around and spun off in their respective directions.

An old Panda packed with smiling Benedictine nuns sailed serenely through the intersection--without so much as a genuflection aimed at their Stop--sure of their place in the afterlife, or eyes on the Prize as it were.

A camper with Netherlands plates pulled up to a Stop, and a split-second later so did a Smart car with its blonde, tanned, cell-phone-chatting female driver. In a gesture of magnanimity and recreational gratitude toward this country that showed him and his family such a lovely time, Camper Man waved Smart Woman an invitation to pass ahead of him into the intersection. She gave it the gas, and him the finger.

A battered blue Citroen putt-putted up and with a great sigh of exhaust, stopped, with terrific conviction. Still staring straight ahead, the driver hit the pedal and the car staggered forward, on through the intersection and just past where I was standing. Next to him in the passenger's seat, sitting very erect, was a German shepherd. A white cane was on the bench between them.

Three cars, each with big letter P's taped to the rear window, reached their Stops almost simultaneously. (P is for principiante, or beginner, i.e. student driver). With contemptible naiveté, each P-eon in proper turn ventured forth cautiously through the intersection without incident, even using blinkers where necessary.

Just as I was about to leave, feeling a bit tired and peckish, sirens signaled the approach of a motorcade, and indeed the first pair of Carabinieri on motorcycles were coming fast down the street. Right at that moment, Wizened Gnome was back at the intersection in his Fiat, having approached from another direction. No one had any intention of stopping, that much was clear. I tensed up, sensing disaster. The advance motorcycle convoy missed the Fiat by a hair, but sure enough, there was a loud crack of metal when the politician's limo slammed into poor Gnome. The perennially-tanned fat cat himself--I'll call him S.B. to preserve his anonymity--got out of his limo and unleashed such a vigorous torrent of obscenities that his jet-dyed comb-over stood straight up from the top of his head, like some kind of fascist salute. Wizened Gnome, unhurt and unperturbed, struggled out of his mangled car, straightened his curved spine as best he could, looked S.B. straight in the eye--and bent his right arm up while slamming his left fist into the crook of his right elbow in a salute of his own.

Mayhem ensued: police and carabinieri choked the intersection, strutting like bumptious cocks and shouting like brokers in a bull market; angry civilians cooled their heels in cars and on mopeds, leaning on horns and yelling into cellphones; mothers and nonni gaped on the sidewalk with wide-eyed children licking lollipops.

The next day I read that the Four-way Stop had been summarily dismantled. It had been declared--by a certain powerful politician--to be unquestionably unconstitutional. And thoroughly un-Italian.

Yours,

Campobello

* credit for the oily bread crust pelting goes to my dear, and direly witty, friend Gordon.

A parent-teacher meeting--or--The glories of besciamella

Dear Readers,

The other day I attended a meeting at Giacomo's school. I must say that I am overall very pleased with the public school my children attend--I find their teachers warm and loving, the program satisfactory and attuned to the children's age-level and individual needs, and there is this touching atmosphere of what I can only describe as sweetness that pervades.

My son, who's in first grade (or prima) has the typical tag-team dual teacher classroom that, for now, all elementary schools use. His teachers are Vanna and Stefania, and they are experienced and wonderful, having worked together for many years. Vanna has a disheveled mop of curly gray and white hair, an arrestingly simpatica face dominated by laugh-lines, sports bright orange and red eyeglasses, and tends to wear clothes in shades of blue and purple. Stefania, herself the mother of 7 children, is a bit younger, with no-fuss short dark hair, and a face that looks pleasantly like a squirrels'. Vanna's voice is soothing and husky, while Stefania's is high and strident--kind of a vocal yin and yang. Vanna imparts primarily Italian, and Stefania math. (There are separate teachers for English and Religion. Religion gets 2 hours a week, English 1--in this global age I think Italy has its priorities skewed a bit here).

At the meeting (surprisingly, not many parents were in attendance), Vanna and Stefania updated us on the class's progress. The academics follow a national program (Italy's school system is centralized), and the kids have been on track, except for math. Stefania reported that they are lagging a tad behind on the math program as a group, but that she prefers it this way, stating quite reasonably that math skills are acquired step by step, each building on the other, and that if things are rushed when the kids are showing they need extra time, next year in second grade they may find themselves having to spend time reviewing, a more difficult process. You see, in Italian elementary schools, the same teachers are with you from first grade through fifth. (So, quite logically, Stefania was attuning her math lessons to her class's needs, knowing that she can "catch them up" next Fall. The flip side is that if your class is showing precociousness in one area, you can give them more challenging work. I think this is a very positive aspect of Italy's school system). Of course, if you get bad teachers, you're stuck with them for a long time. But if you get good ones, it's a boon--nice because the kids, at a tender age, develop a familiarity and relationship with their teachers that supports them through their academic endeavors. They don't have to waste time or wrack their nerves over getting used to so many new classmates, and a new teacher, every year.

Once academics were dispensed with, the meeting addressed class comportment. Overall, the kids behave quite well given their age, we were told. The only trouble area was mensa, or lunchtime. Apparently, the kids are not always "showing the proper respect to food," this being made clear by their mutilating poor defenseless fruit or spearing fresh mozzarella with their forks and waving it around in militant fashion, and other culinary misdeeds. The meeting then degenerated--as happens in Italy--into a lengthy talk about food. The teachers reported the class's eating habits--how much they ate, the estimated collective appetite, etc. (They were somewhat scandalized that the class eats so little, on the whole. But, they conceded--with deep dual shrugs--the kids seem healthy and energetic enough despite this). Then a Neopolitan mom spoke up in the class's defense, saying that she thought the lunch menu was boring and repetitive, lacking in spicy/tasty items, and it was this that was likely causing a kind of collective gastronomic ennui among the children, and hence their disrespectful behavior. She suggested that besciamella (béchamel sauce) be served on the pasta--this being a favorite of her son--and thence was launched a heated debate on the merits and practicalities of cooking and serving besciamella on an institutional scale, its high calorie content, its relative heaviness, its life-affirming properties, the fact that not all kids like it. A parent pointed out that when the kids are served lasagne, there's besciamella in that, and they love it. "Yes! Yes! It's true! Everyone likes lasagne!" chanted the parents. Then, parents with kids who love mensa spoke up, saying things like, "Alessandro tells me 'Mamma, you can only dream of cooking food as well as they do at mensa,'" or "Giulia says 'ma quant'è bona la mensa, Mamma!" On and on it went, a gastronomic tennis match, the mensa ball being lobbed back and forth endlessly. Finally, my head numb, and after looking at my watch for the fiftieth time (I had to buy groceries and get dinner on, see), the meeting was adjourned.

Yours in besciamella solidarity,

Campobello

How many strikes before you're out?

Dear Readers,

Today was another of the many, many strike days in here in Florence. Buses don't run, teachers are absent, public offices are closed, etc. I am convinced that Italian workers love to go on strike more than they like to eat white truffles or drink barolo. They certainly seem to spend more energy protesting than actually working.

I just don't understand all the fuss. Call me naive, brainwashed by protestant-work-ethic-capitalist-customer satisfaction thinking, but to me, Italians don't have it so bad. For one thing, they barely work at all. Public offices are generally only open for a few hours in the morning, with maybe one afternoon a week in which they open for another couple hours after the interminably long lunch break (typically 2-3 hours). Many shops also close for a good chunk of the midday, presumably so the staff can go home and stuff themselves with a three-course lunch. And banks! They're the worst: open for a few hours in the morning, and then only 45 minutes to an hour again in the afternoon--and for this stellar, 21st century service you pay ridiculously high monthly account fees (and each ATM card linked to your account is an extra charge, too, thank you very much).

The funny thing is that even when Italians are at work, many are not actually working. They are smoking, chatting on their cells, having their 12th espresso, or shuffling papers sternly and looking pissed off. Or they put forth the absolute bare minimum of effort to execute their duties, to the point that a smile, kind word or any kind of problem-solving, trouble-shooting skills proves far too fatiguing to attempt.

Often, however, they are simply absent.

Take the recent scandal in Portici, near Naples, for example. In one of the city's administrative offices, 36 out of 70 employees were arrested for chronic absenteeism. A lengthy investigation, complete with hidden cameras, revealed that the employees were using their I.D. cards to sign in (or having cohorts sign in for them), then leaving: they simply went home, or went shopping, or went to other jobs. Apparently, this was going on for years, and is a practice endemic to the area--another 58 city employees are currently under investigation. Indeed, officials in the prosecuter's office say that this is an Italy-wide phenomenon. Portici's mayor, Enzo Cuomo, under harsh criticism for his bald refusal to acknowledge any wrong-doing or admit his own incompetency, had the coglioni to accuse his accusers of "faziosità"--fatuousness.

Again, I think Italian workers have it pretty good: at least a month's vacation per year, and the endless feste religiose and feste nazionali add up to another good week or two off. When you marry, you are entitled by law to an additional two weeks' vacation for neo-conjugal purposes. If you have a baby (the inevitable result of those post-matrimonial two weeks, I suppose), you get up to a years' maternity leave, with reduced hours to accommodate breast-feeding when you do go back to work. It is nearly impossible to get fired, the intricate web of labor laws always favoring the employee--if your boss wants to get rid of you he'd be better off lacing your espresso with strychnine. Sick days? As many as you need as long as you have a doctors' note (and these are handed out in wanton abundance, like Jehovah's Witness pamphlets). In addition, everyone has umpteen ore di permesso, or hours of "personal time," which you can take at will for things like doctors' appointments, bureaucratic errands, or wild-boar hunting.

So who's complaining?!

Apparently, everybody. In about a weeks' time, we have another scheduled general strike day to look forward to in Florence. Workers have the god-given right to not show up, to protest--although most simply treat these days as a holiday--and to generally disrupt the lives of everyone else. (My husband scoffs at this practice, saying that interminable striking serves no real purpose: it's like the boy who cried wolf. No one pays attention anymore. It's overkill).

But what can you do? Italians are fed the concept of workers' rights from birth, like formula or breast milk. It's an Us vs. Them mentality that is rooted, I'm convinced, in ancient provincial prejudices of Family vs. Outsiders. They believe with every fiber of their being that they have the right to a secured job and all the perks therein, and that once they attain it, no one can touch them. (The idea of actual merit gathers dust on some forgotten shelf of collective conscience).

Dear Readers, I submit to you the Constitution of the Republic of Italy (a copy of which was given me at my new citizen's induction ceremony, and which I am in the habit of perusing while in the loo), whose opening line illustrates my point:

FUNDAMENTAL PRINCIPLES: Article 1:  "L'Italia è una Repubblica democratica, fondata sul lavoro." "Italy is a democratic republic, founded on work."

There's a typo in there. The correct text ought to read: "Italy is a democratic republic, founded on the theory of work."

Yours in industrious labor,

Campobello

Origins

Dear Readers,

What would you tell your children to pass the time on a long journey? Perhaps you would tell them about other journeys, journeys that took place a long time ago....

"In 1901 Leonardo Campobello, a stone mason from Palermo, set sail from Genoa for the green, brazen shore of the New World. He was headed for the wild, steaming hills of West Virginia, where he would peddle his craft. With compact body, rough hands, flinty eyes and energy to burn--this was a man who could cleave stone and carve out a life for himself. He sighted New York Harbor and a chill of anticipation raced up his spine. It was winter, bitterly cold, a gray pall obscured the famous skyline, and the fragrant lemon groves and springtime orange blossoms of his native Sicily were but a strange memory. Like so many others before and after him, he passed through the portals of Ellis Island, and was transformed. He emerged, a phoenix risen from the ashes, an almost-American, your ancestor--Leonard Campbell."

This is what I might tell mine.

My Best Regards,

Campobello

Don't mess with my pasta

Dear Readers,

Today's newspaper announced that an Anti-trust commission handed down a fine of some 12.5 million Euro to Italy's major pasta producers (such as Barilla, De Cecco, et al.). The companies involved represent some 90% of the pasta market, and had conspired collectively to price-gouge. Since 2006, average pasta prices have risen over 30% and it has been the consumers that have borne the brunt.

We're dealing with a culinary sacred cow here.

Italians put up with a lot of crap: a top-heavy government that barely functions, an essentially zero-growth economy, ridiculously high prices on toiletries--but they will not, I repeat, will not stand for over-priced pasta.

Indeed, it is rare to see such heavy-handed punishment in Italy. This is a country where you can drive the wrong way down a one-way street with impunity, where you can park in a handicap spot and proceed to skip from your car past the two vigili who are invariably chatting on cellphones, or where you can be elected to a high-ranking government position and have a criminal record and/or criminal cases pending against you.

Clearly, Italians know their priorities.

Yours,

Campobello

What I love most about living in Florence

Dear Readers,

Without a doubt the best thing about life in Italy is the food, and the thing that makes me happiest about my decision to make Florence my home is my kids' school lunch menu.

No kidding.

For a little over €7 (about $9) a day, both my kids (ages 7 and 4) get a tasty, nourishing three-course meal. (Parents know exactly what their children are eating because the menus arrive at home by mail). The food is delivered fresh daily and prepared on-site. They're served from large platters by the lunch staff and sit at long tables with their classmates. The tables are set with placemats, real plates and silverware--a shallow bowl for their primo and a plate underneath for the secondo. The glasses--they drink water only--are glass, even for the preschoolers. [Aside: Though they drink water at meals, Italian children are brought up with an appreciation of wine that starts early. In September around the time of the wine harvest, my kids made wine at preschool]

I saw pictures of lunchtime, taken by my son's teacher, and it brought tears to my eyes. It was a cultural epiphany. The table was set for Christmas-time, with red napkins and such. To see these sweet kids, smiling, laughing, eating together--crowded elbow-to-elbow at the communal table, looking so civilized, so convivial, was very moving. This is how the seeds are sown--the love of good food shared with friends, the early exposure to simply prepared seasonal food that forms the habits of a lifetime.

Now understand this, I don't pretend to be a culinary saint, nor am I much for culinary evangelism--elitist foodie zealots drive me crazy--but when you live in food-blessed Italy sometimes you feel you must spread the gospel. And while there are many things that Italians don't know how to do (like wait in line, drive in lanes, or govern themselves), in one aspect they are right on the mark: they know how to eat.

***
Barack and Michelle Obama, according to the New York Times ("Obama's New Chef Skewers School Lunches", Jan. 29, 2009), are serious about food and trying to tackle America's problems with obesity and overall bad eating habits. They promote eating fresh, eating locally, and eating according to the seasons. I say, hallelujah! I hope they make progress, but I fear the way America eats is entrenched. The main problem seems to me to be the fact that fast food--and the paradigm of the fast food meal--has permeated our culture too deeply to be removed. Why do we have to always eat stuff that doesn't require utensils?!!

To amuse myself, I pick American school districts at random and go online and look at their elementary school lunches. Here's what I found, and it ain't pretty:

In Rochester, Michigan, the daily menu might have these items on it:

-Baked Chicken Fryz [just love the cute spelling, as if it's not real food--well, maybe it isn't] with Goldfish Grahams
-Tater Tots [safe to assume these babies are frozen]
-Crispy Tacos
-Fish Nuggets with macaroni and cheese
-Sliced apples with low-fat caramel dip [apparently fruit is so boring and tasteless it needs a sugary dip]
-Crazy Cheesy Breadsticks with Pizza Dipping Sauce [I guess dips are for kids]
-Mini Corn Dogs [are we at school or an amusement park?!]
-Baby Carrots with Ranch Dip
-Dominos Pizza
-Clux Deluxe Chicken [god only knows what this is supposed to be]
-French Bread Pizza
-Sloppy Joe
-Broccoli with cheese sauce [I suppose if the veg is not fresh or seasonal, it needs the mask]
-Cheese Hot Pockets [okay, this one just makes me angry]
-Bosco's Cheese Stuffed Breadsticks

The school has "All Amercian Day" every now and then, in which they serve:

-Hot Dog in an Enriched Bun [I'm sure the fact that that bun is enriched is a load off everyone's mind]
-Hamburger/Cheeseburger Bar
-Fun Size Cheetos

Now, to be fair, they do also offer a salad bar, and "Assorted Fresh Fruit and Veggies" almost daily, and one day they do offer Roast Turkey-Gravy-Mashed Potatoes, but I think we can see pretty clearly which way the culinary wind blows.

In Mount Lebanon, PA, the menus follow similar lines: BBQ Rib Sandwich, Chicken Patty Sandwich, Chicken Nuggets with Dipping Sauce, Chicken Tender Wraps, Cheese-filled Breadsticks with Marinara Dipping Sauce. In San Francisco, there was a glimmer of hope when I read they are eating Wheat Penne Pasta with Meat Sauce, Teriyaki Glazed Chicken with Fried Rice, Salisbury Steak with Mashed Potatoes--but these items are more often than not muscled out by Cheese Pizza Dippers, Bagel Dog [what the ??], and Hot Diggety Dog.

Only in Berkeley, home of Alice Waters, did things sound really promising. The school district's website said they are committed to using fresh, local products as much as possible, the food is cooked on site, and the meat is all organic and grass fed (I almost wept for joy at this). Unfortunately, the menus were not viewable at the time--darn, I was beginning to salivate.

As you see, dear Readers, these menus are dominated by concepts of fast and frozen food. It's clear the thinking is that kids will only eat "kid" food, i.e. food that has been manipulated--probably against its better nature--into a fun, kid-friendly shape, with a gimmicky name slapped on it, and a pot of dip placed next to it. As if to say, "Look, no forks required! Have fun, kids, while you pile on the pork and develop Adult Onset Diabetes!" It's culinary dumbing-down. How are kids nourished (and I use the term lightly) on this stuff supposed to all of a sudden make healthy "grown-up" choices later on in life?

In my house, my husband and son like a good burger, and I'm sure there's not a person on this earth that doesn't like fries. I have been known to dish out the popcorn, chips, pretzels and such on occasion (I couldn't call myself American if I didn't!). But we practice moderation in this regard, and we typically eat healthily, with most things made from scratch, using fresh, local, seasonal products. Our food preparations tend to be simple: things are grilled, lightly sauteéd or oven roasted, drizzled with olive oil, with only salt and fresh herbs to enhance the natural flavor. And all around us, the culture supports, indeed feeds, our desire to eat well.

This is why I am so happy about my kids' school lunches. Here's what they've been eating this winter (menus follow the customary Italian procedure of first course--usually pasta--second course, side dish and dessert. There are always baskets of fresh Tuscan bread on hand, too):

Baby gnocchi with vegetable ragù
Fried sole
Salad (olive oil and vinegar dressing always)
Fruit (always seasonal and unadorned)

Pastina in meat broth
Bollito misto (mixed boiled meats) with salsa verde--a very Tuscan dish; the sauce is made with anchovies, parsley, parmigiano, olive oil and lemon--very tasty!
Boiled potatoes
Fruit

Green spaghetti
Oven-roasted pork loin
Stewed carrots
Fruit salad

Rice with tomato sauce
Fresh Mozzarella
Fennel gratin
Gelato

Penne with butter and parmigiano
Roast veal
Stuffed cabbage in tomato sauce
Fruit

Rigatoni all'amatriciana
Chicken breast with sage
Sauteéd spinach and swiss chard
Banana

Vegetable soup (passato)
Pizza al prosciutto
Yogurt

Pasta snails in tomato cream sauce
Fish livornese style (with tangy tomato sauce)
Peas
Fruit

Lasagna with meat ragù
Fresh mozzarella
Fresh vegetable crudité
Fruit

Risotto alla pescatore (seafood)
Chicken bocconcini ("mouthfuls" or nuggets) in savory stew
Oven roasted potatoes
Fruit

Well, dear Readers, it is nearly lunchtime... I think I'll just nip down the street and see if I can sneak into the school lunchroom. Today's menu sounds good.

My best regards,

Campobello

Thoughts on citizenship

Dear Readers,

Not too long ago, I became an Italian citizen (I maintain dual citizenship; over my dead body would I ever relinquish my rights to free speech, the pursuit of happiness, and midnight grocery shopping). My main reasons for tackling this gruelling bureaucratic procedure were that: 1) the bureaucratic procedure for renewing the permesso di soggiorno and then the carta di soggiorno was even more gruelling, and more frequent; 2) I wanted to have full rights to any benefits which might eventually be due me (I missed out, for instance, on the 1000 Euro government bonus for having a second child in 2004 because mothers were required to be Italian citizens--apparently, the father being Italian was only good for getting pregnant in the first place); 3) I wanted to have the option of being able to live anywhere in the EU should I desire it; and 4) my kids were born here and are dual citizens, so I thought I should cement my status as well.

The first step toward citizenship in Italy is to try to use your connections to jump ahead of others (this concept, vital to all aspects of Italian life, is actually codified in the Italian Constitution, a copy of which was given to me when I was sworn in). So, through my sister-in-law who works at the Prefect's Office, I was actually given an appointment in this century in order to present all the documents I had assembled, and instead of the normal two-year turnaround time they tell everyone to expect, my citizenship was granted in a year-and-a-half.

I was sworn in in the Red Room of the Palazzo Vecchio, along with a few others (me the only American) by a blind consigliere who wore over-sized black ladies' sunglasses (perhaps Fendi), and in addition to his official tri-color sash sported a rainbow pace (peace) pocket hankie. He shook my hand warmly and pointedly asked me to read an anti-war passage from the Italian Constitution. I was given an Italian flag.

I must say I do not feel one ounce Italian. I have lived here for eight years, have always worked and paid taxes, have two children in the public schools. Speak the language, albeit imperfectly. I am recognized in my neighborhood for being the wife of Paolo who grew up here, and here I am smiled at, greeted, more or less made to feel welcome. However, in nearly every other aspect of my life here, and certainly outside the neighborhood, I am made aware of the fact that I am "foreign." I am simply not Italian--no matter what the government says--because I neglected to be born here. There is a palpable sense of exclusionism in Italy, of outsiders and insiders, of--quite simply--Italians and non-Italians.

It's a regional thing too--open your mouth in Italy, and if you are Italian, you will be immediately placed by your accent: Florentine, Livornese, Tuscan, Milanese, Sicilian, Neopolitan, whatever. My mother-in-law was recently the victim of a con-artist, and afterward she said with profound surprise, "But he spoke Florentine!" as if to say, "he wasn't even foreign, but one of us!"

At my old job at the church of Santa Maria Novella, many Italian tourists would rudely dispute the museums' hours (insisting on their right to enter after closing-time) or the fact that there was an entry fee--often very ugly arguments would break out. Once, when trying to calm down an irate woman who insisted that her status as an architect made her exempt from such trivialities as posted opening times, I was bluntly cut off with, "Excuse me, but this doesn't concern you [insert withering scorn]--this is our cultural patrimony!" Huh. Never mind that I was hired to safeguard that same patrimony and promote its appreciation to masses of visitors.

In some ways, even though Italy needs and thrives on tourism, and is technically open to legal immigrants and a resonable amount of globalization, I get the feeling that it would rather turn its back on the whole mess and just have everybody stay where they belong, and mind their own business while they're at it, mannaggia! Years ago, my then-future father-in-law (surely one of the most ignorant men on God's green earth) said to me and Paolo (recently become engaged) at the dinner table, an idiotic grin on his face, "donne e buoi dai paesi tuoi!" Which means "women and oxen should be from one's home town." i.e., Stick to your own! [Aside: my father-in-law can always be counted on for an ass-backward axiom, a peasant platitude, a choice piece of hillbilly wisdom]

For many Italians, anyone Asian is simply cinese (chinese). Anyone with a darker skin tone (including southern Italians) is often described as di colore (colored). Now, officially, folks here are anti-racist and all that, blah blah blah. But there is a definite disparity between how people would like to think they believe and how they actually behave. The party line vs. the reality.

Even though my Italian is pretty good, many people unabashedly give me what I call "The Squint." They wrinkle their foreheads and squint their eyes as if it requires great effort to comprehend what I am saying, to see through the murk of my accent. I have to fight the urge to smack these people, to shout at them, "Haven't you ever heard someone speak with an accent before?! Don't get around much, do you?!"

Many Italians just seem puzzled by foreigners, afraid, and--something I find rather shocking--not in the least bit curious about us. Italy is a land of provincials struggling to appear sophisticated and modern.

Luckily, we have a number of international friends, other mixed couples like us with whom we can socialize and commiserate--and we do know a few enlightened Italians, ones who have travelled, or at least read books and watch educational television. It helps me feel like less of a freak.

So... I know I will never feel truly Italian--Italy does not embrace me in the way, I think, America collectively embraces immigrants (with lapses, of course), allowing me to blend in, allowing the simple fact that I partake of the economy and lifestyle to suffice, allowing for my difference. I don't want to seem ungrateful to the Italian government for granting me citizenship, I just wish that, now that I am indeed a citizen, I wasn't made to feel like a second-class one so often.

Yours,

Campobello

What James Joyce and I have in common (in case you were wondering)

Dear Readers,

The heading quote from this blog may lead you to think I have delusions of grandeur, that I--gasp!--put myself on par with Joyce. Please do not think that--I am but a humble scribe. However, like Joyce, I am an exile.

I have had what I can only call the yearning for exile since I was in high school, if not earlier, when I first read Joyce in Mrs. Ferency's (god bless her!) English class: Dubliners and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. These books deeply impressed me, and I kept coming back to them in the years that followed. Joyce haunted my undergraduate years, eventually leading me to Dublin to study, and Ulysses became the subject of my Masters' Thesis. So he and I have, you could say, a history together.

He was Irish to the bone; all his fiction is set in Ireland, though he himself left it, never to return, at a young age. So when you consider Joyce, you have to consider exile. What does it truly mean to be in exile? For him it seems to have been necessary, painful, rich with possibilities, yet debilitating--in short, full of paradox. The above quote from Portrait shows all the teenage Joyce's bravado, yet it holds a key: silence, exile, cunning. Three words that crystallize his intellectual rebellion, that name his tools for survival, that map his future, that proclaim him free. The thing is, he was never really free from who he was--the nature of rebellion requiring connection always to the thing one rebels from.

And so, I cannot help but draw parallels between his life and my own--as it has turned out, spurred on by my own youthful rebellions, my moving ever-larger distances from my home, my having to always cope with exile in various forms: physical, emotional, psychological. I think I am more restless, though, than Joyce ever was, and not as cunning, and in some ways not silent enough.

When you leave the place where you are from, everything shifts, like tectonic plates deep under the earth's crust. No matter your personal comfort level, you are never on as firm a ground as your native soil. Depending on where you go, you are in varying degrees out of your element. For example, a Westerner who lands in the chaos of Old Delhi is probably in a larger degree out of his element than say, a Westerner who goes to London. But the point is is that you are out of your element. This can be a good thing, an exciting, even exhilarating thing. I often feel this.

But at times it's like wearing clothes that just don't quite fit properly--the geographical equivalent of flood pants or a visible panty-line. There are built-in frustrations at not knowing how everything works, at not picking up on all the cultural clues, at having to jettison some of your expectations and tailor your hopes and dreams. (Example: I always dreamed of having a spacious Craftsman's bungalow, wide tree-shaded lawn and all that; now I live like a monk in a cell). Then, at some point, there is a ripening awareness of the reality of the place you are in as opposed to the place that existed in your imagination before you got there. Naturally, there are as many ways of reacting to all of this as there are individual characters. Joyce reacted by recreating in his mind an Ireland so true and vivid that when it spilled out onto the page it seemed as if he had never left, that he had remained in the thick of it. He seemed untouched.

I, however, find it difficult not to be affected by my surroundings and to shake the feeling that I will always be an outsider looking in. In this blog, you, Dear Readers, will see that my observations are at times colored by rancor, by amusement, by amazement, by profound frustration, maybe even by passion--by whatever mood possesses me and by whatever boon or bane Italy bestows upon me.

Yours,

Campobello

The "Under the Tuscan Sun" syndrome

Dear Readers,

When you live in Italy, especially in Tuscany, sooner or later you confront what I call the "Under the Tuscan Sun" syndrome. This affliction is characterized by the conviction that moving to Italy will be one long sex-food-designer shopping-restore-a-country-villa-fest, that living here will provide the necessary doses of la dolce vita to solve all your problems. Especially women seem to think that they can avoid menopause, an irksome ex-husband, or spoiled over-achieving children by a romp in the bel paese.

What a bunch of unadulterated crap.

Now I realize that I may be about to alienate a potential reading public, but I am here to tell you, dear Readers, that life in Italy isn't all Prada and porcini. Without a doubt, Italy seduces. And life can be good here, of course, damn good at times--but there is a reality that most tourists, zealots, and fanatics never experience. I know that people don't want to hear bad things about this sunny peninsula (Italians, above all, are ostriches in this regard)--it would be like discovering that Mother Theresa kicked her dog, or that Martha Stewart picks her nose and then proceeds to make maple pecan brownies without washing her hands. We all want to believe that Italy is paradiso--some kind of mediterranean, metaphysical Disneyworld, with no entrance fee, great food, and where everyone is tan and sports fabulous sunglasses.

It is my hope, discerning Readers, that I can open a window for you that gives you a glimpse of the "real" Italy. At least the Italy experienced by an average expatriate, a working mother of two.

First, we must do away with our ideas of "Tuscany", as implied by its ubiquitous use as a marketing tool. The word "Tuscany" has become as overused, abused and meaningless as the word "love". Tuscany, for many, conjures up images of long rows of cypress trees punctuating gently rolling golden hillsides, graceful umbrella pines shouldering up against picturesque, crumbling old hill towns, tumblerfuls of chianti next to platters of thick slices of toasted country bread brushed with green olive oil, etc. etc. Well, this can be Tuscany, just as "love" can mean, well, love. And this, of course, is what the marketers count on....

But, I ask, what is Tuscan about my mother's Ypsilanti apartment complex, ambitiously called "Tuscan Creek"?!! Not a cypress in sight there, my friends! Or American restaurant menus that list things such as "Tuscan Chicken Penne Pasta"?!! (You will never, I mean never see a chicken-and-pasta combo in Italy, god forbid). I've seen Tuscan sheet sets, Tuscan room paint, Tuscan cookware, Tuscan toilet brushes and Tuscan windshield wiper blades (ok, I made those last two up--but believe me, they are in the development stages somewhere).

So, dear Readers, disabuse yourselves of any previous notions of what Tuscany is, of what Florence is, and listen to me. I'll give you the real story.

"Under the Tuscan Sun" my ass.

Yours,

Campobello

The Rientro

Dear Readers,

Florence roared to life at the beginning of September, the August vacations having ended. The viali swarmed anew with slaloming mopeds, cars choked the lanes, horns blaring in that impatient Italian way, and orange buses flung themselves down the narrow streets of the centro storico like marauding Greeks storming Troy. After the eerie--yet delicious--quiet of the ghost town Florence becomes in August, the change was jarring. This great Italian collective roar is what heralds the rientro--the return, the re-entering, the restarting of "real" life after the hedonistic lazy days of August, wherein it is too hot to even think of working or accomplishing anything. In fact, if you are so unfortunate as to be left in the city during this month (it feels like being one of the few survivors on a barren Earth after a nuclear holocaust, alla Twilight Zone), you find that you can't get anything done: forget yoga, forget doctor's appointments, forget applying for a mortgage, and pray you have enough food to last until September.

I have always preferred Autumn to the other seasons, and even as a kid suffered through summers that always seemed unbearably long. September has always meant new life and a new beginning to me, primarily because of school (which I loved). So the characteristically dramatic way Italians have of welcoming (or begrudging, depending how you look at it) September rather appeals to me. All the news programs talk about the rientro, as if it were some amazingly noteworthy cultural phenomenon (well, perhaps, it is). Now is the time to get down to business, buy school supplies, see what "serious" books have come out (not that Italians like to read serious books), check the theatre schedules, sign up for judo. Suddenly the phone is ringing with mothers wanting play dates with my kids, all the shops are open, a government office concluded a matter with me suspended since July, my yoga studio is open. Even the miserable humidity and cannibalistic mosquitoes have abated, high-tailing it out of here on the hind legs of summer.

I have, then, in the spirit of the rientro, begun these letters to you, dear Readers.


My best regards,

Campobello