Unlimited Water for Your Flowers

One of the things I love about Rome is the abundance of sidewalk flower stands. Here you can even see one of Rome's classic fontanelle, a constantly-running fountain of cold, fresh spring water that comes from deep underground. These little fountains are stationed throughout the city. To get a drink, you just plug the spigot with your finger, and the water starts to shoot out of a little hole on the top, making an instant drinking fountain. Rome's water is legendary and many say it's the best in all of Europe. So the answer to: "Can I drink the water?" is a definite YES, even though most Romans drink bottled water themselves, probably due to the extremely high calcium content in the tap water. In fact, even with such wonderful water, Italy has the highest per-person bottled water consumption in the entire world, at 183.6 liters per person every year.

Speaking of water, at a restaurant you will be served bottled water, and will have a choice of naturale (still) or frizzante (sparkling). You also may be asked "With gas?" or if you want acqua gassata for sparkling water. I've never seen an Italian ask for tap water, although some of the American students I used to work with would ask me how to say it. In case you're wondering, you can ask for acqua dal rubinetto. I'm not promising you won't get a strange look, but the request will be accommodated.

And of course, then there's the ice/no ice dilemma. In Italy (and most places in Europe I've been to), water and soft drinks are served without ice, but if you ask for con ghiaccio (gee-AH-cho) ice can be added. Drinks are served refrigerated so I suppose they figure ice isn't necessary. As far as free refills and doggie bags go...well, those are still concepts that haven't reached this side of the Atlantic...yet.

Thomas nel supermarket

I spotted this little blurb in a free commuter paper today while riding the bus and got a big kick out of it.

Any of my fellow ex-pats out there who are in regola (legal, with a stay permit), who aren’t EU citizens, and who didn’t automatically get a stay permit through marriage—well, they most likely have a very interesting story to tell you about how they ended up with their permit. Truth be told, it’s just not all that easy. Wait, I take that back. It’s nearly impossible. Yes, I have my story (because as you may know, I’m not getting married until next year, yet I am here legally). But it is only to be told in person over one, or several, glasses of wine. Quite the tale of timing, luck, and a hilariously Italian legal loophole.

But Thomas, the hero of today’s post, has a story that easily outshines my own. He took a quick yet risky route, one that I don’t think is even written down anywhere in the law books (will have to ask my resident lawyer on that one). Take a look at the article:
Here’s what it says:

***
He thwarts a robbery
Now he’s legal

Palermo: A prize, rather two prizes, for having foiled a robbery attempt. Thomas, an illegal immigrant from Ghana, was working under the table in a Palermo supermarket, where he succeeded in preventing the robbers from taking the cash. His courage was rewarded with a stay permit and a work contract in the supermarket.
***

People, I ask you: can this possibly be true?

It must be. I mean, after all, it was in Metro! Albeit, a free commuter paper, so perhaps the news is worth what you pay for it.

In the end, I don’t really know, but all I can say is, bravissimo Thomas! And who knew that the real trick to becoming a legal worker in Palermo (or anywhere in Italy??) has nothing to do with applications, quotas, long lines at the crack of dawn, etc., but rather a willingness to defend your supermarket from cash-hungry thieves.

Only in Italy!

Behind the Wheel in Rome

Yes, back early from the wild world of the movie set. Couldn’t take the crazy environment, and after all, there’s no place like Rome…

(sorry, sorry, sorry! I couldn’t resist).

Here’s a photo that begs a story:Yes, this was taken from behind the wheel of my Roman form of transport: a 1992 Fiat Cinquecento. It’s turquoise blue, no frills, a family hand-me-down (it was Ale’s first car) and it gets me from A to B. I usually only use it if I have to go out at night, but this particular day I decided not to use public transport to go to a friend’s house in the afternoon. Mistake. For as much as public transport is pretty horrendous here in Rome, it still isn’t quite as bad as driving in Roman traffic.

Question: can foreign driver’s licenses be automatically converted here in Italy? Well, the answer is yes. And no. Yes, if you are from places such as Bangladesh, as my Italian driving school instructor most helpfully pointed out. No, if you are from the US, unless you are a diplomat (please refer back to my suggestion about getting adopted by the US ambassador). That means yours truly, licensed driver since age 16, had to go back to driving school and not only take a driving test, but take an oral exam in front of an examiner as well.

There I was, surrounded by 18-year olds with dreams of car keys and freedom. Faithfully after work, twice a week, I would subject myself to explanations of Italian street signs and road regulations, until my instructor decided I was ready and scheduled my oral exam. In truly Italian (or perhaps just Roman) style, on the big day he actually placed himself strategically facing me, yet behind the examiner’s back, so that he could vigorously nod his head yes, no, or semi-silently send me any other helpful information for cheating purposes. Not that I looked. I didn’t need to: the examiner was practically giving me the answers anyways. This was due to the fact that it was her first day back from vacation and she herself admitted she couldn’t really remember how to administer the exam. Thank goodness for that, because one of the other examiners refused to hold the exam for his candidates. After getting a tape measure and measuring the classroom, he determined that it didn’t meet the standard testing room size. (And you think I’m joking. I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.)

Hoop number one successfully jumped through. Come to driving test day. You do realize we have now spanned about 6 months of time between lessons, oral exam, etc. After waiting over 3 hours outside in the rain, with squishy socks I enter the car, only to be told after a scrupulous examination of my documents (stay permit and ID card) that I absolutely cannot be permitted on Italian roads, because:

1) The city office made a mistake in printing my ID card, so instead of USA it reads GB for Great Britain, where I later found out that apparently there are 4 towns with the same name as my US birthplace.

2) The birthplace as printed on my stay permit is missing one letter. An S. I think I even asked in desperation if we could just “pencil it in.” That S cost me my driving test.

After being told to get new copies of both documents (easily a one-year or more proposition when dealing with Roman bureaucracy), I exit the car and proceed to utilize my now extensive collection of Italian and Roman swearwords.

Let’s not go into how I managed to finally get the document situation corrected, because that would warrant a 3 or 4 page story that would take you into the bowels of the Italian public administration, a place no one should ever, ever, go, at least not voluntarily.

Said license eventually in hand, I am let loose on Italian streets, and I leave you with these 2 golden rules of Roman driving, passed down to me by Alessandro, my primary source of knowledge on all things Italian:

1) Shelley to Ale: “Why don’t they stay in their lanes? Wait, why aren’t there even lane lines? How do you know where to go?” Ale to Shelley: “Do you see that space over there?” Shelley: “Yes.” Ale: “Go there.” (And that, my friends, is truly how it works.)

2) Use mirrors and blinkers at all times, even when moving 1 cm to either side. You’d be surprised how a Vespa can sandwich itself like a thin slice of prosciutto between two cars.

And really, let’s not even begin to talk about scooters…that can be for another day.

Happy driving!

Don Johnson Hearts Italy

Ciao a tutti! I most certainly haven’t forgotten my blogging duties. It’s just that my crazy life has taken an unexpected twist, which has had me literally hanging around lately with none other than the formerly-known-as Sonny Crockett, or Nash somebody, or whoever you might think of him as. You’ll no doubt remember Hooray for Romeywood? Well, turns out Mr. Depardieu couldn’t make the film due to “health reasons,” so Mr. Johnson stepped in and saved the day. But, with no native English speakers on the set except said visiting fiancée, I kind of ended up getting thrown into the welcome wagon.

Not that I’m really complaining. Turns out that “DJ” is this super nice, normal and friendly guy. Who would’ve thought? I mean, Hollywood actors don’t really have the best reputations in the world for manners. I always have images of flying cell phones hitting people in the head, and lots of screaming. I have no other famous actors to compare him with based on personal experience, but I can assure you that he is very professional, considerate and totally easy to work with (at least so far). And best of all, he really loves Italy and seems right at home, and even speaks a few words of Italian. What a relief!

This all means, despite the fact that they did finally manage to find a fantastic American named Spencer to be an interpreter (turns out he's lived in the small town where they're shooting for around 15 years or so), I am now back in Rome for one day and am going back with Ale to the set for the rest of the week for the home stretch (supposed to wrap at the end of this week). I will miss my posting on Rome this week but maybe, just maybe, will have something interesting to bring you back upon my return. And of course, Finny is arriving next week! Yay! An international blogfest!

No, I don’t have any pictures of me "chillin' with Don" to post. The main reason being, I prefer not to make a professional actor feel like an animal in a zoo, so thus far I have politely refrained. However, yesterday I was on the set for a photo shoot they were doing for the Italian Vanity Fair. Don dressed up as a mafia boss, draped with scantily bikini-clad women. Priceless. The photographer took one picture just for fun with me, Ale, and the mafioso (sans aforementioned women, thank you very much), that maybe one day I’ll manage to get a copy of.

For now, all I can offer you are the following two photos of my cousin Dario, still on the set waiting for his 15 minutes of fame, which I think actually already arrived. Recently there was a bit of a scandal on the set for a rumored affair, leading to one actress demanding that another actress not be permitted to film a scene, and that left a two-bit part unfilled. Dario was hanging around on the set, stepped up to the plate, and the next thing he knew, he was dressed up in a waiter’s outfit and they were yelling “Ciak!” (Apparently that’s what they say here when that little click-board thing happens. Don’t ask me.)

Until next week folks, I leave you with visions of the set. And no, just in case your devious mind was wondering, I am not going to be selling anything on eBay. (I only bring this up because at Madonna's recent Rome concert, she even asked for new toilet seats to be installed and then removed in her dressing room to avoid just this type of shenaningans. Ooh, fun word.) Although now that I think about it, the other night at dinner I was sitting next to our guest of honor and he accidentally broke a wine glass, and the restaurant owner when picking up the pieces said he wanted to enshrine it in a display case as a sort of memorabilia. So, maybe I can manage to get a hold of a shard. Kidding!! I’m telling you, it’s definitely an “universo parallelo.”

So, without further ado, here’s my little cousin. Maybe we will all look back one day and say that “we knew him when…”

A presto!

Charcoal, Propane Tanks, and Soccer Balls

In my quest to bring you a look at the lively and interesting characters in my neighborhood, I’d like to introduce Ascenzo. (Ah-shen-so) He runs this little shop called “Spaccio Carbone.” It’s a pretty old-fashioned name, for a pretty old-fashioned shop. It means something like “coal dealer.” When I stopped to chat with him the other evening, he proudly handed me his business card, which states that he sells: bombole (propane tanks), kerosene, carbone (charcoal), and legna (wood). All of which is true. But just look at this picture! The man has just about everything stuffed into this little corner of history.

When I asked Ascenzo how many years he’s been working in his little shop, he stopped for a moment, did a bit of math on his fingers, and then proclaimed in his super scratchy yet very jovial voice: “Cinnnnquannntaaaa duuuuueee …. (fiffffftttttyyyy twwwooooo)… assspetttta! (Wait!) Cinnnnquaannnnttaaa ssssseiiiii… (fifty-six).”

That’s really something. The man has seen it all. He knew Vincenzo, Alessandro’s grandfather who ran the restaurant downstairs in the days of “La Dolce Vita.” Every day I see Ascenzo sitting in his little chair, either reading the newspaper or doing crossword puzzles. I love it. Just the simple act of always seeing him there gives me this great sense of stability and community. He is one of my favorite neighborhood people. Quiet, humble, and sincere.

I remember when I had first moved into the neighborhood about 4 years ago, barely spoke Italian and in desperate need of clothespins. (Can you be in desperate need of clothespins? For me in the beginning, without much Italian, every need seemed a bit desperate.) I walked into his little shop and used my golden phrase in Italian: “I don’t know how to say this in Italian, but…” and then proceeded with hand gestures and my limited vocabulary to describe the act of hanging out clothes to dry. Not only did he give me a mini-Italian lesson (pinze, people, pinze), he told me all about some family members he has, living in Philadelphia. He even gave me a free bar of “rose-scented” soap, patting my hand and telling me, “This is so you’ll be a happy customer and come back again sometime.”

He was overjoyed that I wanted to take this picture. Afterwards, you should have seen the look on his face when I showed it to him on the digital camera screen. Delighted. I didn’t go into explaining the idea of a blog… some things are just better left unsaid.

As I walked away, he called out: “Remember, if you ever need anything… just let me know… and please, come over and buy something once in a while… help me out…”

When you make it over to Trastevere, go by and see Ascenzo. He’s on Via della Luce 68, near the crossroad with Via della Lungaretta. I’m sure you’ll find something you could use in his shop. Maybe you can even help him with his crossword puzzle.

Aiuto! Help! Dilemma. And: Contest?

Update: Thanks to everyone! I've found a new name. The official unveiling will take place soon...stay tuned.

****BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP********

We now interrupt your regularly-scheduled blog on life behind the scenes in Rome for a very important announcement.

Dear blog readers, I need your precious help. I have a bit of a problem, and my first thought was to turn to you, because maybe, just maybe, if we put our heads together, we can come up with a good solution.

Here’s the deal. As you may or may not know, I just started working from home and managing my lovely little tourist apartments in the beginning of August. All was swell. I figured, I better get involved more in my community or else I’ll end up a hermit, so I decided to join the American Women’s Association of Rome. Great group. They had their year opening event at the US ambassador’s residence this morning.

Brief tangent: The residence, (because if you get that high up on the ladder you no longer have a mere house or even home), it goes without saying, was unbelievably beautiful, with acres of manicured gardens, statues, fountains, etc. And they live in a villa. I didn’t take any pictures to post because I don’t want the CIA coming after my humble blog, but if you can get a job as a US ambassador, a US ambassador’s spouse, or manage to somehow get adopted by a US ambassador and therefore gain the right to live in his or her residence, at least here in Rome, I HIGHLY recommend it.

Now, here is where the problem rears its ugly head. In chatting with some ladies, they asked me what I do. I told them, I manage some tourist apartments. “Oh, what’s the business called?” they politely ask me. I respond, “At Home in Rome.” “Oh! We know you! We’ve heard about you!” I’m thinking: that’s nearly impossible, because almost no one knows of my existence (yet). And: wow, that’s cool.

We chat some more and come to find out that it’s not ME they know. It’s that OTHER At Home in Rome. Huh? That’s right, folks. Not only is my business name already taken. Apparently, and most unfortunately, and without going into any details, my colleagues are a rental agency with a less-than-stellar service reputation.

Which is why I turn to you. And you to your friends, and family, and random people on the street. I’ve decided that I need to re-name my business. I can’t get off on the wrong foot, and if people are already confusing me with someone else, especially someone else with above-mentioned reputation, well, that’s just not gonna fly.

So, it’s like having a kid, giving him or her a name, then changing your mind down the road. I really hope my apartments won’t end up suffering from an identity crisis and have to go into therapy. I don’t have that kind of money.

I ask you to help with a name because, the mere idea of having to come up with a new one brings me bone-chilling flashbacks of my time as a copywriter in an ad agency in Phoenix. The art director and I were assigned the task of coming up with a name to market some computer thing, a piece of computer hardware, something techie like that. After like an hour, our sheet of paper had a long list of stuff like “TechTron2000,” and variations on that theme. Makes you just think, “Hey, look you: NEW and IMPROVED! And super TECHNOLOGICAL!” (Fifties-era announcer optional). Now do you see why I am turning to you?

So please, if you have a charitable heart, or even if not, write me a comment with your entry, or send a name suggestion to my email at: info@athomerome.com. When I get enough suggestions, I’ll put them back to you all for a vote.

Just keep in mind: my idea is to cater to people who want an authentic Roman experience. People who speak/understand English. People who want something personalized and with attention to service. And, something that gives the feeling/idea of a cozy apartment in my old-fashioned and charming little Roman village of Trastevere. And of course, something that will conveniently fit on my business cards, easy and memorable domain name that isn't already taken, etc.

Armed with the tools, you are now ready to go down in history. And for that, I thank you.

****BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP********

This has been an emergency blogcast. You may now return to your regularly-scheduled blog-reading.

Rome As I See It

Because even gladiators have to eat once in a while...

11:42 am, seen outside the Metro Colosseo stop

Italglish, or: Going Footing in Your Smoking

Something that’s always given me a few laughs and more than a little confusion is a strange hybrid vocabulary that exists here in Italy, that I know of no name for, so I will dub “Italglish” for the moment. Italglish, in my opinion, has at least two distinct categories:

1) Words that sound deceptively like English but aren’t, or do exist in English but Italians use them to mean something completely different
2) English words that have been genetically modified to resemble their Italian cousins

Today we’ll tackle #1. The fun never ends when you’re trying to figure out just what the heck a smoking (smohck-eeng) is, and why you would go footing (fu-teeng) in it. Actually you wouldn’t, unless you were a groom late to your wedding. Here’s a smoking:


That’s right folks. Who knew? Turns out Jackie Chan made a movie with Jennifer Love Hewitt called The Tuxedo, and this is its Italian cousin. You can all sleep at night now. (By the way, the caption on the bottom says something approximating: "Wear it...and there'll be trouble.")

How about footing? Here you have it:


What we might call jogging. (It’s the whole “ing” ending that seems to make it all ok.) And you do use your foot, uh, feet to do it, so in some way it is close.

What about a golf? No, not the game played by Tiger Woods—more like the shirt he wears when he plays!

You can go to a beauty farm (day spa) for a snelling (weight-loss) treatment. Moo! (Associating cows with weight loss...now that's not a marketing strategy I would recommend.)

Sports are easy because they just take out “ball”: volley (voh-lay), basket...

But really, nothing beats the American TV shows imported and Italianized. Like when the Cosby show transforms mysteriously into I Robinson (Eee Roh-bean-sohn), aka The Robinson Family, apparently because “Cosby” was just too hard for Italians to pronounce. Or when that 80s classic Diff’rent Strokes becomes known as Harlem contro Manhattan (Harlem vs. Manhattan), then in later years just simply Arnold. ("Che stai dicendo, Willis?") Or when the Fresh Prince of Bel Air meets his Italian alter ego: Willy. I know you're curious...so go ahead, test out your Italian skills with Willy’s Bel Air rap in Italian.

Roman Soup for a Rainy Sunday

I’m going to try to write this fast, because I’m pretty sure that at any moment, Noah is going to ring my doorbell and get me and my two cats on his ark. People—when it rains in Rome, it pours. Being a Seattle native, I must say I love it. I took this picture from behind the window looking out on the terrace. This bell tower isn’t even visible from the street, so blog readers, you are the only ones besides me and a handful of other people living on higher floors in a few palazzi on my street, who get to see this beautiful architectural wonder!

And what better way to enjoy a rainy Sunday than with an authentic Roman soup to warm you up? Best of all, it is molto facile (very easy). Unless you’re a real foodie and want to make your own homemade broth. In which case, bravo or brava to you, as may be the case. I’m copping out with the broth cubes. I always think of this soup as a sort of Roman version of the egg-drop soup you sometimes find in Chinese restaurants.

Ok, everyone, repeat after me: strah-chah-TELL-ah

Stracciatella alla Romana

Ingredients for 4 people

1 liter of water
2 broth cubes
4 whole eggs
4 tablespoons of grated Parmesan (even the stuff in the green can is fine!)
A dash of grated nutmeg
Salt to taste

Bring water to a boil and add the broth cubes. In a separate bowl, beat the eggs with the parmesan cheese, salt and nutmeg. Pour the egg mixture into the boiling broth, beat rapidly with a fork or wire whisk. Leave the mixture to boil a few minutes on a medium flame, then pour into a soup tureen and serve.

Buon appetito!

Sciopero: it's a 4-letter word

Well folks, it was inevitable. Any self-respecting blog about life in Rome, sooner or later, will tell the tale of the time-honored tradition of the sciopero, a.k.a. strike.

Oh, dear sciopero, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways:

1) Who should hold a sciopero?
Anyone who wants to, really. But most of the time it is transport workers, and usually city public transport (bus, subway), as was the case in today’s 24-hr. strike. The key is to inconvenience as many people as possible without any real objective, which brings me to:

2) Why hold a sciopero?
No one I’ve ever talked to really knows why the public transport workers strike; therefore, we’ll never really know if they’ve reached their objective. However, I have a theory, which stems from:

3) When is the best time to hold a sciopero?
The jury is out on this one, since it is quite random, but, kindly enough, those in sciopero will warn the TV and newspapers at least a few days in advance of the precise time and date, so you can prepare. They also tend to take a sciopero break between 8 am-10 am and 5 pm-7 pm, so the majority of commuters can claw at each other to get home. Not sure if that is city-mandated, but probably. In my experience, 99% of the time, Friday is the big winner. Which brings me to my theory introduced in 2: you should hold a sciopero so you can have a long weekend. So while they are off catching the last rays of the summer sun on some Mediterranean beach, I recount:

4) What is it like to face a sciopero?
Here’s the fun part! Life in Rome provides such exciting adventures. Tonight, after a couple days down on the movie set in Trani (ooh la la), my train arrived only 30 mins. late to Termini train station, and I knew full well that a strike was in action. Since the taxi queue was looking like the newest ride at an amusement park and walking a half hour home with my luggage was out of the question, I decided to chance it with the “emergency buses.”

Since public transport is, after all, a public service, there are always a few emergency buses that run around. Now, when you consider that Rome has about 280 bus lines, and over 3 million residents, a few just doesn’t cut it, and when I say a few, I really mean it.

I wandered into the bus depot of the station, hoping for a miracle. There were about 3 buses with their doors open, motors off, no drivers in sight. However, Romans being eternal optimists, the buses were full of passengers desperately asking each other “Parte? Parte?” (Is this one leaving?)

We wait. And wait. And wait. After about 20 minutes, a moving bus actually pulls into the parking lot. The doors open to let off the passengers, and within moments it is full again, resembling something akin to livestock transport. It dashes away. A collective sigh fills my forgotten bus, still waiting.

After playing musical buses for a bit, kind of like you do when trying to pick the shortest line at the supermarket, but still with no drivers in sight, I decide to stand outside, in between the buses, readying myself for a mad dash the moment I see a driver get on board. Which is exactly what I do, when a couple minutes later I manage to slip through the doors just as the motor revs up. People start charging the bus, banging on the doors. But alas, it’s too late for them.

By the way, to get into the true sciopero spirit, I decided to hold my own little strike: against buying a ticket. My defiant act of Roman rebellion. You know what they say, after all… when in Rome…

Hooray for Romeywood

Happy Monday morning, tutti! To get your week going with a bit of star power, I feel compelled to talk about Rome’s upcoming venture into the wild world of film festivals, as well as my own little recent brush with il cinema italiano.

Buzz is building about the inaugural Rome FilmFest. Even Nicole Kidman, known lover of all things Italian, has signed on to open the fest with her film Fur, directed by Steven Shainberg. Apparently there’s quite a rivalry brewing between our neighbors to the north in Venice.

Speaking of fur, it was definitely flying in some of this article’s catty debate. Personally, I must take issue with the following excerpt regarding why in Venice the critics felt they were “roughing it”:

"It feels like we are camping here, but we have just got used to it," said Natalia Aspesi, one of Italy's leading film critics and a veteran of the Venice festival.

By contrast, Rome's choice of venues and accommodation is likely to appeal to a broader audience than the Lido crowd, although snarling traffic could prove a big headache.

Did anyone from the Rome FilmFest ask if my apartments were available? No! Vergogna! I wouldn’t have minded giving Nicole the Italian lessons she’s been saying for years she wants to take. Oh well. Maybe next year.

Who knows, perhaps Gerard Depardieu would be interested. My future hubby has recently added ‘entertainment lawyer’ to his hat rack, which is already brimming over with many and various hats of every size, shape and color. Ale has a decidedly Forrest-Gump-like talent for falling into the right place at the right moment. Plus, he’s a "Jean-oos." I won’t go into the gory details, but watch for Bastardi, coming soon to a theatre near you!

Looking disturbingly GQ in one of the pics from the above-linked article is my adorable little Italian cousin, Dario. He’s helping Ale out on the set. Mr. “Furbo” and aspiring actor had the bright idea that if he sat next to the producer he’d be sure to get photographed. Mission accomplished. Destined for stardom? Only time will tell.

I’m ready for my close-up!

Saturday Sightseeing

Buon sabato! A couple of photos to give you an idea of where I'm coming from, and the colorful characters you'll find here in my neighborhood, Trastevere.

This here is Giancarlo, waiter extrordinaire at the restaurant next to my front door. He speaks a little of just about every language imaginable, and has been a waiter the world over, from Los Angeles to Belgium. Sometimes he takes to wearing a name tag that says "Chef" (don't ask).

Did you think I was kidding when I said "restaurant next to my front door"? I was not. We don't ever really eat at this restaurant, even though it was once owned by Alessandro's grandfather (and still bears his name, Vincenzo). It's not that the food isn't edible, but it is a bit of a tourist trap. Let me tell you though, when that rare McDonald's craving hits (yes, I am guilty, please don't hate me), I take great pains to hide the massive shopping bag they give you when reentering my apartment. I always wonder if the diners think I'm crazy: you live in Rome, yet you go to McDonald's? Only once in a blue moon, promise.

Now, if you were to turn around, you would see this, the "Antica Frutteria." It is run by Piero (man in the green shirt helping the ladies pick their fruit and veggies), his son Andrea, and their little dog Nano (unfortunately not pictured here!). We sometimes call it the fruit boutique because it is a bit pricey, but Piero is an interesting character and a valuable source of neighborhood info. He is the eyes and ears of my street and pretty much knows everything about everyone. They are from Sardegna and just opened back up recently after the summer holidays, but this photo was taken before summer.

Last but not least. Now, of course you are wondering, what in the world does shortbread and whiskey have anything to with Rome? Well, it doesn't, really. Except that every once in a while I get really lucky and my guests spoil me by bringing me a little present. Such luck occurred last night when some lovely guests from Perthshire in Scotland brought me these goodies. (I'm half tempted to visit after seeing where they come from!) No, this is not simply shameless showing off. I am going to use this gift to demonstrate something useful about Rome, just watch!

So, let's say you get to Rome and can't stand the food (highly unlikely, but we are theorizing here). Where do you go to get something from home (ie, shortbread should you be Scottish? See the connection?) Why, Castroni of course! World food market haven for expats.

Buon weekend!

You say expresso, I say espresso

As my good friend Margaret helpfully pointed out, the debate continues.

Some caffeine to get you ready for the weekend, and a surprise treat at the end.

So, let's begin with one of the first lessons in becoming a real transplanted Roman. Just last week I made a purchase that is essential to all your run-of-the-mill Italian households: the moka. And not just any moka, no siree, we are talking authentic here, so, behold: the Bialetti.

I am now having a flashback of my fianceè Alessandro on our first visit to Phoenix, where I used to live. After bravely trying to survive without his beloved cappuccino or espresso for a total of oh, about 3 days, he surrendered and said that we simply had to find a moka in Phoenix. "You have everything in the United States, so we will find it." After scouring every kitchen store from Chandler to Scottsdale, finally the angels started to sing at Sur La Table, where we spent a pretty penny for the "real thing" and proceeded to make our Italian espresso in the Arizona desert.

So, without further ado, let me initiate you into the sacred world of the vero espresso Italiano.

I’ve created a little photo collage to lead us along. Feel free to refer back as needed.

Now, don't be fooled into thinking that your average-Giovanni Italian has a Starbucks-like set-up at home for his coffee. Oh no, the humble yet elegant Bialetti or some generic knock-off does the job just fine, thank you.

Your choice of coffee is of course all-important. Italians can be coffee snobs. Ask a Roman and you'll probably be told that the best coffee in Rome can be had at Caffè Sant Eustachio, or alternatively at Tazza d’Oro. Today we’ll use a (gasp) supermarket brand from Segafreddo. Storage in hermetic container is a good idea.

Coffee connoisseurs will grind the beans but we are pressed for time, so, note the grind: the moka grind is something between an espresso grind and a drip grind: not too fine, not too coarse. In Italy most pre-ground coffees are produced specially for the moka.

The moka is a simple feat of engineering: just three main parts. There is a tank for water on the bottom, a filter for the coffee in the middle, and a tank for the coffee on the top. Semplice! (Sem-plee-chay)

Now, we can get on with making our espresso. First, fill the small tank with water up to just below the valve. Then, place the filter in and fill it with coffee. Don’t press the coffee down. Then you can screw on the tank, and place it on the burner. A low flame or low heat is best.

Soon your coffee will start bubbling out and you’ll know it’s ready when you start to hear sputtering noises. It usually takes about 5 minutes.

The whole kitchen fills with the coffee aroma: even my cat Betsy wanted some!

Here you have it then: Serve in an espresso cup, about half-full. If you want, you can add milk and then it becomes “espresso macchiato” or “stained espresso."

Wait! Before you go out and buy your very own Bialetti, turn on your computer speakers and check out this great little animated short comparing Italy to the rest of the European Union. Besides the scene of Italians ordering their coffee in a million different ways, you’ll get a preview of some other aspects of Italian life—that we’ll certainly talk about in posts to come!

My Big, Fat, Italian Wedding

Just back from a wedding down south in a little place called Paternopoli (lovingly referred to by some as 'Paperopoli', which basically translates to Donald Duck Land, the name of the town where Donald Duck lives in the Italian comic books...but I digress).

And, while we're on the topic, this morning I myself have just come back from checking out a place for my wedding, which Alessandro and I are planning for sometime early next year, exact date not chosen as of yet. (Um, €11,000 to rent two rooms with nothing else included...let me think about that for about 2 seconds...no.)

Know anything about Italian weddings? It's all about the food. Apparently, the further south you get from Rome, the more this becomes a fact.

Paternopoli is around 4 hrs. south, in the Campania region. There were about, oh, 20 or so dishes on the reception menu. Not that you get to choose. They all arrive. One after the other. We sat down to dinner at about 4 pm, and by the time we had to leave at 6:15 pm (because we had to catch a train and be back in Rome this morning), we were only on the first first course dish (there were 4, and 6 second course dishes still to come...that was after an hour-long cocktail reception with about 10 different dishes, and 3 rounds of different appetizers at the table). The general consensus at our table was that this tradition of overindulgence must be a hold over from the ancient Roman banquets...but without the couches to recline on, and thankfully without the vomitorium (apparently a misnomer) or, say, dormice (ick!).

My friend Cesare was also at this wedding. He helpfully kept a running tally of votes on the quality of each individual dish. After each round, he would announce: "Ok everyone, what do you give the last dish? 7.5 or 8?" He'd then make a note, clip his pen back to the menu, and the games would continue.

Now, in all of the 10 or so Italian weddings I've been to, rest assured that I've never spotted any of the lovely ladies displayed on the CD cover at the beginning of this post. But there are a few things besides the abundant food that seem to characterize an Italian wedding:

1) Confetti. Not the multi-colored paper you're thinking of, these are white candied almonds and I haven't been to a wedding yet that didn't hand them out to guests.

2) Lack of horrendously dressed or otherwise strategically coordinated bridesmaids. In Italy you have testimoni (witnesses), usually 2-3 for the bride and 2-3 for the groom, to witness the signatures. It doesn't necessarily have to be all women for the bride or men only for the groom, you can mix and match and that way generally choose your closest friends or family members, or someone who has special significance for you. No matched attire, although all my Italian girlfriends would love to see me have an "American-style wedding" with damigelle, as bridesmaids are known as in Italian.

3) No hokey-pokey, YMCA, or other crazy dance floor favorites, although I have witnessed a "train" a couple times at the few weddings where there was a DJ. And the wedding yesterday did actually have an accordion player (that was a first!)

All in all though, the Italian wedding isn't quite as mysterious or that different that your average American wedding. And of course, it has the benefit of all that Italian food! Viva gli sposi!

Spaghetti & Meatballs, and Other Italian Myths

Ciao di nuovo! (Hello again!)

Back today from a quick jaunt to Stockholm with two of my closest Italian girlfriends, Eleonora and Francesca, and after eating my first plate of real, authentic Swedish meatballs, (not particularly appetizing, but edible) the thought crossed my mind to chat a bit about some of the myths and mysteries of Italian cuisine. First and foremost: the world-famous dish of "spaghetti and meatballs." Not to mention other favorites like garlic bread, Caesar salad, and "fettuccini" alfredo.

Being that I am an American, I can say at least that in the States, these are what we would consider authentic Italian dishes, or at the very least, dishes you could expect to find in any run-of-the-mill Italian restaurant. When I worked with US university students coming to Rome to study abroad, I remember fielding questions like "Where can I go for the best spaghetti and meatballs?" and the heartbreaking look on their faces when told, "Well, you know... it's not really an Italian dish, after all..."

So, let's clarify what you can and can't expect when you visit Rome, in terms of eating out. Of course, spaghetti exists. And yes, meatballs as well (they are called polpette). But together, mi dispiace, amici, (sorry, friends), no.

Garlic bread...mmm. Never seen it here though. Maybe it exists. But not like Pizza Hut makes it. Italians just have simple bread baskets with plain, kind of dry, white bread. They don't put anything on it. (I know, I'm destroying the idea of the romantic little dipping plate with olive oil and various herbs and spices.) Butter? Nope.

Caesar salad. Try telling that to an Italian! I actually have an Italian friend named Cesare (prounounced Ches-ah-ray) who was delighted when he went to the States on business and saw a salad on the menu, in honor of him. But he told me, "Shelley, che schifo (how disgusting), why do you Americans put milk on your salads?" Italians like plain and simple oil and balsamic vinegar, and a bit of salt. Salads are generally lettuce and a few tomato slices. And by the way--Italians eat salad after dinner. It's said to help digestion. (Some other time we will discuss digestione. Italians are obsessed with the concept!)

And last but not least, fetuccini alfredo. The lovely, oh-so-fattening combination of fettucine and that heavenly cream sauce. Legend has it that the dish was invented here in Rome, and lives on at Il Vero Alfredo, the so-called Emperor of Fettucine. Personally, I've never eaten there, but the photo of Martha Stewart on the homepage of the first website mentioned, along with the fact that another branch exists at Disneyworld in Orlando, doesn't exactly convince me to change my ways. (Sniff, sniff. :-) Yes, I'll admit I have become a bit of a food snob, what can I say?) However, I'll give them the benefit of the doubt just for the photo on their website of "Emperor" Alfredo the Third eating his mountain of fettucine, and for the charm factor of imagining an entire empire of fettucine ruled by said emperor, the existence of which means I can't conclusively exclude fettucine alfredo from my list of real Italian dishes. (Even though none of my Italian friends have ever heard of it, let alone cooked it themselves.)

So folks, there you have it. Get your fill before you leave, because finding these "Italian" goodies once you get to Rome just might be a fruitless quest.

Promised coffee lowdown coming in the near future...I need a bit more time to discuss the finer points with you and to showcase my handmade step-by-step photos.

So, alla prossima (until next time!)