Christmas Shopping

Katie and I got off the bus at Via XX Septembre. Though downtown Genoa was a little overwhelming at first, I had grown comfortable with it and loved walking up and down its grand thoroughfare.  Like too-big jeans that finally shrank after a few washings, I was starting to feel as if the fit was just right.

            “Did you make out your Christmas list?” I asked as we crossed the street.

            “Yes. Did you?”

            “Of course. Where should we go first?”

            “Look over there. That’s new.”

A grassy area near the train station had sprouted an outdoor market.  It pulled us across the street like a magnet. Though these markets were just ho-hum affairs for the Italians, I couldn’t get enough of them. 

“Let’s see who can find the most unusual gift under ten euro,” I said as I walked to a booth filled with incense holders and oil lamps.

“Why does it always have to be a contest?” Katie laughed as she picked up a small, pink ceramic hand that sported a long stick of incense from each fingertip. She tipped it just far enough to reveal a price sticker of 16 euro.

            We combed through booth after booth of candy, meats and cheeses, shoes, counterfeit perfumes and handbags, underwear, colorful scarves, gloves and hats. An occasional booth sold handmade arts and crafts. One large tent was filled with an extensive array of nativity scene makings where you could mix and match to create your own interpretation of Christ’s birth. 

The Christmas season here was not commercial. Since there was no Halloween or Thanksgiving, there was no race to be the first one stringing up tinsel stars in October.  The décor, minimal and tasteful, appeared in December when I was emotionally ready to see it.  It felt joyful, not rote.

Italy did not do Christmas cards. People generally lived near all of those that they knew and saw them frequently.  Greetings and good wishes were done in person and few felt the need to send pictures of their family to people they saw constantly. 

People scurried about buying gifts, but it didn’t seem to reach the “frenzy” mark.  The whole experience felt completely doable for the average Joe.  I was so relaxed about it that it worried me.

            “Bingo!” I heard as I was searching through a mound of mittens and matching scarves.  I turned to see Katie across the way holding up a pair of huge furry bear feet complete with toenails.

            “Slippers!”

            “How much?”

            “Five.”

            “You win. As a matter of fact, I will buy them for you as one of your presents.”

            “Thanks.”

            “Just act surprised on Christmas morning. And grab a second pair for Veronica.  It’ll cheer her up.” Veronica and Thomas had just moved into a furnished apartment in Sori, a small town down the coast.  The paperwork for their new villa was taking a long time and neither of them was happy about it. They had hoped to be settled by now. 

Leaving the market, we headed up the street through a sea of fur coats.  A few weeks ago, while it was still warm, the fur appeared as if an announcement was made on the news that it was time to take them out of summer hibernation. Anyone who was anyone, or thought they were anyone, was now wrapped in mink. 

It appeared that all of the women who had reached a certain age or social standing wore fur and carried a Louis Viutton handbag. A real one, knock-offs would cause a stir.  The look was very conservative, retro even…according to American fashion.  I remembered photographs of my Nana in the same style back in the early 60’s.

The next step down from the Upper Fur Class was the quilted jacket. The Upper Middle quilted people had their little quilt squares filled with down.  The Lower Middle quilted people made do with such filling as wool or the dreaded polyester.   And the handbags at this level were definitely knock-offs which was expected, and, therefore, did not cause a stir.  And everyone wore scarves.  It was all about the scarf. 

A cool wind whipped past us and Katie pulled her denim jacket up around her ears.

“You should have worn your new jacket.”

“I’m not even cold.”

Tim and I, thinking we were smart by looking ahead, invested in some winter coats just a few weeks ago.  But now I could see that the choice was all wrong.  Knowing that we would be doing a lot of traveling during the upcoming winter months, we opted to buy everyone big billowy down jackets.  I could picture it now, the four of us, in four different colors, like a rainbow of Michelin men bumping our way through the quilt and fur. 

Katie and I linked arms and walked the avenue with our eyes upward, pointing to the carvings, gargoyles and ornate columns on the ancient buildings.  Though darkened with age, they were majestic and imposing.

As we waited for a red light to change, we took out our short Christmas lists and compared them.  It was all for show though we didn’t admit it.  Because really, we would end up just shopping for ourselves. 

The light turned green and we crossed the street with a horde of other shoppers.  Then the window-shopping began in earnest.

“Look at those cute black pants!” 

 “That silk shawl. Beautiful.”

“The scarf in the corner?  It’s the same shade as your new down jacket.”

“I will never wear that jacket.”

“Let’s just go in for a second.”

And so it went until we canvassed the entire length of the avenue.  Soon our hands were filled with bags so we decided to stop for our traditional gelato.

We sat at a wrought iron café table in our favorite coffee shop/restaurant.  The one with the rich dark wood that contrasted with the brightly lit pastry cases and polished coffee machines behind the counter and the black and white checked floors. Frequent customers, we felt at home enough to pile our purchases all over the floor.

“Let’s check our lists,” I said as we waited for our order. We fished them out of our pockets and laid them side-by-side on the table.  Not one item was crossed off. We burst out laughing.

“There’s plenty of time to get this other stuff.”

“Christmas is five days away.”

The waiter set down two bowls of straciatella gelato, two spoons, and a cappuccino in a creamy white cup. We recounted every facet of every purchase as we ate, adding another layer of reasons to our already elaborate list of rationalizations for why we needed each of the items.  By the time our bowls were empty, any trace of guilt had been wiped away.

            “I’m just going to use the rest room real quick before we leave,” Katie said. She rose from the table and headed to the back of the shop.  Suddenly, I saw her in slow motion, her 15-year-old spirit oozing from every pore.  Her lanky body finding its grace a little more each day.  There wouldn’t be many more Christmases where we would shop alone together in this easy innocence.  She would fly from the nest soon enough.

This day was my gift from her.  Christmas the Italian way.   Being together without all of the trappings.  I wished that I could wrap up that afternoon and put it under every tree for the rest of my life.

We collected our bags and headed out the door. The sun was setting and we turned our thin denim collars up against the cold.  Decorative lights appeared here and there along the street as we walked. It felt like Christmas.  It really did. The #17 bus turned a corner and sped toward the bus stop.  Weighed down with our loot, we ran like crazy through fur and quilt in order to catch it, laughing all the way.

Milano Marittima

I had to edit this down to fit as a blog post, but I think you can get the gist! 

Though it was only May, Milano Marittima, a lovely beach town on the Adriatic Sea just east of Ravenna, was packed.  Sitting at an outdoor café on a snazzy strip it was apparent that everyone who was someone, or just looked like someone, was out in full force.  We were, of course, the five “fashion don’ts” in the midst of a thousand “do’s”.

I didn’t care.  I was used to it by now and casually ignored all of these beauteous people in their body hugging fabrics and Gucci sunglasses. I had more important things to consider, like our current Crazy Eight’s war.  Katie’s friend, Amanda, traveling with us again on this trip, shuffled the cards and dealt them with the seriousness of a casino employee. 

Ravenna is home to some of the most radiant and captivating mosaics in the world. Basilicas, baptisteries, and mausoleums blend classical construction, marbles and mosaics so magnificently that we spent two days standing in awe with our mouths open. None of us could believe the colors, still brilliant after many centuries.

I had dreamed of going to Ravenna since my art history teacher from Fairfield University expounded on its hidden treasures. It was a class I took only because I needed some random credits, but it was the one class in four years that took my breath away and opened up my tiny world. I had never been exposed to Art in such a way, and the passion of this teacher was contagious.  I wish I could remember his name.  If he were still alive I would call him this minute and thank him.

Tim, Katie and Matt had graciously accommodated my dream of coming here and admitted that they were pleasantly surprised. And then there was the added bonus of happening upon Dante’s tomb.  Who knew he was buried here?

            “Is anyone else hungry?” asked Matt as he put a King of Hearts on the discard pile.

            “Ummmm,” murmured Katie and Amanda.

            “I guess so,” I added throwing down a ten. “Why don’t we go find a cheap place to eat?  These café’s are too pricey.”

            “Perfect timing,” said Tim as he put his last card down.

            “Ahhhhh!” We chimed in unison, his sixth straight win.  Katie stacked the cards while Matt figured the scores.

            “Well?” I asked Tim.  We glanced at the beauteous bunch on the left and then at the beauteous bunch on the right.

            “There’s no elegant way to do this.”

            “You’re right.”  I said.  We were a little embarrassed of our mode of transportation.  And with good reason.

When we got off the train this morning, we were directed by an amused conductor toward the beach area to look for a hotel.  Little did we know that we had a long trek. He neglected to mention that it was more that two miles away.  As we walked and walked, we became a little tired, a little agitated, and a little desperate.  So when we saw those cute little pedal propelled surreys with the fringe on top lined up in a row, it seemed like a good idea.  Before we knew it we were speeding down the main thoroughfares in a mighty, apple red five-seater, dodging cars and scaring pedestrians. Our legs were like pistons. Poetry in motion. And, because there was no place to put our heavy backpacks, we piled them on top of the canvas roof.  This, of course, caused it to droop like a hammock and sit right on top of our heads.

It wasn’t graceful.

The waiter took our payment and the five of us walked over to the curb where the surrey was padlocked to the streetlight with a huge link chain (that came free of charge). 

          “Mom.” Katie whispered hoarsely.

          “I know. Nobody make eye contact.” I handed Matt the key and he unlocked the padlock as we took our seats.

           “Feet up!” Tim cried as he pushed the huge red monster out into the street.  From the beginning we had deemed it much easier than backing up with five sets of legs peddling at the same time. A distinct murmuring arose from the scores of onlookers. 

Tim leaped into the driver seat and yelled for everyone to start peddling with all of our might.  We were giggling so hard that I was glad that Tim was in charge of steering because any other of us would have crashed immediately. 

          “Go that way!” Amanda shouted and pointed.

Tim steered the surrey down the crowded street as people laughed and waved to us, shouting things we didn’t recognize.

           “What are they saying?” said Katie.

            “Probably curse words,” said Matt.  

We turned right into a lane of steady traffic. Unfortunately, most of the restaurants were on the main drag which was downright dangerous for us to be on with cars zooming by at forty miles an hour.

          “Pedal faster!” yelled Tim above the traffic.

           “That’s as fast as my legs go!”

            “Do you think those cars are honking at us?”

             “Tim, be careful!” I yelled as he smiled and pointed to a string of cafés on the right.

We veered sharply to the right and pulled up to a few restaurants and asked if there were any openings.  Everything that looked decent was booked. (We were a little suspicious since they didn’t even let us look inside to see if there were tables. They seemed to be sure, just from watching us pull up, that they were full.)

Being the kind of people who could take a hint, we decided to just go back to the hotel and get a burger from room service.  With much ado, we made a huge looping u-turn and headed back.  The sky was now black, the stars twinkling, and a half moon was peering out from behind shreds of clouds. With a cool wind on our smiling faces we pedaled in earnest.

And just when I thought that life could not get any better than that, Tim broke into a rousing chorus of, “Flintstones. Meet the Flintstones…” and the five of us were suddenly singing at the top of our lungs feeling more American than we had in a long time. 

The whole scene was so ridiculous that we were beyond the point of redemption and decidedly the most uncool people in town that night. The image of Americans abroad was plunging downward with the push of every peddle. But we were having fun, and that was all we seemed to care about those days.

We pulled into the hotel parking lot at warp speed feeling reckless and alive, weaving in and out of the open parking spaces in huge figure-eights, happy that no cars were parked to hamper our movement. 

Tim looked over at me and yelled, “Hold on, everyone! And feet off the pedals!”  Before I could respond he went for a full donut skid pulling on the steering wheel with all of his might.  The mighty red surrey spun in a circle as we screamed with delight until it came to rest two inches from a steel pole.

            “Nice move,” I said gasping for air.

            “That was close,” said Katie.

            “Good one, Dad,” said Matt.

Tim took a deep breath, reached his hand and pushed against the steel pole to move the surrey away so we could maneuver around it.

            “Feet on the pedals!”

            “Onward.”

            “From the town of Bedrock…” Matt began and with little coaxing our chorus continued all the way to the hotel.

Pamplona

“Ok, everyone.  Look at me and smile!”

I snapped a picture of Tim, Katie and Matt standing at the exact gate where the bulls would be released during the upcoming San Fermin Festival in Pamplona, Spain.

“Everyone ready?” asked Tim.

“Yes.”  And thus our trek down the cobblestoned route of the famous Running of the Bulls began.  When we planned this trip to Spain, our last for the year, we decided to make Pamplona a featured destination.  Due to the large size of the country and the small size of our now severely depleted finances, we chose to stay in the North Eastern area.  When we told the kids that we would get to see where the Running of the Bulls took place, we were greeted with blank stares.  They had never heard of it. All the more reason to go, we insisted. 

“Let’s pretend that we’re wearing white clothes and red neckerchiefs and sashes,” I said. 

“Why would we do that?” Matt glance at me, appalled.

“Because that is what everyone wears. See?” I said pointing to a shop window that displayed the ceremonial dress.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.  They just do.”

“Well I’m not wearing that.”

“Matt, this is pretend.” Katie sighed.

We started up Santo Domingo St. and found it surprisingly narrow.  I had a hard time imagining six angry bulls charging through here with throngs of men running nilly- willy to get out of the way. Then I wondered if perhaps some forward thinking women of ages hence had designed this course with the advancement of their local suffrage movement in mind.  

Regardless of who started this whole business and why, it was thrilling to be there. To place our feet upon the same worn cobblestones that the bulls’ hooves had echoed upon over the centuries, and to rub our palms across the scars that crisscrossed the heavy wooden barricades that had been permanently erected along the sides of some of the streets to protect the onlookers. To smell the musty aroma of the old buildings and the centuries of fear and bravado swirling through the alleys like a steady wind.

I squeezed Tim’s hand and began to expound, mostly to myself, about the excitement, the passion and the glory of ritual. How I could feel it hanging in the air like a haze. Though I was greeted with eye rolls, I couldn’t stop myself from the need to be poetic and dramatic.

We crossed the Plaza Consistorial which was much smaller than it had appeared on TV.  Majestic and historic, it commanded our respect so I gave it the finest American salute I could think of.  I strode to the center of the plaza and twirled around a few times, arms stretched wide like Mary Richards before she threw her hat in the air at the start of the Mary Tyler Moore show.

Soon we were making our way along Mercaders St and took a right turn onto Estafeta St. which became even narrower. And then, suddenly, we were standing at the end which consisted of two wooden fences that form a funnel into the bull ring. From start to finish it took fifteen minutes as it was only about a half of a mile. According to the townspeople that we spoke to along the way, it takes just four minutes for the bulls to make it from one end to the other. 

I used to think that this tradition was ridiculous. Every July I would see a clip on the news and wonder, “What is wrong with these people?”  But travel has deepened the well from which I now draw meaning. 

As a family, we are changing.  We have begun to view our world from a new, less ego centric vantage point. It’s one thing to learn about humankind through a textbook, but placing our feet in the exact footsteps of other cultures has humbled us. We have been reminded that America is but one of the beautiful colors in the kaleidoscope.

Now, my reactions to such cultural events are not statements and judgments, but questions.  I am once again the student rather than the teacher.  I seek, in each culture, answers to deepen my understanding of what beauty is to them, what constitutes courage and valor, what instills pride and compassion.

“Let’s head over to one of those tables.” Tim pointed to an open square filled with restaurants. 

“I’m thirsty,” Matt said.

“Me, too.” added Katie. “Can you order us a Coke while we check out that souvenir shop?”

Tim and I sat for long time drinking in the sights and sounds Pamplona.  A band began to play at the far end of the plaza, and Katie and Matt returned with t-shirts and a key chain commemorating this event that, until today, they knew nothing about.  They stood proudly and shared with us their purchases as well as the local lore that the shopkeeper revealed to them.

Tim and I exchanged knowing glances because we saw it, again, in their eyes.  That spark that was becoming a regular thing now.  The one born of the excitement of being a real traveler on the open road of life.

Bogliasco

I ordered one scoop of chocolate and one vanilla.  Matt ordered the same.  I paid for our gelato and we moseyed out the door of the tiny café in Bogliasco.  It was well into intervallo on a blistering hot day, but the cafe had remained open for desperados like us. 

We plopped down on a worn wooden bench in the town square of this tiny village on the coast between Nervi and Recco, where Veronica and Thomas had moved to recently after their lease had run out in Sori.  This morning Matt and I decided to hit the beach here since we had nothing else on our agenda.  I called Veronica and Emil to join us but she declined explaining that they had an appointment with someone about a new loan for the villa in Busalla.

Our snack was a welcome break from the scorching sand and sun. We ate it slowly and savored every bite.  We had gotten into the habit of examining and describing our gelato indulgences in detail. 

“Oh, my goodness.  This is soooo delicious.”

“Can you taste the vanilla bean?”

 “The chocolate is unbelievable.”

“Take tiny bites and just let them melt on your tongue.”

 “Oh no, it’s almost gone.”

“Stop eating it so fast.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I only have two bites left.”

“I only have one.”

“That was soooo good.”

Contented sigh in unison.

 “Can you throw these cups in the trash over there?”

Matt slowly walked over to the trashcan in his navy bathing suit and silver-framed glasses.  He was on the brink of adolescence, and I could see his handsomeness looming on the horizon.  He was teetering on the official “awkward stage” but Matt was one of the lucky ones.  He was adorable, and he didn’t know it.  And that was not just his mother talking as I had been informed that Sonia, an older girl in school, was hot on his trail.

I loved that he still thought that it was a wonderful idea to ride the train to Bogliasco with his mother to go swimming. And I loved that I didn’t have to fit this in on alternating weekends. 

We had found a spot on the beach and laid out our towels.  I stretched out with a book, and he immediately went to explore the water’s edge and climb the huge rocks and boulders that hugged the coast.  He was not one to sit still, but I was.  It was enough for him that we were in close proximity of each other. 

He deposited the trash and came back to sit on the bench.  He smiled and stretched his long limbs. 

“So what do you want to do now?”

“I don’t know.”

 “That gelato was so good.”

“I could eat some more.”

“Me, too.”

“Seriously.  Wasn’t that the best vanilla and chocolate you ever tasted?”

“Definitely.”

“Two more scoops?”

Matt’s face lit up like I just promised him a million dollars.  We got up and hurried back across the street. The shop owner’s eyes twinkled when Matt told him what we wanted.  He filled two more cups and handed them to us.  This time we sat inside the shop at one of the tables. 

“Oh, my goodness.  This is soooo delicious.”

“Can you taste the vanilla bean?”

 “The chocolate is unbelievable.”

“Take tiny bites and just let them melt on your tongue.”

 “Oh no, it’s almost gone.”

“Stop eating it so fast.”

“I can’t help it.”

 “I only have two bites left.”

“I only have one.”

“That was soooo good.”

Contented sigh in unison.

Apple Pie

 “Pour the flour into a bowl.”
 “How big?”

“That one over there.”  I pointed to a large, sky blue Tupperware bowl with my right elbow because my hands were busy scooping Crisco from a large can, the extra value size.  Katie poured the flour and placed the bowl in front of me on the well-worn white and gray marble counter next to the sink.

“Next, you just plop in the Crisco like this.”  I let a scoop of it fall into the bowl and laughed as a cloud of white dust exploded into my face and coated my shirt.

 “Now I know why bakers wear those aprons,” laughed Meredith from Macon. She was the red haired, freckled friend of Katie’s from school and the younger sister of Amanda who was still recovering from the episode at the Naked Pool. For some reason we had started calling her ‘Meredith from Macon’ and it had stuck.

“Next take two regular knives and go like this.” I showed them how to ‘cut’ the shortening into the flour. Because they were bored, the Katie and Meredith had asked me for an impromptu lesson in the lost art of homemade crust.  It was one thing I knew how to make.

Matthew lurked around the outskirts of the lesson not sure of what to do with himself. He didn’t care about piecrust, but he did care about being a part of the gang.

“I know,” he announced as if we had asked him a question. “How about if I set up some music?”

“Sure,” nodded Katie and Meredith.

Matt brought the laptop into the kitchen, set it up on the shelf, and put in our new CD, an Italian artist that we were all in love with—Tiziano Ferro, Italy’s answer to John Mayer.  Katie and I had caught his video on MTV the other day and were happy to find out that his looks were as soothing as his voice.

I handed the knives to Meredith from Macon, and she began to cut like a pro.

“While she does that, we can pare the apples.” Katie grabbed a paring knife and started to peel a Granny Smith. 

“Your mission,” I told her, “is to try to peel the apple around and round in one very long peel.” 

“What?”

“It’s considered good luck. Seriously, my grandmother told me that.” I said as I grabbed another knife and reached for an apple.

“Yeah, okay, Mom.” Katie rolled her eyes to signal to Meredith that I was a dork, but her sudden heightened concentration indicated that she accepted the challenge.

Matt found our favorite song “Non Me lo so Spiegare” and turned up the volume.  Soon the three of them were working away, baptized in flour and passion, and singing at the top of their lungs in Italian. 

I stood back a moment enchanted by this unlikely scene. I loved that my kids were singing with an accent as real as Tiziano’s.  Rolling their r’s and feeling as Italian as he was at that moment.  After eight months of living here, they even knew what he was saying.  I busied myself with my apple peeling, eyes lowered so they didn’t see me staring and thus break the spell.

American Apple pie and Italian love songs—a match made in heaven. As the next tune began to play, Katie casually flung an extremely long apple peel over the table, past my eyes, and into the garbage can.  I rolled my eyes at Meredith from Macon to signal to her that Katie was also a dork.  Then we all broke into a chorus of “Sere Nere” as I showed them how to roll out the dough. They took turns giving it a try and, finally, Katie laid the dough carefully into the pie pan. Matt and Meredith heaped in all of the fresh mele, and I dotted the top with zucchero and canella. It took the four of us to figure out the degree of the oven in centigrade and then we popped it in. 

“Let’s all meet again in an hour or so to eat it,” I said, wiping the flour from my hands.

 “Cool.”

They left the kitchen as well as all of the dirty dishes for me to clean up. I didn’t even care because it gave me a few more minutes to bask in the afterglow of something truly fun. 

Years from now they may not remember much about Genoa, or what fantastic church they visited or piece of artwork they saw by some famous Renaissance painter. But they will remember the day we all taught their friend how to make piecrust and sing in Italian. The girl they met at school.  The one with the quick smile and all of the freckles.  Meredith from Macon.