“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.

I am a sucker for an inviting front door with a pretty wreath and flowers or plants to welcome friends and neighbors.  I consider it a basic ingredient to a happy home.  The effort had been an ongoing project since our arrival. Italians don’t do the “door” thing,   which made it very difficult for me to find a wreath.  Their front doors are plain, with no windows and one oversized doorknob smack dab in the center that doesn’t turn.  After weeks of searching, I found a suitable wreath and hung it with care using a pretty ribbon that my friend, Kim, had shipped all the way from Michael’s craft store in LA.  Now I could plant the mums in two of the empty pots from the terrace, and arrange them on either side of the door. 

I arrived home, dragged them up in the elevator, and proceeded to go about potting them. A few neighbors walked by and studied me with concern, not one of them returned my friendly waves. Oh well, new kid on the block.

Soon enough the sunny yellow mums were in place and I stood back to admire our door.  It was cheerful and homey.

I opened the door and called, “Hey, guys! Come check out flowers!”

Tim, Katie and Matt put down their card game and came outside.

“Mom, it looks so pretty.”

“So…it’s only flowers,” Matt added but then laughed at his own weak attempt to be sarcastic when it was clear he liked them. Everyone agreed that it lifted our spirits just to walk through the door. 

“Want us to help clean up?” asked Tim as he surveyed the layer of dirt that didn’t make it into the planters.

“No, thanks. Go ahead and finish your game. I’m enjoying this.”

They disappeared inside, and I found myself humming as I grabbed the old broom that looked like Alfalfa’s hair and began to sweep.  Every few minutes I would stop, lean against my broom, and admire my handiwork. Joy.

“Susan!” I heard my name called from the street behind our building.  Annalisa was walking by.

“Oh, hi Annalisa,” I waved and smiled.

“Why you are doing that?” she demanded with a curious edge to her voice.

“Doing what?”

“That.” She motioned to the wreath and the flowers.

“Isn’t it pretty?” I straightened up with pride.

“In Italy, wreaths and mums…they are only for the cemetery.  They mean death.”

“Death?” I started to laugh. Once again, I had run right into another cultural wall.  But, since I was getting used to it, I didn’t really care. “In America,” I explained, “this means life…our life… behind this door.  And you are welcome to share it with us.”

We stared at each other for a long minute. I could see she was processing the English I had spoken.  She slowly nodded, and a half smile softened her features.

 “Besides, Halloween is just around the corner so it fits right in.” Her blank stare reminded me that Halloween was not celebrated here. Maybe I should quit while I was ahead.

“Crazy Americans.” She waved a good-bye and headed back into her house.  I continued to giggle to myself as I finished cleaning. Funny how something can symbolize death in one country and life in another. 

We made a family decision to keep the door decorated according to our own custom.  Though we knew it turned us into the “Munsters” on Via Fratelli Coda, there was just something about chrysanthemums in the Fall.