It’s the little things that remind me I live in Italy.
The base grocery store also sells furniture which they set outside under the awning with big yellow price tags affixed. Local Italian nationals take advantage of the luxurious free outdoor seating and have their coffee while acting as living advertisements for a plush new sectional couch. The management doesn’t particularly like them breaking in the furniture, but what are they going to do?
I will be running specimens to the Hospitals lab and walk over the glass-topped excavation of a Roman well. Sometimes (if Cancer results aren’t on the line) I’ll just stand on top of the glass and look down at something older than Jesus. This happens roughly once a week.
The Neapolitan dialect is said to notoriously different from regular Italian. I have a theory: Naples actually pre-dates the Roman Empire as a bustling metropolis. Naples here in Italy is called “Napoli”, which is derived from “Neopolis” or “New City”, which is what the Greeks called it when they founded it. I think chunks of Greek are leftover in Neapolitan and that’s why it’s peculiar. Point: To say ‘half’ in Italian is ‘metta’. In Neapolitan it is ‘messa’. “Half” or “between”/”middle” in Greek is ‘mes’ (see: ‘Mesopotamia’= ‘the place between the rivers’). Not that I can speak one friggin’ word of either of these fine languages.
I wake up every morning to Mount Vesuvius outside my window. Ominous? Only if you dwell on the thought of Pompeii.
We all need a lesson in Italian self-esteem. Is an item of clothing tight? Is it shiny? Is said item an offensive color (Neon Yellow? Screaming Eggplant?)? Is it sheer enough to see one’s undergarments through it? Yes? They will wear it. Their belly paunches will stick out. Every cellulite ridge will clear its throat and demand attention. And they walk out the door thinking (insert big smile and double finger-snap here) ‘I look goooood!’. Sun-blotched décolletage will be flaunted. Cracked, dry feet will be on display in precarious open toed heels. And you can see bras and underwear quite clearly. A true story/lesson: At my favorite outdoor market, there are heaps of random clothes piled high on tables you can pick through under a sign that says “1 for 1 Euro”. In an attempt to dress more “flashy” (re: Italian) I picked up an offensive Neon Yellow, stretchy, sheer (yes you can see my underwear through it), and revealing dress that looked about 2 sized too small. Whatever. It’s ONE Euro! Why not? I bought it as a joke. Took it home. Washed it. Tried it on for the first time. FELT LIKE A SUPERMODEL. Maybe confidence is something they weave into the fabric here? 60% Cotton, 30% Rayon, 10% Girl, You Look Good!
Italians, or at least Neapolitans, LOVE fireworks. I cannot overemphasize the Italian zeal for colorful shit that explodes high in the air. There were fireworks my first night here and I won’t lie, I felt like they were for me. The ones two nights later were still for me. And the ones a week after that. Around Labor Day is when I realized that this was a trend before I arrived here and not dependant on my mood (they seemed timed to punctuate my emotional state… sheer coincidence… or IS it, hmmmm?). The fireworks that “kicked off Labor Day” (more on the quotations in a minute) were spectacular! A 40 minute display of the largest, highest, loudest, brightest fireworks I’d ever seen! 3,000 years ago, the Chinese invented fireworks for the sole purpose of exquisite culmination on this night in Italy: the beginning of the American holiday of Labor Day! Now, about those corkers actually being for “Labor Day”? Nope. I live in Italy, they don’t know or care what the hell Labor Day is and if they did know they would celebrate the Italian way by taking the month off. Another coincidence. Fireworks here are used for everything from celebrating a sweet-16, to blessing a harbor to forever have bountiful clams (not kidding), to various pillars of the community (Mafia crime lords) getting released from jail (again, not kidding). So every time I stood on my balcony and enjoyed the show, someone was either coming of age, ensuring a good haul for next year, or getting out of prison. As I write this, there are fireworks outside my window. Not kidding.
The base grocery store also sells furniture which they set outside under the awning with big yellow price tags affixed. Local Italian nationals take advantage of the luxurious free outdoor seating and have their coffee while acting as living advertisements for a plush new sectional couch. The management doesn’t particularly like them breaking in the furniture, but what are they going to do?
I will be running specimens to the Hospitals lab and walk over the glass-topped excavation of a Roman well. Sometimes (if Cancer results aren’t on the line) I’ll just stand on top of the glass and look down at something older than Jesus. This happens roughly once a week.
The Neapolitan dialect is said to notoriously different from regular Italian. I have a theory: Naples actually pre-dates the Roman Empire as a bustling metropolis. Naples here in Italy is called “Napoli”, which is derived from “Neopolis” or “New City”, which is what the Greeks called it when they founded it. I think chunks of Greek are leftover in Neapolitan and that’s why it’s peculiar. Point: To say ‘half’ in Italian is ‘metta’. In Neapolitan it is ‘messa’. “Half” or “between”/”middle” in Greek is ‘mes’ (see: ‘Mesopotamia’= ‘the place between the rivers’). Not that I can speak one friggin’ word of either of these fine languages.
I wake up every morning to Mount Vesuvius outside my window. Ominous? Only if you dwell on the thought of Pompeii.
We all need a lesson in Italian self-esteem. Is an item of clothing tight? Is it shiny? Is said item an offensive color (Neon Yellow? Screaming Eggplant?)? Is it sheer enough to see one’s undergarments through it? Yes? They will wear it. Their belly paunches will stick out. Every cellulite ridge will clear its throat and demand attention. And they walk out the door thinking (insert big smile and double finger-snap here) ‘I look goooood!’. Sun-blotched décolletage will be flaunted. Cracked, dry feet will be on display in precarious open toed heels. And you can see bras and underwear quite clearly. A true story/lesson: At my favorite outdoor market, there are heaps of random clothes piled high on tables you can pick through under a sign that says “1 for 1 Euro”. In an attempt to dress more “flashy” (re: Italian) I picked up an offensive Neon Yellow, stretchy, sheer (yes you can see my underwear through it), and revealing dress that looked about 2 sized too small. Whatever. It’s ONE Euro! Why not? I bought it as a joke. Took it home. Washed it. Tried it on for the first time. FELT LIKE A SUPERMODEL. Maybe confidence is something they weave into the fabric here? 60% Cotton, 30% Rayon, 10% Girl, You Look Good!
Italians, or at least Neapolitans, LOVE fireworks. I cannot overemphasize the Italian zeal for colorful shit that explodes high in the air. There were fireworks my first night here and I won’t lie, I felt like they were for me. The ones two nights later were still for me. And the ones a week after that. Around Labor Day is when I realized that this was a trend before I arrived here and not dependant on my mood (they seemed timed to punctuate my emotional state… sheer coincidence… or IS it, hmmmm?). The fireworks that “kicked off Labor Day” (more on the quotations in a minute) were spectacular! A 40 minute display of the largest, highest, loudest, brightest fireworks I’d ever seen! 3,000 years ago, the Chinese invented fireworks for the sole purpose of exquisite culmination on this night in Italy: the beginning of the American holiday of Labor Day! Now, about those corkers actually being for “Labor Day”? Nope. I live in Italy, they don’t know or care what the hell Labor Day is and if they did know they would celebrate the Italian way by taking the month off. Another coincidence. Fireworks here are used for everything from celebrating a sweet-16, to blessing a harbor to forever have bountiful clams (not kidding), to various pillars of the community (Mafia crime lords) getting released from jail (again, not kidding). So every time I stood on my balcony and enjoyed the show, someone was either coming of age, ensuring a good haul for next year, or getting out of prison. As I write this, there are fireworks outside my window. Not kidding.
1 comment:
Amber my best friend passed away March 30, 2014 of brain cancer, I am glad i finally found ur blog so that i can finally get to know u the person u where before u got sick...u did allot in a lil time and^^ I will miss u...much love ur homeboy Larry
ps: when i go back to Europe i will follow the map u have made for me here
Post a Comment