Thanksgiving: A How To Guide

Window Seat

A European woman loves to perch on her window sill. She curiously spies on the neighbors, her perfectly quaffed Aqua Net hair not blowing an inch in the breeze. Sometimes if the window is close enough to ground level, she starts a friendly conversation in dialect, to which I usually just smile and say Buona Giornata. And if the mood strikes, she even take her pet out for a sun bath (or annual tooth cleansing like this Catalan lady).

I can only remember one time when I perched outside a window. It was a summer day in 2006 during NYC's Gay Pride March.

I balanced a glass of white wine in one hand while catching beads, rainbow buttons, neon condoms, and penis-shaped soap thrown from outrageous floats. J-Lo and Madonna blasted which made conversation (in dialect or otherwise) rather unnecessary. Sculpted bodies danced their way towards Christopher St. while fabulous drag queens with perfectly quaffed hair blew me kisses. [Photo (right): © Janet Mayer / PR Photos]

New York Minutes

I made it home to JFK in one piece, and surprisingly so did my five bottles of olive oil, four bottles of wine, balsamic vinegar, grappa and honey. It's not often that I thank an airline, especially after seeing the bill, but I think I owe a bit of gratitude to Delta for noticing my "FRAGILE" sticker. And another shoutout to Delta for organizing a celebrity sighting in honor of my New York homecoming (you shouldn't have).

It was Wyclef Jean, he was sportin' a shaved head, army green jacket and was waiting for his luggage at baggage claim 3 (I was at 4). I debated harassing him for an autograph to show my students in Italy, but then I remembered I'm home, quickly put on my "Jaded New Yorker" cap and went about my business.

Customs was a breeze and reuniting with my mom was a wonderful (and very Hallmark) moment. In the car I flipped on Z100 to get a crash course in the latest American pop music. I'm sorry, but who is Flo Rida (not to be confused with the sunny state of Florida) and why is he popular? Maybe I'm missing something, but his song "Low" sounds like every other recent hip hop artist. Where's the originality? And how can I explain shawty, apple-bottom jeans, and booty smackin' to my Italian friends? I miss the days of Tribe Called Quest, Missy, Biggy, and Nas. Luckily my friends over at Vh1 are still serving up kick-ass Hip Hop Honors shows. If you aren't in the know, click here.

When I got home I crashed on my palatial-seeming bed. It was a strange feeling--the sheets were soft, the pillows fluffy, and I could actually roll over without falling off. I started channel surfing only to find that nothing has changed on TV. Oprah is still having "aha" moments, the Hogan clan is causing hijinks, TMZ's hunting celebs and that annoying Head On commercial is still in rotation.

Three's Company

It was the strangest moment - I arrived home on an ordinary Friday to see two of my favorite people from the U.S., my best friends Kelli and Maggie, in the flesh. They were casually leaning out of my second story window shouting, "Buongiorno...Ciao Bella!" and then bum rushed me with American kisses (the one-cheek variety) and hugs.

They are the first of my friends to visit from the U.S. and their presence was like a flood from my former life. They were chock full of gifts and news from the motherland: Crest mouthwash, Herbal Essences mouse, PEOPLE, US Weekly, the NY POST and OK Mag, updates on the newest NYC restaurants, clubs, political scandals, fashion trends, pregnant friends, engagements, etc. I was inundated with American-ness and at that moment there was no better feeling in the world. It took only 20 minutes before all of my repressed American slang weaseled its way back into my vernacular.

Totally; wanna; awesome; I'm over it; gotta; whatever; you guys; gimme a break. Ya' know?

But talk of America was quickly replaced with excited questions about Italy: my job, my new friends, the men, and of course our ambitous three-day itinerary.


Day 1-Venice
Day 2-Wine tour in the prosecco hills of Conegliano
Day 3-Road trip to Verona


To be continued...

Life in Treviso: Is it anything like NYC?

My mal di gola (sore throat) has me cooped up in bed with lots of spare time on my hands. And so instead of the usual day-trip to Venice, I spent this Saturday afternoon comparing my old life in New York City with my new life in Treviso. Not surprisingly, I have a long list of differences. I'll summarize as I know it's nearing the hour of cena (dinner) and I wouldn't want to you to miss out on the antipasti!

In New York I...

• Drank Starbucks iced coffee or Chai


• Spoke only English


• Rode the Subway


• Worked in a fast-paced, high-rise office in Times Square


• Saw celebrities and an occasional crime scene on my morning commute


• Lived in a small but lively apartment in the heart of Greenwich Village with an R&B singer and budding fashion designer


• Feared pasta


• Did yoga and was a faithful gym-goer


• Visited my family on the weekends (who I dearly miss)


• Was surrounded by diversity and open-mindedness

In Treviso I...

• Drink ONLY italian coffee. I wonder if I'll ever be able to stomach the "dirty water" again
  
• Speak mostly Italian, some English, and some Itaglish...if you are an expat in Italy you know what I mean. Some of the most common Italglish phrases are: and stop (basta), it's the same (è uguale) and as you prefer (come vuoi)


• Ride a bright yellow mountain bike


• Work in, on average, five different schools a week with Italian children ranging from age 5-20


• See white bunnies, billy goats, old villas and grandmas riding bicycles on my morning commute
  
• Live in a 7-bedroom family-owned flat with 2 doctors, 1 Spanish opera singer, and 3 other mid-20's Italians.


• Cook pasta


• Rely on bike riding and a busy lifestyle to stay fit (so far so good)


• Visit Venice, Verona, Asolo, Padova and soon Barcelona on the weekends


• marvel at the signs of racism that still linger in the minds of the local people. But there is hope: http://www.trevisocittaperta.net/

So to answer my own question, Treviso is NOTHING like New York City. I've pretty much done a complete 180° lifestyle change. Perhaps that's why I am so satsfied? I'm totally out of my element, seeing and learning something new every day. And you'd be amazed what little white bunnies and bike-riding grannies do for the soul.

Mission: American Breakfast

Rumblings of an American Breakfast party have been happening for weeks at my apartment, so I finally put the plan into action and made it official. An invitation was sent to my roommates and friends, tempting them with foreign delights like Aunt Jemima and exotic delicacies like chocolate chip panckakes (made from Bisquick of course).

But here in Italy, the land of a million dietary rules, eating fried bacon, eggs, hashbrowns and pancakes at first rise is considered an absurdity. So to appease my roommates' apprehension, I decided to cook our American Breakfast for dinner.

When 7pm came around, Stephanie rolled up our sleeves and got back to our roots for a good ol' fashioned American shmorgasboard.

Our American Breakfast (dinner)

• 15 eggs, scrambled and mixed with American cheese




• A dozen sausages, grilled to perfection
  
• Strips of pancetta (as close as I could find to bacon) fried to a crisp




• Hashbrowns: an entire bag of potatoes, shreaded and mixed with onions, and olive oil
  
• French toast: slices of whole wheat bread dipped in a mixture of egg, cocoa (substitute for cinnamon) and milk, an grilled to a golden brown
  
• Bisquick Shake n' Pour pancake mix (with chocolate chips)

The Italian stovetop in my kitchen didn't know what hit it. All 4 burners were firing at once, butter was splattering, the sausages were spitting and we were dripping pancake mix everywhere! I felt like a kid again.

One hour later we threw on some American tunes and had ourselves a real feast. Stephanie and I received complimenti for our eggs, hashbrowns and sausages but I'm not sure our dinner guests really warmed up to the idea of pancakes with syrup and butter.

They didn't know how to eat them either. Instinctually they picked up the pancakes with their hands and ate them dry, like you would Italian bread. They also at the french toast like it was plain toast (like an egg sandwhich). Steph and I giggled and galdly lent some important American Breakfast tips as we drenched our plates with Aunt Jemima.

Our guests called our American breakfast a bomba (bomb) and I don't disagree. It heavenly heavy and gloriously greasy. I felt, though, that it was my duty to broaden my roommates' horizons. They needed to know that there's more to breakfast than Mulino Bianco biscotti, a brioche and a pint-sized cup of caffè.

Mission Accomplished.