Babba-da-Boopi...

Tutto x Tutti

Supermarkets in Italy are a joy. Especially the smaller, less Westernized alimentari which are often times nothing more than a room with a mish-mosh of boxes and products stacked ceiling-high. Forget about wheeling a cart and numbered aisles. You just sort of browse and eventually you find what you're looking for. Or better yet, ask. Italian store owners take huge pride in their merchandise, especially when it comes to food. A tomato is not just a tomato. It's like a work of art. Picasso and pomodori are equally as beautiful in Italy.


In Praiano, a coastal town only a few miles from Positano, my mother and I had an Italian supermarket experience to rival the "window shopping" night I had in Treviso.

The view from our apartment in Praiano

My friendly local grocer from Treviso

After a 30-minute vertical climb to upper Praiano, we found what we had been searching for--Tutto x Tutti, the town's only major supermarket. Immediately we were tickled by the colorful assortment of vegetables and fruit sitting in baskets out front, and the marvelously messy shelves of Italian treats inside. They really did have "everything for everyone," as they name implied.

Our basket quickly filled to the brim with the evening essentials: bottled aqua frizzante, peaches and pearcocce, a variety of peach that's firmer and more golden, prosciutto (to go with the fresh figs we were given from Giovanni our landlord), olio and miele to take home to my relatives. We were comparing the extra virginities of the oil when we were halted by a curious man. A local. My favorite kind of encounter.

He said "Hello", in English. I responded, "Salve." A shiny gold necklace was tangled in his grey chest hair, which was proudly on display. His blue workman's shirt was unbuttoned--almost completely. The topic of conversation moved this way and that, just like the melody of his sing-song Italian voice. From good local pasta, to the reason for my stay in Praiano to how beautiful my mom was.

"Ma lei è la sua sorella, non la mamma," he said cheekily.

When I told him she was, in fact, my "Mamma" and not my sister, it was as if something came over him. That's when he broke into song. Eerily, it was the song my Nana sings in the kitchen at every Sunday dinner.

It was one of those "only in Italy" moments. The kind you try to imagine happening at home and then laugh. It could never. After the serenade it was back to business for everyone. Our friend went on his way, the deli man sliced some prosciutto and then we checked out.

At the register I realized we had way too many heavy items to consider walking home. I asked for a bus schedule and before I could even figure out how to read it, the store owner was by my side explaining that his son, Pasquale, who was about my age and a beutiful specimen of Southern Italian, would be happy to give us a passagio home.

So after small talking with Pasquale through the rear view mirror and giving him the required double kiss for his chivalrous services, my mom and I said farewell, hit the kitchen and buzzed giddily all night about our fortuitous adventure through the alimentari.

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]

Sexy Sign Language

Just a few minutes outside the walls of picture-perfect Treviso is Il Terraglio, not to be confused with i taralli, my favorite Italian snack which consists of small crunchy ringlets of bread, mildly salty and delicious.

No, no. Il Terraglio is the road that connects Treviso and Venice. It's lined with trattorie, bars, villas, and apartments and by day it's seemingly ordinary. But by night it's a sexed-up superhighway filled with prositutes. On a recent drive back from Venice I counted thirty-five in a 2-mile radius at which point I felt slightly violated for even being on the same pavement, not to mention they were getting picked up left and right. Yuck.

Then I saw this salty sign provocatively posted along the street. In English it says, WATCH OUT FOR PROSTITUTES.

Come on, is this really necessary? It's not like these women are jumping out from behind trees and galloping across the road to graze. Can't they just tend to their "business" in subtle fashion? And it seems that the artist went to great lengths to perfect her perfectly perky Double D breasts but neglected to give her any hands! Poor hooker.

I would, however, enjoy seeing a sign that says, "ATTENZIONE: sleezy Italian men hunting for prostitutes may jam on their brakes at any minute."

If there were one place this sign could have served a genuine purpose, perhaps it would have been in Spitzer's office. Maybe if I ask nicely, the mayor of Treviso will overnight it to Albany as a cautionary reminder for Lt. Gov David Paterson...

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.

Italian Bathrooms: The Good, The Bad, and The Squatty

There isn't alot to be said about the public bathrooms here in Italy. Some don't even have toilets, but rather a hole with two indications where you position your feet. Trust me when I say, this contraption takes squatting to a new, unpleasent level. There should be a warning sign above the hole: PEE AT YOUR OWN RISK!

And it's not only dive bars and petrol stations that fashion the squat-a-rific bathrooms. I've even seen discos and restaurants with the same technology (or lack thereof)!

All potty talk aside, Italy does have one fantastic bathroom invention, which I came across last week at a local Trevigiana hotspot, Amami. It's a pay-per-use hair dryer and straightener!

Finally, someone is thinking clearly. The invention costs up to 2 Euro per use and I assume you'd get just enough minutes of power to sexy up your doo (or dry your pant legs).