Category Archives: bio

Winter Holidays: A Good Time to Visit Italy

While many people dream of Italy, it seems that most can’t picture it outside the summer season. I’ve seen messages on the Lonely Planet boards asking: “Is it worthwhile to even go to Italy in winter?”

Well, yes, it is, especially around the Christmas season. As elsewhere in the Christian world, this is Italy’s biggest holiday. In the days before Christmas, shops will be open late at night, decorated in gold and silver, red and white, with lights everywhere, and the sidewalks are literally red-carpeted. There are concerts and events, street fairs and markets, and everyone is cheerful, perhaps because for once we’re all thinking about other people (i.e., what to get them for presents).

You probably don’t want to be on the road, though. Extended families travel to be together for the holiday. It’s rare for anyone to go elsewhere on vacation at Christmas; the proverb says: “Natale con i tuoi, Pasqua dove vuoi.” (“Christmas with your parents, Easter where you like.”) Millions of people travel by car (all those presents to carry!), so holiday highway traffic in Italy is horrible in the days just before Christmas and for the re-entry around the Epiphany.
Cartier - Milan
Shops are open until late on Christmas Eve, then everything shuts down for Christmas day. Except bars – you can always get coffee in Italy. Shops are also all closed on December 26th, the festa di Santo Stefano, but restaurants and at least some tourist sites are open, because that’s the day when families traditionally go on a gita (a daytrip) together. The weather usually cooperates, too. Again, lots of traffic.

From the 27th to the 31st, most shops run normal schedules. Shop windows of all kinds are suddenly full of red underwear, because wearing red underwear on New Year’s eve brings good luck for the new year. Plebeian cotton or sexy silk: doesn’t matter, as long as it’s red. I’m not sure whether it’s also required to be new, but undoubtedly the shopkeepers would tell me that it is!

New Year’s is party time, often in large gatherings of friends or, if you’ve gone off skiing or something, in paid large parties at hotels, restaurants, etc. An Italian New Year’s Eve party usually involves talking, dancing, drinking (though rarely to excess), and continuous eating, with a big feast after the stroke of midnight. This feast always includes lentils because, the more lentils you eat, the more money you will earn in the new year.

Another holiday tradition in Italy is gambling. This is about the only time of year that I see Italian families play cards or table games. The traditional games are mercante in fiera (“The merchant at the fair,” a card game about trading for goods), briscola (another card game), and tombola (bingo), all usually played for small sums of money.

For a big party one year, our friend Sandro created a quiz-show style game with questions in categories (history, sports, etc.), played in teams of four. Because he’s an ex-seminarian, one of Sandro’s categories was “religion.” Enrico and I are both unrepentant and unconverted survivors of religious schools. Much to our surprise, we won the whole game. We didn’t know anything about sports, but we were the only ones who could answer anything in the religion category (even though everyone else in the room would probably have claimed to be Catholic, if asked).

Everything is closed again on January 1st, and more or less back to normal on the 2nd. Then closed again on the 6th, the Feast of the Epiphany, the day that the magi arrived in Bethlehem bearing gifts. In Italian tradition, the Befana, a witchy-looking old crone, brings presents to the good kids and carbone (coal) to the bad ones. That is why you’ll see shops and stalls selling witches alongside Santa Clauses (an import) and lumps of black sugar “carbone.” These days, the Befana is an excuse for kids to extort yet more presents from everybody. Perhaps this is forgivable, since the Epiphany is the end of the holiday season; school starts again on the 7th.

Bible Stories

When Rossella was still in preschool and I was travelling to the US a lot for work, I brought her with me several times on extended trips, usually while Enrico was also travelling for mathematical research. So Ross experienced daycare in several different places in America, which was good for her English, and gave her exposure to American culture.

The year she was four, she was slated to spent some time with me in California. Before she arrived (accompanied by Enrico), I went to look at daycare centers with the wife of one of my Italian colleagues, who also had a young child. At one center the owner said, in a very aggressive tone: “I have all the kids recite the Pledge of Allegiance every morning.”

I had my own run-in with the Pledge when I was a kid, so you can imagine how I felt about this. “But these kids aren’t even American,” I protested.

“All the more reason for them to realize how lucky they are to be here!” she snapped. We decided against that place.

The only other option was an avowedly Christian daycare center. I was worried about what kind of indoctrination we might come up against, but the place was bright, cheerful, and clean, and I liked the staff, so I decided to risk it. I gave Ross a talk about how these people might tell her a lot of stuff about God, and she wasn’t to feel bad or strange if she didn’t agree with it; she was always free to make up her own mind.

She came home one evening and told me excitedly about the Bible stories she had heard that day: the adventures of Jonah and the whale, and Noah.

“Do you think that stuff is true?” I asked worriedly.

“Oh, no!” she said brightly. “They said they were stories!”

Nov 18, 2003

My friend Ivo wrote: “When I was in the US on my first day of high school [9th grade, in Georgia] I got the teacher yelling at me because I didn’t stand and recite the pledge! He said: “Are you Russian!? Would you prefer to be in Russia!?”

When I explained that I was Italian and had no idea of what that funny thing was, we found an agreement, and for the remaining 2 and a half years I was expected to stand up, but could avoid speaking or keeping my hand over my heart!”

My Attitude Towards Italy

I received email from someone who had visited my website, read a few articles, and concluded that I don’t like Italy much. I am confused by this, especially since the articles she cited (BabiesHomes, and one other, I forget which) didn’t strike me as negative. I see my articles as statements of fact, though written in a wryly ironic tone that might confuse some people, especially if they come looking for “Under the Tuscan Sun”-style warm fuzzies about Italy.

So, in case it needs clarifying, let me clarify: I do love Italy, and am very happy to live here. It’s probably the best place in the world for me to live, and, even if it wasn’t, my family is there, and that pretty much settles the question.

But I don’t love Italy blindly. I didn’t move here because I had always dreamed of living here*. So I don’t have particular dreams about Italy to keep alive, and can allow myself to see the bad as well as the good. And I’m not trying to make money out of writing about Italy (well, it would be nice…), so I don’t have to write the kind of sunshine-and-red-wine stuff that most people seem to want to read. The Italy I live in has much to recommend it, but it’s not the Italy you see in glossy coffee-table books. The Italian families I know are not the warm, boisterous, suffocating crowds you see in American sit-coms and movies. My family, friends, and neighbors are real, modern Italians, who rarely conform to Italian-American stereotypes.

I’m beginning to think that I should write a book about real life in Italy. Not to scare people off, but to point out that daily life in Italy has its own stresses and pains, just as daily life anywhere does. A good bottle of wine with a good meal is a lovely thing to have (even better when combined with a marvelous view), but it doesn’t cure all ills.

You know what’s really ironic? The average Italian on the street is astonished that I would rather live in Italy than America, or that anyone would (I have had this conversation with many taxi drivers). Like much of the rest of the world, Italians see America as the land of opportunity and riches, of wide open spaces and huge houses. Most of them would not willingly leave Italy permanently, yet they seem to wish that they could participate in the American dream. And they are absolutely floored to be told that many Americans dream – of living in Italy.

*If you’re wondering why I did move here… go here.

Very Supertitious: Some Italian Folk Beliefs

Most Italians are not very religious, but they can be strangely superstitious. Purple and black are the colors of mourning, so wearing purple is considered bad luck. Bad luck for me – I happen to like wearing purple, but I know that, whenever I do, someone will comment. (Wearing black is okay – black is always in fashion.) Italians also have a bad luck day, Friday the 17th. The number 17 in general is considered somewhat unlucky, but Italians don’t take things as far as Americans, who sometimes omit 13 when numbering floors or rooms in a building.

My husband, a very rational man in most things, can’t stand to see a hat left on a bed. It’s obviously a reflex with him, and by dint of repetition has become a reflex with me. I come in on a winter’s day and throw my coat, hat, and scarf on the bed, but feel immediately compelled to move the hat somewhere else, even if Enrico is nowhere in sight. But I find myself wondering about the exact terms of the curse: when exactly is a hat considered to be ON the bed, and what kind of hat? If I hang a hat on a bedpost, is that the same as putting it on the bed? What about a hat resting on top of something else that’s on the bed? Or a hat inside a coat pocket or backpack that’s on the bed? Is it only a brimmed hat that’s dangerous, or does the risk apply to anything in the hat category? Ski hat? Balaclava?

Jan 25, 2007 – My friend QT was driven to do some research on this, and found the probable origin of this superstition:

I preti, almeno sino ad alcuni decenni fa (e i piu’ tradizionalisti e/o anziani ancora oggi) portavano sempre quel loro strano cappello e non lo toglievano entrando in un edificio, pero’ se e quando si recavano da un moribondo per l’estrema unzione e confessione devono toglierselo per mettersi i paramenti ed ecco che il prete, che a questo punto e’ in genere seduto o in piedi accanto al moribondo nel suo letto, si toglie il cappello e lo posa sulla superficie piana piu’ vicina, il letto, appunto!

Ecco quindi spiegato l’arcano, un cappello sul letto richiamerebbe una scena di morte imminente o appena avvenuta.

“Priests, at least up to a few decades ago (and the more traditional and/or old ones still today) always wore that strange hat of theirs, and never took it off even inside a building. However, when they went to the beside of the dying for extreme unction and confession, they had to take it off to put on their vestments. Then you would see the priest, who at this point was usually seated or standing next to the dying person in their bed, take off his hat and put it on the nearest flat surface – the bed!

This explains the arcane: a hat on the bed recalls a scene of death (imminent or just occurred).”


There are also medical superstitions. The colpo d’aria (“punch of air” – a draft) is considered extremely dangerous, causing anything from a cold to paralysis. One friend claims to have suffered a day-long stiffening of one side of her face and neck, due to riding in a fast-moving car with the window down so that cold air was blowing on her.

In the early years of our relationship, Enrico and I argued about whether a window could be left open, even during the hottest summer nights, because it would allow a draft to blow onto our heads, with possibly fatal consequences. I was scornful of this, having grown up in Bangkok sleeping under a window air conditioner set so cold that it would freeze solid at night. We finally solved the dilemma by moving the bed away from the windows. Early on in Milan, he never wanted a fan to blow on him, but with the increasingly hot summers we’ve been having, we moved from a standing fan to a ceiling fan, and I guess he’s gotten used to it. Some nights this summer, we had BOTH fans blowing full on us – there was no other way to sleep in the heat.

The funny thing is, the colpo d’aria never seems to strike below the waist. An Italian woman who would cringe from the slightest draft coming in a window will go out in January’s worst winds, wearing a miniskirt, sheer stockings, and skimpy high heels.

How My Italian Adventure Began

Strangely enough, my Italian adventure began in India. In June, 1986, I finished up my study abroad year in Benares. It had been a fun but intense time, and I looked forward to a vacation in Mussoorie, my “home town,” site of Woodstock School. My dad was supposed to join me, having just finished a contract in Indonesia, and we would travel back to the States together. When I got to Mussoorie, I used most of my remaining rupees to rent a house on the Landour hillside. I was just settling in, organizing food deliveries with the various wallahs, getting scorpions out of the sink, etc., when a telegram arrived from Dad: “Not coming to India. I’m broke. Make your own way back to the US.”

Umm. This presented difficulties. I did have a return ticket, but we were now in the airlines’ peak season, so I’d have to pay a $100 premium to leave right away. Which was a lot of money in India then, and I didn’t have it. There was no prospect of getting the rent money back from the landlord, nor did I have enough cash to stick it out in Mussoorie til the end of peak season. So I went to Delhi, sold my beloved Nikon, and booked a flight out. I used more of my scarce cash to call my friend Julia at Yale. (We had seen each other the summer before, when she was just returning from her own study abroad year, in Italy, and I was just leaving for Benares.)

“I’m arriving in the States flat broke,” I said. “Please rescue me.”

“Of course,” she said. What are friends for?

I flew into New York on July 6th with $32 in my jeans pocket. Julia’s dad picked me up at Kennedy airport and took me to his home, where I stayed for two weeks, doing odd jobs at his printing company in Darien, CT. I figured I should earn enough to get back to Austin, where most of my stuff was, and I could live with my aunt Rosie til I figured out what to do next.

Julia was spending the summer in New Haven, so I took the train up from Darien to visit her. My return to the US had been so abrupt that she already had a full social schedule for the weekend, and all I could do was fall in with that.

“We have to have a picnic with this Italian guy,” she said, “because I told him I would. I think he likes me, but I’m not interested.”

I shrugged. Whatever. But I had time on my hands, Julia being off at an audition, so I baked banana bread. I had missed cooking in Benares.

When Enrico arrived, Julia introduced us, and I was careful to pronounce his name precisely, rolled R and all; it was oddly important to me to get it right. I don’t know what he saw when he looked at me; something exotic, no doubt: my hands were decorated with henna, a parting gift to myself in Delhi. The three of us picnicked in East Rock Park; Enrico loved the banana bread. After lunch he climbed a tall pine tree.

“Do you think he’s doing this to impress me?” asked Julia.

“No, I think he’s doing it because it’s fun,” I replied.

We parted in the afternoon knowing that we’d meet again in the evening; Enrico and Julia had both been invited to a party by a mutual friend. But Julia received a last-minute invitation to a classical music concert that she couldn’t bear to miss.

“Do you mind if I go? You can go to the party with Enrico.”

No, I didn’t mind.

I met other people at the party, but don’t remember them. Susan, now a family friend, years later said about that evening: “I had just broken up with someone, and had my eye on Enrico, but when I saw you two together, I knew there was no chance.”

We left the party for a concert on the New Haven Green, where we ran into Gabriel and Inger, friends of Enrico’s. The four of us went to a disco in Gabriel’s car, and stayed very late – the club provided a breakfast buffet. I kept trying to call Julia to let her know I wouldn’t be back that night, finally reached her around 3. “I’ll just crash at Enrico’s,” I said.

We did more than just crash. I guess I’ll never be able to lecture my daughter about not kissing on the first date. Oh, well. I never did play by The Rules, and look where it’s got me.

The next day I went back to work in Darien, not sure how to regard the events of the weekend. Just a fun fling, I first thought. Then Enrico began calling: “When are you coming back?”

It took several months. I first returned to Austin, where I realized that I actually had enough credits to graduate from the University of Texas with a degree in Asian Studies and Oriental & African Languages & Literatures (double major). I didn’t need to stay in Texas, and the economy was in a slump, so there didn’t seem much point. I might as well be… somewhere on the east coast?

My next port of refuge was with family friend Donna and her teenage daughter, in the Virginia suburbs of Washington, DC. I stayed with them for several months, working temp jobs to stay afloat. I looked for the cheapest possible way to get to New Haven, and found a ride board in one of the Congressional office buildings. A Federal employee with a large car drove every weekend to his other home in New York state, to tend his garden on the Hudson River. For a share of the gas costs, he’d get me as far as NYC, where I could catch a commuter train into Connecticut.

Also riding in the car that Friday was a woman with a wild history that she was eager to share with us. She was an anthropologist who had studied the Coptic Christians in Egypt, and for years had been the mistress of the prince of all the Copts. She told us lots of interesting things. The poor, mild-mannered Federal employee shrank into the leather seat of his Lincoln, turning various shades of crimson.

“So why are you going to New York?” she finally asked me. I explained that I was going to visit a graduate student at Yale with whom I might be starting a relationship.

“Oh, you can do better than that,” she said. “Let me fix you up with a rich man.” I declined, and continued on my way to New Haven.

Some weeks after this, I landed a “permanent” job as an administrative assistant in the political department of the American Consulting Engineers Council. (Which was an instructive look into the workings of K Street, but that’s another story.) The office overlooked a green square, diagonally across from a Washington Metro stop. So, when Enrico came to visit, he took the train to Penn Station, and then the Metro to meet me at the office. I waited eagerly, looking down from our 5th-floor window, and recognized him across the square by his walk. The thought floated into my mind: “That’s the man I’m going to marry.”

And I was right, though it took him another 18 months to figure it out.