“I Knew You Must Be American…”

“….Because you’re holding a cupcake in one hand and a bag of popcorn in the other, and you’re grinning from ear to ear.” (Classically American, or just classic Trofie Wife?)

Trofie Wife spoke to more people on Monday than she has in a month, and the above gem was just one of many great outcomes of her roving afternoon adventure. But first, a little background.

Readers might have noticed from the large slew of writing posted to the blog in recent days, that Trofie Wife spent little time out of the house last week, apart from the Thanksgiving movie. In addition to putting pen to paper, as it were, the weekend was a dull and dreary one, and with a midweek deadline looming, Martello wanted to spend sabato (Saturday) and domenica (Sunday) getting in some extra (laptop) screen and snooze time; our big weekend highlights were a trip to the Voltri grocery store and our sublime concoction of rimasugli (leftovers)—it’s amazing how good a (slightly burnt) amalgam of jarred peppers, tomatoes, sundried tomato paste, sweetened (we’re not sure why) zucchini, tuna (but not the yucky, wet kind that Trofie Wife abhors) tastes over extra-long fusili! (Martello would like to add that despite the pouring rain Saturday night, he actually did suggest doing something that evening but Trofie Wife demurred. Trofie Wife would like to note that she wanted to go into Genoa on Sunday afternoon, but Martello was less enthusiastic.)

So, given the casa fever to which Trofie Wife was likely about to fall victim (how do you say “red rum” in Italian?), on Monday, she finally made it as far as the Genoa Brignole station to attend the Natale (Christmas) bazaar hosted by the friendly ex-pat group that she has been scoping out since September. Not yet certain that I wanted to make the financial commitment of membership, I wanted to be sure to attend at least one event before sealing the deal, and the one involving shopping that was open to the public seemed like just the ticket. Trofie Wife was thrilled to meet the ex-pat woman with whom she had e-mailed and spoken to (on the payphone advertising the funeral home) during her first visit to Arenzano and to be introduced to many other English speakers (and more than one or two New Yorkers, including the club doyenne, who made a sneering comment about another peer originating from “lowly” Philadelphia—a lady after my own heart!).

 The club seems more akin to the Junior (but certainly not “Jew”-nior) League than anything else. The women (some of whom, I was pleasantly surprised to learn, work) socialize and raise funds for local charities benefiting women and children in need (certainly a plus). The bazaar raises funds for the local international school in addition to the charities the group supports. Most of the available items were gently used toys, clothes, and books (three of which may have ended up on Trofie Wife’s bookshelf…I just can’t help myself!!), but there were also delectable delights. In addition to the cupcakes (rumored to have been made by someone with a connection to the actual Magnolia Bakery! In Genoa! I must find her!!!), there was an entire table filled with processed American staples—canned cranberries and pumpkin (likely left over from the group’s Thanksgiving event), marshmallows, sundry baking supplies and mixes (I resisted), and Jif peanut butter (Martello actually enjoys the sugar-free peanut butter he found in the Voltri grocery store. I wasn’t so much missing peanut butter, and when I tried a scoop from the jar, decided it was definitely something I could forgo for the year. With that vow in mind, I passed on the Jif).  As I scanned the table I realized how easily our cupboards have adapted to the Italian offerings. While it would, of course, at times be easier if we had all the usual ingredients at hand, such convenience would stifle the culinary creativity that has captured us in recent weeks.

Everyone that I was introduced to at the bazaar was lovely and invited me to partake in their regular tea-fueled card and Scrabble games. While the thought of entering the drawing rooms of these welcoming 40-somethings is appealing on one hand, in many ways it only further served to illustrate Trofie Wife’s peculiar position. One particularly wise member gave me a concise overview of the Genoa expat community that served to confirm the general weirdness of us being here, especially at this (still quite youthful!) stage of our lives. Unlike some of Europe’s more cosmopolitan (globalized?) metropolises, Genoa tends to be exactly the opposite of a constantly-in-flux, itinerant city that attracts young and energetic expats. It sounds as though aside from Martello and his colleagues, few people pass through here for short stretches of time. In fact, the only person I encountered at this event who had been in Genoa for less than five years, arrived from the UK “a mere” 18 months ago. In other words, they’re lifers. Apparently, with the cruising industry so big in this port town, many couples meet aboard while working or traveling. Given their long-term position as wives of Italians, these women are able to work while others are either forced—or content, especially while raising children—to stay at home with their Scrabble boards. Most of the husbands are either import/exporters or engineers involved in some aspect of the shipping business (plus a few architects).

I was also relieved to learn during this tutorial that my hesitancy towards teaching my native tongue is well-founded; it’s not considered a plum employment opportunity, especially for someone with a graduate degree (plus, my interest in teaching faded when my Cabbage Patch kids—ever the attentive students— received their diplomas).  This state of affairs is in line with Italy’s trend of having one of the lowest rates of women (especially mothers) in the workforce. Indeed, aside from the cupcake, the highlight of the event was the opportunity to conduct some networking regarding nonprofit-related volunteer opportunities in the community (in addition to my high hopes for the canile, from which I’m still anxiously awaiting a ring!). Even so, as with most things in Italy, while there is an increasing hunger (especially amongst youth) to connect with community-based organizations, ridiculous bureaucratic restrictions impinge upon their rapid actions (and the kids only have so much patience before they decide to move on). So, we’ll see if any related projects pan out. Nevertheless, I left the event with a good feeling about the group, and determined that membership would be worth its weight in euros— even if productive contributions to the world would have to be sought elsewhere.

Before heading back to the train station, I wandered through the nearby market, which mostly sold the same mix of food, schlock, and crafts that the Arenzano and Voltri markets feature. Upon my arrival home, Martello seemed pleased that I was buzzing about my encounters and had more to share than the usual events of making a mistake at the grocery store or post office. BF would be proud.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Adventures in Domestication

So as a few of you are aware, in preparation for her newfound role of un (or at least hopefully “under”) employed housewife (and because I found a great copy on the 50 cent cart at Housing Works Bookstore Cafe and hadn’t yet had the time to crack it), Trofie Wife began reading Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique en route home from her first trip to Arenzano, and I’m now about 100 pages from the end. And here’s the point in my commentary where I hope a certain close friend (or maybe more than one, plus some relatives) of mine doesn’t hate me: While I thank BF for opening the floodgates that helped to liberate middle-class women from the drudgery of their lives, I have to say, that she needed an editor. What repetition! And excessive block quoting; my undergraduate professors never would have allowed for such laziness! But I digress. BF rephrases Parkinson’s Law which postulates that “work expands to fill the time available,” stating that “housewifery expands to fill the time available” (p. 240). This state of affairs is bad because women could be exerting their energies in more positive ways that lead to their own liberation and the betterment of society. While this is certainly true, I have to add that if women were forced, such as Trofie Wife now is, to perform housework in cultures, languages, and wattages different from their own, it would tax the brain quite a bit more! (Perhaps in the next printing, BF’s estate would consider including this addendum…)

On Wednesday, I attempted to do the laundry for the first time (Martello was so kind as to give me plenty to work with, having taken over in his luggage a full bag of dirty clothing). Now having a washing machine inside the apartment is a huge step up for Trofie Wife, who spent the last five years trudging to the local Laundromat where the Russian and/or Polish ladies always yelled at her for doing something wrong. Thus I was over the moon at the opportunity to wash my clothing in the comfort of my abode. Foreigners are warned (via a great book that Martello purchased entitled, Living, Studying, and Working in Italy: Everything You Need to Know to Live La Dolce Vita) that Italy does not have terrific electrical wiring and that no other appliances should be plugged in while the washer is in use. Due to the wattage problem, dryers are very rare in Italy, thus leading to the picturesque scenes in Italian villages countrywide of laundry hanging off the terraza. I was pretty proud of myself for figuring out the machine’s directions, which were written entirely in Italian. But boy was I in for a surprise.

I thought the cycle was over, so I opened the door and attempted to unload the laundry and prepare it for drying on the cool drying contraption. However, much to my surprise, there was still a huge puddle of water left in the machine. I removed the sopping wet clothing and whisked it away to the bathroom for eventual (hopefully before December) drying. But now what to do with the residual water? Quick thinking (take that, BF!) led me to hunt for the soup ladle and a bucket. As you can see from the illustration, I ladled out the remaining water into a bucket and then dumped it in the sink. I ran a second load later in the afternoon, and at this point figured out that during my earlier attempt the dial had gotten stuck at the point where the machine needed to remove that last bit of water and wring out the clothing. This appears to be a chronic condition, so I now know to nudge the dial forward a notch so it can do its work. Now the only ladling that will be done is for soup (and future visitors, don’t fret: I thoroughly washed the ladle!)

Briefly again on the subject of drying (mentioned in an earlier post), our above-the-sink drying lines are super cool. I get to use a shepherd-like staff to pull down the lines. I doubt that the outside lines are as cool, but I do not think I will be using them until the weather returns to warm and sunny (which, as noted earlier, likely will not be for several months). I should also note that our laundry smells like my sister’s loads in Zurich, though she assures me that she has recently changed detergent brands and thus we will not run the risk of smelling identical.

On Thursday, the domestic adventures continued when the gas man came to replace our empty propane tank with a new one. This turn of events culminated in us having a working stove, pictured here along with the lighter (in red). Those of you familiar with my aversion to matches and all things literally (yet not figuratively) flaming, will be as pleased to know as I am that, thanks to this little doodad, I will not have to use matches (or, more likely, make Martello use them) to light the pilots each time we cook. Of course I’m not thrilled that I have to ignite the thing each time I get hungry, but I’m getting used to it…

With our stove and oven now working, I was eager to get to work exploring the kitchen. I’m very proud of the very first espresso that I made on the stove in our Moka. Bella!My advice to all future purchasers of fancy espresso machines is to not become one! The Moka works just as well and is a fraction of the price! All you have to do is put about a tablespoon’s worth of pre-ground espresso beans in the filter (no need for expensive whole bean gourmet coffee), put water in the base, twist, and place on the stove. Boil, and in about two minutes, you have beautiful espresso! I am super excited that we had the presence of mind to register for one of these (thanks MFB!). We will likely use it all the time when we return to the Stati Uniti, as our tastes are quickly conforming to one-plus espressos a day. So tasty! So efficient!

Our taste for gelato was of course quite developed prior to our arrival. But amazingly enough, what we’ve learned thus far is that Italy is a place where the store brand gelato actually tastes fantastico (and is easy on the wallet)! No more standing on line back home for $5 a scoop gourmet ice cream! Also on the sweet tooth front, I’m happy to report that a cupcake/muffin tin has been procured; hopefully many cupcakes will spring forth from this pan over the year.

One final note: I took a brief sojourn outside in order to snap some exterior shots of our casa. On my way out, I saw an elderly gentleman walking with braced canes on both arms. I attempted to help him with his recycling (which he was pushing with one of his canes), but he was persistent in doing it himself (well that’s at least what I seemed to have comprehended…). Quite impressive! I then wandered on to the last of the grocery stores in town. I now feel like I’ve mastered the food scene here, well except for the market, which I’m excited to visit tomorrow! The day ended with brief rolling power outages on account of high winds and stormy weather. Martello’s office went dark for 20 straight minutes; the computers had to run on backup generators!

Next up: A step outside Arenzano.

Baci e gelato,
Martello e Trofie Wife