The Twelve Days of Vacanze

Buon anno! Trofie Wife must apologize for taking such a long time to return to cyber world after what seemed like an endless holiday vacation. (Apologies are rescinded from those of you whose Gregorian and Lunar New Year’s resolutions included catching up on our blog; you’re welcome.) It is Trofie Wife’s hope over the next several (ok, many) entries to illustrate our wanderings from the dusk of 2008 to the dawn of 2009—a journey that wound through newly-discovered (well, just by us) parts of Italy as well as well-warn chocolate paths and fresh (yet extended) design paths in Switzerland and (for a couple of hours) Germany. But Trofie Wife will heed the advice of dear Alpine Governess Maria and seek “a very good place to start”— the beginning, of course. That takes us back to where we last left off—Christmas Day— just several hours after we bid arrivederci to those lovely nativity donkeys astride the duomo. …

Now apparently much of the world’s population can’t wait to leap from their beds on Christmas morning and rush to the foot of their trees to inspect Santa’s offerings. Trofie Wife, however, took “bah humbug” to a new level this December 25th, practically pitching a fit at the thought of emerging from bed and flinging herself on an early morning train to Milan (not that the company—il cugino en route to the airport along with dear Martello—wouldn’t have been delightful). See, the hotel at our first vacation stop—the much-lauded Lakes region—had been kind enough to inform us that they would be closed until 5 p.m., so it didn’t make sense to Trofie Wife to arrive in a new Italian city on Christmas Day prior to that time, laden with luggage filled with nearly two weeks of garments and reading material (as well as gifts for Swiss munchkins). We would likely encounter increasingly growling stomachs as everything, I argued, would be closed SINCE WE WERE IN ITALY— not quaint New York of ye Chinese restaurants and movie theaters—ON CHRISTMAS DAY.  My whining eventually wore down a more-chipper-than-usual-on-a-day-when-he-could-have-very-easily-slept-in Martello, so he accompanied il cugino to the train station, then returned to the apartment for a warm, mid-winter morning nap and some last-minute trip planning.

If you thought our nuptials lacked advance planning, our vacation proved an exercise in an even more aggressive form of vaguely outlined (on the back of a napkin) spontaneity. We knew that the centerpiece would be a visit to our family in Zurich, but other than that, it was a blank (well, except for the knowledge that it would include several design-related pilgrimages). Back in November, we had day dreamed about relaxing in the thermal baths in Vals, Switzerland, but all the Vals hotels were booked by the time we got around to booking/deciphering the German Web sites. So, in a pinch, Martello honed in on the lovely Lake Como, which was conveniently en route to Svizerra. Trofie Wife typed “Lake Como” and “hotel” into the search bar, and the first thing that popped up was a tour itinerary for a British group set to stay at a lakeside hotel. It appeared to be a classy gathering, and their presence hinted at the presence of our native tongue, so Trofie Wife jumped on it without wasting time researching other options.

In true form, we narrowly missed the first of our three trains (this was likely due to a certain wife’s insistence on validating the tickets) and spent the better part of the late (and increasingly chilly) afternoon awaiting the next train to Genoa. But we (and our bulky luggage) eventually made all the connections, landing in the Como station at around 8:30 p.m. Of course, the hotel ended up being nowhere near Como (the city) proper. Oops. We took a super long and super expensive taxi ride to the hotel. But thankfully, despite its faraway location in sleepy Mezzegra, it appeared lovely at first glance, and we were greeted heartily—they even kept the kitchen open so we could enjoy a proper Christmas dinner. The Brits were there as advertised— a loud group of mostly female retirees looking for a good time, which they incidentally found in the lounge, with the synthesizer and off-key singer of such classic Italian holiday tunes as “Dancing Queen” and “I Will Survive.” We dined on a combination of assorted holiday treats, perhaps the oddest being what appeared to be salmon gefilte fish with a cod sushi roll nestled inside it—the capon “kreplach” in chicken soup broth and turkey roll were tied for second in the weird department.  Pooped, yet hoping to discover the beautiful lake and surrounding towns on December 26^th, Saint Stefano’s Day (or Boxing Day, to you Anglo Saxons), we ordered our panettone to go and called it a night. We would awaken the next morning to this lovely view. (Note: the adorable golden retriever who lives in that villa went back inside before I could grab my camera, but just imagine him there, faithfully awaiting the return of his master, a spandex-clad cyclist.)

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Auguri (aka Merry/Best Wishes for the Holiday)

Last night, Trofie Wife officially became a dues-paying member of the expat club while attending their Christmas gathering. She got incredibly lost trying to find the venue, and nearly turned around after spotting both the funeral home and hospital on the creepy street seemingly leading to nowhere, but luckily spotted the hotel before turning back. (One bonus to getting lost: locating the Genoa Grom gelato shop, conveniently near the Brignole train station! I resisted temptation…)

Trofie Wife met additional expats and Italian wives of expats and continued to be charmed by their welcoming demeanor. I have to say that Martello and I come across as rather boring, two Americans married to each other as opposed to the exotic combinations that they’ve all managed. Many of the husbands were in attendance (Martello was still in the office), and it’s funny to pair up these dashing, older Italian men with the statuesque and chipper American women (many from the Heartland) that they met decades ago; some just seem oddly mismatched, the men far more glamorous than the women in a few cases. Despite our lack of intrigue (well, the Judaism that some have uncovered or deduced intrigues some), people do, however, enjoy talking about New York (especially the Italians, who all seem to adore it). Trofie Wife had her debutante moment when she received, in front of the assembled crowd, a white rose for becoming a new member. The one advantage to this bizarre ritual is that I was introduced, along with another young woman, as the two new members bringing down the group’s average age. Turns out that the fellow giovane (young woman) is a Texan who came here as an au pair and fell in love.…Although she resides in Mom World and is quite occupied with her toddler, we had a great, loud conversation (it’s that great New York–Texas chemistry, right LCH?), and Trofie Wife looks forward to paling around at future events. Interestingly, Trofie Wife seems to have the most in common with the Brit (who could probably be my mother) whose kids are all grown and off in the UK, leaving her to figure out her meaning here (I’m not sure if she left behind a job, but I suspect so).

Fellow Arenzanoans offered me a lift home, which was welcome instead of having to find my way back to the train. An Italian husband drove three Americans and a saucy Aussie, and the conversation turned morose (due to my mention of getting lost near the funeral home, which it turns out is not a funeral home in the American sense; apparently they don’t have them here; bodies wait for burial either at home or in the hospital) to funeral rituals in Italy, while driving on a slippery road…

I’m glad that I joined the group, but I also don’t foresee spending oodles of time with these women outside of official events. While age is just a number, I have to admit that they, for the most part, just simply are not my peers (especially when they talk about their kids who are either my contemporaries or slightly older!). Nevertheless, a little non-electronic chatting every so often is probably good for Trofie Wife. However, she is looking much more forward to the local party (several blocks away) at Martello’s co-worker’s house this weekend where attendees will be either our age or slightly younger/older.  I will try my best not to fall asleep.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

 

Madonna’s Immaculate Conception (As Opposed to Madonna’s “Immaculate Collection”)

Given our religious upbringings, Martello and Trofie Wife are not well versed in all matter of Catholic practice and dogma. So when we learned that Monday, December 8 was the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, we scratched our heads and remained befuddled but thankful for any holiday that creates a three-day weekend with Monday off. (While we thought that the holiday referred to the immaculate conception of Jesus (which would be kind of quick given the 12/25 birthday), it actually refers to his mother’s “pure” conception, which, although undertaken by her parents au natural, rendered her free from the original sin with which everyone else supposedly is born. Jesus’s conception is apparently “virginal,” not “immaculate.” Thank you, Wikipedia!) We had originally considered taking another three- or five- hour train ride somewhere (just like Trofie Wife’s sister in Zurich was seven whenever she traveled somewhere in Europe, any train trip that Trofie Wife takes in Europe is three or five hours away—sorry for the bit of insidery family lore for those unfamiliar with the story). But yet again, the computer screen called to Martello, so we decided to stay put and explore our Genoese home base.

Well, we didn’t make it outside on Saturday (well, Martello did make it to the grocery store to pick up what was supposed to be just eggs (for the molten chocolate cake mix) and steel wool; he returned nearly two hours later with two full bags; he just really likes supermarkets (as do I). We then vowed to spend Sunday in a more exploratory mode.

And explore we did! Although we hit the snooze one too many times and missed the train that would take us to the old Casella railway (a very old scenic trackway leading to walking paths on the outskirts of Genoa, northeast of our home in Arenzano), we did make it to a branch of the Parco Beigua, a beautiful protected regional park (kind of like a state park), in our usual, roundabout manner. Trofie Wife found Googlemap directions to the park administrative center, which we figured would be at the head of the park. We still don’t really know street names here, other than our own (we find our way by visual aids—lamppost, staircase, bakery), but from the map we saw that the offices were over the train tracks and across the highway. Martello thought they were on one side of the tracks and on the side of one highway; Trofie Wife thought they were on the opposite two sides but since Martello usually has the better sense of direction, followed him (getting winded along the way) up a steep incline of steps (there are many in this town) to what we thought would lead to the park, but only left us across the street from the local hospital (and somewhere near the legendary canile—the organizers still haven’t called…). So, we decided to throw in the towel and just take the train into Genoa to hopefully catch a museum and dinner. But while approaching the tracks, we found a street sign that corresponded to the Googlemap directions. To hurry this story along, we ended up circling Arenzano to find this park. While we managed to locate the administrative offices, they did not, in fact, lead to the park, but luckily, we eventually found a sign that indicated that some sort of aviary outlook was “up ahead.” “Up ahead” turned into a two-mile or so hike up the steep incline that was the auto road to the park, not the hiking trail proper. Since Trofie Wife doesn’t regularly Mousercize (or perform any traditional exercise other than taking long walks), she strained the top portion of both legs in the process of getting her relatively stumpy limbs to more or less keep apace with Martello’s long strides. But no pain, no gain, right? And what a view from the top, which we proudly display below.

We hiked back down the actual marked trails to the famed Bambini church behind our house (that's its belltower in the above photo). So, we essentially followed in the footsteps of famed Genoese Christopher Columbus, accidentally circumnavigating (or in his case, attempting to) to find that what we were looking for was just straight ahead. We plan to return to the park in coming weekends for the fresh air and exercise.  But next time, we’ll avoid the hike before the hike!

Soreness aside, we managed to make it into Genoa for dinner and a glimpse of the Christmas tree in Piazza Ferrari (think the Rockefeller Center Tree as a fetus, see picture below). 

We spent the actual holiday in another sleep- and design software-induced fog, but made it out just before sunset to wander through the local park and see what we thought were decorations (a mistranslation of the flier—it was a craft fair). This weekend must be Italy’s equivalent of “Black Friday” in terms of it being the official kick-off for holiday decorations and shopping in all the small towns (turns out we missed the local tree lighting on Saturday night). We hope to take in some more (adopted) holiday cheer in the coming weeks in our adopted home.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Stop Light (or Lack Thereof) Ruminations

Trofie Wife admits that she was still dozing at 9:35 a.m. when she received a much-awaited call from the canile (dog kennel!) organizer, who said that she will hopefully be able to arrange for me to visit the kennel (and hopefully begin volunteering) by the end of the month. Trofie Wife is a bit concerned about her credentials vis-à-vis this post, since the caller asked a few times as to whether or not I had ever owned a dog, perhaps a requirement for working with the pooches (if this doesn’t work out, it’s just one more dog (or lack thereof) -related life trauma that can be attributed to my mother…). 

Much like back home, the Christmas season is upon us, except in Italy there is no Thanksgiving to stem the Ho! Ho! holiday tides for a few weeks (and I doubt this Friday will be Black, though I doubt Black Friday in the US will look like much this year…). Decorations have begun to sprout up around Arenzano, and the supermarket’s exciting Christmas coupons have made their premiere! (I used to excitedly clip coupons in my first Brooklyn apartment until the Steve’s C-Town circulars mysteriously stopped appearing on our stoop, so it was quite a joy to pour through the discounts yet again!)

On my way to the grocery store, I came across the sad event of a funeral at the (non-pilgrim attracting) church. Incidentally, I noticed that on the telephone booth adjacent to the church, there is an ad for the town’s major funeral home. Now this phone booth just happens to be located not only near the church, but across the street from what I believe to be the most dangerous intersection in town (and if there’s a worse one, I don’t want to find it) — it’s blind in both directions (due to a hill on one side and a curve on the other) and there is no light or stop sign (actually, I don’t think “Stop” signs exist in Italy—just lights on major boulevards). A curious discovery, this sign. Since I can’t understand the Italian, the copy might very well read: “Hit an unlucky pedestrian? We do pick-ups! Just, please, no calls between 12:30 and 3:30 p.m.” (Apologies if the lunch jokes are getting old, but as a dedicated eat-at-my-desker, I just can’t get over this way of life!)

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife