Arenzano Day

Like every good Italian village, Arenzano has a patron saint and therefore saint day. It’s not enough to just celebrate the regional patron saint (in our case, San Giovanni/St. John the Baptist)—you need a parish one too; it’s good to diversify. Arenzano’s parish church is named after a saintly duo, the martyrs Nazario (according to Wikipedia his father was possibly Jewish!) e Celso. The story is a little bizarre and may even appear to be a bit scandalous (especially to those of us always looking to read a little more into things). In summation, Nazario left Rome to preach in Milan and along the way, at the behest of a mother seeking religious guidance for her son, became a guardian of the then nine-year-old Celso. They proselytized on the Swiss and Italian sides of the Alps, alternately preaching and then being tortured for their beliefs, always together. They were finally beheaded around 400 C.E.  Most depictions of them show a man and faithful boy by his side. Make of it what you will.

Statues of Nazario e Celso

Cross being paraded through streets

Parish church lit up and surrounded by crowds

As with most saint’s days, it’s a good occasion for a party. The streets of Arenzano are overtaken by street vendors and the tiny via e vicoli are mobbed by revelers young and old and are nearly impassable. Unfortunately, with the exception of the religious procession after the sun set that evening (July 28), there was nothing very local about this festival. Arenzano Day provides yet another example of something Trofie Wife has decided to term “the globalization of crap.” As they do for the other festivals here and around the region (and in some cases, other parts of the country) the same vendors return with the same cheaply made toys from China, knockoff handbags and sunglasses, and dolce da Sicilia (seemingly-from-the-freezer canoli, stale marzipan fruits, and over-roasted nuts). There’s even a group of South Americans playing wooden pipes and flutes, accompanied by a background CD that you can purchase (it makes Trofie Wife feel like she’s at the 42^nd Street subway station; I don’t have anything against South American music, but there’s something about that ubiquitous CD and flute combo that doesn’t really smack of genuine musical talent, especially when they’re not in sync, which is so often the case). The New York-based Center for an Urban Future conducted a study a couple of years ago about the generic, non-place-based nature of street fairs in New York City (MozzArepas, the sock and underware bins, the live cleaning product and salad chopper demonstrations, etc.; if you’re interested, see http://www.nycfuture.org/content/articles/article_view.cfm?article_id=1167) and it’s quite sad that the same study could be applied to Italian street fairs. Trofie Wife feels deeply embarrassed whenever she sees evidence of this non-particularism sneaking in because she knows that American culture is to blame. Ah, the shame. You know how far American commercial practices have reached? Even street fairs in Arenzano and Genova boast the live cleaning product and salad chopper demonstrations! Complete with headsets! And people crowd around to watch the guy speak really fast. It’s awful!

Well, enough gloom and doom. On the upside, there were fireworks (good import; being that it was July (albeit the end of the month) and I also managed to score a cotton candy, it felt a little bit like the Fourth of July, which we didn’t celebrate properly here). Our landlady avoids the fireworks because they remind her of the bombing during World War II; there were, however, plenty of her contemporaries watching the show, so I guess they’ve had better success working through their post-traumatic stress disorder. Sadly, Martello was stuck at the office, pumping out drawings. At least Trofie Wife could enjoy her favorite raining gold fireworks (see picture below), even if she had to do it alone.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Non(na) e Nonno di Wayland

So, in one of the stranger twists of irony (or just scheduling), while Martello e Trofie Wife were in Boston, le non(na); (“non” usually means “not” in Italian or “no” in French, but our aim here is to appropriately abbreviate “grandma”) e nonno di Wayland (that’s near Boston) were actually in Europe, en route to Italy! Thankfully, they were able to rearrange their plans so that we could meet in Arenzano after we were fully recovered from our transatlantic crossings.

In our short visit, we were able to enjoy a lovely outdoor lunch of pizza e birra, una passeggiata around town while Martello worked (poor Martello), and a delicious cena di pesce by the seaside. Non(na) e Nonno di Wayland were troupers climbing up and down the Arenzano coastline’s often unforgiving trails. Of course a visit to Arenzano wouldn’t be complete without stopping by one of our favorite gelateria. Non(na) e nonno di Wayland were hip to local trends in gelato intake, with Nonno di Wayland opting for the always sublime pistachio e fondente (dark chocolate!) and Non(na) di Wayland enjoying a refreshing lemon granite, a frozen delight that Martello often enjoys during the hottest summer days (it must be genetic!).

We can blame forgetting to bring a camera along on the jet lag, but we think that our guests at least managed to snap a photo or two. All in all, it was as sweet as a short visit could be, and we’re so glad that we were able to make it happen.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Flashback

It’s hard to believe that it was just one year ago today (or yesterday or tomorrow; rough estimate here) when Martello e (almost) Trofie Wife first set foot in Arenzano—only 48 hours or so after mailing their wedding invitations from the all-night post office near Madison Square Garden. After surviving two flights and emerging from the airport with lots of baggage (and this was only for the trial run!) we were whisked away by car and driver to our first apartment here—the loud, buggy studio just above the marina, which if we had ultimately selected it, would have made accepting visitors quite difficult (Murphy bunk beds) and probably would have driven Trofie Wife crazy, given the comparatively small space. (Actually, the flat’s finest feature was its (foam-stuffed) couch, a rare furniture item around these parts.)

As Trofie Wife marvels at the huge, early September waves, I think back to all that has happened since that first awkward week and remember some of my first battles: hunting down a reliable Internet connection (still a struggle) and my first grocery store trip, which nearly resulted in my squashing, since I had not yet discovered the pedestrian walkway (nor the shortcut leading to the goat pen, for that matter) nor figured out that I was walking along a major thoroughfare linking town to highway. It was during that first week, also while overlooking the beach, that I first had the inspiration for this blog and its title.

The sights along the coast are familiar now yet still foreign in so many ways. Year Two (if you haven’t yet heard, we’re staying!) gives us a second chance at this adventure, which we hope will prove to be less helter-skelter. Our first year here was broken up in many ways, notably by our impending wedding just a month after our arrival. (I left after that first September week, and Martello stayed until a week before the wedding. We returned together at the end of October.) The last 11 months have been dually devoted to adjusting to being in the same ZIP code for more than a couple of days at a time along with dealing with the many challenges of living abroad. Now that Martello and I know how to function in the same space (more or less), we can focus on taking in more of the language and culture of this great country (we’re doing quite well in the “taking in the food” department). Martello continues to work on an exciting project in an idyllic atmosphere while Trofie Wife tries her best to not get sucked into her computer while relishing being busy and constantly seeking new opportunities and adventures to pile on my plate (apparently our acquaintances here still don’t get the whole telecommuting thing and believe that I must be deathly bored…).

We’ve spent the summer far from bored, which is why you haven’t heard much from us. July and August were quite the party, so over the next group of posts, we will recount where we’ve been and what we’ve seen. Beginning with hosting our first apartment party!

As June crept into July, several departures (mostly of the semester’s interns) were nearing for Martello’s colleagues. Parties were hosted by and for those leaving, and we wanted to make sure that we debuted on the social scene prior to the departure of several of our new pals. About a week before the impending gathering, Martello e Trofie Wife had just whipped up an herby spinach lasagna, their first Garfield-approved pasta dish. Perhaps it was the mixture of rosemary and wine which lead Martello to ask (aloud), “I wonder if anyone’s ever made chocolate lasagna... .” With that bit of inspiration, Trofie Wife was off and Googling, adapting American recipes to fit with the ingredients on offer here. And before we knew it, Martello had invited over a dozen-plus people to taste this experiment (accompanied by Trofie Wife’s bagels, baguettes, and assorted other delicacies, including those contributed by our guests). We were amazed that the recipe (mostly) worked and that everyone seemed to enjoy our hospitality (well, that part wasn’t so surprising…). Perhaps one of the funniest moments of the evening came early on when a German guest noted how he thought he was entering a German (instead of an Italian) apartment when he saw our two last names posted on the buzzer. That lead to a discussion of the fact that we each had our own surname and our surprising discovery that in Italy (often considered a most conservative country), women do not change their last names when they marry (another point proving Trofie Wife’s latent Italian heritage).

Trofie Wife should add that Martello insisted on hosting this affair the night before we flew to the United States for an even bigger party. The last guest left after 12 a.m., we cleaned until 1 or 2, and then the cab arrived at 5:15 for our 7 a.m. flight… . Needless to say, Martello is (still) trying to make Trofie Wife more flexible; it’s starting to work…a bit.

Speaking of partying, the Italian government is concerned that a bit too much of it is going on for the local raggazi, so they’re (supposedly) starting to enforce the drinking age, which is 16. See here, http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1913176,00.html. This is a sad commentary for several reasons, most notably that it’s only recently that Italians have taken up binge-style drinking, which several reports have tried to blame on the exposure to British (note that’s British, not American, woo hoo!) drinking culture encountered while studying abroad and during other cultural exchanges. Trofie Wife still wants to believe that the liberal Mediterranean approach to teens and alcohol is favorable to that of the American “forbidden fruit” tack, which, bottle for bottle, has led to more alcohol abuse over the years.

Well, that’s all our commentary for now. Tales of more feste will continue a dopo.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife. 

God Loves Acoustic Guitar

So as Trofie Wife has observed on this blog, there are quite a few Catholic holidays which call for parades and processions. Little did I know that yet another one— Corpus Domini or Corpo e Sangue di Cristo— was on its way until I saw a sign affixed to the main building door, reminding everyone to light and ornament their balconies out of respect per “Signore.” Now, you know that Trofie Wife and Martello have been happy to follow alongside these parades out of curiosity, but we have to stay within our comfort zone. And on this one, I knew where the line was, especially after doing a little research and finding out that this whole event revolved around parading the Eucharist bread (believed by believers to be the manifestation of Jesus’s body) under a canopy around town en route to the cathedral. This was clearly a religious event, and we just weren’t going to actively take part.

Inevitably, Mrs. Furley, our ever-present landlady, was on the case. I knew when our doorbell rang at 7 p.m., 24 hours prior to the event and then three times the following late morning and afternoon (finally followed up with a phone call), that she was fretting about the light display. And of course she was. She invited herself over to discuss the matter, explaining that we should put a small light or blanket on the balcony. I explained something along the lines of “per ebrei, Cristo non dio" (for Jews like us, Jesus isn’t God) and that for us to participate, would be a tacit acceptance of such, and that we weren’t comfortable with that. Either her comprehension wasn’t quite there, or she felt the need to proselytize, since her comeback was, “Well, you can put up a small light. The other American who lived here before you did.” Trofie Wife explained that she wasn’t familiar with the prior tenant’s religious beliefs, but was certain that this whole light thing wasn’t working for her and Martello. Mrs. Furley believed that Martello would feel differently about the matter (oh, if she only knew!) before returning to a prior conversation we had had regarding her own religious practices (she’s not really sure what she believes, but she goes along with it all the same, dozing in church all the while, something of which il padre is aware, as he has commented that "everyone knows you are somewhere else”). The encounter ended with our dear neighbor calling me a good Jew, I think, and allowing me to leave her apartment (we had migrated over there so she could pawn off some lights and show me her own display); I’m still not sure whether or not I'm offended.

When the procession actually started, it was fun to watch. Many (but not all, and I’m pretty sure that we aren’t surrounded by a colony of crypto-Jews here) of the windows were decked out like so:

No one appeared to be in a rush to carry me into eternal damnation for not adorning our balcony.

Corpus Domini is actually a ritual of Italian origin (Firenze (Florence) had an especially renowned celebration), which always takes place 60 days after Easter; it later spread throughout Europe. In Arenzano, the event takes on special meaning, as all the children that have had their First Communion that spring march at the head of the parade. This year, they held a special mass and had the procession headed by the local twins who were both ordained as priests recently (their mother must be kvelling, unless of course these are her only kids and she really wanted to be a nonna…). I knew that the new priests were around our age and had been having trouble getting my head around why someone would make such a self-sacrificing (on many levels) choice; but I guess you just have to hear the calling to fully understand.

As the group rounded my corner, a trio of acoustic guitars broke out in song—I swear the opening chords reminded me of stuff from the NFTY repertoire. The group wound its way down the street and then back up to the Bambini church, where more acoustic guitar was heard, followed by a brief wrap-up inside the church (despite my principled stand, I can still pop in and spy). The faithful were on their knees for most of the ten- to fifteen-minute ritual; I was the standing Jew in the corner. I think they removed the Eucharist from the special box in which it was being held, showed it to everyone on all sides of the church, almost like a magician does prior to carrying out an illusion, and relocked it in a special Eucharist safe. The event ended with more acoustic guitar. Which brings Trofie Wife to her thesis statement: God just really loves acoustic guitar. Doesn’t matter the religion, doesn’t matter what you’re asking for. Just throw together some chords and strum, and God is happy (double points for three-part harmonies).

[Can you spot the guitar strap??]

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Pasqua e Pasquetta

With the seders now over and a long Easter weekend ahead of us, Trofie Wife returned to exploring Italian culture. Being in Italy for yet another sacred Catholic holiday made Trofie Wife want to see some more examples of traditions that she would not soon view again. After some Googling and snooping around the cathedral provided no information about any impending passion plays or Stations of the Cross, Trofie Wife resigned herself to missing out on any unique religious displays; perhaps she'd make it to Rome for that sort of event at some point. And then the phone rang. It was Martello. He had missed the bus, and in the midst of walking home from the office, he ran into legions of parading Arezanans.




Turns out, they were reenacting the Via Crucis (Way of the Cross) at around 9:00 p.m. or so in the evening (I had thought it occurred during the day but perhaps the event corresponds to the hour of Jesus's death?). The camera and I swiftly met him just in time to document the procession. It was a very poignant display of devotion, with hundreds of people holding candles or just walking in silence and then singing after each station (as directed by the priest via megaphone). The town band played and various crosses and statues of the passion and its aftermath were carried by men with holsters (though I have to ask why so many elderly men were lugging things; couldn't they find any hulky youngsters to volunteer, or maybe it's an honor for a church elder...).




Our neighbors walked along the sea then up the hill and back to the local parish church, S.S. Nazario E Celso, which dates from the 18th century (I had previously only known it as the church on the way to the train station...); plenty of our fellow heathens walked parallel to the route, observing as we strolled. Just as the procession made its way back to the church, the skies opened and it began to pour. They quickly brought in the assorted crosses and statues, and everyone ran inside for cover; Martello and I followed them in order to get a glimpse of the magnificent baroque cathedral.




We saw a flier hanging in the cathedral announcing that all Italian churches would be collecting funds for the L'Aquila earthquake relief this coming weekend. (Note: Abruzzo is about 400 miles south and east of Liguria; we haven't seen or heard much about the earthquake locally aside from this solicitation. Of course, the major national media outlets are following the story closely; on Wednesday night our favorite news program, Exit, discussed the astronomical cost of rebuilding. This time around, Italy needs to take a cue from San Francisco and Japan on how to properly construct earthquake-ready modern buildings.)

As we were leaving the procession, Martello asked why Passover was called Pasqua Ebraica (Jewish Easter), since the two holidays, he said, have very little in common. Trofie Wife countered (thinking at the time that it would make a great academic paper) that beyond the seasonal overlap (and the similarities between Lent and giving up leavened products), there's a case to be made that both holidays center around dramatic historical reenactments of the central moment in each religion's history (the Crucifixion and the Exodus). Martello countered that the revelation at Sinai was the crucial historic moment in Judaism, yet I replied that Sinai was impossible without the Exodus (chicken/egg much?).

Aside from getting our much-awaited gas tank, not much happened on Saturday (aside from sleeping and catching up online). Trofie Wife expected Easter Sunday to be pretty dead, given everyone being off at church or eating with their families. Surprisingly (yet not to Martello, who had suspected it all along), things were open in Genoa. We finally made it to an exhibit at Palazzo Ducale, which Martello had been hoping to check out for a while (it was lackluster) and enjoyed our wanderings through the farmers market (again I ask, on Easter? in Italy????) and our gelato senza coni. We sat by the Porto Antico for a while and noted a sushi joint and microbrewery that we agreed to return to post Pesach. We returned home to make, by hand, chestnut flour gnocchi. It was quite the production, but the dish actually tasted quite good, especially due to chief saucier Martello's valiant efforts with the frying pan. We look forward to making gnocchi with real flour soon!


Pasquetta (or little Easter) is Easter Monday. It's a fantastic holiday, its sole purpose being outdoor picnics (Jesus rises, brings 80 degree weather?). We walked on the path from Arenzano to neighboring Cogoleto and enjoyed the sun in each spot, although we were overdressed for the beach and envious of all the folks in their shorts and bathing suits. Martello even spotted a small family of Hasidic Jews (probably down from Milan for the day and even warmer than we were, given their black trousers) who were also enjoying their Pasquetta. Sadly, the weather hasn't held up and any hopes for a return to the beach this weekend are slim.

Well, that brings us up to date with the wanderings of Martello e Trofie Wife. We are hoping for some fun, local adventures in the next few weeks with the arrival of the Slow Fish Festival and some visitors from near and far. Stay tuned!

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

How Cheap Plastic Saved Pesach

Let Trofie Wife first start by saying that I don't invite strange events into our lives just so we'll have something to write about; they just happen. With this in mind, I now bring you the tale of Passover in Arenzano, 5769...

The day began easily enough with Martello and I attempting to say the Birkat Hachama (Blessing of the Sun) as that superstar hid behind the clouds and Martello ran out the door to make the bus. I made another attempt (this time with feeling) on the balcony after he left, though I did struggle with the whole logic of the act (I was reading a book on string theory at the time; it's hard to transcend astronomy and cosmology with rabbinic "calculations," but I'm sure the large outdoor gatherings of people reciting the prayer together and then noshing on bagels were very nice. I also wonder if there's a special prize for actually being 28 when something that only happens every 28 years occurs; if so, please send two to our apartment in Arenzano, grazie).

I headed to the grocery store (saying "ciao" along the way to the goats and one of the neighborhood peacocks who was making a run for it out of the park and heading towards centro) for the final few items that would complete our seder plate. I read online that vegetarians substitute a roasted beet for the shank bone (there are a number of reasons as to why, some relating to an obscure Talmudic tract, others to Holocaust lore), so we went with that. Martello was desperate for me to find some horseradish (there was no Gold's in Milano). I had no luck, but grabbed the closest thing, an entire carton of bitter radishes (which, according to the producing town's Web site, are quite nutritious!).

Bitter radishes

I have to say that composing your own seder plate certainly makes one feel like a real adult. Especially the part where you have to woman up and roast an egg (mine turned out especially deformed as I pretty much threw it into the boiling water, none too pleased that I was going to have to handle and then stare at a smelly, hard-boiled and then roasted egg for two days).

Make-shift seder plate: note haroset out of a jar to the left (way too sweet), roasted beet in foil, roasted egg with concealed oozed yoke (due to cracking), and bitter radishes

Weird French matzah resembling a doily. The orange and wine flavor was good, especially when toasted.

So, my roasting progressed with the afternoon, moving from beets, to an egg, to potatoes. I noted that it was a little strange that the oven flame was flickering, but I was able to turn it back up, so I thought little of it.

After successfully having purchased fresh fish from the market, I was excited to make my first ever packet meal, a delightful fish wrap with a potato base topped with chunks of cod, lemons, olives, garlic, and parsley. We didn't have any kitchen string, so I substituted unwaxed dental floss; I'm sure my ultra-hip dentist would be proud to see her freebies being used in this manner. Dessert was going to be a Lidia Bastianich flourless mini-cake recipe clipped from New York magazine; she used almond flour, but I planned to swap it for chestnut flour (which is a Piedmontese speciality).

Fish and floss.

Wrapped fish packet

With the fish packets made, the dessert ingredients all lined up, and Martello 30 minutes away from departure, I turned on the gas and tried to light the burner, but it was a no go. I tried several more times, from every possible angle, but it was futile; it appeared as though our gas tank was empty (there's no gauge, so you can't definitively tell). I nearly had a breakdown, after having devoted such a considerable amount of time to making a lovely meal (I had also just mixed the butter and sugar for dessert). I couldn't believe that all was lost! I thought about other options, but wasn't sure how to make it work. When Martello arrived home, he stopped me from destroying the kitchen/rocking silently in the corner, and we then reached the conclusion that we would attempt to cook our gourmet meal in the toaster oven (yes, the infamous 10 euro toaster oven purchased at the grocery store). I was nervous about embarking on this course of events due to all the parchment paper, but we did one set of two and then the rest of the packets, and the fish cooked through perfectly. We also baked the mini flourless cakes in that manner. Passover was saved! (Martello noted that it was more like a Chanukah rather than a Passover miracle.)

Fish packets in toaster oven

Perfectly cooked fish

Chestnut cupcake

We read from a reproduced (originally wood-cut) haggadah that Martello had purchased in the Jewish Museum in Venice. It was a bit awkward to follow, and we only had one, but we managed to cobble together a decent enough seder over the two nights (the gas would not arrive until Saturday morning as I believed that the stove had come back to life on Thursday after I was able to brew one espresso pot (it psyched me out) and by the time I got to the store on Friday morning, it was too late for afternoon delivery). The moral of the story is to always respect your toaster oven and give it more to do than merely toast bread. It's really very versatile and likes the challenge (perhaps the same thing can be said for God...).

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

The Goats[est] with the Mostest

So for some reason that Trofie Wife still doesn't understand, there is a veritable menagerie across the street from the supermarket shopping center: goats (including some adorable new baby goats); chickens; a confused, oversized duck that looks like he got caught in an oil slick and/or licked a tab of LSD; and a gimpy bunny rabbit (one of his paws is pushed in, perhaps the result of a goat charge). I guess it's the situation of one lone farmer resisting the encroaching development. For a moment or two I thought the animals were actually owed by the commune of Arenzano, serving as a window onto a bygone era, but Martello said that made no sense. Whoever owns them is never amongst them shepherd style, but the animals do receive a steady stream of food from passing grocery workers and children (accompanied by their parents) after school. There's lightly-barbed wire around their stone-enclosed pen, but the mature goats manage to leap up (but, thankfully, not over) the wall to grab the proffered grub.

I have yet to record any viable footage of said goats (who dominate the pen) locking horns and body slamming each other (it's quite a sight), but perhaps Martello (who's looking more and more like a billy goat with his ever-thickening barba (beard) these days) can goad them into a match one weekend afternoon and we'll have something to post.

Nevertheless, I present to you these images:

I have no idea where that sink came from and why it's still there

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Adopt-a-Nonna Day

A couple of weeks back, after great fanfare (read: persistent nagging), Trofie Wife finally agreed to join her over-eager landlord-neighbor, Mrs. Furley, on a walk around the neighborhood. Unbeknownst to me, it just so happened that the day of our date was concurrent with the Feast of the Annunciation, which, as Wikipedia explained, is the day that God served as Mary's home pregnancy test and told her that Jesus would be arriving in nine months (and don't worry about the messy details). The occasion was marked with a small assemblage of vendors and blue and white streamers (it's a boy!) near yet another church, Madonna della Olivette, one that Trofie Wife and Martello were unaware existed. Some further online digging explains why this is the church to visit if you want, as Martello often says, to "do it up" on March 25. Apparently olives (along with being one of Trofie Wife's favorite delicacies) are linked to fertility (and thus Mary) in Catholic lore. Thus the Annunciation would prove to be an especially important day of celebration for this parish.

The church itself is quite spectacularly situated on a precipice, somehow eked out atop a terrace that was likely home to many olive trees centuries ago. Trofie Wife was amazed at the number of octogenarians easily ascending the steep cobblestone steps, clearly such repeated actions being a key to their longevity. Mrs. Furley also scaled the steps, albeit with a bit of difficulty, grasping hold of Trofie Wife as they went. She had remembered that near Christmastime I had answered "no" to the question of whether or not we were Catholic, so she politely asked if it would be okay for me to enter the church with her. I came along as she (who claims not to be religious but definitely has a deep and unabiding connection to superstitions of all sorts) lit a prayer candle (likely in remembrance of her husband, or wait, am I mixing that up with yahrzeit candles? maybe it was for the Madonna?), showed me the famous statue of the Virgin Mary that is a pilgrimage site in and of itself, and muttered loudly (in English) about a man who she believed was "looking at us in a stupid way" (I thought he looked friendly and maybe was checking her out as she looks pretty good for someone in her ninth decade!).

Mrs. Furley believes that we are twins, due to our shared birthday and ascending signs, yet when she did not react with Trofie Wife-level joy upon spotting an absolutely adorable dog, I was relieved; there is no way we could be twins if she did not squeal with delight at a passing pooch. As we walked, we also passed the building that reportedly served as headquarters for the invading armies (first the Germans, then the Americans) during World War II. Mrs. Furley spoke of using her language skills as a young, frightened teenager for both commands. I'm sure that she has many stories from that era, but it's clearly a traumatic subject and we would never push her for information (though she brings it up on occasion to both me and Martello). As we made our way to a bench by the seaside, Mrs. Furley probed further regarding my own religious inclinations and eventually (with the assistance of a dictionary), I explained that we were ebrei (to which the delighted response was, "oh, you are a Jew!"). She asked me a little bit about what we believed, remarking that the Old Testament was quite "profound," and then related a story (which she repeated to Martello the next day) about a non-Jewish neighbor, prior to the outbreak of World War II, kicking her violinist daughter out of the house for falling in love with a Jew and recalling her own mother (Mrs. Furley's that is) being very upset about this other mother's rash actions. Incidentally, I'm currently reading a book about the Italian Jewish community leading up to and during WWII. I'm only about a quarter of the way through, but I have to say that the book paints a fascinating story about the complexities and divided loyalties during the entire period from the Risorgimento (Italian unification in the 19th century) through the end of WWII. The community depicted within (and perhaps Italian society itself) is perhaps the most multi-faceted, complex, dare I say schizo Jewish community that I have ever encountered (and that's saying a lot!). Trofie Wife will be sure to provide a full update once I have completed the text.

The excursion clearly made Mrs. Furley's day, and I suspect that I will assent to more of these in the future (particularly the ones she proposed involving her beachside cabana), despite my belief that she has already told me (and Martello) all of her stories at least six times.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Current (Ok, Actually Belated) Events

(Note: Trofie Wife is about three weeks behind in blogging due to an increased work load. Ironically, lots of things worth sharing have also occurred during this period. I’m trying my best to get it all up here and up to date this week; apologies for what I fear will be information overload (a state Martello claims I am not familiar with as a “collector of information.”)

First off, we thank all of those who forwarded on the New York Times article on vending machine pizza (http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/14/business/worldbusiness/14vend.html?pagewanted=1&hp, for those of you who haven’t seen it). We have not yet seen or even heard about these particular machines here, but I have already vouched for, on this blog, the wonders of the Italian coffee/hot drink vending machines. We’ll be sure to report back should we happen to run into one of these artificially intelligent pizza makers.

In other belated news, some of you may have heard sad reports about the roving attack dogs in Sicily (see http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/7949181.stm). Trofie Wife never quite connected with the people who run the canile in Arenzano, but some of the points elucidated in this article help to reinforce why they might not have been so bullish about me serving as a volunteer without ever having owned a dog. Apparently, Italian dog kennels are drastically underfunded but sorely needed. A good portion of the animals aren’t socialized, but whereas in the States, euthanasia is carried out on dogs that just don’t seem like they’ll ever make the adopability cut, mercy killing is verboten here (and opportunities for rehabilitation rare). That makes for a bad combination—and a good reason why the dog kennel people, even in quaint Arenzano, want to know that you know your canine stuff. Alas, Trofie Wife’s search for consistent canine affection remains unrequited….(sigh).

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Supermarket Swept

After completing a respectable amount of work Wednesday morning, Trofie Wife set out to partake in some afternoon marketing. After realizing to my dismay that the bakery with the good whole wheat rolls was now closed on Wednesday afternoons (random), I visited the smaller grocery store in centro. As I walked in, I noticed an uncomfortable emptiness. Each aisle appeared as a minor ghost town, with markedly fewer items on the shelves than usual. Was it inventory day, I wondered? (I’ve definitely been at Trader Joe’s on 14^th Street on the day prior to delivery day when the food is nearly all gone, but this occurrence in Arenzano seemed eerily different.) Were rationings kicking in due to the world credit crisis? Cuts in production or ordering? (Even so, my favorite cereal was still on the shelves, so that was at least a relief.) Or was the supermarket closing?? I didn’t notice any formal indication of such a travesty posted at the entryway, but given that my Italian is not up to snuff, perhaps I missed it. Would we now be forced to trek to the huge grocery store on the highway to pick up essentials? What was going on??

After a careful inspection of all aisles (including a long lingering at the unhealthy snack section—sue me), I figured it out. They were installing new shelving throughout the store! All of the missing goods had been dumped in shopping carts and staff members were now slowly arranging them on the shiny yellow shelves, which do appear cleaner and wider, perhaps with room for more interesting food stuffs (yet I still needed to ask for help reaching the lightbulbs...). With my ready access to food and paper goods intact, I paid my bill and headed to the bakery with the good foccacia (yes, it is essential to visit different bakeries for different bready and dolce items).

On another note, yesterday was Ash Wednesday (mercoledì delle Ceneri). Now, we live in Italy and there are a lot of ladies of a certain age around here who one suspects would be into this kind of faith display. But during my outing, I saw not one forehead dabbed with ash or the residue of ashes placed during the morning; there was one false alarm, a middle aged guy whose “ash” turned out to be stubble from his closely-shaved-yet-still-balding head. Trofie Wife is trying to make sense of this seemingly large omission. On the streets and in the schools and offices of New York City, it’s hard to miss the holiday. My Catholic friends would either attend an early mass prior to class/work or if unable to do so then, hit up the church at lunchtime. Maybe the Ligurians are more of an after work crowd? (Though these are the same folks that Martello and I saw duck in and out of Midnight Mass within the space of five minutes... .) Or maybe it’s yet another example of America proving that it is the most fervently religious country in the world, leaving even the hosts of major pilgrimage sites in the dust.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife 

 

Casa Dolce Casa!

The Lausanne métro has a characteristic that the MTA should consider importing. Each stop on the line has its own tune associated with the neighborhood; drum trills at one; horse clop clops at another. The sound effects could prove very helpful should you doze off; you’ll be startled to wakefulness by the tone of your stop! (Let's see, a jingle from "42nd Street" when you hit Times Square, a "cha-ching" (or maybe not so much anymore) on Wall Street, bongo drumming at 7th Avenue in Park Slope... .)

If you include the metro, it took us SIX trains to return to Arenzano. Apparently all the Italians were travelling on January 5^th since the 6^th was another holiday, Epiphany (more on that soon). The train we desired to take from Lausanne to Milan was already sold out when we arrived at the ticket booth, so we camped out in the station for several hours, getting in a bunch of reading and shivering, since the Lausanne station is mostly exposed to the elements, save for some on-track waiting alcoves. We took the first train from Lausanne to Brig (a big transfer spot) and noted the French once again giving way to German and the passengers loading on their ski gear as mountains appeared in the background. From Brig we headed towards the Italian border town of Domodossola. The scenery along the way was spectacular.

We thought that comfy and not-so-crowded train would take us all the way to Milan, but unfortunately, we had to disembark and hop on an overcrowded regionale. We luckily found seats and a place for our luggage, but many travelers were stuck standing. Nevertheless, it was heartening to hear all of the passengers complaining in Italian. We finally arrived in Milan and transferred to a gorgeous, brand spanking new Genoa-bound train. Midway through the ride, the woman sitting next to us struck up a conversation; she’s an oncologist that had at one point considered moving to the States, but for the time being is practicing in Milan. She gave us lots of great pointers for traveling around Italy and recommended a great local swimming spot for when summer arrives. Arriving in Genoa, we had to wait a bit for our last train of the evening. But when we disembarked in Arenzano 35 minutes after finally boarding, we were delighted. Vacations (even from your year-long vacation) are wonderful and we were thrilled to take this one. But after a while, you miss your own bed. More than anything, our journey into and out of Svizzera made clear that our apartment in Arenzano has really started to become our home, and we were so glad to return to it!

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

BREAKING NEWS

February 1 - Arenzano, Italy

On a casual stroll about town this afternoon, I stepped into heavy fire--of silly string and shaving cream. Today was Carnevale, and young teenagers and pre-teens, some masked and costumed, others plainclothed, engaged in spruzzo combat. Informal, unorganized guerilla tactics prevailed as these young, primarily male fighters charged in packs through the alleys and piazzas of the historic Centro, ruthlessly covering each other in white, soapy foam. Shrieks and Italian curses rang loud. Excited conversation and intermittent quiet were also prevalent at times, especially in a designated parental safe zone down below. Rumors swirled about a preliminary procession through Arenzano, participants flaunting their attire. Caught in the crossfire, intrepid Martello set up a civilian outpost, whipped out his reporters notebook, and observed the events from a bench in Piazza David Chiossone. Details remain sketchy at this point; while not equipped with a camera, Martello did manage to capture some sense of the scene in the quick sketch posted below. However, more questions than answers remain--timeline, motivations, alliances, spruzzo suppliers, etc. As the story unfolds, look to this blog for more in-depth coverage.

I Know Why The Old Lady Swallowed The Fly

To get it to go away and stop buzzing!! How’s this for a cultural oddity: They believe in heavy-duty shutters in Arenzano; shutters to keep out the light and wind but not window screens, the things that block the bugs and prevent the children (and clumsy adults) from falling out the window. Trofie Wife had been fighting with a particularly persistent fly since we opened the terraza doors last Sunday to have a leisurely, outdoor reading session of months-old periodicals (Trofie Wife and Martello have a lot of information ingestion to catch up with!). How annoying! I’m pretty sure that I finally killed it on Wednesday because the buzzing stopped. I hope I won’t have to swallow any flies in the future, though if need be, I’m sure I could figure out a way to make a bug cupcake… 

But Trofie Wife is guessing that with the increasingly windy days we’ve been having here the bugs will head for warmer climes. I was mistakenly sold this bill of “warm winter” goods, but feel pretty certain that winter here is just as brutal, if not more so, than the offerings at home. Arenzano appears to be caught in some kind of wind tunnel, such that going outside to dump papers in the carta bin is unpleasant, and leaving the house for any great length of time is to be avoided (here’s where unemployment comes in handy). Trofie Wife is also feeling like she made some bad packing decisions, listening to Martello’s input (cute dresses) instead of her own better judgment (additional warm sweaters; now sitting in bags on top of stuffed animals in Tenafly). The only upside if it continues to stay extremely cold will be the increasing need to add warmer items to the closet. And perhaps a rollback on the promise to get dressed every day, opting instead for the always warm, if not fashionable, footsie pajamas (yes, they make them for adults!). Come on, admit it. You only mock Trofie Wife because you really want your own pair! I’ll even share my supplier with you and keep your inquiries a secretJ 

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

The Point System

No, no, dear NFTY friends. Trofie Wife is not referring to THAT point system. Instead, I’d like to sit for a spell and discuss our local grocery store and its customer loyalty program. (Yes, a far cry from my recent political punditry, but as I am often reminded, I have a great span of interests from low- to highbrow.)

I was very relieved when I clocked the presence of this store on my first visit to Arenzano, because it bore the whiff of the familiar—my sister shops at a sister store in Zurich. Apparently in Zurich it pays to sign up for a *free* loyalty card because you can save on your purchases and earn valuable points redeemable for prizes. It took me a while after digging through the paraphernalia in-store and online, but I finally scoped out the Italian version of this program, and it most certainly is not free (maybe Zurich needs to check her receipts again). In fact, it appears to me to be so insane that, if you pardon my decent into Larry Davidism, I feel the need to riff on it for several more paragraphs. Enjoy (or go back to that work you’re supposed to be doing).

So, for 25 euro, we can join the store as members, thereby gaining our loyalty card as well as the right to earn points and take part in cooking demos and local excursions (Martello asks: “why would you want to go on trips with the grocery store??”) The aforementioned points can then be used to select gifts that are published in the annual members’ guide. I initially flip flopped regarding the value of this investment. I surmised that it was true that we (mostly I) would be going to this grocery store quite a bit during our time in Italy and if we could save a euro here or there that could be put to better use (train or plane tickets, anyone?) why not? However, there are plenty of weekly discounts available to nonmembers, and just how long would it take us to earn back the 25 euro in accumulated savings when so many discounts hover in the 10 to 20 percent (read: 30 to 40 cent) range? As I perused this year’s selection of premiums, I realized that in this case membership did not have its privileges. Readers, let me take you through some of the prizes just to demonstrate the craziness of this set-up.

One euro spent is equal to one point earned; it is unclear from the materials that I have (and can comprehend) if you are allowed to carry points forward from one year to the next. Thus, if you spend 3.800 euros OR you cash in 1.850 points and pay 19,50 euros (I might also add here that it’s very confusing that in Europe a comma is used as a decimal point and a period is used in place of a comma in marking thousands), you can be the proud owner of—a handmade, wooden oil and vinegar dispenser. The Scandinavian design is clean and functional, but you can probably pick up something like it on QVC for $29.99 or less.

Next: A toaster with slots for four slices of bread. 3.700 points (3.700 euros spent), or it can be yours for 1.750 points and 19,50 euros. Hmm, does this 19,50 price maybe allude to the actual value of the item? Need I remind you that I picked up an actual TOASTER OVEN at the competing grocery store (which also boasts a point system) for only 10 euro??

Here’s one for the bambinos: for 2.700 points (or 1.250 points plus 14,50 euro), you can be a proud owner of a backpack featuring a cartoon image of a squawking rooster (and for those of you who remember from high school that animals make different sounds in different countries, apparently a rooster crowing in Italy sounds like: “chicchirichi!!” Personally, I prefer the French, “coo-coo, coquiercoo”).

And now for my absolute favorite. The pièce de résistance. Weighing in at 11.300 points (that’s a lot of groceries) or 5.400 points plus 59 euros, is…A MEAT SLICER!! Why on earth would you need this in your home?? I saw it on the premium shelf (before I realized that it was a “premium” and thought it was just part of the miscellany on the “random shelf” (which turned out to be the “premium shelf”) and I thought to myself, “now isn’t that odd…a meat slicer.” This premium, I might add, is valued more highly than a weekend at a spa in Acqui Terme (4.400 points), a tree in a national forest (2.000 points; I’m at least happy to see that these points can be donated towards worthwhile causes), a free ticket on any national (4.000 points) or European (7.000 points) flight!! Maybe I just don’t get how important sliced meat is to the majority of those inhabiting these parts…

Now I always found the Park Slope Food Co-op to be fairly ridiculous, which is why I never joined (apologies to any members out there), but this so-called “co-op” is molto crazy! It’s more like members are co-opted by their ridiculous system! Please: If you would like an olive oil set or a four-slot toaster or a professional grade meat slicer, please, please, please just buy one on your own!! Don’t spend 11.000 euros on groceries! I can understand if you just happen to spend that much a year and the slicer (or any other prize for that matter) is an added bonus, but seriously, a meat slicer? In sum, we are not joining the club at this store or any other. Not only because of the scam-scented point system, but because I take great offense at the presence in a store of a shelf with alluring items displayed on it, but when you decide you’d like to buy one (and seemingly believe you can afford it) you are told that it is not possible to do so! I may be very liberal, but I’m still a capitalist! So, should we be in the market for any condiment dispensers, appliances, or cock-a-doodle-doing (or otherwise) backpacks, we’ll accumulate them the old fashioned way—by picking them out of the free piles in Brooklyn!

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Ghouls Invade Genoa

Rest assured Americans: the very best of our culture is being exported and adopted by the Europeans. I have to admit that I was quite surprised to find that Halloween is celebrated in Arenzano! I was curious when I saw some costumes and Halloween-ish candy being sold in the grocery stores, but knew that it was more than mere commercialism when I saw several carved and lit jack’o lanterns at the market (which was otherwise a disappointment in the pouring rain) and a sign in a toy store window in the pedestrian center of town (centro) advertising some sort of event at 4 p.m., after the kids were released from school.

I ventured down to the pedestrian area around 4:30 p.m. and saw a large number of children—some with plush pumpkin baskets, others with undecorated plastic bags— walking from storefront to storefront collecting candy. I have to say that the costumes were fairly lackluster—mostly witches, ghosts, some hair dye, and a few masks à la Scream. From what I could see while peering over the children, the candy selections were not of the highest quality (i.e., there did not appear to be any chocolate, of any kind, being doled out; mainly just sucking candies). Some of the kids yelled “Trick or Treat!” in English before being given their treat; others just participated in a group primal scream. Amazingly, it reminded me quite a lot of the Halloweens of my younger years. Parents taking pictures and standing back and kibitzing while the kids descended on the loot, holding umbrellas because it was raining (it always rained on Halloween in Tenafly in the 1980s and ’90s). I present to you a few relatively boring pictures, since I was wary of taking photos of children without their parents’ consent (and I don’t know how to ask for it in Italian). Note that even a few moms played along as they themselves donned capes and witches hats.

Additionally, once kids reach the age of 11 or 12, the day becomes less about treats and more about silly string, shaving cream, and eggs. There were quite a few remnants of all these items on all the main drags.
The shop owners stood guard over their wares as boys and girls alike ran down the ancient streets, figuring out how to pelt the weakest amongst them.

Now in addition to last Friday being Halloween, it was also officially our first Shabbat in Arenzano. While wine is pretty easy to come by, I had hoped that I would be able to locate some tapered candlesticks that could be adapted into Shabbat candles. However, this proved more difficult than it seemed. Curiously, while there were no paired candlesticks to be found, the grocery store did sell some sort of candle you can put in or near your ear to remove wax (maybe we’ll try those next week). Therefore, I hope I do not offend any Catholics in the audience by describing the solution to my waxen quest. I purchased a prayer candle (seems to be for the protection of the family and is, interestingly, shaped like our Yahrtzeit
(memorial) candles) and went about slicing it in half
so that I had two stout candle wicks. These should last us quite a while, and hopefully we’ll find some more appropriate, non-offensive candlesticks soon. (Note: This just in, the housewares shop at the “mall” has tapered candlesticks! As well as measuring cups in grams and milliliters. Guess it’s time to brush up on that metric system…)

In other exciting news, it appears that the local dog foster care program is in need of some volunteer dog walkers! Assuming that the dogs will listen to my commands in English (and the volunteer coordinator will understand my e-mail), I plan on looking into this. There are quite a lot of dogs here. And baby carriages. And baby carriages with dogs attached to them. We’ve found the Italian Park Slope!

Coming soon: Martello’s first post!

Baci e gelato,
Martello e Trofie Wife

A trip to Voltri

Coming from Arenzano, Voltri is the first official train stop in Genoa. It’s much more happening than Arenzano, boasting a vibrant, broad main drag complete with a supermarket that’s open late and on Sundays. However, it’s most notable to Trofie Wife as the place where the Vodafone store clerks speak English and thus can easily reload our Internet and cell phones.

After a failed attempt to recharge the Internet key on our first Monday in town (due to a misplaced recharge number), Trofie Wife was forced to return on Tuesday. This turn of events was quite fortuitous as Tuesday turns out to be market day. The market is filled with an abundance of items from housewares (I found 12 hangers for just over 4 euro, which completed our closet) to clothing to farm fresh eggs (with the cooped chickens on display to prove it). The market also appears to be a good place to observe political activity. There were actual real live members of the Communist Party tabling next to a farmer’s cart, and proponents (or maybe they were opponents?) of some ballot referendum had taken up the seating area at the top of the piazza. It is also perfectly acceptable, I was glad to see, to bring your dog (no matter how large; I wish I had taken pictures!) to the market, just as long as the cane does not eat the flowers. Notably, on sale at a nearby newsstand I saw a calendar entitled, “Mussolini, Il Duce.” While I was curious to see the kind of spin it would take, I just couldn’t justify buying it, possessing it, and ultimately recycling it.

In Voltri, and likely all over Italy, the water companies have prominent plaques on the sidewalk that mark their territory. This one, “Acqua Nicolay” especially caught my eye, due to a certain friend back home, the tee-shirt goddess, who boasts the very same last name!

After Vodafone and the market, I returned to the abovementioned supermarket where I was lucky enough to score a super-cheap toaster, which was absolutely necessary due to the nonworking range and oven. I was certainly glad that I had not leaped on the 39 euro toaster at the electronics store when this one was less than 1/3 the price! Ah, bargain shopping!

Coming soon: Halloween and All Saints Day; A Sojourn to Savona

Baci e gelato,
Martello e Trofie Wife