They like me, they really like me...!

Maybe that's overstating it. But it's night number three on my own in Italy, I've realized that the driving was the easy part!

After 8 hours on the road today plus 4 hours wandering around production nurseries pretending to be interested in every little thing (with a consultant who doesn't speak English), I'm truly whipped. Drove around a tiny little airport suburb of Rome (Ostia) for 45 minutes desperately trying to get to my hotel across a divided highway, argh!

Once I finally landed at 9 pm, the LAST thing I wanted to do was drive back out again... so for dinner, I find myself in a hellish, weird little pizzeria-esque place called "Del Capitano". It has a strange nautical theme, is too brightly lit, and filled with Japanese tourists ... but blessedly close enough to walk from the hotel ('Airport Palace' which is decidedly NOT palatial - boy, ain't travel glam?!?!) and I'm too hungry to care.

But it was here, at Del Capitano, that I found my first acceptance (or at least indifference!?!) here in Italy. A little man -- greying, beard, glasses -- maybe the Capitano himself? -- waits on me. I abandon my typical custom of ordering the 'specialita della casa,' for fear of what it will be in such an odd place, and instead go with the safe bet. Here's the exchange:

Me: Primo, vino rosso, per piacere. (first, red wine, please)
Capitano: un biquiere? (a glass?)
Me: no, penso che meglio un mezzo litro, per favore. (No, I think a half-litre will be better.)
Capitano: e per la cena? (and for dinner?)
Me: insalata caprese e una pizza con salciccia e carciofi. (tomato mozzarella salad and sausage and artichoke heart pizza.)
Capitano. Va bene. Subito. (That's good, its on the way.)

Yes -- it's a little thing, but bless him, he speaks to me in Italian! It is of course blatantly obvious that not only am I NOT Italian, but also that his English is likely somewhere betweeen sufficient and excellent. But after lunch the day before, my confidence was definitely bending (if not broken), and his willingness to LET me speak Italian - albeit poorly and basically -- re-inflates my flagging spirit. He even seemed to like me a little. Or at least he smiled.

Thank goodness for the little things, including the party of 6 japanese tourists who definitely spoke less Italian and were so much more obnoxious than me. Maybe I really can do this.

Swimming in language and doubts

As if the overwhelming feeling of 'gee, I'm going to be living here soon' wasn't enough, today had me on my own visiting a gorgeous (and enormous) nursery south of Rome. I was there at the suggestion of Nutty Professor Bowtie, and was meeting a young woman - daughter of the owner - who I had only corresponded with via email. I had no idea what to expect.

She was LOVELY and very hospitable. It's always strange meeting people for the first time, especially when you know you will be imposing on them eventually (in my case, bringing a group of 40 people to trounce through her business, probably on a Sunday. Gotta love Americans.). The Italians are lovely this way, though -- hospitality that is truly legendary, and an openness and eagerness to welcome strangers into their worlds that instantly puts you at ease. In this case, I was a virtual stranger, known only by a random introduction, and they invited me to have their 'typical daily lunch' which they offer to any customers who are in during the lunch hour (actually a pretty smart idea, saves customers the trouble of finding a restaurant in a remote area, finding a place to park the truck, etc etc., ). It's in one of their large meeting rooms, a beautiful place ... all vaulted wood beams, very natural. They had the table set - simple, yellow linens and blue napkins, very elegant but still homey. The first course came out -- a regional dish whose name I can't remember, but was basically homemade twisted pasta with a cheese and red cabbage sauce. Sounds strange but was DELICIOUS! (Thankfully so, since EVERYONE at the table ate every bite, so I would have felt awkward not doing the same!) Second course -- chicken breasts with mushrooms, and for dessert, a gargantuan bowl of homemade tiramisu with what must have been a full 1/4 inch of cocoa powder on the top. Of course, wine and water were flowing.


Here's the fantabulous meeting and lunch room ... boy, who says nurseries are different in the US?!?!?

The lunch group was about 12 people -- the rest either the family members (the Nonna, the three sisters and the baby), or customers -- four Italians, two Spanish, one French. They all spoke fluent Italian, for a while stopping to translate for me, but I stopped them; feeling bad that it was slowing up the conversation.

At that point, I realized: when you have SOME idea of the context of the situation, it's easier to try to pull words out of a conversation. Starting from scratch, you're basically adrift in a giant sea of conversation -- your ears can't distinguish anything and your brain glazes over from a total lack of recognizeable syllables. Everything was moving so fast... no context, food and drink obscuring mouths, rapid fire conversation punctuated with group laughter... I attemped to nod and smile where I could, but the feeling was akin to being struck completely deaf and mute. A feeling of dread -- (holy crap am I really going to pick up my life and move here?!?!) -- and panic struck.

Finally, a conversational liferaft in the sea of words: non fumare. Ah-ha! As of early March, Italy has put a ban on smoking in all public restaurants, bars (Halleluliah, I say - leather is a bitch to clean that smell out of!), so the group was going on and on about this and its effect on life (as one of the sisters gestures violently with a cigarette bouncing up and down in her hand...!). The Spanish gentleman turned to me and asked if this was the same in the States... and, blessedly, I was able to formulate a somewhat intelligent answer about California, which prompted someone's Schwarzenegger impression (oh, heaven help us all, yes, this really IS what they think of America.)

Non fumare. One word at a time. Of course, I am smart enough to know that one conversational liferaft does not a rescue make. It will be a long time before I'm living the life of luxury in comfortable conversations in Italian. But at least for the moment, I didn't feel like the sharks of doubt were circling anymore.

The X-games: Italian Roads Version

As if landing in Rome isn't intimidating enough, I have to rent a car and venture out onto the Italian roads with very little sleep. I've always heard that driving in Italy is a contact sport in and of itself... color the normally fearless me a touch intimidated (this is the woman who hasn't owned a car in 2 years!)

... actually, while it takes a few minutes to get the hang of it all, I must say I am incredibly impressed with how everyone basically works on the same system (even though the system is VERY fast moving!) The deal is, you ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS stay as far to the right as you possibly can -- unless there is someone in front of you going too slow, at which point you can zip to the left, go around them, and back to the right again.

That said, even the tiniest of roads are two lanes in each direction (even if there's only one painted on the road ...) you're expected to hug the right while someone speeds around you. And heaven help you if you're hanging in the left lane -- someone WILL zoom up out of nowhere going twice your speed and flash lights at you to let you know he fully intends to jam his car up your ass if you don't move. Whew. Don't have to tell me twice! No coincidence that 'Andretti' is an Italian name!

So - final analysis after the first day on both autostrade and small roads: it's not for the meek, but not nearly as horrible as everyone makes it out to be. Reminds me of one of the classic lines (oh, wouldn't my snooty literary friends be proud...) on the secret of success from Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises: ‘‘Never be daunted,’” (Bill Gorton says to Jake Barnes) ‘Never been daunted in public. . . . If I begin to feel daunted I’ll go off by myself. I’m like a cat that way.’”

Be not daunted. Because I can. This can be done (I can do this. Si puo fare.) Good advice for driving in Italy, and life itself.

Be careful what you wish for!

And so, this whole slightly crazy 'moving to Italy - why? why not?' adventure is beginning - as wholly anticlimactic as it all really seemed: as of this week, the Board and most of the staff finally knows about my impending move. No one burst internal organs over it (though truly, it was pretty well thought out to avoid that result), and I can finally begin to treat this as if it's actually happening. (Note to self - hitting the Italian study books harder is definitely in order!) As this all begins, an oddly disconnected feeling washes over me, which I suspect will persist in waves as this all becomes a reality.

I'll be off line for a while - March is a crazy month of travel, 2 + weeks in Italy and Spain. I'll try to keep notes and update with some stories of the trip when I return. Ciao...