I saw a bumper sticker yesterday. Actually, it was a gas tank cover sticker. It said, "$1.47 per gallon before Bush," or something to that effect. Now, I am as anti-Bush as the next gal, but if that is your argument against his administration, if rising gas prices are the worst thing he is responsible for in your opinion during his reign, if you honestly believe it is a basic human right to own and drive a car and that you should not have to pay much to do so regardless of its effect on the environment or just the simple common sense that there is no such thing as an unlimited resource, you've got some soul-searching to do.
And that, my friends, is as preachy as I hope to get on this blog.
Full disclosure: we are about to buy a car. We will drive the car and probably do so frivolously. We will do our best to be as unfrivolous as possible.
That sticker just really rankled my cockles or raised my hillcocks or whatever it is one says on these occasions.
Traduzione
Ieri ho visto un adesivo per il paraurti posteriore. Non era sul paraurti posteriore di questa macchia ma invece sul coperchio del serbatoio del gas. Disse: "Un gallone costava $1.47 prima di Bush." Io sono totalmente contro Bush ma questo adesivo mi ha rotto o' cazz', se la posso dire cosi'. Che tipo di persona si lamenta del fatto dei prezzi alti della benzina ignorando tutta la violenza e crudelta' dell'amminstrazione Bush? Vi dico chi: una persona che crede che sia un diritto umano basilare di avere una macchina e guidarla tanto quanto vuole e per un costo basso, una persona che non capisce la realta' di risorse naturali limitate. Che vergogna.
Noi stiamo per comprare una macchina e sicuramente la guideremo quando non e' necessario, quando ci sentiamo pigri. Spero di resistere quanto possibile. E spero di ricordarmi sempre che avere una macchina e' un lusso e gli americani pagano da sempre molto di meno per la benzina paragonata a quanto pagate voi, carissimi europei.
Scusate, vado un'attimo a comprarmi una bici!
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Notes on Newness
Today The Husband and I celebrate three years of marriage. And we still have no idea what the other one is talking about. Always refreshing!
I was in the elevator of a parking garage with La Bimba and a couple of women got on and one said, "I've been feeling kind of apprehentious about it."
La Bimba took an actual dump in the potty. When she saw her masterpiece she said, "Whoa."
La Bimba is hitting and screaming a lot. The Husband has also begun teaching her how to box. You know, just to take it up a notch. She slugged him just yesterday.
The moms in the parks in Berkeley wear the same taxi driver/rasta hats and their kids are dirty and barefoot ragamuffins. I can hear the napoletana mamma saying, "NON TI SPORCARE!"
We still eat a lot of pasta. The Husband is simply not culinarily adventurous. I sneak burritos and thai iced teas whenever I find myself out and about without him. I am experiencing some facial acne either as a response to the hormone-full milk in my iced caffe lattes or because I am allergic to wide open spaces.
La Bimba says, "Oh man." She calls Pinocchio "Cocolo." She is very expressive. Especially with her hands, shoulders, and chin. Napoletana DOC. The Husband has been speaking more napoletano and less italiano with me, so now I will lose my Italian and I won't know what he's talking about ever. Managgia la miseria.
I've been dancing and it is hard. I saw one dance performance and it was great. In the old Sunshine Biscuit Factory in Oakland. Totally groovy arty bay area fun. Lots of tattoos and piercings and lesbians. As it should be!
Big shout out to Napoli. Mi manca assai.
I was in the elevator of a parking garage with La Bimba and a couple of women got on and one said, "I've been feeling kind of apprehentious about it."
La Bimba took an actual dump in the potty. When she saw her masterpiece she said, "Whoa."
La Bimba is hitting and screaming a lot. The Husband has also begun teaching her how to box. You know, just to take it up a notch. She slugged him just yesterday.
The moms in the parks in Berkeley wear the same taxi driver/rasta hats and their kids are dirty and barefoot ragamuffins. I can hear the napoletana mamma saying, "NON TI SPORCARE!"
We still eat a lot of pasta. The Husband is simply not culinarily adventurous. I sneak burritos and thai iced teas whenever I find myself out and about without him. I am experiencing some facial acne either as a response to the hormone-full milk in my iced caffe lattes or because I am allergic to wide open spaces.
La Bimba says, "Oh man." She calls Pinocchio "Cocolo." She is very expressive. Especially with her hands, shoulders, and chin. Napoletana DOC. The Husband has been speaking more napoletano and less italiano with me, so now I will lose my Italian and I won't know what he's talking about ever. Managgia la miseria.
I've been dancing and it is hard. I saw one dance performance and it was great. In the old Sunshine Biscuit Factory in Oakland. Totally groovy arty bay area fun. Lots of tattoos and piercings and lesbians. As it should be!
Big shout out to Napoli. Mi manca assai.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Stasera mi butto
Allora il mio primo post in italiano. Speriamo bene.
Stiamo sistemando la nostra nuova vita Berkeleyana. Piano piano. Oggi ho rinnovato la patente. Ho dato l'esame scritto...cento percento! Meno male che non ho bisogno di fare l'esame di guida. Il Marito pero' deve dare tutti e due. Poverino. Lui lo puo' fare in italiano pero' non esiste il libretto in italiano quindi non puo' studiare. Pure deve rispondere a 36 domande e ne puo' sbagliare solo sei. Forza Coraggio Marito!
Al parco l'altro giorno con La Bimba ho sentito un tipo dire, Vincenzo! Filippo! Ho subito chiesto al tipo se i bambini fossero (Oddio...non mi ricordo quale forma del verbo ci occorre qua!) italiani. Si! Gemellini italiani. La mamma e' peruviana (il tipo e' lo zio peruviano) e il papa' e'...napoletano!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Il peruviano ha pure un'altra sorella sposata con un napoletano e hanno figli. Che fortuna!
Altre notizie importantissime...Io ed Il Marito abbiamo sentito La Bimba che stava nel bagno dire, Cacca! Cacca! Quando siamo entrati abbiamo trovato una cacca enorme sul tappetto davanti il vasino. Abbiamo domandato, Hai fatto la cacca sul tappetto? e La Bimba ha risposto, No! Doggie! Doggie! La Bimba non sa bene dire le bugie...non abbiamo un cane quindi la colpa indubitamente (questa e' una parola?) resta con La Bella Bimba. Cosi' vicino al vasino!!!
Vabbe', vabbuo', e' doloroso scrivere in italiano. Mi sento di essere a scuola. Magari se pratico spesso migliorero'. Magari.
Un bacio a tutti quanti ed a presto!
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Ci siamo arrivati!
It's not quite 7am on a sunny Sunday morning. I am sitting in my friend's office, looking out the window at copious amounts of foliage and brown-shingle Craftsman houses. This is Berkeley. We have arrived.
Brooklyn was a good transitional spot between Napoli and Berkeley. We are happy to be on the left coast, driving by anti-war protests and tree-sitters and arthouse movie theaters. The Husband is adjusting quickly. He has even nearly ceased to curse over his breath every time he has to come to a full stop at a four-way stop when there is no one coming for miles from any direction. Che sfacimm'... He had one espresso in one cafe, and there are thousands of cafes in this town, and now he insists on always returning to that cafe for the espresso, which he felt was up to snuff. I catch him watching Spanish television and chatting up guys from Mexico, Nicaragua, Ecuador. We are house hunting and though it is not a piece of cake -- high rents, competitive market -- it is a breeze compared to dealing with Neapolitan landlords or, in our case, landladies. You had to see my American gal pals and me hiding in the bathroom of our last apartment in Naples while The Husband and La Signora screamed bloody murder at each other over last minute costs. I thought La Signora, 87 years old, was going to keel over right there in the majolica-tiled ingresso. We heard her screaming, "Madonna mia! Mi sento male! Mi sento maaaaaleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee," and heard from witnesses that she was clutching her chest and collapsed into one of her dining room chairs, the one with the springs poking out from the bottom.
My adjustment has been easy. I feel as though I'd never left. I even took at dance class and am now in such agony that I can't wait to go back for more. La Bimba is struggling a bit. All these changes of environments, beds (though she likes her "piccolo bed," as she calls it, here at B & M's house. She has already danced around the dance studio, eaten American gelato, made friends at the park. The Husband keeps her feeling safe by cooking one delicious pasta dish after another, including one with calamaretti. She eats those little tentacled buggers like popcorn and says, "Oddodus, oddodus" all th while. (She even says, "Oddodus, yum, yum" when we are at the acquarium, frightening the fish-loving workers). La Bimba is a champ. I have a great foto to upload here, but it's on another computer. It was taken by Zia Baba and features La Bimba at the Villa Comunale holding a mini daisy in each hand.
I miss Napoli, but not the smog-choked vicoli. I miss our friends desperately. La Bimba occasionally asks for an amichetta or a cousin. Breaks my heart. But thanks to technology we can stay in close touch. I am excited to fill my loyal readership with stories of The Husband's collision with California culture. To recount his observations (All the landlords are Chinese! Everyone is voting for Obama! Why is everyone looking at me funny?).
And, I promised some friends in Naples that I would also blog in Italian. Il prossimo post faro' il mio meglio. Un bacione a tutti quanti!
Brooklyn was a good transitional spot between Napoli and Berkeley. We are happy to be on the left coast, driving by anti-war protests and tree-sitters and arthouse movie theaters. The Husband is adjusting quickly. He has even nearly ceased to curse over his breath every time he has to come to a full stop at a four-way stop when there is no one coming for miles from any direction. Che sfacimm'... He had one espresso in one cafe, and there are thousands of cafes in this town, and now he insists on always returning to that cafe for the espresso, which he felt was up to snuff. I catch him watching Spanish television and chatting up guys from Mexico, Nicaragua, Ecuador. We are house hunting and though it is not a piece of cake -- high rents, competitive market -- it is a breeze compared to dealing with Neapolitan landlords or, in our case, landladies. You had to see my American gal pals and me hiding in the bathroom of our last apartment in Naples while The Husband and La Signora screamed bloody murder at each other over last minute costs. I thought La Signora, 87 years old, was going to keel over right there in the majolica-tiled ingresso. We heard her screaming, "Madonna mia! Mi sento male! Mi sento maaaaaleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee," and heard from witnesses that she was clutching her chest and collapsed into one of her dining room chairs, the one with the springs poking out from the bottom.
My adjustment has been easy. I feel as though I'd never left. I even took at dance class and am now in such agony that I can't wait to go back for more. La Bimba is struggling a bit. All these changes of environments, beds (though she likes her "piccolo bed," as she calls it, here at B & M's house. She has already danced around the dance studio, eaten American gelato, made friends at the park. The Husband keeps her feeling safe by cooking one delicious pasta dish after another, including one with calamaretti. She eats those little tentacled buggers like popcorn and says, "Oddodus, oddodus" all th while. (She even says, "Oddodus, yum, yum" when we are at the acquarium, frightening the fish-loving workers). La Bimba is a champ. I have a great foto to upload here, but it's on another computer. It was taken by Zia Baba and features La Bimba at the Villa Comunale holding a mini daisy in each hand.
I miss Napoli, but not the smog-choked vicoli. I miss our friends desperately. La Bimba occasionally asks for an amichetta or a cousin. Breaks my heart. But thanks to technology we can stay in close touch. I am excited to fill my loyal readership with stories of The Husband's collision with California culture. To recount his observations (All the landlords are Chinese! Everyone is voting for Obama! Why is everyone looking at me funny?).
And, I promised some friends in Naples that I would also blog in Italian. Il prossimo post faro' il mio meglio. Un bacione a tutti quanti!
Thursday, June 5, 2008
T minus 4 hours
We leave Naples today and we don't know when we'll be back, but we'll be back. So much to say. I've shed copious amounts of tears over the last few days, slept little (the classic 3-5am grief wake-up), and realized how many amazing, truly phenomenal people I've gotten to know here. We said good-bye to the apartment -- after a knock-down, drag-out fight between The Husband and The Landlady (85 years old and can hold her own against an ex-boxer!) -- to our family and friends. The Husband's family has been so good to me. I feel truly blessed.
Then there are all the hilarious only-in-Naples moments to recount. Like the tour bus parked outside the Villa Comunale that had a naked lady, like the one on truckers' mud flaps, on the side along with the phrase, "pleasure on wheels," a bus hired by a school group from the provinces. Eight-year-olds on a bus meant for Russian businessmen! Or the insanity with the post office, the mixed messages that led to us mailing absolutely nothing back to the States. Saying good-bye to Don Pasquale, to Salvatore the Jehovah's Witness doorman and Gianni the Jehovah's Witness salumiere (prosciutto sandwiches in the carry-on luggage!).
There is a lot I'm forgetting, but I imagine it will all come back to me. For now, loyal readership, arrivederci e a presto. Ci sentiamo dal nuovo mondo.
Then there are all the hilarious only-in-Naples moments to recount. Like the tour bus parked outside the Villa Comunale that had a naked lady, like the one on truckers' mud flaps, on the side along with the phrase, "pleasure on wheels," a bus hired by a school group from the provinces. Eight-year-olds on a bus meant for Russian businessmen! Or the insanity with the post office, the mixed messages that led to us mailing absolutely nothing back to the States. Saying good-bye to Don Pasquale, to Salvatore the Jehovah's Witness doorman and Gianni the Jehovah's Witness salumiere (prosciutto sandwiches in the carry-on luggage!).
There is a lot I'm forgetting, but I imagine it will all come back to me. For now, loyal readership, arrivederci e a presto. Ci sentiamo dal nuovo mondo.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Pasqua, Pasquale, and Pass the Schmaltz
Rode the elevator up with Don Pasquale (of "poor Hitler" fame). He said, "You're leaving soon!" I replied, "Yep. One month from today." Don Pasquale's eyes welled up with tears: "I am truly, truly sorry. I am not just saying that. You and your husband and daughter are truly loveable people. You must find me before you go to say good-bye." Then he kissed me on both cheeks, and released the vice grip he had had on my forearm.
The other day I said hi to one of the little kids who lives on my street. He really lives on the street. He is always running up and down, with or without ball, with or without older brother, never with parent, sometimes dragging littler sister around. He is about 4 years old. I said, "Hi," and he gave me the finger. I thought that was hilarious (and sad, of course), so imagine my surprise when The Husband got all mad at me for talking to the kid in the first place. I couldn't figure out why he was shouting at me, "Don't talk to those people! You don't know those people, what they say about you to their kids!" He thinks his parents taught him to flip people off. Perhaps. More likely his older brothers, but then again, I really don't know those people and The Husband knows better than I do what is and isn't possible here.
Ya think Berkeley will be different?
Passover is long over, but it is worth recapping a bit here. We all enjoyed my mother's denunciation of the Torah and her discourse on Lillith, Adam, and the missionary position. D's charoset was delicious, and at the risk of tooting my own horn too loudly, my brisket and chicken soup were divine. My mom made chopped liver, all the while exclaiming, "These are the biggest chicken livers I've ever seen. I can't imagine the size of the chickens!" (She and my father call Neapolitan turkey legs "dinosaur legs" because they too are rather oversized). Another nonno neighbor, who always greets La Bimba, but not me, had a full volume conversation with me in the salumeria about Passover when he overheard me asking if they carried matzah (pane azzimo). He wanted to know what The Husband did during Passover (particpated, just like I did during Easter), what La Bimba was (Catholic, Jewish, Italian, American, I said, to which he cried, "Basta! Basta! That's too much!"). Classically, he started the interrogation stating, "Don't get me wrong. I am a big fan of the Jews. I love the Jews," always a red flag (with a little swastika on it?). This same man cornered me in the elevator to ask about the orthodox and then cornered my mother to ask about something else (see, I waited too long and now I can't remember all the details). My mother totally iced him saying, "We are all the same. All equal." THEN he cornered my American gal pal neighbor, asking, "Are you celebrating Passover?" Do you think he thinks all Americans are Jews?
I am bewitched, bothered, and bewildered by this interest in things Judaica here in Naples.
In other news...
...nap time.
The other day I said hi to one of the little kids who lives on my street. He really lives on the street. He is always running up and down, with or without ball, with or without older brother, never with parent, sometimes dragging littler sister around. He is about 4 years old. I said, "Hi," and he gave me the finger. I thought that was hilarious (and sad, of course), so imagine my surprise when The Husband got all mad at me for talking to the kid in the first place. I couldn't figure out why he was shouting at me, "Don't talk to those people! You don't know those people, what they say about you to their kids!" He thinks his parents taught him to flip people off. Perhaps. More likely his older brothers, but then again, I really don't know those people and The Husband knows better than I do what is and isn't possible here.
Ya think Berkeley will be different?
Passover is long over, but it is worth recapping a bit here. We all enjoyed my mother's denunciation of the Torah and her discourse on Lillith, Adam, and the missionary position. D's charoset was delicious, and at the risk of tooting my own horn too loudly, my brisket and chicken soup were divine. My mom made chopped liver, all the while exclaiming, "These are the biggest chicken livers I've ever seen. I can't imagine the size of the chickens!" (She and my father call Neapolitan turkey legs "dinosaur legs" because they too are rather oversized). Another nonno neighbor, who always greets La Bimba, but not me, had a full volume conversation with me in the salumeria about Passover when he overheard me asking if they carried matzah (pane azzimo). He wanted to know what The Husband did during Passover (particpated, just like I did during Easter), what La Bimba was (Catholic, Jewish, Italian, American, I said, to which he cried, "Basta! Basta! That's too much!"). Classically, he started the interrogation stating, "Don't get me wrong. I am a big fan of the Jews. I love the Jews," always a red flag (with a little swastika on it?). This same man cornered me in the elevator to ask about the orthodox and then cornered my mother to ask about something else (see, I waited too long and now I can't remember all the details). My mother totally iced him saying, "We are all the same. All equal." THEN he cornered my American gal pal neighbor, asking, "Are you celebrating Passover?" Do you think he thinks all Americans are Jews?
I am bewitched, bothered, and bewildered by this interest in things Judaica here in Naples.
In other news...
...nap time.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Dance Anywhere!
Hey everyone, just a reminder that Dance Anywhere takes place on Friday, April 25th at noon Pacific Time (9pm for us in Italy). Drop what your doing (but not your pants!) and boogie down for a dance party across time zones and the international date line. Don't forget to take a picture or video of your choreography/improvisation/hustle. For details check out the Dance Anywhere website.
More soon...about Passover and my status as Town Jew....
More soon...about Passover and my status as Town Jew....
Monday, April 14, 2008
Coincidence?
Berlusconi is President again and I flushed my keys down the toilet today.
It was an accident. I had the keys in my hand while hurrying to do my business (number one), La Bimba waiting patiently in her stroller. When I got up to press the flusher button above the bowl, the keys just fell out of my hand and into the spiraling waters.
By the time I found the extra set of keys, my keys had resurfaced.
Much like...
Saturday, April 12, 2008
o-RAY-o
That's how you pronounce Oreo in Italian, accent on the second syllable, and these delectable hydrogenated treats are making a comeback here in Italy. Or a "come" -- not sure if they've been here before. I bought a box from the fruit guy on the Corso -- after rejecting his raisins because they had hydrogenated vegetable oil as one of the two ingredients...the other being, thankfully, raisins...do all raisins come with oil? Anyway, the guy, who has long flowing black locks said, "Those are good. I ate a whole one and it gave me a stomach ache." Oh, the sensitive Italian tummy! La Bimba enjoyed the Oreos, though not as much as The Husband did.
The Husband and La Bimba are visiting the relatives WITHOUT ME. Glory days! I have to say, it is a relief to just be free. Of course, within 10 minutes of being free, I realize how lucky I am to be shackled to La Bimba and The Husband. Especially when La Bimba shouts, "Leh loh teloh!" when she sees a police helicopter flying over the gulf on its way to or from a drug bust.
La Bimba is obsessed with Peter Pan, Trilli (Tinkerbell), and Baby Michele (Michael). She runs around screaming, "Peter Pao flies! Baby flies!" So cute.
I hung out in Feltrinelli today, read a couple of essays by Coetzee -- on Gordimer, on Roth. Gordimer was on that talk show on Rai 3 (?) that always features that fabulous maniac La Littizzetto. I was so happy to catch her, hear her South African accent muffled under the blaring Italian translator. I bought La Bimba a "Heidi" book. She really digs the whole barefoot freedom across the Alps thing. So much like her Neapolitan life!
I nonni are in Germany, getting the Baden Baden spa treatments before heading down to Naples for what will be their last southern Italian trip for a long time. We are leaving so soon. I was really sad about it the other day, waxing tearful over a pink bed sheet flapping in the breeze. As I walked along the sea today, an old jogger said, "Ciao bella! Corre con me!" I smiled and kept walking (I don't run. Bad for the knees). My Neapolitan experience, just barely begun and hardly annotated in this blog, is coming to a halt. Not really. As it has been pointed out, I remain under the Neapolitan son. But now it's going to be all about The Husband's confrontation with scent-sensitive, gluten-free, smoke-free, organic, birkenstocking, whole grain, traffic law-abiding, I'm-doing-my-own-thing-spouting Berkeleyans. God, I miss those folks!
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Thanks Easter Bunny!
I am still chomping on the giant chocolate eggs La Bimba received for Easter.
Last night I dreamed a woman in a store? in a hospital? had Pasquetta written on her name tag.
We went to The Husband's sister's house for Easter dinner, a fifty course meal that included fettucine al brodo (pasta made by the nuns), pasta al forno, grilled lamb, veal, pork, ribs, sausage, and wild boar, lamb with peas, various cold cuts and cheeses, hard boiled eggs and ricotta, bread, lettuce and fennel salad, sautéed mushrooms, peppers, ricotta pear cake, mixed pastries (made by the nuns...no I don't know which nuns), wine, Pepsi, many liqueurs including artichoke...are you feeling full yet?
During the blessing of the table (a palm dipped in holy water and then flicked at everyone at the table), we were asked to stand. I had a forkful of fettucine moving toward La Bimba's mouth, so I hesitated a moment. In that moment of hesitation, the father of The Husband's sister's husband, a man of about 78, began to cry and sat back down next to his wife, who had not stood up due to her age (kind of like when my great aunts pleaded elderly so as to avoid sitting on boxes during shivah). I looked at the nonno, then at the nonna, who looked back at me shaking her head, shrugging her shoulders, and rolling her eyes as if to say, "There he goes again. What a putz!" One of the nonno's sons was sitting next to him and didn't give him the time of day. I was sort of paralyzed by the event, and had not yet stood up. Then The Husband nudged me and said, "Alzati" and I realized I should really stand up because otherwise the whole family was going to think I killed Jesus personally. I stood up, I got a drop of holy water in my eye, and then we all sat back down and set to eating. The nonno just whimpered away until a nice piece of grilled lamb was placed in front of him. He seemed better after that.
La Bimba had a blast playing with her cousins, eating chocolate, and finding surprises in the bowels of her cavernous eggs. "Eggies!" she cried every time another one, wrapped in colorful cellophane, came her way. I am already planning for her second birthday in April. La Bimba is nothing if not a party girl.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Special Report
I was stretched out on the sofabed next to La Bimba, reading about binary genders and the heterosexual contract while La Bimba watched Elmo learn how to get ready for school, when it occurred to me that I had not shared one of the jaw-droppingly yowsa Neapolitan stories ever!
The Husband likes to watch a program called Report. It's a news program that devotes each episode to some Italian cultural/political/social/economic lunacy like the southern Italian garbage crisis or slave labor and the Italian fashion industry. Most episodes end as cliffhangers, e.g. did they resolve the garbage crisis? The folks at Report know how important it is to provide follow-up information, if not closure, so they have a section called "Com'è andata a finire?" or "How did it turn out?"
The other evening, The Husband was watching Report and I decided to watch it with him instead of popping in my ear plugs and reading about liminality and communitas. And boy was I psyched that I did! I caught the "Com'è andata a finire?" of an episode first aired in 1999. The story, insomma, is that the Comune di Napoli built a freeway that ends smack in front of a three-story apartment house.
(Insert baffled emoticon here).
(Insert baffled emoticon with smoke coming out of its ears here).
(Insert baffled emoticon with Tickle-Me-Elmo rolling around on the floor hysterically laughing here).
Try to picture it: a stretch of freeway that just drops off, as if for a Mission Impossible 12 car stunt, and right in front of it, eye-level with Tom Cruise's scientological smirk, the third floor apartment of a Neapolitan family.
No way! Si invece!
The comune claimed that they thought the building was unoccupied. How they thought this when the ground floor electronics store was open for business and all the apartments had moms and dads and grandpas and grandmas, aunts, uncles, dogs, living in them, BOH, I can't fathom. So years go by and deals are offered (moving costs, evacuation packages, whatever), and in 2008 we find everyone gone except the businessman, who is just waiting for his money and will then move shop across the street, and an elderly woman, who keeps repeating, "How am I supposed to move if I can't find another house to live in?" The engineers, who looked like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb and Dumber, could only giggle, like Elmo.
BECAUSE IT'S SO ABSURD!
I was just so pleased to discover, once again, that Naples will never EVER cease to amaze me.
You just had to see the view from that third floor window.
Here is the link to the report. If you would like me to translate anything...it'll cost ya.
The Husband likes to watch a program called Report. It's a news program that devotes each episode to some Italian cultural/political/social/economic lunacy like the southern Italian garbage crisis or slave labor and the Italian fashion industry. Most episodes end as cliffhangers, e.g. did they resolve the garbage crisis? The folks at Report know how important it is to provide follow-up information, if not closure, so they have a section called "Com'è andata a finire?" or "How did it turn out?"
The other evening, The Husband was watching Report and I decided to watch it with him instead of popping in my ear plugs and reading about liminality and communitas. And boy was I psyched that I did! I caught the "Com'è andata a finire?" of an episode first aired in 1999. The story, insomma, is that the Comune di Napoli built a freeway that ends smack in front of a three-story apartment house.
(Insert baffled emoticon here).
(Insert baffled emoticon with smoke coming out of its ears here).
(Insert baffled emoticon with Tickle-Me-Elmo rolling around on the floor hysterically laughing here).
Try to picture it: a stretch of freeway that just drops off, as if for a Mission Impossible 12 car stunt, and right in front of it, eye-level with Tom Cruise's scientological smirk, the third floor apartment of a Neapolitan family.
No way! Si invece!
The comune claimed that they thought the building was unoccupied. How they thought this when the ground floor electronics store was open for business and all the apartments had moms and dads and grandpas and grandmas, aunts, uncles, dogs, living in them, BOH, I can't fathom. So years go by and deals are offered (moving costs, evacuation packages, whatever), and in 2008 we find everyone gone except the businessman, who is just waiting for his money and will then move shop across the street, and an elderly woman, who keeps repeating, "How am I supposed to move if I can't find another house to live in?" The engineers, who looked like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb and Dumber, could only giggle, like Elmo.
BECAUSE IT'S SO ABSURD!
I was just so pleased to discover, once again, that Naples will never EVER cease to amaze me.
You just had to see the view from that third floor window.
Here is the link to the report. If you would like me to translate anything...it'll cost ya.
Friday, March 14, 2008
It's SO easy being green!
First of all, a shout out to Madgic! Hey, Madge, I miss you, and now I miss Ed because of your comment!
Second of all, The Husband is the proud owner of a shiny new immigrant visa to the US. Go, Husband! If any of you expats are about to embark on the green card path for your mates, I've got the skinny AND the lowdown on the process, so feel free to ask. We met all sorts of nice people at the consulate, lots of military married to foreigners, and foreigners married to civilians, and some random single people from Spain. The interview consisted of a jovial fellow asking The Husband to hold up his right hand and swear that everything he wrote on his application was the truth. So, that whole Andie MacDowell/Gerard Depardieu movie was just bullshit?
Anyway, we need to celebrate...and right now La Bimba needs her ciuccio, so until next time!
Oh, and I am so pleased that my readers are getting to know each other and sharing best bakery secrets!
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
He's a piece of bread
Lui è un pezzo di pane. This is a great compliment here in Naples, maybe all over Italy, but I wouldn't know anything about the rest of this lovely wacky country. If someone calls you a piece of bread it means you're simple, and being simple is also a compliment. It doesn't mean you're a little slow. Simple like unpretentious. Wholesome like a piece of bread. Given the very large number of bread types in Naples -- palatone, cafone, mezzaluna, sfilatina -- I wonder if each person who is like a piece of bread is like a very specific piece of bread. Like maybe I am hard on the outside and squishy on the inside. Or maybe you are a little sour and flecked with sunflower seeds. Perhaps you are simply round or semi-circular.
I have been having lengthy conversations about Neapolitan gesture these days, and also about Italian grammar, now that our departure date is visibly on the horizon. I see it! Right over there next to that catamaran! The Husband was trying to explain when he chooses to just use words, to use words and gesture, or just use gesture to make a point. He was trying really hard and failing because the decisions are automatic and unconscious. I gleaned from his various chin thrusts, shoulder shrugs, finger pointing, and tongue clucking that sometimes it's about emphasis, sometimes it's about directing a remark to the person looking at you (thus away from those not looking at you), other times it's about being scary, occasionally it's to show great chumminess. I still have so much to learn.
You should hear me throw the subjunctive around these days. I am like an Italian grammar rock star, the Italian grammar lady pope. Penso che sia troppo forte con l'uso del congiuntivo, devo dire la verità.
Comunque, comunque. I am happy to report that the Bay Area offers more than one Italian language play group! I am thrilled that La Bimba will have little compatriots to speak in code with. She has started translating like a fiend -- palla/ball! tree/albero! kiss/NOOOOO! She is going to love all the Berkeley foliage, but she is going to be quite disappointed when she realizes that not every American who passes her on the street is going to stop and marvel. For her, everyone in Naples is some kind of relative. Here she is with her bilingual buddy Tilda.
Don't worry, Bimba! We will find plenty of folks to coo over you. Non ti preoccupare!
Sunday, February 24, 2008
My Bologna has a First Name...
Greetings from Bologna, pretty city, even if it is named after a lunch meat.
La Bimba and I are here visiting our lovely friends V & A in their lovely apartment with 360 degree views of red brick, rooftops, towers, and domes. I nonni are here too, and everything is great except Il Nonno is sick as a dawg. We actually had a doctor make a house call. My first house call! Little black bag and everything. He was great, born and raised in New Jersey, so speaks perfect American, great bedside manner (and was actually beside a bed!), a mentsch. Nonno is feeling better already. What American wouldn't feel good after a house call that cost only 100 euro and antibiotics for only 10 euro?
So, if anyone is ever in need of an English-speaking doctor in Bologna, I've got the guy and would be happy to pass on his name.
I have been storing up stories to blogshare with you. Like the showdown at the park between a mamma and a nonna, and La Bimba's new words like "More!" and "Akka" (acqua), and her marvelous (T)UFFO KALAH, which she says at the sight of any body of water, particularly the tub. Tuffo means dive in Italian. Kalah is her own invention.
Alas, the showdown will have to wait until when my head is not falling onto the keyboard. Buona notte e spero a presto.
La Bimba and I are here visiting our lovely friends V & A in their lovely apartment with 360 degree views of red brick, rooftops, towers, and domes. I nonni are here too, and everything is great except Il Nonno is sick as a dawg. We actually had a doctor make a house call. My first house call! Little black bag and everything. He was great, born and raised in New Jersey, so speaks perfect American, great bedside manner (and was actually beside a bed!), a mentsch. Nonno is feeling better already. What American wouldn't feel good after a house call that cost only 100 euro and antibiotics for only 10 euro?
So, if anyone is ever in need of an English-speaking doctor in Bologna, I've got the guy and would be happy to pass on his name.
I have been storing up stories to blogshare with you. Like the showdown at the park between a mamma and a nonna, and La Bimba's new words like "More!" and "Akka" (acqua), and her marvelous (T)UFFO KALAH, which she says at the sight of any body of water, particularly the tub. Tuffo means dive in Italian. Kalah is her own invention.
Alas, the showdown will have to wait until when my head is not falling onto the keyboard. Buona notte e spero a presto.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Get Set...
...Go!
We went back to the Comune and went straight to the Dirigente (director) as per the suggestion of La Signora (last name Starita, henceforth, La Starita). The Dirigente greeted us nicely and then turned foul. "What are you doing? What am I supposed to do about this? Oh, you were here on Thursday? And you spoke with La Dottoressa (Starita) and Roberto? No one told me you've already been here. They should have resolved this by themselves. What can I do? You, Signora, screwed up when you didn't put your daughter on your residency. You should have known that. Yes, the child follows the mother anagraficamente, follows her residency, but how I am I supposed to know she hasn't been living with the father all this time, hm? And how could you have known to tell the people at the Comune di Chiaia that you had a daughter? They should have asked you. Ah, Roberto, yes come in. Roberto, we shouldn't be arguing about this in front of the public. This is a question of immigration. No, Signora, not in terms of nationality or citizenship, immigration in terms of residency. Yes, I know, the term is used differently in this case. Go downstairs with Roberto. Go. Work this out amongst yourselves. Good-bye."
Got that?
So we follow Roberto, who has a limp and can't run, so wait up! and he sits behind his desk and he moans about the bureaucracy and he asks me which are left and which are right between the democrats and the republicans and do you think they are going to vote for that one with the black face (faccia nera, swear to Gesù) and see here, see this on my computer, this is an American woman born in Newport Beach and here is her son also born in Newport Beach but with residency in Naples because he's my grandson and I didn't want any bureaucratic problems for him so I entered them in the database, così, and where were you born? New York City? Brooklyn? But Brooklyn isn't a city, right? It's a quartiere, so how can you have been born there? I'll put New York, like on your carta d'identità, type type type, here you go, now all three of you have the same residency, the baby is part of your stato di familia, find me a basso to live in in New York, won't you? Ciao!
So, lovely readers, who share my pain over this bureaucratic song and dance, it was all a charade, a cabaret, old chum, all to cover asses. When he felt he could do so without getting chewed out, Roberto simply changed the data in the computer and, Ecco fatto!
The Husband and I uncorked a bottle of prosecco after that vittoria. Whew!
We went back to the Comune and went straight to the Dirigente (director) as per the suggestion of La Signora (last name Starita, henceforth, La Starita). The Dirigente greeted us nicely and then turned foul. "What are you doing? What am I supposed to do about this? Oh, you were here on Thursday? And you spoke with La Dottoressa (Starita) and Roberto? No one told me you've already been here. They should have resolved this by themselves. What can I do? You, Signora, screwed up when you didn't put your daughter on your residency. You should have known that. Yes, the child follows the mother anagraficamente, follows her residency, but how I am I supposed to know she hasn't been living with the father all this time, hm? And how could you have known to tell the people at the Comune di Chiaia that you had a daughter? They should have asked you. Ah, Roberto, yes come in. Roberto, we shouldn't be arguing about this in front of the public. This is a question of immigration. No, Signora, not in terms of nationality or citizenship, immigration in terms of residency. Yes, I know, the term is used differently in this case. Go downstairs with Roberto. Go. Work this out amongst yourselves. Good-bye."
Got that?
So we follow Roberto, who has a limp and can't run, so wait up! and he sits behind his desk and he moans about the bureaucracy and he asks me which are left and which are right between the democrats and the republicans and do you think they are going to vote for that one with the black face (faccia nera, swear to Gesù) and see here, see this on my computer, this is an American woman born in Newport Beach and here is her son also born in Newport Beach but with residency in Naples because he's my grandson and I didn't want any bureaucratic problems for him so I entered them in the database, così, and where were you born? New York City? Brooklyn? But Brooklyn isn't a city, right? It's a quartiere, so how can you have been born there? I'll put New York, like on your carta d'identità, type type type, here you go, now all three of you have the same residency, the baby is part of your stato di familia, find me a basso to live in in New York, won't you? Ciao!
So, lovely readers, who share my pain over this bureaucratic song and dance, it was all a charade, a cabaret, old chum, all to cover asses. When he felt he could do so without getting chewed out, Roberto simply changed the data in the computer and, Ecco fatto!
The Husband and I uncorked a bottle of prosecco after that vittoria. Whew!
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Get ready...
Today we went to the Immigration Office in Via Epomeo in the Soccavo district. We went there because we had received a blue postcard in October, asking us to come. We were invited. I called in October to find out what it was about, what papers we should bring, etc. and the guy on the other end of the line said, "What's it about?" I said that the card didn't specify, so he said, "How should I know? Bring everything you have." This put us off going, of course, and then we went to NYC and then it was Xmas, New Year's, Epiphany, flu season, and so on.
So I coaxed The Husband into going today. Two different gas station attendants pointed us in the correct direction of the office and we still had to turn around and go up a one-way street the wrong way. Nevertheless, we arrived, parked in front of several miraculously empty dumpsters, and went inside. The first man we asked for information from told us to ask someone who knew better. (The Husband had asked him, "You are with the Comune, right?" "Si." Still, he didn't know jackshit). The second man we asked told us to go to the first floor, last door on the left. We took the stairs. At the top of the stairs we saw a door marked Immigration Office, so we went in there. We showed our postcard to a guy seated at a desk in what looked like a recently rented office -- bare and in shambles (not at all recently rented, just bare and in shambles) -- and he said, "I didn't invite you here. Go to the office down the hall on the left." So far, everyone was male, graying or balding, wearing sweater vests, and CRANKY.
At the office at the end of the hall on the left we were met by Roberto, a burly man (graying, sweater vest though of fleece), who said, "Vi voglio bene ma che ci fate qui?" ("I love you, but what are you doing here?"). We showed him the card and he found our file right away. Great sign! Right?
Wrong. After some chitchat about Italy being a fifth world (Robero's words) country in terms of services and first world in terms of taxes, Roberto explained...well, he explained...I mean...he said,
I HAVE NO FRICKIN IDEA WHAT HE SAID! Not because I didn't understand the half-Italian, half-Neapolitan he was speaking, but because he never said anything. After many questions put by me and unanswered by Roberto, a signora came in to help. She was nice and pleasant-looking, but she was no help either. Both Roberto and La Signora were evidently on our side, wanted to help, but their hands were tied because of Le Veline (Roberto's words, remember the TV dancing girls? That's what he calls the two women above him who are responsible for our as-yet-undefined bureaucratic mess). Le Veline were the ones making the mess, not the officials at the Comune di Chiaia (our comune, where La Bimba was born), and certainly not Roberto and La Signora.
I asked very clearly, "What exactly is the problem? Why were we called here? I still don't understand what we are doing here." Finally, as we left the building (with an appointment to return on Monday, so stay tuned), The Husband explained:
I don't know if you, fair readership, gentle, innocent, all-trusting, law-abiding readership will be able to handle this explanation The Husband gave according to the explanation given to him by La Signora.
If you are squeamish about the creative logic of Italians, do not read on. Rent a gory horror flick instead.
Okay. Deep Breath. Here goes.
La Bimba was born in Naples. Her birth was recorded in Naples. She has an Italian passport. The fact that she is my daughter and The Husband's daughter is on record. She is an Italian citizen by birth. However, when she was born, I was still officially a resident of New York. Thus, her birth was recorded as "occasionale" (in bureaucratese this means something like, "oops, an American had a baby on Italian soil"). I did not become an official resident of Naples until 14 months after her birth and since the baby follows the mommy, bureaucratically speaking, the Comune di Chiaia recorded her as having her residence in NY. From the Italian perspective, La Bimba was born in Naples and then took the next Alitalia flight to NY and has lived there ever since. She never "followed me" back to Naples.
What does this mean? It should mean that all we have to do is declare that she lives with us in Naples. Then the Comune will change her residency and basta così. Simple. Logical. A tiny glitch in the bureaucratic chain. But because of Le Veline, according to Roberto and La Signora, we can't do that because Le Veline say that La Bimba has to IMMIGRATE TO ITALY.
I'm sorry, I need to repeat that with the requisite caps.
LA BIMBA IS AN ITALIAN CITIZEN WITH AN ITALIAN PASSPORT AND THERE ARE TWO STRONZE IN THE IMMIGRATION OFFICE IN NAPLES WHO ARE SAYING SHE HAS TO IMMIGRATE TO ITALY.
This is by far and away the apex, the tops, the Coliseum of Italian bureaucratic insanity. I have never heard of anything so jaw-droppingly absurd in my life. I am hoping for a serious shakedown with Le Veline on Monday. I am banking on jumping up and down on their desks, scattering their crumbling files hither and thither, and making such a scene that the crumbling, shabby, everyone-smoking-at-their-desks Comune on Via Epomeo kick back over espressos in tiny plastic cups, the frosted tin foil pieces blowing out the window, and remember the time L'Americana threw a hissy fit in the office of Le Veline.
I'll probably let The Husband do the talking.
We are doing this so that everything is regolare when we leave. Roberto's advice, "Leave now. Go to the US," said only with a hand gesture.
I will miss this, oh yes, very much.
So I coaxed The Husband into going today. Two different gas station attendants pointed us in the correct direction of the office and we still had to turn around and go up a one-way street the wrong way. Nevertheless, we arrived, parked in front of several miraculously empty dumpsters, and went inside. The first man we asked for information from told us to ask someone who knew better. (The Husband had asked him, "You are with the Comune, right?" "Si." Still, he didn't know jackshit). The second man we asked told us to go to the first floor, last door on the left. We took the stairs. At the top of the stairs we saw a door marked Immigration Office, so we went in there. We showed our postcard to a guy seated at a desk in what looked like a recently rented office -- bare and in shambles (not at all recently rented, just bare and in shambles) -- and he said, "I didn't invite you here. Go to the office down the hall on the left." So far, everyone was male, graying or balding, wearing sweater vests, and CRANKY.
At the office at the end of the hall on the left we were met by Roberto, a burly man (graying, sweater vest though of fleece), who said, "Vi voglio bene ma che ci fate qui?" ("I love you, but what are you doing here?"). We showed him the card and he found our file right away. Great sign! Right?
Wrong. After some chitchat about Italy being a fifth world (Robero's words) country in terms of services and first world in terms of taxes, Roberto explained...well, he explained...I mean...he said,
I HAVE NO FRICKIN IDEA WHAT HE SAID! Not because I didn't understand the half-Italian, half-Neapolitan he was speaking, but because he never said anything. After many questions put by me and unanswered by Roberto, a signora came in to help. She was nice and pleasant-looking, but she was no help either. Both Roberto and La Signora were evidently on our side, wanted to help, but their hands were tied because of Le Veline (Roberto's words, remember the TV dancing girls? That's what he calls the two women above him who are responsible for our as-yet-undefined bureaucratic mess). Le Veline were the ones making the mess, not the officials at the Comune di Chiaia (our comune, where La Bimba was born), and certainly not Roberto and La Signora.
I asked very clearly, "What exactly is the problem? Why were we called here? I still don't understand what we are doing here." Finally, as we left the building (with an appointment to return on Monday, so stay tuned), The Husband explained:
I don't know if you, fair readership, gentle, innocent, all-trusting, law-abiding readership will be able to handle this explanation The Husband gave according to the explanation given to him by La Signora.
If you are squeamish about the creative logic of Italians, do not read on. Rent a gory horror flick instead.
Okay. Deep Breath. Here goes.
La Bimba was born in Naples. Her birth was recorded in Naples. She has an Italian passport. The fact that she is my daughter and The Husband's daughter is on record. She is an Italian citizen by birth. However, when she was born, I was still officially a resident of New York. Thus, her birth was recorded as "occasionale" (in bureaucratese this means something like, "oops, an American had a baby on Italian soil"). I did not become an official resident of Naples until 14 months after her birth and since the baby follows the mommy, bureaucratically speaking, the Comune di Chiaia recorded her as having her residence in NY. From the Italian perspective, La Bimba was born in Naples and then took the next Alitalia flight to NY and has lived there ever since. She never "followed me" back to Naples.
What does this mean? It should mean that all we have to do is declare that she lives with us in Naples. Then the Comune will change her residency and basta così. Simple. Logical. A tiny glitch in the bureaucratic chain. But because of Le Veline, according to Roberto and La Signora, we can't do that because Le Veline say that La Bimba has to IMMIGRATE TO ITALY.
I'm sorry, I need to repeat that with the requisite caps.
LA BIMBA IS AN ITALIAN CITIZEN WITH AN ITALIAN PASSPORT AND THERE ARE TWO STRONZE IN THE IMMIGRATION OFFICE IN NAPLES WHO ARE SAYING SHE HAS TO IMMIGRATE TO ITALY.
This is by far and away the apex, the tops, the Coliseum of Italian bureaucratic insanity. I have never heard of anything so jaw-droppingly absurd in my life. I am hoping for a serious shakedown with Le Veline on Monday. I am banking on jumping up and down on their desks, scattering their crumbling files hither and thither, and making such a scene that the crumbling, shabby, everyone-smoking-at-their-desks Comune on Via Epomeo kick back over espressos in tiny plastic cups, the frosted tin foil pieces blowing out the window, and remember the time L'Americana threw a hissy fit in the office of Le Veline.
I'll probably let The Husband do the talking.
We are doing this so that everything is regolare when we leave. Roberto's advice, "Leave now. Go to the US," said only with a hand gesture.
I will miss this, oh yes, very much.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Napologic
Yesterday, The Husband, La Bimba, and I were in the car on our way to Capodimonte to hang out in the sun. Because of the traffic on Via Roma, The Husband decided to go through the Sanità, a Neapolitan neighborhood like no other. People think the Quartieri Spagnoli is deep space Napoli, with its tight vicoli and videogame-speed motorino traffic. But the Sanità is a world apart, a neighborhood lost in time. It's hard to give words to the feeling one gets in the Sanità. You have to take a stroll or a drive through it. Anyay, yesterday was a sunny Sunday and the inhabitants of the Sanità were barbecuing in the square, hanging out the wash, standing around, sweeping their steps. A couple of motorinos driven by 10-year-olds whizzed past. The streets are steep, narrow, and wind up and over the city. Some apartments have amazing views of the Gulf of Naples and the trash-besieged city that curves around it. More than once, a car came toward us along an unmarked one-way street. Sometimes the other car backed up to let us pass, sometimes we hugged a crumbling wall to give way. At one point, The Husband asked a local, an older man who was holding back his young grandson, a cutie pie on a little trike, dying to cruise into oncoming traffic, "Is this a one-way street going up or going down?" The man replied, "It's one-way going up if you're going up and one-way going down if you're going down."
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Free Association
Today La Bimba did not take a nap. Thus, she fell asleep in her high chair in the middle of her dinner of tortellini and veggie meat balls. Why, oh, why didn't I take a picture?
The garbage is piling up in certain spots in Naples, though the real crisis is in the provinces. There is a sad dumpster on Corso Vittorio Emanuele, piled high and overflowing with trash, and at the top, row upon row of wilted friarielli (more or less broccoli rabe), like lifeless bodies in a yet to be covered mass grave. I don't like passing that dumpster on my way home from the sundries shop.
Observation: many, many female academics, at least in the field of performance studies, are named Barbara. I have a good friend here in Naples named Barbara. She is The Husband's ex-girlfriend. I tell you this to show you how evolved I am. La Bimba calls her Ba-Ba. When I lived in San Francisco, I threw a Barbra-Q, a Barbra Streisand-themed barbecue. I had five of her CDs rotating in the player and her films playing on the TV. Great voice, that Babs. But after a few hours, I thought about hurling both the CD player and the VCR out the window onto Cesar Chavez Street.
Observation: many, many female academics, at least in the field of performance studies, are named Barbara. I have a good friend here in Naples named Barbara. She is The Husband's ex-girlfriend. I tell you this to show you how evolved I am. La Bimba calls her Ba-Ba. When I lived in San Francisco, I threw a Barbra-Q, a Barbra Streisand-themed barbecue. I had five of her CDs rotating in the player and her films playing on the TV. Great voice, that Babs. But after a few hours, I thought about hurling both the CD player and the VCR out the window onto Cesar Chavez Street.
Cesar Chavez Street used to be called Army Street. When they were planning to change the name, certain nostalgic? miltaristic? residents put posters in their windows that read, "It will always be Army." If you check a current SF map, you will find that those residents were wrong.
Now that we have but a few months left living in the city by the Gulf, I have promised myself to visit at least one Neapolitan cultural monument every week. So far, La Bimba and I have seen Chinese contemporary art at the PAN (she particularly liked the video of the naked man walking the Great Wall), the wonderful collection from Pompeii and Egypt at the Museo Archeologico Nazionale, and the chiostro at Santa Chiara. We are three for three! I hope we get to the Capodimonte before the Carvaggio-to-Picasso exhibit closes on the 20th of this month.
The Husband turned 41 yesterday. Auguri vecchietto!
Striscia La Notizia, a satirical news program, gives Golden Tapirs (my favorite animal as a child!) to people in the news who are acting like bozos. Today they gave one to the mayor of Naples, Rosa Russo Iervolino, whose voice is eerily reminiscent of the muppet Grover's. She said she was not responsible for the garbage crisis in Naples, that no one listens to her, that the best laid plans keep getting foiled, and that "tutto l'ambiente" is to blame, not one single person. Bozo.
I sing La Bimba to sleep every night (except tonight when the tortellini understudied for me). Since this blog is going to be the way I remember little stories about the little one, I will record her playlist here, adding to it as I remember tunes:
Most Played:
Time After Time (with Eva Cassidy's version in mind)
Fire and Rain, James Taylor
You've Got a Friend, James Taylor
Landslide, Stevie Nicks
Corner of the Sky, Pippin soundtrack (don't laugh!)
I'm Still in Love with You, Steve Earle
If still not asleep, repeating, "yeah, yeah" (her way of saying "again"):
Reason for Waiting, Jethro Tull
Killing Me Softly (with Fugees version in mind)
American Medley: I've Been Working on the Railroad, Home on the Range, Swing Low Sweet Chariot, You Are My Sunshine
Out Here On My Own, Irene Cara
Sing a Song (according to internet, written by Joe Raposo)
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Grazie assai
Just a quick entry to note how much I am enjoying the kindness of the strangers who comment on my blog. It warms the lupini of my heart. Thank you!
Dear New Yorker with Neapolian Husband in the Bronx,
Are you living in the Morris Park area? I just read about it in the Times. Who knows? Perhaps we'll be neighbors?
La Bimba is still sick though seemingly on the mend. Did I mention that she now says GARBAGE? How fitting for the ongoing crisis in Campania.
We haven't been out of the house since New Year's Eve day. I am beginning to lose it. We did get to see The Wizard of Oz in Italian. Lions and Tigers and Panthers?! Why panthers? It doesn't even sing better that way in Italian. Orsi would have worked just as well. We also watched Madagascar in Italian and then again in English. The Husband should be trilingual by now...
Dear New Yorker with Neapolian Husband in the Bronx,
Are you living in the Morris Park area? I just read about it in the Times. Who knows? Perhaps we'll be neighbors?
La Bimba is still sick though seemingly on the mend. Did I mention that she now says GARBAGE? How fitting for the ongoing crisis in Campania.
We haven't been out of the house since New Year's Eve day. I am beginning to lose it. We did get to see The Wizard of Oz in Italian. Lions and Tigers and Panthers?! Why panthers? It doesn't even sing better that way in Italian. Orsi would have worked just as well. We also watched Madagascar in Italian and then again in English. The Husband should be trilingual by now...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
