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!

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!

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.

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.

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....

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...

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!