Rossignoli
This sign stopped me. I grew up hearing the name “Rossignol” in connection with skiis. Here was a cool old bike shop and it had cool old-style bikes inside, plus some swanky, new ones. But no skiis.
I hope they never paint that sign.
Let There Be Light
Knowing absolutely that I need LIGHT coming into my eyes and surrounding me, especially where I’m working, I’ve been adjusting my apartment ever since I got here.
My first attempt was to abandon the loft with its desk, shelves and somber lighting. In July I set up a “morning desk” and an “evening desk”. As it turns out I just used the evening desk because it’s bigger, more comfortable and adjacent to the broadband cable. (Skype doesn’t do as well with a wireless system.) Positioning each table near the windows was a great improvement, and the morning desk is fine for small sorting projects.
But as summer waned and the light stopped flooding in on afternoons, I found myself still a bit sluggish and lacking energy. There’s only so much that Italian caffé can accomplish. Bracing myself for Autumn and Winter, and deciding NOT to move to the brighter apartment nearby, I knew I needed to invest a tad in some lighting, and a few other personalizing touches.
Let there be light! Yes! I trekked to Ikea (it was, indeed, a TREK!) and bought 3 floorlamps. At midnight it can be like broad daylight in here! SUCH a difference to be surrounded by light. I’ve already noticed a difference in my energy, outlook and motivation. I was not about to spend all winter feeling like I was in a dark, little hole. This was a simple and inexpensive solution and makes the place cozy-homey. I’m thrilled.
I also realized that I MUST see OUT the window. I was feeling so enclosed! Some sheer white, textured fabric draped over a spring-loaded shower curtain rod makes a perfect half-height, flat panel. I can see the plants on the neighbor’s balcony across the courtyard path and can even see a dab of blue sky. The light comes in, but people walking by or standing in the courtyard can’t look in. (I’m on the first floor.) And it’s instantly removeable whenever I want to get out to my little balcony.
The main room now looks bright, inviting and conducive to work.
And this is what it looked like when I first moved in, the only light coming from the band of fluorescents over the kitchen.
As part of the settling in, I’m paring down. I’ve gone through the place and removed everything superfluous that came with the apartment that I don’t like or don’t want to use: TV, stereo, cabinets, chairs, mattress, kitchen implements, tchotchkes. They all went up into the loft which is being encircled with a lively black-and-white patterned fabric. I want this place to be mine. If I don’t like it, I don’t want to look at it or devote space to it.
Ahh. I’m ready for winter now.
Out for a Grocery Stroll
After a little afternoon nap, I booted myself out the door for a stroll. It was just after 3:00, the quiet time of the day in the city. A mostly gray sky with a little chill in the air. Nice to head out and wander.
Just two blocks from home, I saw my Fashion Design instructor, Lee, from a year and a half ago. I hadn’t seen her since this summer session and it was nice to chat a bit. As it turns out, she recently moved to just around the corner for me, so we may meet for coffee sometime.
I needed a few groceries, but not much. The Saturday market was likely over, but I headed in that direction anyway, and am glad that I did. There was a stillness, an ease that is certainly not there in the height of the market selling. Many vendors had already left, but the others were slowly putting away their vegetables and fruits, their cheeses, meats and household sundries. They were still just as happy to make one last sale and end the day with a few extra euro in their pockets.
The fennel looked good, and I wanted to take one home with me. No. The minimum was three. “Oh, really? OK fine. Give me three. I’ll take some cherry tomatoes, too.” And of course, he THREW them into a bag. At another stall, the green beans looked fabulous and I wanted one of the two baskets full. He heaped a “fruta e verdura” paper bag with the beans from BOTH baskets, more than I could eat in a month. Fine. I love beans. I’ll eat them every day this week. (I guess they just didn’t want to pack up anything they could possibly send down the road.)
The man that had sold me bresaola the last time I went to this market was there again. I asked for “cento grammi“, 100 grams which he sliced right then, plus some brie. Then I saw a curious, smoked something-or-other, and asked for two. It’s cheese wrapped around prosciutto and olives, with some sort of creamy sauce inside, then smoked. (Front edge of the plate in the photo.)
The flower stall still had a few options, so I bought four colors of fragrant freesia to bring home.
I left the street market and went to the main street. As I approached the grocery store, there was a vendor out front roasting chestnuts. Yes, please! I added a big handful of those to my shopping bag. A few feet away, I spotted Justin, the woman from Kenya that works behind the meat counter at the grocery. She and I have chatted a number of times, and is the biggest reason for me to shop there. Her pleasant manner and conversation make me smile. Inside, I bought a package of cheese crackers that I had discovered when I first arrived four months ago, and some chicken thighs (for which I had big plans).
Next came the Bakery. There was a pizza square with mushrooms, prosciutto, artichoke hearts, sauce and cheese that clamored to come home with me. Plus, I bought a little bun with chunks of green olives. Basta! Plenty! That was enough for one shopping spree.
Along the way home, an elderly woman in a purple jacket stopped me to ask where I had bought the freesia. Unfortunately for her, the market was long over, but we chatted about freesia and tulips and springtime and I was pleased that we could have such a conversation.
And those chicken thighs? I cooked them just like Mom used to when we were kids (60s Americana): dredged in flour with salt and pepper. Browned in (olive) oil, then drowned in water and left to simmer for almost two hours ’til they were falling-off-the-bones tender. The chicken produced the classic gravy I was looking for and was ladled over (brown) rice, served with a few of those many green beans.
It was a simple afternoon, really. Just buying a few groceries. But the fact that I see familiar faces while out-and-about-town, and can just chat with people means the world to me. These are first steps toward being IN this community even if only in a small way.
I Bought a Branzino!
Nope. It’s not a Vespa-type scooter or a little car. It’s a little fish.
A couple of months ago, while at the Saturday market, I was overwhelmed by the seafood choices I had no familiarity with. No halibut, salmon or rock cod here. There was fish I knew nothing about except for a couple I had ordered from menus: orata and branzino. “But what do I do with it?” Besides. I had neither a filet knife nor knife sharpener, so I was ill-prepared.
Having just returned from a visit to Seattle this week, (filet knife and EZE-Lap sharpener in hand), hankerin’ for fish*, and doing a “fast stroll” near the Naviglio Grande (the big canal) I found a street-side fish market in my path. “Uno branzino”, I said to the guy. He wrapped it up. I paid 4 Euro, 6 bucks. I threw it in my bag and went on to shop for fabric. (Fabric and fish in the same bag? Hmm.)
(*By the way, can one ” have a hankerin’ ” in Italy. I’m not sure the translation works.)
Saturday evening. Canal-side. The place was lively with people strolling at a slow pace. Here I was, trying to keep my usual 4.5 mile-per-hour Indian Trail pace. (Fat chance, Maureen. Take it easy! Relax for once.) Maybe that’s something Italy will teach me: how to stroll properly, without being “on a mission”.
At 7:00, I stepped into the little fabric store NOT like those in the U.S.! Dark, jammed floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall, and much of it had probably been there a long time. I was looking for, and found, fabric for a baby quilt. (Just try buying quilting supplies in Italian!) I left moments before they closed at 7:30.
It was the first time in 4 months I had gone out in public wearing blue jeans (!) and tennis shoes (not quite blinding white). I had been cleaning all day and felt like being comfy. At 8:00 in the evening, sleeveless, it was muggy enough that I was working up a sticky sweat. (All the more reason to slow down.) Most everyone else was either paired up or on-the-make, so blue jeans and tennis shoes never entered their minds, I’m sure!
Meanwhile, I had a scantily-wrapped branzino in my bag with baby quilt fabric, so I figured I’d better hustle to the grocery store, buy whatever else I needed, and get home and cook!
I hadn’t noticed at the fish stall that the fish had not been gutted. No problem. I’ve gutted many a fish in my day. And I found out that branzino, (which is actually a European Seabass), has a pretty wicked, spiny dorsal fin! A pair of scissors made short work of those half dozen thorns.
Based on it’s size, roughly 11″ stem-to-stern, I figured I could cook a branzino much like a nice-sized rainbow trout. Flour, salt, pepper, mixed herbs…and since I had just been in Seattle, I threw in some of Chef Tom Douglas’ Salmon Rub (Brown Sugar, Paprika and thyme). A little extra virgin in my new grill pan, crank up the heat and throw on the fish. Veggies searing in the pan next door promised a lovely dinner.
(By the way, note the pan in the upper left. I’ve boiled water for coffee twice and that’s the amount of white, calcium build-up that occurs! I have to scrub the pan hard every day.)
Ahh. The smell of fish cooking with oil. One would think it’s a good time to open the windows, especially on a muggy night! No way! I wouldn’t sleep all night; the mosquitos would eat me alive. I opted for the fishy smell and a good night’s sleep.
“Mr. Branzino” cooked for about 20 minutes or so. Perfection. A glass of Grillo from Sicilia, a couple slices of cornmeal bread and at 9:30 I was ready to eat. Note that the branzino is served up right alongside my Mac, my updated to-do list, the utility bill from the landlady, a job ticket, trip receipts and hardware warranty info.
Delicately flavored. White. Moist. Cooked perfectly. Mmm. In trout fashion, I lifted the tail and peeled the spine and upper half away from the lower. I didn’t eat the skin because trying to scale the fish earlier had been making more of a mess than necessary, so I simply lifted the fish flakes away from the skin and gobbled them. Then I flipped the other half, easily lifted the skeleton and enjoyed the rest of the fish. What a delicious meal!
FROM WIKIPEDIA:
The European seabass, Dicentrarchus labrax, also known as Morone labrax, is a primarily ocean-going fish that sometimes enters brackish and fresh water. It is also known as the sea dace. As a food fish, it is often marketed as mediterranean seabass, bronzini or branzini(“branzino” is the name of the fish in Northern Italy; in other parts of the country it is called “spigola” or “ragno”). In Spain, it is called “lubina”. It has silver sides and a white belly. Juvenile fish maintain black spots on the back and sides, a feature that can create confusion with Dicentrarchus punctatus. This fish’s operculum is serrated and spined. It can grow to a total length of over 1 m (3.3 ft) and 15 kg of weight.
Its habitats include estuaries, lagoons, coastal waters and rivers. It is found in the waters in and around Europe, including the eastern Atlantic Ocean (from Norway to Senegal), the Mediterranean Sea and the Black Sea.
It is mostly a night hunter, feeding on small fish, polychaetes, cephalopods and crustaceans.
The fish has come under increasing pressure from commercial fishing and has recently become the focus in the United Kingdom of a conservation effort by recreational anglers. In Italy the seabass is subject of intensive breeding in salt waters.
The Stress of Grocery Shopping
I’m not joking when I say that one of my consistent sources of stress here is in grocery shopping. It’s easy to take for granted the comfort of knowing WHAT I’m shopping for and HOW to shop for it. And when I don’t know those two things there’s an absolute and certain anxiety aroused. That may sound ridiculous, but it’s true.
It’s one thing to shop at the grocery store. I’ve greatly improved in that realm. At least there are labels and I can pick up the items to read and figure out what I’m looking at, what to do with it and whether I want it. I’ve gotten better at discerning ingredients listed in Italian, and labels these days often feature a photo which gives a hint of ingredients and serving suggestions.
Someone finally told me how to order my favorite, bresaola. It’s not ordered from the meat counter by the slice, it’s ordered by the gram. OK. Fine. But how many grams do I need? I was raised with ounces and pounds. How big of a pile of paper thin bresaola would 100 grams amount to? As it turns out, 80 to 100 grams is about right for me to order, and I now know what it amounts to. I can order bresaola and prosciutto with the rest of them and not sound completely like I’m from outer space.
In the produce department, it’s absolutely forbidden to handle the fruit and veggies with bare hands. There’s a ritual in buying produce and I had to learn that first thing! I go to the little stand to get my wispy thin plastic gloves. THEN I select my fruit and put it in a plastic bag. THEN I make note of the code number for my item and take it to the scale. I punch in the code and the machine spits out a UPC label. Very simple. But if someone hadn’t told me about that, or if I forget and get up to the checkout stand with unmarked produce, heaven help me!
There are handy tote-along plastic bins on wheels at the entrance to the store. Pretty handy because I usually don’t need a big cart. They have a compact “footprint” and are pretty deep. Therein lies the problem. The produce is at the entrance to the store. I go in, get my tomatoes, peaches, plums, rucola and other delicate, soft fruits and vegetables and put them in my bin. As I continue shopping for yogurt, milk, cheese, wine, bottled water, the heavy things either get piled on top of the fragile things, or I have to constantly shuffle the contents in my cart to put the heaviest at the bottom. I could get my cart, walk immediately to the end of the store, shop in reverse, end in the produce department, then walk back to the cashier at the opposite side of the store. I suppose I could try that and see how it goes.
Then there’s the checkout! This is when I need heaven to help me. I think the checkout stand at the grocery store is the epitome example of Italian speed-demon impatience. I walk up and stand in line with “all the other Italians” (ha ha ha). When it’s my turn, I empty my cart onto the conveyor belt trying to get the heaviest items out from the bottom of the pile and put them on the belt first. The cashier asks me if I want a bag and if I do its extra cost gets added to the tab. (Take note, Seattle.) Well-trained, I always have my own bags, so I say “no”. While I’m still unloading my little cart, my grocery items are flying out the other end and rolling down on top of each other into a big pile. Believe me, I unload as fast as I can so I can immediately start loading up my bags as fast as I can. Invariably, the cashier finishes the race before I do, there’s a line of people waiting, my total is rattled quickly in Italian (I’m getting better all the time at hearing and understanding euro totals), I don’t have my reading glasses on, I can’t see the still-unfamiliar coins to know their denominations, and I haven’t even finished loading up my groceries! It would almost be funny if it weren’t so anxiety-producing!
I’m always glad to get out of the grocery store.
Ahh. Then there’s the Saturday Market I discovered for the first time today. Open air. Lovely, end-of-summer weather. Picture-perfect produce, meats, seafood, cheeses, breads and sundries. This market makes Seattle’s Pike Place Market look like nothing. (Really. Sorry, but it’s true.) Everything is arrayed so beautifully, all so artful. I shot photos for the first hour or so. All so gorgeous.Idyllic, right?
Then it was time to shop. Uh oh. Trouble. New rules here. No labels. No handling the products to investigate. And it wasn’t clear what the buying process was. Who do I talk to and when is it my turn?
After wandering around dazed and afraid for a while, I got bold. What I wanted was simple and recognizable: tomatoes on the vine, fresh figs, prunes, green beans, onions. I told the guy at the front, but then he told me I had to go off to the side to pay for it first. OK. But when standing in line, I watched them fill bags with other people’s orders. They take this beautifully displayed fruit and THROW it into a paper bag! There go those nice tomatoes, those ripe peaches, those soft, fresh figs. After watching this for a couple of minutes, I walked away, telling the guy I decided not to buy any. After having been a farmer for so many years, I just can’t bring myself to buy fruit and veggies from someone that is throwing my food. And I don’t get to select it myself, so don’t know until I get home that the figs are overripe and smashed open, the tomatoes punctured and the prunes bruised. Let alone not yet having the vocabulary to tell them I want just one vine of tomatoes, not a whole basket, etc. When they don’t allow us to pick up the food, I don’t have the opportunity to select 4 nice tomatoes and gently place them in a bag to be coddled during my walk home.
Yearning for good seafood, I found the fish booths down at the very end of the street. (Maybe other vendors don’t like the smell at the end of a hot day so the fish vendors are ostracized.) But I don’t recognize any of the fish, (only the shrimp, octopus and squid). I don’t have a good filet knife in the apartment and I don’t know the flavors of what’s in front of me. (Is it strong and “fishy”?) By this time I was feeling paralysis rather than excitement, so I ordered what the little old lady in front of me ordered: fresh shrimp. I can deal with that for now. I guess that, next time, I’ll just buy myself a fish, drag it home, throw it on the fire and see what it tastes like. (And maybe I should pick up a good filet knife in the meantime!)
I must say that the cheese displays were beyond belief and I finally stopped at one on the side street, not the main drag of the market. This little shop was extensive and more personable and homey. I asked the cheesemonger “which one should I try?” He replied “all of them!”, and we both laughed. He gave me a little sliver of a soft cheese, but it was more mild than I had in mind. He had a huge round of pecorino with several bands of black peppercorns through its middle. He gave me a sliver of that one, and it had power to it. I bought the small wedge that had been sitting waiting for me. He weighed it and said it was 2,40. “2,40?”, I asked, wanting to make sure I heard correctly. “Yes, dear” he said in Italian, and he waited patiently while I squinted at my coins to count out change. I decided, then, to have him slice some bresaola, too.
Synonyms, Language & Grocery Shopping
Sweet or Savory? Based on appearances, these little cracker/cookies could have gone either way. Unfortunately, I was in the mood for a little, sweet cookie, so my stomach overruled my mind.
Wandering around the grocery store, of course all the labels and packages are in Italian. How do I know what I’m looking at and am about to buy? Word derivations and synonyms! Every trip to the grocery store requires “pattern recognition” and a willingness to be exploratory with language.
Take this label for instance… (I should have read it more closely at the store, but like I said, I WANTED these to be sweet!)
The following is a reenactment of the mental hoops I jumped through when reading the ingredient list on this cracker label:
Fette – I had just learned that word so I could order bresaola. It means SLICES.
Pane – Like pan, in Spanish, it means BREAD.
Croccante – Kinda sounds like CRACKER, doesn’t it?
Semi – Semilla, in Spanish, means SEED
Zucca – Like zucchini… must mean some sort of squash, and I see PUMPKIN SEEDS.
Farina – Isn’t that what “Cream of Wheat” is called? OK. Ground grain. FLOUR.
Frumento – Who knows. Skip that one.
Formaggio – I know that one well: CHEESE
Emmental – Hey, it’s EMMENTALER CHEESE, with milk, salt and something, something.
Semi di Zucca – There’re the pumpkin seeds again, 8%.
Semi di Girasole – Sole is sun, and I see SUNFLOWER SEEDS.
Semi di Lino – Lino is linen. Linen comes from flax. Ahh! FLAX SEEDS!
Sesamo – Whew. An easy one. SESAME SEEDS.
Sale Marino – Sale is salt. Marino is marine. Easy. SEA SALT.
Agente Lievintante – Looks like “levitating” to me. OK. LEAVENING AGENT.
Bicarbonato di Sodio – Easy again. BICARBONATE OF SODA (BAKING SODA)
Estratto di Malto d’orzo – EXTRACT OF ORZO MALT (Whatever that is.)
Pasta Acica (Farina di Segala) – More flour of some sort, but it’s so far down the list that it’s a minor ingredient.
No where did I read the ingredient Zucchero – SUGAR! Like I said, I was trying to convince myself that these were sweet and ignored all evidence to the contrary. Upon getting these home, I was surprised to taste a snappy, stout, seeded cracker with a hard toasted cheese layer on top. Likely one of my new favorites, but NOT when I’m looking for dessert!
A Phone in Italian
There’s nothing like buying a new cell phone, in Italy. Just shopping for one was hard enough without a language in common with the sales person. Now I’ve bought one and the manual is in Italian and the phone is in Italian! Setting it up is a trick. My reading comprehension is pretty good, but this is a very specific vocabulary.
… so I just downloaded the manual in English. Some things I just don’t want to challenge me!
It was bad enough when, for “fun” I switched my iPhone to Italian and THAT phone I know!
Now and then I do need a break from the challenge. Maybe the intensity has added to my sleepiness. Maybe it’s not all jet lag!
(So, I didn’t go back to Mr. Impatient. I went to a bigger store. They actually let me handle the phones AND pick my phone number! I got a quad-band so I can use it in the States or anywhere else, when traveling.)
Language and Shopping
The most complicated thing I’ve (tried to) shop for is an Italian cell phone. It’d be easy to simply get any old cheap phone, just something that’ll make and take calls, and do SMS… But I’m a tech junkie. I want a nice interface and good design. I want bluetooth. If it’s going to have a camera, it might as well be higher-res than low. How big are the numbers? Can I read them without my glasses? All of those things are easy to decide on without speaking, and by just looking at the tech summary posted, but asking the young, impatient, non-enunciating guy about the pros and cons of dual-band vs. tri-band and its potential use in the U.S…. Ha! Do I pay the higher price so I can use it when I’m back in Seattle for short visits? Hmm. He wouldn’t let me handle the phone much to check out it’s product design. And asking him about the rechargeability and interchangeablity of the SIM card in my very limited Italian and his non-existent English made me just cut the visit short. I bought a SIM card to get started with a borrowed phone, and I’ll figure the rest out later. At least now, back at home, I can review the tech specs online, then go back forearmed with information. (And besides, it’s hard to shop when I’m hot, tired and feeling stretched!)
Ferramenta
I also needed to buy a few screws so I can repair the hinge on my kitchen cabinet door. I removed the old ones, put them in with my coins and carried them around with me. When at the student bookstore at NABA, I said to Paolo, in Italian “where can I buy some of these?” I didn’t even have to know what screws are called in Italian! He told me to look for the Ferramenta on San Gottardo. Shopping on San Gottardo today, I couldn’t remember the term “ferramenta”, so I tried the same trick after walking into a little store that sells clocks. The Ferramenta was just a block away. Very cool! Floor to ceiling bins of fixtures, attachments, handles, screws, small hand tools, and other metal hardware. That’s all the guy sells. Again, I just pulled the screws out of my coinpurse and showed them to him. A little crude Italian spoken by me, a flurry of Italian from him. He pulled 8 screws out of a bin, tore a page out of a magazine and wrapped the screws then taped the little package closed. Cost: 30 centessimi, about 45 cents, and he allowed me to shoot a couple of pictures of him and his many bins.
Electrical Components
Or there’s the question of power and electrical plugs. Some things are dual-voltage and just need different prongs. Some need voltage conversion. Others should have both of the above plus a surge protector, like my laptop. Figure all that out, and get recommendations when you don’t speak the language! The guys in the Mac department at the big store near the duomo were moderately helpful, and I checked out what kind of surge protector they use on their display machines. But the simple plug converters like I had ordered last year from a company in the U.S. were tough to find… Until, also on San Gottardo, I walked past a little hole-in-the-wall store that just sells electrical components. He had exactly what I needed and I bought 3 of them for about 1,50 Euro each.
I like these little, highly specialized shops! And the proprietors know exactly what they’re selling.
Gisella
Gisella, from Sicily, is a pleasure to be greeted by. I stepped into her bakery yesterday, then went back today. She’s more than happy to tell me about her different breads and foods. And one, her food was good. Two, her friendly warmth will make her a pleasant part of my regular community within the neighborhood around my home. She was very patient and accommodating with my limited Italian and I want a good bakery. She’s got bread loaves, sweets and some lunch/dinner items prepared by her Mom.
Permesso
I went to the post office yesterday to gather up the paperwork for my “Permesso di Soggiorno”, “Permit to Stay”. The women in the office at NABA were invaluable for giving me pointers for filling out the paperwork and telling me where to get the pieces I needed. All those things in hand, I returned to the post office today to submit my formal application. I was there for about 20 minutes, and they clarified a few things here and there, but in the end, they gave a quite forceful stamp on all my papers and handed me the infamous “receipt”, which shows that I’ve jumped through that hoop. Now I wait for final papers.
All of these things I’m doing without carrying around and Italian-English dictionary. My stumbling Italian, for the most part has been enough to get me by. I generally walk out the door with what I need.