Hey, kid! Wanna be a star?
My, I’m just a postin’ fool today. So, have you seen myheritage.com ?
This site has a facial recognition program through which you can check your mug against a big list of celebrities. The celebrities with the highest percentage of matching measurements, based on your uploaded photo, are presented...and you can, well, waste a bunch of time, dream of stardom and amuse yourself.
You do have to sign up for an account but I guess it’s worth it to find out that you bear a striking resemblance to Chuck Yeager and Elijah Wood...www.myheritage.com
The Never Ending Laundry Saga
I don’t have a clothes dryer. Before you drop in disbelief, I want to let you know that not many people do here. Power is very expensive and dryers tend to suck up a great deal. They also throw off heat, shrink your clothes and dramatically cut the lifespan of every piece of cotton you own. Are you convinced to live without one yet? Yah, neither am I. The truth is, if you really want your dolce vita bubble burst, is that behind every quaint photo of fluttering white linen over a quiet Italian lane, is somebody busting their hump in a never-ending cycle (no pun intended) of washing, carrying, hanging, picking up and rewashing ‘cause it got dirty when someone forgot to put enough clothespins on, checking to see if they’re dry, sniffing for freshness, taking in, piling in the corner in hopes that the elusive creature known as the Ironing Fairy will come and take pity on you and finally, realizing that she hates you and has vowed never to darken your door again after the last time, ironing everything yourself.
Aside ~Thankfully, I can iron in front of Cerberus. Yes, I named the air conditioner.~
I find laundry here to be an exercise in patience. European front loading-washers take forever to finish. It’s frustrating when you just want to have it done with.
I do miss my dryer. I have a big history with dryers. When I was small, we had an industrial dryer for the motel. It was into this gargantuan lovely, my brother and I decided that I would go after a particularly good rainstorm. I thought it efficient, I could dry my hair and clothes at the same time and, as an added bonus, check to see if I “Pink Panthered” afterwards. Sadly, my Mom stopped the experiment before we could find out.
In our Canadian winter, the most coveted spot in the yard was the dryer vent by the backdoor. Frozen mittens could be thawed, toes warmed. It smelt amazing. Clean and warm. Comforting. I can see through the basement window, my Dad’s shadow folding never-ending sheets with strong arms. Dryers are home.But, I must admit, early yesterday morning before the heat came, when it was quiet and the door to the balcony was open, I could hear my white, fresh-smelling sheets fluttering and billowing. I went to take them in - my standards over the field, my flags without colours. And as I folded them, it occurred to me that they were, in a roundabout way, white sails bringing me home.
Scusi, non parlo Italiano molto bene. Your Fiat is parked on my foot.
I really love learning Italian. It’s hard, don’t get me wrong. I’m definitely not sailing through and magically acquiring fluency like in the classic, brainy heroine with a broken heart and/or bad fashion sense moves to a foreign country and transforms into a confident, beautiful, well-dressed picture of charm and elegance kind of way.
~Have you seen those movies? Fabulous, all of them. Usually, smiling locals only have to provide a chic outfit and a haircut and then our heroine is a new woman. I am such a sucker for transformation flicks.~
Some days, like today, I really wish that I had a Matrix-style jack chip that I could just plug in to my bella-cerebellum and be able to discuss Dante and the finer points of Italian Design and Art and perhaps even talk coherently to my butcher. But alas, not gonna happen. I actually need to work at this. Damn.
Yet, with this realization of the coming hard slogs over grammar texts, lives hope. One day I will begin to dream in Italian – I have been told that this comes along after you reach a certain stage in a language where you are more comfortable and have some vocabulary and skill. When this night comes, I will be extremely happy. Shocked and happy. And the next morning, I’m going to get my hair done, buy some new clothes and go stand in line at the butcher’s.
Just an Average Sunday Night in Italy - Bedlam, Chaos, Pure Unadulterated Joy
Wow. Italy won the World Cup last night. And How. A 1-1 Tie with a brilliant, fading French team looking for last glories and an unexpectedly cohesive, earnest Italian team looking for redemption from a match fixing scandal that has shaken the hearts of the country. It came down to a penalty shoot-out, apparently a skill Italy is not known for, and the Italians pulled it off 5-3. It was quiet in my town for, oh I don’t know, about a second, and then everything erupted.
I must say that I am not a huge soccer fan. I don’t follow regular games and I don’t know the songs, but I do like the World Cup. Maybe it’s because it’s special – coming along only every four years and maybe because it illustrates the Europeans so well. Coming from Canada, I find the devotion foreign but then I think of hockey and I understand. It’s a need to be a part of something. As expats, sometimes we feel disconnected and foreign and alone. Being a part of something is not a bad thing.
So, we walked into town and felt like we were a part of it.
Everyone was headed for the central piazza singing and waving. Parents pushed sleeping babies in prams and led kids so excited you could see that they were vibrating under their red, white and green I-am-untouchable-and-will-remember-this-forever capes. Grandmothers with flags on their walkers. Everyone dancing. Pure Happiness. It doesn’t matter where it comes from or if it’s soccer or hockey and if you know the offside rule, or can sing the songs. What does matter is that it is contagious and sometimes in these days, much needed.
I didn’t sleep so well, what with the horns and the fireworks and the screaming and everything. But I really don't care - it was totally worth it.
It's not often you get to witness across-the-board, unadulterated joy.
Life in Dante’s Inferno, I mean Italy.
Well, I broke down and bought an air conditioner. After hours and hours of proselytizing to myself about how I needed to experience the culture and get to know how things were really done here in Italy – I totally caved after not sleeping well for about two weeks. When I did sleep, I dreamt of Dante’s Inferno, in particular the Epicurean section of circle six. Don't ask.
Waking up in a feverish sweat every hour is exhausting and I admit it – I can’t take it. I also got a little nervous when one of our friends here insisted that it will get hotter and that 34 degrees Celsius is rather pleasant. So I have come to accept that physically, I’m a Canadian through and through.
Therefore, yesterday into my home came the lovely Duracraft AMD-50E portable air conditioner. It’s a little noisy yes, but within an hour or two I felt like it was springtime in the Rockies. It has wheels so I am thinking about converting it into a transportation device – perhaps adding a bubble like il Papa, a fashionable hooey-hooey sunshade and a flame job. Actually, I think I might add the flame job anyway.
