To Southern Italians, Rome is an occupying force whose goal is to rob them of all their autonomy and power and redistribute it into the hands of Northern Italians.
Either way you look at it, it's nice to be Rome.
To Northern Italians, Rome is an occupying force whose goal is to rob them of all their hard-earned money and redistribute it to Southern Italians.
To Southern Italians, Rome is an occupying force whose goal is to rob them of all their autonomy and power and redistribute it into the hands of Northern Italians. Either way you look at it, it's nice to be Rome.
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Like planets orbiting in space, there are times of year when Americans and Italians come closer to one another, and times of year when they are farther apart.
In winter the distance is at the maximum. The Italian in Winter bears little to no resemblance to an American at any time of year. What the Italian in Winter does resemble is a nineteenth-century British convalescent from a Henry James novel. You thought you would only read such things in books, and instead you hear them coming out of the mouth of an otherwise cooler-than-you twenty-six-year-old. "I'm going to the seaside," he says, "to take the air. I caught a chill from going around last week with inadequate socks." Yes, in winter, the Italian must wear adequate socks. And a shirt, undershirt, sweater, and scarf. If not, he might catch a chill, obliging him to go and take the air by the seaside or the lakes, palm-tree-lined microclimates smiled upon by the gods and protected from the north winds by the friendly Alps (we won't mention what the gods did to Western New York). Once there, the IiW strolls the beach in his socks and shoes, orders coffee and focaccia at the bar, and sleeps in a cheap and immaculate residence, democratically priced so that no one is excluded from the medicinal benefits of sea air. Nota bene: when it comes to skiing, absolutely none of this applies. You can take all the hits of air in the world with no risk of sinusitis pneumonia as long as you are wearing skis. More magic from... #theitalianinwinter Life is harder in Italy. Italians face problems that Americans will never face. For example, an Italian may well have to wonder where their next pure wool-silk blend sleeveless undershirt will come from. Americans don't have to worry about things like that.
Luckily, neither do Italians. Obviously all the supermarkets carry them. Right next to the toilet paper. At a seasonally discounted price. Life is simpler in America. There are many problems that plague Italians that we will never have to deal with. These are called Italian Person Problems. Here's one that happened to me today:
I was ordering groceries for delivery online (you can take the girl out of America...), and suddenly the following message popped up on my screen (in Italian of course): "Dear Sir or Madame: the raspberries you wish to order may not have been grown in Italy, or they may have been grown in Italy but packaged outside of Italy. They may have been grown or packaged in one of the following countries: Spain, Portugal. Please confirm that you agree to receive raspberries from any of these three countries. If you prefer not to agree, we will ship you Italian-only raspberries once they become available." ...AGREE! Italian Person Problems. In America, we have to tell people not to go to restaurants or out shopping while they are naked and shoeless: In Italy, people wear shoes when they go out to eat. But they do need to be told not to bring their dogs into church: If they are not told, THIS happens: And in the worst case scenario, THIS happens: The sign says:
"It's not that we have a problem with dogs, but we cannot continue to allow what has already happened too many times: that they come to 'mark their territory' next to the Altar of Our Lady. WE ARE OBLIGED TO FORBID ENTRANCE TO PERSONS WITH DOGS. Otherwise, we will have to block off the windows in the morning, as well, and people will be forced to pray from the atrium." Ruff love. In America, the Mafia means organised crime.
In Italy, the Mafia means your workplace environment. Here is a conversation with an Old Italian Person that happened last week, when, out of curiosity, I knocked at the door of a tiny, completely unmarked storefront:
Old Italian Person: Yes, can I help you? Self: I don't know, actually, I just wanted to know what this place is. Since there's no sign. OIP: Seamstress (indicates - no joke - a 1930s Singer mechanical sewing machine with push-pedal). Self: Oh. Then actually yes (takes jacket off husband that we have been meaning to have fixed for two years). But why don't you have any sign? We thought you were a florist with all the plants. OIP: If I put out a sign I'll get too much business. Too many people find me as it is. I'd be in here all day! And we wouldn't want that. |
AuthorI'm an American living in Italy and making gross generalizations about it. Categories
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