Show me your culture and I'll show you mine

My boyfriend is Albanian. That is to say he was born in Albania and lived there until the age of 14, when he came to Italy. But he often says he doesn't feel Albanian, having done a lot of his growing up here in Italy. To his parents, who still live there he was, is, and always will be Albanian. That is to say, amongst other things, he must respect his culture and his family's will and meet and marry an Albanian girl who is muslim and from near his ancestral home, preferably before the age of 27. Before meeting and marrying that girl he must not have other relationships.

So it was with a heavy heart that he returned to Albania this summer holiday to stay with his parents and break the news that he was living in sin with a girl who wasn't muslim, Albanian, or even necessarily a prospective wife. Oh, and that he'd kept it from them for a year. Trooper that he is he broke the news, and it went down as well as a lead balloon might be expected. I didn't bother asking for the gory details on his return, but he assured me that they would get used to the idea 'in time'. And now? 'My mum is worried that we'll have children and then you'll run off and leave me with them'. Why? 'Because you're foreign and don't want to be a housewife'. Oh. So we're talking that sort of time to get used to the idea then.

Just recently E's Uncle, who has been in Italy for some years, has been joined by his family who had been waiting for the processing of documents to come over from Albania. In a transparent (but nice nonetheless) effort to make up for the fact that his parents think I am a child-hating witch I was bundled in the car to go and be introduced to this leg of more distant (and liberal) family. On arrival I shook hands with the wife and sons and was shown to a chair where I sat with a fixed smile on my face for a while they spoke in Albanian for a while. Then I was asked if I liked honey. 'Yes' I responded, eager to please, and a dish of honey with two spoons was brought out for me and E. 'Um, how am I supposed to eat this?' I muttered to E. He then translated my question into Albanian and everyone laughed. Almost a year to the day from when I arrived in Italy, I never would have predicted I'd end up eating honey from a bowl with my Albanian boyfriend whilst a roomful of his family watched us intently.

The eldest cousin is 18 and has been taken under E's wing immediately at the pizzeria. He doesn't speak much Italian yet and is almost painfully shy so E has taken it upon himself to be his official facilitator into the Italian Life. We went out for a shisha and had a mint tea, and he politely declined the shisha after two puffs and didn't drink any more tea, saying his stomach wasn't used to such things. He was bowled over when a girl came into the pizzeria with some facial piercings and couldn't stop staring. He was wowed when we went home via Via Salaria, a notorious Rome red light district. 'Look Toni' exclaimed E 'prostitutes!' and proceded to honk his horn at them enthusiastically ('oh for god's sake, stop showing off' I muttered at this point). The cousin reminds me a little bit of how I was this time last year- an almost silent participator in events that I was overwhelmed by; so overwhelmed that despite loving every minute of living them I was eqaully eager for them to be over so I could rest my tired brain and try to digest some of the things that had happened. I think it's going to be an interesting few months, and I'll make sure to keep you updated on the Albanian chapter of this saga.

Battle at the Bidet

I am as baffled as the next non mediterrean-born person about the many varied and exotic uses for the bidet. I'm not really that interested either, I try not to go near the thing; to me it's just a big useless hair and dust-collecting lump of white porcelain taking up unnecessary space in our tiny house. However, it has become a bit of a bone of contention between my boyfriend and I. Here's what happens every night at the precise moment that I slide myself into bed and am about to rest my head on the pillow:

Him: Have you washed your feet?
Me (rather too quickly): Yes
Him: You haven't, I know (starts moving to inspect nearest foot)
Me: (jerking my foot away and whining in tone of 5-year-old) But I don't want to wash my feet
Him: But you should (grabs foot)- look, it's black on the bottom
Me: It's just a bit of dust. Let me go to sleep for god's sake
Him: You can't go to sleep with feet like this, go and wash them in the bidet
Me: Fine, I'll do it if you let me go to bloody sleep afterwards (stomp to the bidet, insert foot and run water over it)
Him (appearing at the door): You're not doing it properly, you need to scrub them too
Me: (theatrical sigh) I can't reach, you'll have to do it (sit on toilet, cross arms in petulant manner and leave foot in bidet where he scrubs with flannel. Wonder if it is right that feet-washing has become the main source of discord in our relationship)

Is this normal behaviour for bidet pros? I am currently losing this battle at the bidet because some time ago I foolishly admitted that I was a bidet novice and this has been used as ammunation against me ever since. Because obviously only a non bidet-educated ignoramus would try to suggest that if they wanted to wash their feet of an evening they would be able to find several other sources of water in the average bathroom without having to resort to the white elephant over there in the corner.

With a stink under their noses

Recent happenings have taken me to Foligno, Umbria, and I spent some hours wandering it's streets yesterday morning. It's a small city, and it is beautiful, really totally beautiful. On every corner there seems to be a perfectly preserved ancient church and the smallest cobbled sidestreets will lead you out into wide smart piazzas with elegant bars and elegant people sitting outside them.

Just as I was preparing to get on the next train back to Rome and flee my newbuild studio flat for a little something in Foligno's sun-dappled piazza (if possible living over that baker's with the fancy-looking biscotti), I had a shock. That is to say, I had my first contact with a local. Window-shopping a bit aimlessly I accidentally wandered into the path of a bicycle. The girl braked. "Whoops, sorry" I exclaimed, shocked. She tilted her head, narrowed her eyes, and gave me an icy-cold look. She held me in her freezing gaze for a few seconds then she re-adjusted her rucksack and glided away without a backwards glance. I was willing it to be a temporary blip, but no, it turned out the residents of Foligno had a definite 'stink under their noses' (the rather more elegant Italian way of saying they had a stick up their arse). I went into several bars and was treated with the utmost hostility by the staff. After paying for my coffee I threw a casual 'thanks, bye' over my shoulder like I do in Rome and was met with a wall of silence as I exited instead of the usual 'thanks to you too, bye'. People in the street stared at my leg like always, but the staring was never followed by a sad or sympathetic muttered 'mamma mia' or 'poverina' and a shake of the head like in Rome. It was an appraising stare at the leg, followed by a scan of the face, then a dismissal and continutation with whatever they were doing.

I was extremely happy to return to my town, where the chairs outside the bars are made of red plastic and don't have cushions on them, but at least the staff acknowledge your thanks. Foligno is Italy at it's pituresque best, but it's definitely not the Italy I know.

Does anyone know Foligno that could shed some light onto this 'stink under the nose' phenomenon? Did the residents just all get out of bed on the wrong side the day I was there? I would be interested to hear of any experiences...

Progress

Progress is quite boring when it's actually in progress isn't it? That's probably why I haven't spoken much about my day-to-day improvements here. After all, what's so interesting about the time I first took a shower on my own, or the day I walked up a hill for the first time since the accident?

However today being my first crutchless day for almost 5 months I realised that a lot of mundane little things have added up to a great amount of progress. When I first came out of hospital in March I left the house once a day in a wheelchair to be pushed to the bar for breakfast. During the day while E was at work I walked for a total of about 10 minutes a day in circles round the house then got tired and napped for the whole afternoon. We went to the hospital once a week with the wheelchair on the bus. It was the highlight of my week; I got to talk to people and stay out of the house for at least an hour.

After about a month I began to move better and develop some wonderful popeye arm muscles from the crutches. It took a while, but I could get myself up to the village piazza to sit on a bench for a while and pass the time. The wheelchair was still wheeled out for special occasions, such as a trip to Rome when my family came, but after a while we took it back to the hire shop and it was down to me and my popeye arms.

A while later I took my first trip to the pizzeria alone on the bus. When I arrived I was so tired E put me on a matress in the basement with my leg up on a sack of flour. I waited a few days then tried again; this time it went better.

In May I set off for a meeting with my boss to discuss going back to work. The trip to her office, some distance away on the bus, and the walk from the bus stop left me exausted. 'You know you can't go back to work like this' E told me gently. I knew he was right but was so disappointed. I asked my boss if she could wait another few weeks. I continued my trips to the pizzreia and round the village, and 3 weeks later went back to work, for 4 hours a day. Every day, after those 4 hours it was straight back to the pizzeria to put the leg back up on the sack of flour again.

June came and I started working full-time again. Around the same time my Doc started breaking my balls (as the Italians would say), telling me to lose a crutch. I did so and watched with horror as one of my popeye arms turned back into the jelly arm that I had known of old.

Nowadays I sometimes forget that I've got several bits of metal sticking out of my leg and get really confused when people stare at me on the bus, thinking I must have a stain on my shirt. Today I'm crutchless after another ball-breaking session at the hospital, and it feels fine- I'm just going to have to come to terms with my last popeye muscle going to seed.

See you in a week or so when I return from England, walking better but with with my old friends the jelly arms in tow.

Part-time Foreigner

I'm off to England again in a few days, and preparing myself for yet another reverse culture shock experience. Believe me it's more stressful than you might imagine. Here are some things I did last visit that really marked me out as a part-time foreigner:

- Annoying hand gestures that have no significance whatsoever in England. For example the 'pull the other one' hand move where you kind of swirl your hand about in a circle in the air when someone is telling an outrageous anecdote or exaggerating a fact. How to recognise it and tell me to stop doing it: looks a bit like a backwards queen's wave.

- The 'boh' facial expression: Here 'boh' is an inescapable catch-all noise that is the equivalent of saying 'I don't know'. I have managed to cut down on my use of the word itself however the idiot facial expression is more difficult because at work I am bombarded with it from all angles by confused 'boh'ing students. Assume an extremely puzzled expression in the eyes, then pull down the corners of the mouth as far as they will go. Involuntarily your shoulders will now rise as far as your earlobes in a massive shrug. Got it? Good, now never do it again if you are not in Italy, it will earn you some very strange looks.

- Speaking to people on the train. I get on the bus in Italy. I have a broken leg. Poeple notice and help me find a place to sit. I get on the train in England. I get a seat. An old lady with a walking stick gets on and can't find a seat. People ignore her. I stand up and ask the carriage if there is a spare seat anywhere for the old woman. A horrified and embarassed silence fills the carriage. I have broken rule no.1 of public transport travel in England: do not speak to strangers unless there is a bomb about to explode on the train (and then only speak to politely ask them if they could move a bit more quickly towards the emergency exit).

The worst thing is as soon as I've re-acclimitasied I'm on my way back to Rome where I arrive and confuse everyone by saying 'sorry' every time I graze someone's arm and sitting politely with my hands in my lap throughout the most heated discussions.

There are many more of these mini reverse culture shocks, and I'm sure I'll be able to remember them and add them to the list when I return to Italy again.

The story of my broken leg (part 2)

Arriving at hospital I am put on a table and doctors cut off my trousers and boots. An English-speaking doctor arrives and tells me he's taking me to have a pin put in my foot. I am being wheeled around, having an x-ray done, in an operating room, then back in the x-ray room. I am put in a corridor and a policeman appears and asks me what happened. I mumble something about not knowing Italian, and he tells me to say whatever I can. I say something about a car turning, then trail off, dozy and confused. Then I can see E at the end of the corridor. I'm really fretting because they took off my bra to put on the surgery gown and I'm being carted around with my skanky greying bra in my hand. "My bra, take it away" I beseech E. "I'll give it to Maria" he says, and I see Giorgio and Maria standing at the other end of the corridor looking uneasy. They come over and give me a kiss on the cheek. Then all three of them are told to leave. 'Bye' I say confusedly.

I am wheeled to another part of the corridor. There is a temporary camp of beds and stretchers, about 15 people in all. Suddenly from having loads of busy people in white coats around me there is no-one, just a bunch of people hooked up to painkillers and worried only about their own disasters. I start crying silently. After a while a kind-looking man who also has his leg up on a pillow catches my eye. He looks like he is crying too. He gives me a wavery sort of smile, and I feel a bit better that there is at least someone who is on my side. The night in the coridor passes very slowly. The doctors and nurses seem to have better things to do than come and visit us misplaced patients and when the painkillers wear off the wait for someone to show up is interminable.

The night becomes the morning but it all seems the same as there are no windows and the light is kept on 24 hours. I only know it's morning because I wake up to people eating breakfast around me. I was asleep when it was handed round and now the nurse tells me there isn't any left. Hours pass. E phones me, tells me he can't come until this evening because there is no-one to take his place at the pizzeria. Lunchtime comes and I am asleep again. Again, they will not give me lunch when I ask for it later. But I don't really care, I just want to be out of the corridor. The old man in the bed next to me keeps trying to get up to go for walks, leaning heavily on my bed, dangerously close to my leg. I am trying to remeber the polite form in Italian to ask him to be careful but I can't. The old man the other side of me is making a massive fuss, demanding a hospital transfer. The nurses get so fed up with him they eventually more or less stop coming to check on us altogether. We form our own support group, with those more mentally in check keeping a watch on the old people trying to escape from their beds, and those more physically able trying to put the old people back in bed and going off to try and find a nurse for people in need of painkillers.

E arrives at 11pm on the last bus. He phones me from behind the emergency room door telling me the nurses won't let him in. After 20 minutes I ask one of the support group to go and open the door. He does so and E enters, and is viciously scolded by a nurse who spots him when he is halfway across the room. She lets him pass in the end. I ask him to bring me some food because I haven't eaten all day, and he goes and fetches a bagfull of supplies from the nearest bar, which, when he returns I cannot eat because the first bite makes me feel nauseous. He is not allowed to stay long. He makes for home; there are no more buses, he will have to walk the 4km back to the village.

I am promised by the English-speaking doctor that they have 'found a place upstairs' for me and I can go tomorrow. I don't know what 'upstairs' is , but I reckon it's sure to be better than here. The second night passes much the same as the first with snatched sleep between drip changes, other peoples' moaning and old people routinely trying to climb out of their beds. In the morning, and not a moment too soon, I am taken in a lift to a ward. I am put in a corridor. Shit, I think, not again. But a nice nurse appears and explains to me that we're just waiting for someone to be picked up to go home, then I can have my own room and my own bed. Soon I will tell you all about life on the orthopedic ward, which was to be my home for the next month.

(Ps, don't worry, this was by far the most depressing chapter of the story, it gets better after this).

Latin Jealousy

Continuting from the last post I would like to confirm the existence of yet another stereotype. One of the things that really makes me step back and realise that I live in a different country is when I experience the Latin Jealousy. In my experience these people are loud, proud and unashamedly jealous. Let's look at some examples:

Take E's friend Giorgio. Giorgio runs a fruit and vegetable stall at a market and usually provides E's pizzeria with produce. Sometimes E is not able to get hold of Giorgio for some last minute mushrooms (or other vegetable emergency) and so buys from another supplier instead. It's guaranteed that that very same night Giorgio will get wind of the betrayal, rock up at the pizzeria, start berating E and examining the traitorous mushrooms at close quarters. At this point Giorgio's tirade gets too fast for me to pick up everything, but I can usually catch a 'fanno schifo' (they're gross) and a few other derogatory comments before Giorgio storms off home. It'll probably be the next afternoon before he'll talk to E again. A few nights ago he turned up at the pizzeria in a rage because he'd argued with his girlfriend. His girlfriend's mum had served him some tomatoes which he deemed disgsting (ie, not from him) and he'd refused to eat them. His girlfriend was mortified, they argued and he stormed off.

Or look at the doctor who performed my operation. I once had a student of mine dress my leg because she thought it looked infected and I was between hospital appointments (she was actually a doctor by the way, and she dressed my leg at her hospital). Next hospital visit I brought up the incident, thinking my doc'd be pleased that I'd taken the initiative. Oh no. On the contrary he scolded me for 10 minutes like a naughty schoolchild around the theme of 'I am the only doctor allowed to touch your leg' and began a long rant about non-orthopedic doctors being overly paranoid about infections. Turns out that between hospital visits he'd much rather my boyfriend, who makes pizza for a living, treats my leg than another doctor. Oh, and I was strictly forbidden to see a doctor in England too. Maybe in case they accidentally amputated my leg or something. Instead my friend the mortgage adviser was roped in to tend to the cage.

Finally my boyfriend E, though not strictly 'Latin', nevertheless has enough Eastern-European blood and Italian influence running through him to make him as jealous as the rest of 'em. I am not allowed to eat pizza that is not from his pizzeria. "But what if I'm hungry and there's nowhere else to buy food? I won't be eating it for enjoyment. It'll probably be disgusting" I try. I get a dark look in return "I don't think you should try it". Once I bought a spinach and ricotta roll, which admittedly was from a pizzeria, but I assure you did not even vaguely resemble pizza. I couldn't eat it all and took it to E to offer him some. As it turns out however, this is definitely categorised under pizza product. His sulk lasted a good few hours and I learnt that to prevent further 'episodes' I was going to have to be a bit cautious in the future. Now I am constantly checking my receipts and going over my fabrications in my head ('What did I have for lunch? Why, I had pasta al pomodoro'). I'm sure I'll get caught out one day, but until then I'd prefer to avoid the big green-eyed Italian monster.