The Commandments

There are rules in any society, of course, and the society I currently live and work in is no different.  But the rules are definitely different from some of the rules I once knew. Let's take a look at a few of the 'commandments' of life in Italy:

Thou shalt pay in cash, and thou shalt give exact change as often as humanly possible.

This is the tomb of Martin V, the pope who resolved the Great Schism.  It is located in Rome's basilica, St. John Lateran.  People drop (because that's as close as they can get to a subterranean but open space like this one) money on this tomb for some reason, and I have yet to find out why.  If you can closely scrutinize the photo, you can see some pretty big bills. His bronze-covered sarcophagus is, for some reason, a money magnet.

This is an extraordinarily cash-based economy, in a world where other similar countries are getting as close to being paperless as possible.  Landlords collect rent in cash.  People pay their utilities bills in cash.  I re-up my phone account by paying cash. Many restaurants will only accept cash.

Once you get used to this phenomenon - the reasons for which are not known to me, but I'm speculating that it's a mistrust of banks (or fees they might charge) - you must then become accustomed to being shaken down by every person with a money drawer.  No one thinks twice about asking the customer if they have exact change.  They will patiently wait for you to dig for it, rather than make change for you.  If you visit more than a couple of vendors in the space of a few hours, and you've been complicit with several requests for one or two euro coins, or fifty or twenty cents, then you're fresh out of change altogether, except for the 1, 2, and 5 cent coins, which no one wants.  And you discern how much they don't want those coins by the fact that vendors will routinely round up or down in transactions, waving away your offered, small(er) change.

So, to recap:
They only want your cash, and they only want your exact change, up to a point. And then they don't.
And when you reach that 5th vendor of your day, and you say, 'mi dispiace, I have no more change,' they first exhibit monumental disappointment in you, and then determine that they cannot make change for you without going to some kind of trouble, which includes (I'm not kidding, I've seen this several times), going into their own purses and wallets, or giving you a handful of coins you dread carrying. It's as if no one is actually prepared - either at the beginning or at any other time of the workday - to make change.  And as long as they willingly round up or down, depending on which is closer, how they get a day's till to count out to a reasonably accurate sum is completely beyond me.

(NB:  our favorite bar-tender/owner, an Italian-Canadian, will resolutely tell you that the reason for this inability/unwillingness (?) to make change is because 'some people don't know how to run a business'...take that however you want)

Thou shalt not put cheese on your seafood pasta. 

Not ever. Why? No one can tell me, exactly.  I've asked, and all I've ever gotten is this nebulous idea about how the cheese might cloak the delicate flavor of the fish.  To tell the truth, if the dish is really well done, then it almost never needs the addition.  But just be aware that if you ask for it on your risotto con frutti di mari when you visit here, you will be judged.  Harshly.

Remember:  all eyes - even from the plate! - are watching you hover over that seafood with a spoonful of parmigiano.

Thou shalt cross the street with people who are a safe bet. 

Roman traffic is no joking matter.  Everyone has a story to tell about that heart-stopping moment they were almost hit by a motorino (the drivers of those things notoriously pretend that the traffic laws don't apply to them).  I say, if a nun or a priest is taking that crosswalk, take it with them.  Your chances of surviving are instantaneously improved.  Who's going to risk hitting one of them?

Thou shalt never order a capuccino after 11am. 

Save your milky coffee drinks for the morning only. Have an espresso instead. I think, but I'm not sure, that there is some uniquely Italian idea about the pitfalls of dairy on the stomach in the latter part of the day, but no one has clarified WHY for me yet. Clearly, this commandment does not similarly apply to gelato (and my Italian teacher has confirmed this with lots of shoulder-shrugging, because she cannot articulate the reason). Why on earth would you think that it might?

Thou shalt wait impatiently in line, unless thou canst jump the line.  

Then by all means, skirt all sense of propriety and get in front of other people. 

If you're standing within decent range of one of the exits of a moving public bus, planning to exit soon, and someone else has intentions of exiting at the next stop, they will ask you, in a kind of fretful tone:  scende? (are you descending?).  Because if you aren't, they want you out of the way right now. And forget having people at the bus stop actually move aside before alighting so that you can disembark.  They're not waiting for you.  They are getting on the bus RIGHT NOW.  

Sure, this is a bus shot, but I really took this because I loved her bag.  Not the leather one.

The same principle applies in automobile traffic.  Everybody's honking at everybody else, as they crowd five cars abreast on a two-lane road at a stop light.  They are FEROCIOUSLY impatient. 

If you are a pedestrian waiting in a queue at a taxi stand and an older, clearly native couple approaches to also get a taxi, watch them.  They will jump the line, unless you're in that queue with other people who will call them out for it.  I once said to an Italian friend of mine:  your people don't seem to like lines very much, but I'm not trying to be judgmental.  His response?  It's o.k. to be judgmental, because I think we really have a problem with waiting in a line. 

Clearly, if you have ever been seated at a restaurant in Italy and clocked how long it took for a server to take even your drink order, then you know that waiting is a selective sport. 

Thou shalt never violate the sanctity that is lunchtime. 

Do not expect to get much of anything done - particularly regarding work/business or government of any kind - during lunchtime.  When I mistakenly offered to give an administratively-endorsed presentation to colleagues somewhat recently, and the attendance was pretty low, I overheard one person comment:  there are no Italians here, but hey, this was scheduled for lunchtime, so there's no getting them to come to this.  

Beginning at about 12:15 or 12:30, businesses and churches are shuttered for at least two hours. For some Italians, and particularly in smaller towns, the pausa actually lasts 4 to 5 hours. So the working business day winds up being about 3 hours in the morning, 4 to 5 hours' break, and about 3 or 4 more hours in the evening. 

Traditionally, you were supposed to go home, have lunch with the family and take a nap.  Many urban Italians lament the loss of this tradition to the consumption of too much transit time by traffic and distance. 

But many traditionally oriented, small businesses maintain the pausa, nap or no nap.

Thou shalt never expect either traffic on the roads or online to work properly if it is raining.

My Italian students have explained to me that this is the way things work - or don't - here.  It's got something (very fuzzily conceptualized) to do with infrastructure and how no one has corrected the problem, but online traffic slooooooooowwwws to an almost halt when it is raining here. 

And forget about car traffic, which is already a pain on a sunny day.

My first downpour as a resident of Rome.  Little did I know that the rest of 2016 and 2017 would mostly be drought-stricken.

Thou shalt eat pizza with a knife and fork. 

First of all, it's so thin that it's pretty impossible to fold like a regular New Yorker would and eat like a 'pizza sandwich,' so that's out. Fresh, natural ingredients can be a bit wetter than we're accustomed to, and that makes for an even softer outcome.  You can handle the crust however you want, but the interior - which is pretty much made just for one person, even though it looks pretty big - is knife and fork territory. Handle otherwise at your own risk.

And in truth, it is advisable that you not handle your food with your hands at all.  A sandwich or a burger?  OK, sure.  Most other bready things besides pizza?  Also acceptable.  The rest, including meat on a bone, no.  And ladies?  Forego the convenience of that personal-sized water bottle.  Pour your water into a cup before drinking, or else be considered less than civilized.  This rule apparently does not extend to men. 

Thou shalt complain about the general state of things, because it is a natural part of living. Fixing things is another matter altogether. And they will be fixed whenever they are fixed....IF they are ever fixed.

Since I wrote this essay in full and while I was editing it, I lost my internet/cable/telephone line to a fire in a junction box somewhere in the neighborhood.  Despite the fact that the telecom company stated that the thing would be repaired in 24 hours, it took five days.  Three days later, I watched a guy haphazardly use the tiniest backhoe to dig a hole in the road and - you guessed it - inadvertently cut the gas line to my building (Americans, you know those signs that read: Call this number before you dig? hahahahahahahahaha).  The Spouse's shower will be a (probably welcome, given the current temps) chilly one tomorrow.  And so much for those sourdough flatbreads I was going to make like flapjacks on my stove tonight for dinner.  I was poised to wash laundry this evening, too.  Our portieri says (after we asked her pointedly, because NO ONE bothered to tell anyone in the building that the gas was cut off) that this will be repaired tomorrow.  Hahahahahahahahahaha. 

Many things are guasto (broken) here and they remain that way indefinitely because....lack of funds? lack of interest? Someone went on vacation and they were the ONLY person who could possibly do the repair job? 

I don't know, but these are the realities:  complaining in a place that resists change is an artform (I probably need to work on it), and it is always a true surprise when the repair is actually done. Unsure of what I mean? For change resistence, read this. For some of the more quixotic properties of this life, read this.

Thou shalt herald the discovery of a clean, well-stocked bathroom that is available to the public, for it is a thing of great wonder and amazement.

This is the stuff of legend in Italy.  Here is the laundry list of issues:  

-Public restrooms regularly do not come equipped with toilet seats.  "Not that I'd ever want to touch one of those anyway!" you might respond with alarm.  Excellent point.  But someone did tell me that the routine explanation for this veritable absence of toilet seats is that 'people always stand on them and break them, so why have them at all?' 

Stand on them? What are they - acrobats? 

No really...how do the seats get broken?

-Public restrooms that are not routinely monitored and actively cleaned by a designated person are hellish by mid-day. And they never improve. 

If there is a designated public toilet that charges a fee for use, then you can bet that someone is working that location with a mop and heavy duty cleaner.  They will stock those stalls with toilet paper on the regular. You'll SEE them doing that job while you're in there.

Plenty of people have posted online blog entries and reviews of Italian toilets.  And plenty others have investigated the history and present inclusion of the infamous bidet in Italian bathrooms (do read the q&a on that last link, but do not do this and sip a hot beverage at the same time).  I don't plan to go down either of these roads.  I will objectively say that the the general state of public Italian bathrooms is so sketchy that it makes perfect sense that bidets are a regularly installed, third appliance in them.  If only they appeared to work and you wanted to get anywhere near them. And after 24 months of bathroom visits across this fair land, I can recite a litany of 'if onlys,' folks:

If only employees of restaurants and bars wanted to ensure that clients and customers found the toilet paper stocked.  If only some mechanism - either the one that dispenses paper towels or the one that blows a sad little stream of cold air that will allegedly dry your hands - was in some way functional.  If only the more 'modern' fixtures that have "eyes" to sense your hands' presence, awaiting the mechanized dollop of soap, actually 'saw' your hands AND dispensed the dollop in any kind of reasonable timespan (this is pretty much an airport feature, and nowhere else....most places, you're lucky if there is a badly mangled pump-activated bottle of soap).  If only the lock on the door was intact.  If only there was one solid hook upon which to hang your purse while you steadied yourself with two hands and carefully placed feet to perch over...

the dreaded....

loo with....

-an ill-fitting lid/seat

-an ill-fitting lid/seat that looks like it was last used by Gollum and a band of drunken hobbits

-a broken seat

-no seat

...or the worst of all, and most routinely found in Rome's bustling, more or less modern looking international airport:

                  the positively mind-bending seat that sits at a 45 degree angle relative to the porcelain bowl.

(apologies to everyone with a feng shui preference...but this shot, with the infamous half-mast seat therefore exposes an open bowl with with the clear blue disinfectant, which seemed like the nicest thing I could include in this segment)

Because you wouldn't touch that thing with the hands of your sworn, mortal enemy, you nudge it with the toe of your sneaker, pushing it down to lay flat on the bowl rim.  But it won't stay there.  It pops back up, assuming its original position.  So you nudge it upwards, so that it will sit perpendicular to the bowl rim and therefore, well out of the way of what you're there to do.  And it won't stay there either.  It resolutely slips back down, assuming its original, 45 degree angle.

Fiumicino's website indicates that at some recent point, '48 toilets have been modernized with an avant garde concept.' (well, that's the English translation)

So, this avant garde concept is the one in which women attempt to squat and hover over a porcelain bowl while dodging an object that they canNOT push out of the way (or touch, for fear of evil germs), thereby being totally compromised in their primary, necessary, and potentially disastrous, endeavor...?

'So go to the next stall,' you say, exasperated with this tomfoolery.  'Not all of them can be the same.'

That is correct, technically speaking.  ALL of the toilet seats in the various women's (and so I hear, men's too) bathrooms in Fiumicino airport, regardless of terminal or other area, are not positioned at 45 degree angles, relative to the horizontal rim.  Some are at 50.  Others are at 35.  Some might be as high as 60 degrees.

But none of them are properly adjustable by the ministrations of the user.  Instead, almost all (that I have encountered, at any rate) are in some stage of mid-salute.

Oh, and I failed to add that these are 'modern' toilets, each equipped with an 'eye' that is supposed to sense your presence and therefore flush when your presence has gone.

But it does exactly the opposite, actually.  Just get near the device, near it, and it flushes because you are present. Step away from the device and it does absolutely nothing. Now, THIS is avant-garde!

I actually found a website that publishes travelers' reviews of Fiumicino.  And interestingly, on occasion, some representative of the airport has written the 'I'm so sorry you had a bad experience' response.

I cannot seem to find evidence of anyone commenting about these infernal toilet seats - anywhere online. There is effectively zero dialogue about them. I took the above photo just last month, in part to satisfy my concern about middle-aged brain and faulty memory.  Did I dream them up?

Why, no. 

These items have in fact been like this as long as I've been traveling in and out of Rome, upon moving here 2 years ago.

So to summarize the layered mysteries, here:

Someone installed these toilet seats.  Did they sit at mid-salute from the very beginning? If so, why not correct that? If not, and they somehow - freakishly - became this way over time, why not correct that?  Does the housekeeping staff - responsible for the blue disinfectant you see in the bowl, and the easily observable, general state of cleanliness - have any impact on this scenario?  Would they not tell the maintenance folks: 'hey bozos, my job would be a heck of a lot easier if you would fix these toilet seats so that when women aim, they hit the target and not the floor.'

And why - among the scores of online mentions and outright diatribes about Italian toilets in terms of bizarre design, state of cleanliness or functionality (and believe me, there are plenty) - does no one address them in the first place you encounter them upon entering the country?

Instead, from the same site that boasts the avant-garde toilet installation at this airport, we see this:

According to surveys conducted by ACI, the Airport Council International association measuring the perceived quality through passengers’ interviews in around 250 airports around the world - in the third quarter of 2016 Leonardo da Vinci ranks first amongst the large airports of the European Union, in terms of passenger satisfaction.

And I'll just end that one.  Right there.  Because any more words would completely fail me.

But about most Italian toilets available to the public, otherwise, forget it.  Enter at your own risk. There is no chart with restaurant employees' initials inked in at various intervals throughout a given day, dear Americans, because no one is dealing with them because you are no longer in America - or any other country that takes some measure of civic pride in its restrooms (I'm looking at you, Netherlands, Germany, etc).

Behold, the Dutch airport toilet. Note the nice, level, unbroken or otherwise maligned seat. 
Note also the change in design of the bottom of the bowl.  Compare it to the design of the Italian bowl.  People of the Western world who comment on such designs are confounded by the amount of porcelain real estate that has no water on it or in it.  This makes a difference, dear readers.  Italian toilets that may have questionable paper supply levels will still have a toilet brush.  Because it's pretty necessary. 

And God bless the Dutch for not only keeping the toilet paper supplies stocked, but also including a little dispenser for a sanitizing agent to be placed on some of that paper so you can clean the seat first.  Really, quite civilized.

Only the personal values of the ownership of a given place with dictate whether an Italian bathroom is a fairly clean and stocked place.  And when you find one, tell all of us.  Urge us to visit it even if we don't have a reason to go (a girlfriend here regularly does this when we dine out), because it's like visiting a holy altar where we can all weep tears of joy and gratitude.

And because I couldn't just stop at 10 commandments, you get a bonus.

Thou shalt observe hierarchy and job descriptions, regardless of practicality or even common sense.

I never thought Americans were terribly hung up on hierarchy, yet neither did I believe we were totally relaxed about it either.  And when I think about how other nationalities observe - or don't! - traditional social mores, I realize that we sit somewhere on a sliding scale.  I have an Italian-Norwegian student who simply calls me by my first name because she spent much of her life far north of here, where an egalitarian society enforces the idea that everyone is called by their first name.  In the States, it is a toss-up for us academicians:  we tend to individually assert how we wish to be addressed (which really makes things quite confusing for students, particularly if they move from one region to another and hit a wall of culture shock). And while we never forget who the institution's president is or what power they hold, we can move forward with a lot of decision-making and the staging of events without that person present.
And here, it is very, very, very important to be cognizant of the hierarchy of an organization.  A gathering or program doesn't begin until the capo appears and makes his (well, typically it's still a 'he') token, opening remarks.  If that person is 45 minutes late, then you will begin then, and absolutely not before.
You are also beholden to the chain of command in terms of communications.  Individuals from two or more organizations - or those within a larger, singular organization - will only communicate laterally.  It is simply unthinkable to do it any other way. Your job description and/or title dictate what you will and will not do in this highly stratified place.  I once had a conversation with a perfectly nice fellow who works in facilities upkeep. He inquired about the work his team had recently completed in a room nearby - was it acceptable?  Absolutely, I said. Tutto bene. But the floor needs sweeping since the work has been done.  There is debris remaining from the work.
Ah, he replied. I am glad that you are pleased.  Talk to the head of facilities about the floor and he will dispatch housekeeping to attend to it.
This conversation took place 5 feet away from a broom closet that contained a broom and dustbin. Upon consideration of the elaborate process by which I would have to do as he instructed (write an email, describe the job that needed to be done, send it, wait another day for a reply and perhaps another for the job to be done), I paused for a half-beat, just to see what would happen next.
In another world where I used to live, and if time permitted, the facilities staff member would most likely get the broom and tackle the job in 2 minutes, thereby truly finishing the full task of performing repair work and cleaning up the resulting debris.
But this is not that world.
He genuinely, warmly smiled, wished me a buona giornata, and exited.

Strength

I've had a rough few days.  To me, little else is worse than trying your best to accomplish something, to demonstrate your value and truly make a 'good faith effort' and then find out the hard way that the work - in a environment of challenges that can make that work even harder to accomplish - will not be recognized.  It will not gain an ounce of leverage.  

It was, I had the misfortune to learn, (almost) all for naught. 

The factors that brought this development about are, I understand, not really about me. They are completely outside of my control. They just happened to coincide with a decisive moment, and they won, while I...did not win.

I did *not* see that coming.  Not at all.

And what's worse, I am a lousy target for traditional comforting strategies. I can't explain why, but standard sympathy does nothing for me. So there's that: you'll never have to waste your energy with soothing back pats and noises about how much you wish you could make things better for me.  

Color me prickly and problematic, but those gestures just don't improve my mood or attitude.

I prefer Real Talk.

And let's be clear:  Real Talk is not some cinematic snippet of a drill sargent yelling at boot-camp participants about toughening up.  Real Talk is not a mother or a sister telling someone to 'snap out of it.'  Real Talk is not necessarily forgiving, even though it can still be fully supportive.

Real Talk is rational, EMpathetic, objective talk.

Real Talk might explore reasonable options for how to respond to a situation or a problem. Real Talk must excavate the pragmatic territory of 'what you did wrong' or 'how you might make it better.' Real Talk seeks truth, seen clearly through a lens that honors the intellect of all the participants. Real Talk acknowledges that someone or many someones need(s) to understand something in order to come out on the other side in a better frame of mind. 

So here are the strong people who saw me through this ugly spell with Real Talk, for which I am most grateful:

The archaeological academician...a few days ago, and two years ago. 

The family I married into, preparing to do justice to some shellfish, and walking the streets of Bruges..

The 'sister' I'd let drive my car (if I still had one!) into the safari park...

Here we are in Athens, toasting to being held (kind of) captive in our hotel, as austerity measure protests raged on outside.

And here, a couple of excellent people who can talk me into a field trip to a giant funhouse of Italian 'good eats' (or anywhere else, for that matter):

And here's a little trip back in time to the 80s and a General Electric employees dance, with Dad:

And finally, the guy who saw Rome for his first time with me in 2010, and set his sights on finding a way to move us there for this wild ride. The Boca della Verita is supposed to snap off your fingers if you tell a lie.  

He has never lied to me.  Too pure a soul.

That third coin in the fountain actually paid off, it seems. 

Yes, I made some big changes in order to follow you here. And yes, some unexpected challenges awaited me.  I was thrown for a loop with this last one. 

But still, I promise: no regrets. 

So....for all of the good, hard questions asked of me, for the reminders that I needed to look around myself at where I am, right now and recall why I did this, for the conversations that in one way or another indicated that I have worth, after all...

Thank you.

You Can't Have It

You might say that I've been a bad blogger because I've bragged a heck of a lot about the kinds of things I can get here:  gelato, good (and affordable) wine, excellent cheeses and salamis, unbelievably fresh produce, and silky, handmade pasta.

I should be ashamed of myself, since I've liberally posted pictures of truffles and tiramisu.  

REALLY uncool:  handmade pasta with truffles shaved on top.

COULD have been cool:  a student brought me a piece of homemade tiramisu.  This would have been great, except for the fact that he admitted that he'd ordered too much for himself and he needed to give the second piece away. So glad you thought of me first, kid.  (it still tasted great)

You already know I have access to tons of well-fabricated leather goods.  If it matters to you, then you are jealous of my walking distance from the flagship stores of many high-end designers.

And to add insult to your injury - again, if these are things about which you care - I can walk two blocks to the Pantheon and one block to Piazza Navona (remember this image, as I'll refer to it later in this same post).

10 minutes, and I'm at the column of Marcus Aurelius.

Or Largo Argentina...

I just came home from an Italian lesson at the U. S. Embassy and because the weather was still pretty good, I walked a mile and a third (well, after purposely getting a little 'lost' so I could see streets I haven't seen before, it was probably more like a mile and a half) home, past the Trevi Fountain, scores of restaurants of all price points, a Baroque church or five, and a ton or so of tourists, who are all here to have a piece of what I've described as available.

This is 'cafeteria food' at the embassy.  For the cost of your Big Macs and fries for two, I can get this.  And it's surprisingly good.

But the title of this post is not about what you can't have, since you are also not here.  After all, many of you can indeed find some means of transport, bring your euros, find some lodging and do your grand tour.  Alternatively, you can go to some fine, non-Italian cities with a globalized, diverse population and probably find a niche or a 'little Italy' where there are specialty stores that carry the real stuff.  And as for scenery, you might well argue that Rick Steves' programming on PBS is perfectly acceptable and perhaps even preferable, because you get a front-row seat to everything with none of the hassles, like tired, sore feet, a sunburn, TOO MANY PEOPLE, a realistic concern about pickpockets, and a language barrier. I would say that your defense of 'sofa tourism' is quite rational and understandable. I'm not going to judge you.

Even for The Spouse, the crowds can get a little too 'cheek by jowl.'  Look at how...happy he is.

The title of this post is instead about what *I* can't have or get.  Let me hastily add that I'm not looking for your sympathy.  Rather, I think it's important to know what you're getting into when you pack up and move to a foreign country that is - and at the same time, is not - really foreign.  I'm obviously not writing this from a desert or even a different hemisphere (I presume), and it's for sure not a third-world sort of existence.

But learning about what isn't available (and how that lack of availability is or is not handled) to you even in a first-world environment like this can speak volumes about the history, sensibilities and values of a different culture.

Let's proceed.

First, I want to address some of the utterly confounding truths about product availability here in the capital city of Italy.

There are about four ordinary grocery store chains as well as one 'bio' version, with all organic merchandise.  I live within walking distance of all of them, and there are multiple locations for all them, too. They are all very small, in comparison to what most of the American (as well as European, probably) suburbanites are accustomed to.

I am convinced that people I know - who live in multiple-thousands of square feet in what they call their 'houses' - have larger homes than most of the grocery stores in this urban environment.

No shortages of tomato paste here. 

None of them are the same as the others.  And I mean that none of the locations of only one given chain are the same as the others.

You cannot visit three different versions of the Coop, for instance, and find the same merchandise.  Only one of three will carry the berry yogurt you like, even though all three might carry the right brand.  The Coop you like the most, because it is newer and cleaner, inexplicably only carries cherry yogurt.  Every deli in every one of these places is also different.  You cannot expect to find the same kinds of olives in all of them, and only one will offer a pre-roasted chicken to take home for dinner. Some will have elaborate produce sections, or even a full third of their space dedicated to wines, but only one will predictably have fish for sale.  I tend to wonder - much the same way one wonders how much of their brain capacity is consumed by the otherwise useless memory of song lyrics - how much of my brain capacity is now occupied by a growing, encyclopedic knowledge of the inventories of the 6 tiny grocery stores in my vicinity.

What I want to think:  this scenario is a kind of commercialized development that follows an older era in which you went to a different vendor for everything.  You went to different venders for your fish, beef, pork and chicken.  You went to different vendors for your fruits and vegetables.  You went to even more varied vendors for your household goods.  Once upon a time, Rome was a city of vendors and craftspeople who clustered in mini-locations throughout the city.  We know this because of street names that still exist:  the street of the hat makers, the mirror makers, the 'mountain of flour,' etc.  So as a Roman resident of yesteryear, you spent your day(s) moving from one vendor to another, dragging some kind of means of conveyance for all of your purchased goods.

Just put the last word on this sign into Google translate (from English to Italian), and you'll know what this little side street had in the way of vendors, once upon a time. Not now, of course.

Even in the 21st century, where you can ostensibly get many, many things in one location due to the creation of grocery stores that are designed for one-stop shopping, you can't ever actually perform the activity of one-stop shopping here.

You can think of this as a romantic way to live, this business of establishing relationships with your fishmonger, your vegetable guy, etc.  I know most of my vendors' names, and they at least know my face.  My chicken man greets me like I'm a minor celebrity. My Italian lessons include sample, leisurely conversations between the casalinga (housewife) and her deli man, taking way too long to converse about what she needs from him.

But when you are pressed for time and you know that you have to hit all of your vendors before noon or 1:30 because that's when their 3 hour-minimum pausa (mid-day break for lunch and a nap) begins, it isn't easy.  Particularly if you arrive at the macelleria and somebody's nonna is haggling with the butcher over exactly how much fat she wants in her cut of beef.

This guy can eyeball a cut of beef and tell you how much it weighs, within 5 or so grams.  He's pretty amazing.  But he also takes a healthy break at mid-day, so don't try to visit his shop between noon and 2:30.  Oh, and he might not be open on Mondays.  And he takes vacations sometimes, but he'll never post a sign outside the shop that tells you when he'll be back from vacation. And this is perfectly normal for him and everybody who knows him.  It's how everybody does things.  Did you say you were planning a dinner party?  Have a back-up plan for the menu, just in case it's someone's vacation time.

An also fundamentally crazy-making feature of commerce here is what I refer to as the Economy of Scarcity.

What would my warning be to any American who decides to pick up and live here?  Radically adjust your American-trained expectation of 'plenty,' and not just of what you can see.  Everything, scale-wise, will be much smaller.  But also, if you arrive at 5:30pm after work at the Coop to get your favorite berry yogurt and the shelf is empty, it's EMPTY.  There are no handy store employees busy stocking everything in site and therefore available to 'check in the back' for more.  You are looking at an empty space on a shelf that will not be filled any time soon.  There is no 'in the back.'  And forget about asking when they might get that item back in stock.  They don't know.

Kind of as a joke, but not really, I thought I'd provide you with a sight of something you *can* get here, if you look for it.  Mind you, I've only seen this at one of the 6 different grocery stories I can go to here...and this is the only one of them that is never open on Sundays. How...American?

Clearly, there is no kind of inventory-taking that we are accustomed to having happen (totally behind the scenes in America, and largely if not totally computerized), in which an automatic order for the replenishment of the amount of any given commodity is placed well before it is completely gone. (or maybe there is that kind of invisible process, and only one guy - inevitably named Marco or Stefano - is taking care of ALL of them in Rome...when he's not on break).  All that tracking is done through SKU numbers on the merchandise as it is rung up.  So generally, or so you are trained to think in America or many other equally Westernized places, you experience no lack of anything that way.

Here, different story.  That commodity is out of stock, there is no more to be had and that is true for the foreseeable future.  Probably.  Maybe.  It could show up in a couple of days, or not. And they don't know anything about a re-stock date. Don't bother asking.

No really:  they don't know.

OK, you might say, so you can't get your favorite yogurt.  Cry me a river.

OK, I'll reply, would you change your mind if this happened at the pharmacy, and you really needed what you couldn't get?

This happened to me a few days ago:  went in, asked for an OTC item that I've come to depend upon.  I mean, really depend upon.  I am accustomed to having to ask the pharmacist to order it because they don't stock it (and apparently, no amount of my repeatedly ordering it tells them anything about routine demand).  The order is put in, and the item is delivered within a day or two at the most.  I can handle this kind of inconvenience with no problem.

So when the pharmacist says, 'we don't have it,' I first ask if they can place an order.  I'm then told yes.  I prepare to pay ahead of time, and he stops me.  "I can't get it for you," he says, after attempting to key in said order.

"But I've gotten it here - via order -  before," I reply.  "In fact, several times."

"Mmm-hmm," he says, "that may be, but I can't get it for you now.  It's not available."

"When will it be available?" I ask, still confused.

He shrugs his shoulders. Wordless.

"Can you recommend which pharmacy in the city I might go to, instead?"  I ask, STILL CONFUSED.

"No."  No reason is provided for why this is so.

"Can you contact any of the other pharmacies for me, in order to find out who does have it or can get it?" I ask, not just confused anymore, but increasingly irritated.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't know what they do or don't have, or can or can't get.  We don't work with each other.  All pharmacies are separate businesses."

"Despite the fact that you all coordinate with each other on Italian holidays so that at least one of you in a given area of the city is still open?" I ask, incredulous.

Again:  shoulder-shrugging.

Before you start thinking that I was dealing with a mere clerk, that's not how these places work.  All of that adorable 'drop-off' and 'pick-up' stuff you do in different places in American pharmacies is non-existent here.  The only people behind the counters are the pharmacists.  They're not sequestered away from the customer, counting pills.  And that's because all of your pills are purchased in pre-designated blister packs encased in boxes.  No bottles.  No dispensing meds from large, bulk inventories. (It bears mentioning that this definitely curtails the kinds of mistakes that pharmacists in the States can make, in terms of dosage, quantity or even the entirely wrong medication, so there's that to consider...against the landfills of mountains of empty blister packs).

Another plus to the blister pack craze is how well they pack, vs. bottles or other means we Americans devise for carrying our pills with us.  But if anyone would like to weigh in on which recycling bin they belong in, I'm all ears/eyes...because I see foil and plastic fused together here, and I'm thinking that this is a recycling nightmare somewhere in the chain. 

So I was dealing with a licensed pharmacist, and he wasn't going to help me.  He was convinced that he could not help me. There was this stolid immovability about him, as if he faced an insurmountable wall and we should both be completely resigned to the situation...which is not at all how Americans tend to operate.

I should add that this is definitely not the first time I'd encountered the 'nope, can't get any more of that' attitude, but I was struck by the fact that this involved medication.  I wonder what happens to someone who really needs something that can't be skipped for a day or even a few more hours.  I hope I never find out.

I have thought a lot about this phenomenon, and while I'm sure that there are reasons I've not come up with yet, my current theory is that this is an outgrowth of World War II.  Nevermind that over half a century has gone by.

This is an image of Mussolini's Fascist Party headquarters in 1934, which is coincidentally on one end of Piazza Navona, the same building from which I took that earlier picture of the piazza.  It has since been returned to its status as an important villa that houses one of the many civic museums here.
What I love (ahem) about this image is the glowering face combined with a chorus of yesses...because this post is in some ways all about impossibilities.

Mussolini's nationalist interests extended to even the kinds of building supplies that Italians could use.  The intent was to restrict outside trade and be self-reliant in all ways, but this backfired when steel and iron rapidly rose in costs and drastically lowered in availability.  Consequently, there are tons of blocky apartment buildings here, built of concrete but with little or no reinforcing metal girding them from within.  This would be why you can see some crumbling, unsafe terraces and balconies in places.

Can't get steel or iron?  Guess we'll just build stuff without it.

The same premise had to be true for any other sorts of material goods that were once obtained via trade.  When that imported good was gone because the importing wasn't happening any more, it was just gone.  And powers far stronger than you and your petty interests controlled mostly everything, so you just resigned yourself to it.  Your trains, for once, ran on time, but they weren't carrying much in the way of goods you needed.

There was a time when some of us (who are old enough to remember) and many of our now-gone relatives knew exactly what this was like in America or Great Britain or other countries, of course.  But we have largely lost that memory and mentality.  We want our stuff, and we want it now.  And if necessity plays a role, then everyone marshals efforts to get that stuff, because it is, we are certain, available.  Somewhere.

Or so I thought.

And now, let's wrap this up with some commodities that are not generally available here.  In some cases, I want you to think more about size than brand.

 You will notice a distinct theme, here, in terms of a food type.  There are, I think, about four or five Mexican restaurants in this city.  One is pretty upscale, and the food is innovative.  The others are more traditional and middle class.  I just stumbled across news of another one that specializes in what is currently the rage in the restaurant business:  street food.  Namely, burritos.  The Spouse and I are planning to go next week.

American expats all pretty much tell the same stories of what they do when they hit American soil for a visit:  they drop their bags and find a Mexican restaurant. That's not a joke. Tex-Mex or alternative versions of Mex - including Cali-Mex - options are all fair game.  And unless those expats have had the good fortune to have lived in a southeast Asian country and they have therefore never lacked for it, they are seeking out SPICY.  While I want to address Italian spices in some other blog post, it bears mentioning here that mainland Italian cuisine does not really endorse heat.  Maybe a dash of red pepper flakes in a tomato sauce, sure, but after that...no.  So when you go to these Mexican restaurants in Rome and ask the Italian server if a given dish is spicy, they might say, 'oh, si, molto, MOLTO piccante,' and you'll fall for that a few times until you realize that they are sadly mistaken.  Emblazoned on my heart is the image of The Spouse in the second Mexican restaurant we found here, months and months ago, sorely disappointed in the server's assurance that he was in for a spicy dish.  Lower lip jutting out over his plate, chin on the verge of quivering, saying plaintively, "I just want something to be SPICY here, fercryinoutloud."

So the key here is to figure out how to make spicy Mexican food at home.  Except getting a jalapeno from your produce vendor is impossible.  Even serranos don't appear.  Forget poblanos.  No dried anchos, chipotles or guajillos.  You can get a tiny red chili, but that's it. And the grocery store?  For what, MILD salsa? Why?  Tortillas?  Ha! Canned chipotle in adobo sauce? No!
And only one place in the city might carry some of these canned and jarred items, and that's Castroni.  God bless Castroni, even if they only sell the smallest versions of these containers - under the charming heading of 'ethnic food' - at some astronomical prices.

That's right, chips-n-salsa addicts: no tortilla chips in grocery stores. Niente.

And speaking of the spicy, see below.....on the left is American sriracha, the so-called 'rooster sauce.'  On the right, some other brand that must be marketed to French-speaking consumers in the West AND the East (because there is a sticker that proclaims:  tres epices).  Can't get the stuff on the left here.  Can get the stuff on the right, but only from one market, all the way across town, where I *can* sometimes get cilantro, too.  Shocking.  The burning (I know, I know) question is whether it will wilt before I get back home with it.

The difference between these two items is telling, though. American sriracha is sweeter and less hot (don't argue with me, folks...your beloved, green-topped rooster sauce has been tailored to American tastes, so there IS sweetness where there really shouldn't be).  The stuff on the right is actually what some die-hard fans will remember as original sriracha.  Like, 'I'm on FIRE' sriracha.  Note the slight change in scale of the bottles, too.

So if you're a fan of the green-topped rooster sauce and you come here, plan to pay an embassy employee or military member to get it from the commissary.  When they go to Naples, that is, because that's where the military base and commissary are.  We haven't gone yet, because it's hard to rationalize the gas, the tolls, and the three hours each way to go to what I understand is something like a large Walmart.

See, I'm not writing from a position of desperation.  I'm writing more from a position of societal onlooker and occasionally frustrated kitchen worker.

It should be mentioned here that if you are into baking and pasta making, there is no shortage of flour types here.  I'll cover those in another post, but suffice to say here that there is also no shortage of standard wheat flour alternatives.  I can easily obtain chestnut, chickpea and rice flours.  I've been told that Italy has a higher than average celiac population, although this article does not support that.  It does, however, address how being celiac and a lover of Italian travel is surprisingly, and totally, manageable.

See that 2.26 kg bag of flour on the left?  That's American scale.  I can't buy a bag of flour that is bigger than 1 kg here.  Let's consider the implications of this.  You can't drive to your historic-center grocery store, park and then drag your groceries out to the car that will carry them home.  There is no parking lot.  YOU are carrying your groceries home on foot.  And your kitchen is the size of the American shower stall you use.  Your fridge is the size of your high school locker, but shorter. You can't have anything big or in bulk because you can't lug it all home and you can't put it anywhere. The oven in which you'll be baking that cake is slightly bigger than the one you learned to bake in when you were young.  And to my male readers, don't tell me you didn't use your sister's version of this.  Cake is cake, and we all like cake.

And while we're discussing baking:

 First, let's address those graham crackers.  Nothing like them is sold in stores here.  I got these at the commissary at the embassy, which has recently overhauled its inventory and offerings and no longer carries them.  It's slowly being converted into a convenience store, much to my chagrin.
My sweetie likes pie.  He especially likes key lime.  I am thinking I will attempt to crumble McVitties (a British cookie sometimes found here) and convert them into a crust, but it just isn't the same. Sad!

Second, let's address baking chips. I *can* get them at Italian grocery stores, but only ONE type and ONE size.  See below:

Standard bottle cap provided for scale reference for those chips.  Miniscule! If you asked me to relate five generalizations about Italian cuisine, one of them would be:  no extremes are endorsed.  Nothing should be 'too (fill in the blank).'  Not too spicy.  Not too sweet.  So the banner on the package states 'extra fondente,' which means 'extra dark' and therefore, almost no milk was added to the cocoa.  It definitely has an almost bitter quality.  So, the minimal amount of sugar will be used in the desert, and that, coupled with the dark chocolate, will result in a flavor that Italians can stand.

My kingdom for some other kinds and sizes of baking chips.  When I think about what I gave away from my American pantry before I moved here...I wince.

Lastly, let's address condiments and spices:

 I cannot for the life of me figure out why I can't find kosher salt here.  And the rest of these spices, above and below, were muled here by friends and family kind enough to offer to bring something from home. I'm already making a mental note to pick up more garlic powder (and, it turns out, DILL....I can't find dill here either!) when I return home this summer. (Also, lurking in the back is one butternut squash, which I had to beg and beg my vegetable vendor to carry...Italians love lots of kinds of squash, but this one is not on their typical list).

I'm sure that Americans in particular would find this laughable, but 'food tourism' now definitely includes, for me, shopping in other countries' grocery stores, just to see what non-perishables I can bring back.  Hence, a tin of mustard powder.

I thought I would conclude this lengthy post with a few mentions of other, non-food things I either cannot buy or access here.

Forget the economy or bulk-sized shampoo or shower gel, friends.  Same for OTC medicines.

When you walk into your local Target or super-Walmart, and wander into the giant aisle - bordered by shelving units with their uppermost shelves so high up that many Italians couldn't dream of reaching them without a ladder - that JUST carries shampoos, pushing your huge trolley with four children in it PLUS the goods you occasionally toss in, remember this image. 

The phrase 'spoiled for choice' is real, people. 

And - this will sadden lots of people I know - I cannot access American Netflix.  I am a subscriber, but I literally cannot access it.  I get the Italian version instead.  This does not mean, thankfully, that I must watch all programming in Italian, but it puts a severe limit on what I can watch.  Many American programs offered on American Netflix are not licensed to run here, so I'm out of luck.  Ditto for Amazon Prime.  I'm still waiting to watch the last few seasons of Boardwalk Empire.  This reality extends to most American cable channels too, so please don't talk to me about The Walking Dead.

If you're thinking that there are technological workarounds I should know about, stop right there.  I know about them.  And they used to work for people like me.  But they don't anymore.  It is next to impossible to cloak your online source well enough to fool any of these providers. They're onto us all and our VPNs and other shady ways of dodging the rules.

And speaking of rules, stay tuned for my next installment, which will address some of the rules of Italian living.

Meanwhile, I'll be squeezing the lemons I have into milk in order to create a facsimile of buttermilk, because that's not available here either.

(p.s.  was finally able to order that OTC medication that I previously couldn't have.  Waited over a month and during that time took an alternative I had to order online and have shipped here, but....success?)

(p.p.s.  if you're curious about something that you could never, ever live without - while contemplating a life abroad somewhere like here -  comment on this post with a challenge for me to find it in Rome.  I'm game, and just might learn something.)