and those who do not travel
read only one page."
~ St. Augustine ~
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September 2011 - Palio di Parma. We were still unpacking boxes one weekend when we heard drums, cheering and music outside. We were intrigued. We poked our heads outside. We went exploring, camera in hand. Across the street there was some sort of festival going on. There were people in medieval garb, music, cheers, lots of drummers and flag throwers. It was incredible, and, literally right outside our door! We discovered that all across Italy during the summer and fall various cities hold a celebration called The Palio. The word palio originates from the Latin "pallium" which refers to the cloth drawer containing the prize money won by one of the town teams. The teams are called "porte" or gates as they represent the medieval gates of each city. The most famous palio festival, takes place in the Tuscan town, Siena where the main piazza, Piazza del Campo, is turned into a race-track with a live horse race twice a year. I cannot imagine the intensity of a live horse race on these ancient cobblestoned streets. Parma's celebration has races too, just not quite as exciting as Siena's. Parma's race is more like . . . adorable. More on that below. In Parma, the palio is held the 3rd weekend in September. This citywide celebration dates back to the ancient "Scarlet Run" of the 1300's. The Palio was originally developed as a competition between several noble families of Parma. Some say that exiled nobility was allowed to return to Parma to participate in the competition. Legend also has it that prisoners were allowed to compete in exchange for regaining their freedom. The games consisted of several contests utilizing medieval weapons and horses. The Palio was held every year from the 1300's until Napoleon's arrival in the nineteenth century. I could not find any information as to why the games stopped under Napleon's era. Happily, for us, however, the festival returned in the 1970's and continues each year to this day. As I mentioned, each September, the town is divided into 5 teams called "porte" which represent the ancient city gates: the green of Santa Croce (symbol - the eagle), the white of Porta San Francesco (symbol - the wolf), the blue of Porta Nuova (symbol - the unicorn), the yellow of Porta San Michele (symbol - the dragon) and red Porta San Barnaba (symbol - the lion). Each team has an official costume and flag that incorporates their color and symbol. Instead of money, now the prize for winning the most points by one of the porte consists of a painting. The painting must include the Madonna, Parma protector, an architectural identifier of the city as well as the 5 porte coat of arms. There is an opening ceremony, a blessing by the church and songs by the church choir. There is also a magnificent parade with townspeople dressed in traditional medieval clothing as well as 2 running competitions, one for men, one for women and a competition for children racing donkeys (the aforementioned adorable equine race). I was thoroughly taken with the magnificent medieval costumes. The materials were lush, colorful and elegant. After the costumes, I also really enjoyed watching the flag throwing competitions. The flag throwers display agility, gracefulness and athleticism all at once. We spent the better part of the day wandering around our new city taking in the festival. It was an unexpected delight to see the history of the town walking right before us. We didn't get much unpacking done that day, but we meandered. We learned. We "oohed" and "aahed." We laughed and enjoyed ourselves. We felt so lucky to have literally stumbled upon this incredible tradition. This was the adventure that we were looking for. Things were starting to look up. We had been in Italy for two months. It was our first Thanksgiving away from home. We were all homesick. Everything is difficult to accomplish when you don't speak the language. Even the simplest of tasks is difficult. In addition to adjusting to a new home, country and language, Aleks was taking classes in English, French and Italian while trying to simultaneously learn French and Italian. We were all pretty beaten down and exhausted. I was determined to celebrate Thanksgiving and have a day from home in Italy. Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorites holidays. I like that it is a day of reflection. There is no emphasis on gifts, just food, family and friends. One of Aleksander's new friends asked him what Thanksgiving was. After Aleks explained it to him he said, "That sounds great. Can I come?" A friend for dinner - thank you Jesus, yes! Maybe we would see a glimpse of our former son. That would be something to be grateful for. Aleks' friend inspired me. I invited some new friends to join us - two American families and one family that is a mix of English and American. I envisioned a day conducted entirely in English for our tired minds and spirits - yay! So, how to pull it off? Turkey is not as popular here. I wondered where I would find a whole turkey. I figured the rest of the meal would be easy as the ingredients are all common items, but a whole turkey was going to be a problem. At school one day an Italian mom happened to tell me about a poultry farm that her family had used for decades. I got our neighbor to call and order me a whole turkey. "7 kilos? Are you sure? That is quite large." "Yes, I am sure." A 7 kilo/15 pound turkey is not big by American standards, but it is huge by Italian standards. We measured the inside of the oven. We prayed it would fit. Since Thanksgiving is not a holiday here, we decided to celebrate on the following Sunday. That Friday, Joe was going to pick up the turkey on his way home from work. He called ahead and got directions. He input the information into the GPS. He drove around for an hour in fog twice as think as San Francisco fog searching for the farm. He couldn't find it. He called for directions again. He couldn't find it. After the third phone call, the farmer told Joe to stay put. He would come and get him and take him to the farm. Joe arrived at the farm and asked for our turkey. "Your wife already picked it up." "That is impossible. I have the car." "An American woman came and picked it up this afternoon." Gee, do ya' think that maybe you could have told Joe that one of the three times he called you? You know, before he drove around for an hour in fog looking for you? What had happened is another American woman had decided that she wanted to have Thanksgiving too. She had asked me where I was going to get my turkey. I gave her the number to the turkey farm and explained that she needed to call and order her turkey well in advance as they don't normally keep turkeys but could get them if ordered. I ordered mine two weeks in advance. I don't know where the mix up happened along the way, but, she got our turkey. There was no second turkey at the farm for us. Our first Thanksgiving in Italy, three families coming over and no turkey. For those who are unfamiliar with Thanksgiving, the turkey is not optional. The turkey is the star of the entire feast. The turkey is essential. We had Friday afternoon and Saturday morning to try to figure it out as stores are closed Saturday afternoon and Sunday, Lena had a friend over that Friday afternoon who speaks Italian. I dragged that poor girl to every store I could think of asking if they had any turkey. The butcher across the street had a few pieces. Joe got a few pieces from the farm and thus, Frankenturkey, was built and sewn together in a horrible fashion like his namesake. Next, we had a house to clean and a feast to prep for and lo and behold, I woke up on Saturday sick. In bed with a fever kind of sick. Oh, and all those ingredients that I thought would be so easy to find. Not so much. Cranberries were no where to be found in the normal supermarkets. I asked in the fruit and vegetable stores. No. I asked in the frozen foods store (yes, there is an entire store devoted to frozen foods). No. On my quest I stopped in a Russian store hoping to find some things for our Polish Christmas celebration. Low and behold, sitting there in the freezer section there was a pack of what looked like whole cranberries. I took a risk and bought them figuring I'd look up what they were when I got home. At home the package title translated as mooseberries - also known as the high bush cranberry! Hallelujah! Cranberries, check. Now pumpkin pie. I went to all the same stores asking for pumpkin (zucca). The Parma region serves quite a bit of pumpkin filled pasta in the fall so this should have been an easy task to find pumpkin. Yeah, again, not so much. I went to the supermarket armed with my very limited Italian and Google Translate. I found a commessa and tried to explain what I needed for una grande tradizionale festa americana. "Oh, si, la festa di ringraziamento! mi piace molta la festa di ringraziamento." Great, she has heard of Thanksgiving and she really liked it! Certainly she would help me. I told her that I need pumpkin for a pie. "Per un dolce?? Per una torta?" She looked very confused and a bit disgusted. Yes I told her it is a very important part of the meal. "Per torta? hum?" She told me that the pumpkins were last month. They are all gone. OK. I ask if they have pumpkin in a can? At this point her look tells me that she is not only disgusted, but angry at the thought of pumpkin in a can. "No!" She turned and walked away. The other families offered to bring dishes. I decide to punt the pumpkin pie to someone else who had been living in Italy longer. Sunday arrived. I was still sick, but Joe really rose to the occasion. He slaved away in the kitchen all morning. The house wasn't as clean as I would have liked, but it was a small space and when filled with people, it was passable. Our friends Jan and Steve brought some really excellent Italian wines. Julie and Don brought the pumpkin pies and Lisa and John brought the green bean casserole. I am pretty sure everyone had a good time. I know my family did. At the end of the day, after all the running around, me getting sick and presenting Frankenturkey instead of a whole bird, it was worth it. We had a fun day filled with the company of new friends and a traditional Thanksgiving feast. The thing I was most grateful for that day though, was this - the kids were smiling again. "Initially, you are overwhelmed. But gradually you realize it's like a wave. Resist and you'll be knocked over. Dive into it and you'll swim out the other side. This is a new and different world. The challenge is to cope with it. And not just cope, but thrive. ~Dame Judi Dench ~ The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel In the USA, a Guido is a slang (some would say pejorative) word for an Italian American. In Italy, however, Guido is a boy’s name or when used as a verb it literally means “I drive.” We had been in Italy for a week when my husband had a work conference in Florence. Would the kids and I like to come along? School had not started yet. We could not move into our apartment yet and it was Florence, so Hell yeah! The only hitch, Joe would be taking a bus with the other employees so I would have to drive the hour and half on my own with the kids or take the train. Since I spoke no Italian I figured driving would be easier than trying to buy train tickets, figure out schedules, etc. Besides, I had been driving around Parma and back and forth to the local Ikea (pronounced hilariously to my children as ‘eee’ kay- yuh‘) with no problems. Plus, we had a GPS in the car. How hard could it be? It is only 1.5 hours away. Driving to Florence was no problem! Armed with the overconfidence that comes with 30 years of driving, we set out. On the ride down I became acquainted with the Italian driver. For a large portion of the autostrada (highway) between Parma and Florence, there are only two lanes. One lane is perpetually occupied by semi trucks. Semi trucks which travel at a very high speed and get right up your bum. Thus, the only option if you don’t want to be a semi sandwich is to go around them in the other lane. This is an option equivalent to playing Russian Roulette. The cars travel at speeds far faster than the semi trucks. They also drift across the entire autostrada paying no attention whatsoever to lane lines. At first I thought they must be drunk they way they were swerving, but it was happening so often that I realized it was just the way they drive here. Now, I am a responsible driver with my two precious kids in the car so I am going to drive responsibly. Apparently, driving responsibility is a personal affront to Italian drivers. My driving habits bring on a host of activity from the Italians - honking, fist shaking, lights flashing, swerving to see if they can squeeze their car between me and the semi in the next lane. At one point the driver behind me was so close to me that when I looked in my rear view mirror I could see the part in her hair. I can still remember the pink hair clip she was wearing. So after an hour and a half of pure white knuckle driving we arrived in Florence. Finally, I was going to park the car and relax. Ha! It took us 1.5 hours to get to Florence and another 2.5 to find the hotel. The GPS kept trying to send me down one way streets or streets that were blocked off. I was driving in circles and now the autostrada seemed like the bumper cars at the fair. Imagine the same speed, drifting and erratic driving but now on ancient narrow streets with people and scooters added to the mix. And no where at all to stop or park. The streets that I needed to get to the hotel were either blocked or too narrow for a car to fit. After 1.5 hours of trying to find the hotel on my own, I was in the middle of a full blown, all out, screaming at the kids, nervous breakdown. I pulled over as best I could and simply stopped. I called Joe. He sweetly tried to help and offer suggestions over the phone from the bus. He called the hotel for me. I cried and screamed at him. He didn’t understand how awful it was. Through my tears I noticed a crowd of police men and women directing traffic. Surely they could help me. I eased over and once again decided to block traffic like an Italian native. The police woman thankfully spoke English. She asked me where I was from. I explained that we had just moved to Italy a week ago and that we were joining my husband for a work trip. She told me that tourists should never drive in Florence. My husband’s work should have told us that. The hotel should have told us that. She explained that it is difficult for the locals to drive in Florence because the streets change almost on a weekly basis according to politics. That explained why the GPS was having such a hard time. She asked where my husband was. I told her he was on the bus with his office mates. “Hum.” she said with a raised eyebrow. “Allora” she tells me, “you must drive over that bridge there. Once you are across the bridge you go straight and your hotel is very close. Another right turn and there you will find it.” “I can’t go across the bridge. It is one way traffic going the opposite direction. And the street is blocked with a chain,” I respond. “Ignore the traffic. It is the fastest way and I will have my colleague meet you at the chain, He will unlock it and you can drive through,” she tells me. “Huh?!” I am stricken with terror at the thought but I am also so close to having a permanent breakdown that I decide it is worth it. I grip the steering wheel and proceed to drive against traffic across the Ponte Santa Trinita. Everyone, justifiably this time, is once again honking, screaming, shaking fists at me, but damn it, we made it across. We pulled up to the chained street. We waited for 30 minutes. No one came. I negotiated the terrors of Firenze traffic again to wind my way back to the police woman. She instructs me to do the same thing again. I tell her that I already did what she suggested but no one came to meet us at the chain. She tells me I must be patient. I cross the Ponte Santa Trinita again. Against traffic. Against all reason and sanity. This time, however, I noticed a city bus lumbering along. I thought to myself, "if that bus can fit, then so can I." I threw caution to the wind. I ignored the chain and decided to follow the bus. It worked! I swear I heard angels sing when I finally found the street that our hotel was located on. We were close. All I had to do was find the piazza to park in as the hotel had instructed me. I pulled up to what is, to this day, the tiniest piazza that I have ever seen. There were a few of the teeny Smart electric cars parked, but even they were parked all akimbo because space was so tight. I didn’t want to leave the car double parked only to come back and find it towed away. So I stayed with the car, our luggage, a distraught Lena and the passports while Aleksander ran to the hotel and asked what to do. Aleks returned and said that the hotel advised us to just leave the car double parked until we checked in. That was all I needed to hear. At the front desk I asked where the piazza for parking was that they kept telling me about over the phone. “It is just there. Where your car is.” “That is the hotel parking? There is nowhere to park in the piazza.” “We know. There is never any parking there. Just leave it there with the keys. We will take care of it.” With pleasure! Once we made the decision to move reality kicked into high gear. My husband had to start work before we were ready to move. The logistics of an international move are horrendous.
First, we had to tell the kids. When we started discussing the possibility of moving internationally the kids were 7 and 11. My son thought it sounded great because Europeans ride bicycles everywhere. As an 11 year old boy that was one of his favorite activities and the idea that he could literally ride his bike all over town sounded ideal. My daughter at age 7 asked if we could visit castles. “Of course!” we assured her. After we told them we were moving, Aleksander stared straight ahead and said nothing. Lena burst into tears. “Uh oh.” This was not the reaction we had envisioned. Unfortunately, by the time the move actually happened our son was 13 and happily ensconced in middle school with his friends, teen social life and first girlfriend. Our daughter was 9 and while she liked castles, she was no longer willing to move for them. Then, my husband began the process of commuting from Parma, Italy to Pleasanton, California. He was trying to adjust to a new job, learn the ropes, find us a place to live, learn the language, understand the road signs and the ways of life in Italy. He was stressed out and lonely. I was in Pleasanton dealing with: a very sad daughter and a sad, angry son; acquiring copies of all of our records - dental, orthodontic, medical, insurance; arranging the shipping and trying to figure out how to ship personal items; and, the prepping and selling of the house. We were selling right after the housing market crashed so selling the house entailed basically redoing the entire house - painting the interior and exterior, fixing the pergola, patching walls, packing up, sorting, selling, donating and removing any trace of us ever having lived there. Essentially, it needed to look like a model home, not like a real home. I was exhausted every single evening. I live with an autoimmune disease which leaves me tired on a good day, but this left me utterly depleted physically and emotionally. Now factor in the time difference (8 hours ahead in Italy) and a lonely husband who was missing us and wanting to talk and discuss things. I simply couldn’t do it at times. I was too tired. So Joe was alone in Europe, missing his family, feeling neglected. And I was in the US feeling exhausted, and guilty because I had the kids with me and witnessed their sadness every day. The experience was not boding well for our adventure. We lived apart like this for 5 months. It was stressful on all of us. My son’s normally good grades began to drop and my sweet, mellow son got angrier and angrier. My daughter broke into tears on a regular basis. Much to our surprise, the house sold much more quickly than we had anticipated, however, the kids had activities scheduled through the end of July and they needed time to say goodbye to their friends, their home, their life as they knew it. We found ourselves with no place to live in our own town. The fates conspired in our favor, however. Let me just say that we happened to have the best group of neighbors that anyone could ever ask for. I miss the comradery that we all shared. In our hour of need, our friends across the street offered up their home to us because they were going away. It was surreal as I watched the new family move into our home of 12 years from the neighbor’s house across the street. I had the good sense to make sure the kids were gone for the day with friends so they didn’t have to watch. Our final day in Pleasanton arrived. We stayed the last night with our dear, dear friends. The shuttle picked us up to take us to the airport. I was teary saying goodbye to our friends, but then both kids began to cry. Then they began to sob. And I mean sob. Whole body racking sobs. Then I began to sob with them. We sobbed the entire way to the airport. We sobbed at check-in, through the security gate and waiting for the plane. It was horrible. I felt like crap. Their hearts were breaking. My heart was breaking witnessing their pain. We chose this. On our way to Italy, we made a stop in Illinois and Wisconsin to say goodbye to family. Joe returned as well and we were reunited for a time. We went from Illinois to Washington, D.C. with my in-laws for a vacation. Joe had to return to Italy for work but the kids and I went on to New York City for our last bit of the USA. The idea was that this mini vacation would help ease the pain. It would be a slower transition. We had a grand time that summer and on our final voyage from New York to Italy, Joe surprised us and upgraded us to 1st class. The month long vacation and the 1st class lounge almost fooled us into forgetting what we were doing. Almost. On the long flight the tears started again. Poor Joe was excited to get us all back together and had positioned himself right at the exit gate with a video camera to record our first steps in Italy. The kids were crying, I was crying for them. We were all exhausted, afraid and less than enthusiastic about being filmed. Joe may even tell you that I was rude. When we got to the car, Joe handed our son a package from his girlfriend at home. I will never forget the look of pain on Aleksander’s face when he got that package. I swear the sadness crept out of that package and enveloped us all. It was a quiet ride to our temporary housing. Tears were silently falling down our cheeks. We chose this. I just re-read my first post from 2009. It took me 2 full years, but I did indeed swim away from my perfect island - smack into what one might metaphorically say are shark infested waters. Namely, the chaos of everyday life in Italy. It is a beautiful chaos, however, complete with prosecco, proscuitto and Parmesan cheese.
Let me back up a little. In 2009 I was living in suburban California. My family and I lived in what may well be one of the nicest, most pleasant places to live and raise kids on the planet. It is easy to live there. It is safe, friendly and offers a fantastic location, perfect weather and excellent schools. That being said, I have always been a gypsy at heart and I wanted more challenge in my life. As the saying goes, "be careful what you wish for." An international move is not for the faint of heart. So there I was in 2009 hoping to move internationally. Since my husband is the primary breadwinner, this involved getting him on board with my vision. We had casually talked about living abroad over the years. His plan was to move abroad when our children were grown and gone. He saw us spending our golden years traveling and touring the world. My vision was to take the kids with us; to broaden their worlds now; to have them learn another language; to assure them that they needn't be afraid to experience all that the world has to offer. So the question became, how to bring the two visions together? I studied my options and evaluated the tools I had in my arsenal. What I arrived it was this: my husband is a first generation Polish American. In the eyes of Poland, he is a Polish citizen despite being born and raised in America. I encouraged him to apply for his dual citizenship. He may even tell you that I badgered him. My argument went something like this: The world is becoming more global with every passing day. Once he had Polish citizenship (i.e. European Union benefits) then our children would also be Polish citizens with EU benefits. Armed with an international education, fluency in three languages and a comfort level of living in either the US or Europe, the world would be their oyster when they graduated from college. This move and experience would afford them more opportunities, more choices in the long run. These arguments were hard for him to deny. Eventually he acquiesced and applied for dual citizenship. Next, I adhered to all the new age tenets and I simply willed it to happen. I envisioned an international move in my mind's eye. I meditated on it. I made a wish every time we went through a tunnel on our way to and from San Francisco. I posted a picture on my bulletin board of London. I had photo magnets of Paris superimposed with a Chinese fortune cookie insert that read "Follow Your Dreams." But most importantly, I researched international job offers for my husband and continually placed the ads in front of him. He may even tell you that I badgered him. We evaluated a number of situations that arose over the two years but none of them were quite right. My husband was on board with my vision at this point but didn't want to move just for the sake of moving. It had to be the right job; the right living situation. We considered Barcelona, London, Grenoble. We decided to be patient. I turned it over to the universe. And, then one day the right job and the right living situation did come along and va bene . . . here we are. It is September 2011 and we have moved from the suburban comfort of Pleasanton, California to Parma, Italy. At this point you are probably thinking, that is all very interesting, but why the Hell is this blog called Purple John? When my daughter was a toddler and just learning to speak she frequently made up words that sounded similar to the adult versions. Quite often, she would repeat a word with her own twist on the pronunciation. For example, she would say strawbellies instead of strawberries; froggy instead of foggy. One of the words she transposed was Parmesan. In her 3 year old mind Parmesan cheese was Purple John cheese. For years our family has been asking one another to pass the Purple John at the dinner table. Imagine our surprise then when we realized we were moving to Parma, Italy - the birthplace of Purple John cheese. Apparently the universe has a sense of humor. August 2011 ~ Arrived. Tired, bedraggled and sleepy but we made it. Kids cried upon arrival but were laughing later in the day. Internet connection is sketchy at best. Cannot move in yet but we are going there to unpack and organize. just want a home again. It has been months. Things that are going to take some getting used to: lack of space; I have an easy bake oven for an oven - seriously - none of our pans will fit in it and we have a dorm room sized fridge. Things that I am super excited about (besides the culture, learning another language, travel) - the best pizza ever a block away (Lena said she can never eat pizza in the US again); a champagneria a block away; an H & M across the street, a movie theater across the street and are you ready for this . . . an outlet mall about 10 minutes north of us with Roberto Cavalli, Versace, Dolce and Gabbana, Armani, Missoni, Escada, La Perla, Furla, Frette, Bruno Magli, Miss Sixty, and Valentino to name a few. And about five more minutes away from the outlet mall is a thermal bath and spa. Yay!!!! www.fidenzavilage.com I live in what one acquaintance referred to as a "ridiculously cute town." Another friend said it looked like a town from a Disney movie.
It is clean, safe, the schools are excellent, and there are many parks and greenbelts. We have an old fashioned downtown complete with parades featuring kids, dogs and a group of old men who don oversized pants and call themselves the Balloon Brigade. The weather is damn near perfect and we can get to the beach, the mountains, wine country, rivers, and lakes within a few hours. We are surrounded by nature's majestic beauty but we are also a mere 40 minutes by public transportation from San Francisco. They even play pleasant Muzak at the gas station. So given all the wonderment that my town offers, I can't help but wonder why I feel that I am slowly losing my mind living in one of the most pleasant places on Earth? Loads of people assure me on a regular basis that "this is the best place to live." They tell me that they do not wish to ever live anywhere else and hope to live here until they die. I sigh, bite the inside of my cheek and quiet the voice in my head that wonders why I don't feel the same way. I realized that I am losing my mind because suburban bliss was depleting my gypsy sense of adventure. I agree that our town offers many wonderful benefits, but I don't share the majority view that this is to be my final town, my end of days. My gypsy spirit is waning under the reality of working full time, raising 2 kids and being a wife. While my life is very enjoyable, I am missing the energy that exploration has always provided me. I need to fuel my curiosity. Living in a perfect place also makes me feel a bit guilty. I feel guilty that I am restless when I have so much. But stronger than the guilt, is the belief that I want more than the trappings of perfection for my children's lives. I want my children to know that the world is made up of countless amazing places, cultures, people, art, food. I want them to see and experience the underbelly of life - the poverty, trash and homelessness that one sees in a city - because if they never see these things, they will never know that these things are problems that our world faces. If they don't see these things, they will never know humanity and how to face a problem head on. If they don't see these things, they may not learn compassion. If they don't see that their suburban world is an anomaly and that most people do not live as they do, then they may not appreciate their own good fortune. I want my children to learn that you don't have to be afraid of someone or some culture or some religion that is different than theirs. I want them to be citizens of the world. I have been pacing my island of suburban perfection for months. I think it is time for a swim. |
Shelley Jarvis
American mother of two who left the comfort and ease of life in the Northern California suburbs for an international experience Archives
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