As my husband and I prepare for a family trip to Prince Edward Island tomorrow, my father offers to lend us his cooler. I put my daughter to bed and my husband and Dad head out to the garage. A few minutes later, I hear muffled banging noises, as though something is hitting the side of the house. My mother and I share an expression of puzzlement.
"Actually, it sounds like it's coming from inside the wall," I say.
My daughter, whose bedroom is right by the wall in question, starts wailing. I go outside to check out the source of the racket. My father has a ladder leaning into the garret, and he is handing down the cooler, lawn chairs and a beach mat to my husband.
"The attic is right by Baby's room!" I hiss. "You're keeping her awake!"
I go upstairs and take my daughter in my arms. She gives me a grateful hug, then, with under lip curled in a pout, looks to the closet, where a muffled banging has just ceased.
"There are no monsters in the closet," I soothe.
My daughter is now sleeping, and I find myself thinking: parents usually make every effort to keep monsters out of the closet, and here we are putting them in. What other instances of lack of foresight are we guilty of?
There are of course the classic cases of putting the wine bottle not enough out of her reach, and taking it away just in time to avoid catastrophic consequences; or putting her in her first miniature toddler car ride and asking the fraught-with-dire-repurcussions question: "What's that button for?" and watching your child whimper in panic as the vehicle begins to make weird rocking motions.
But I would have to say that my crowning moment of lack of foresight was the time I took my two-month old baby on her first airplane ride to visit her new family in New Brunswick. I hadn't wanted to be "encumbered" with a stroller, so I left it with my husband just before crossing the security checkpoint. There I was, with my very small baby in my arms, attempting to take off my jacket, shoes, bag, etc., all the while making sure I didn't drop her. I passed the metal detector, and thought everything would be a breeze from then on. But have you ever tried putting on a jacket, bag and shoes while carrying a baby? Not possible. Finally I had to resort to asking one of the security guards to hold my child for me while I put my things on. From that time, I take my stroller with me every time I leave the house.
But then, there are instances where fate is dead set against you. When I came back from Rome, my stroller apparently decided to take a break in Paris after weeks of rattling over cobblestone streets. It was nowhere to be found as I exited the plane; I had to walk through a mile of Charles de Gaulle airport with my 25-lb daughter in my arms, and quickly, to make our connecting flight. The stroller was returned to me a few days later, well rested and in a state of perfect nonchalance.
Monday, 20 June 2011
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
Hot Summer (or, The Day My House Began Falling To Pieces)
June 1st. I love June. At the start of June I look forward to the coming summer. There is a promise of warmer days whispered in the wind.
Or, on this particular June 1st, a veritable, 30 degrees plus humidex, full blazing sun, scorcher of a day, complete with a wind that could blow your house down, I am actually looking forward to cooler days.
But to begin at the beginning. Let's go back to the last week of May. The week I came home from Rome, looking forward to a small reprieve from the hot Italian sun. The week, incidentally, when summer officially came to Montreal. In full force.
The first thing my husband and I noticed upon our return home is that the upstairs air-conditioner doesn't work. "Oh well," I shrugged. "I'm not a big fan of air-conditioning anyway."
Ten days, fifteen degrees later and no company is willing to even come look at our air-conditioner, claiming it "does not work with the particular brand of our unit." Well, bugger. We open our windows (which in fact provides an interesting sequel to this story, if you will kindly read on), turn on the air-conditioner downstairs full blast, but to no avail; the thermostats upstairs stubbornly indicate such horrible temperatures as 28.5 celcius. Even during the night, the readings on the thermostats hardly budge.
What's wrong with this house?? I feel like yelling. How can it be hotter inside than it is outside? But I already know the answer to that. We have chosen to live in a tall, skinny house that is sitting atop a hill on what most likely used to be an open field, with nothing to offer shelter from the blazing sun but a tiny twig someone planted on the front lawn ten years ago and that has since grown about half-an-inch per year. We are completely exposed.
Last year, we discovered with not a small amount of horror that we had set up our baby room in what, it turns out, is the hottest room in the house. We did everything we could to cool down that room come summer, including putting a roll-down blind in addition to the aluminum blinds that were already there, and even duct-taping some sun-deflecting material to the pane. It helped, but only a little. Finally we realized we would have to leave the a/c on full-time. At least it worked then.
Sick of that system, however, we decided to switch the baby's room with the computer room last winter. It was a project that took a couple of days. But it did make a difference. About 1 or 2 degrees' difference.
Last night, finding it impossible to sleep upstairs, we moved the entire family to the basement. We slept on the futon, and our baby slept in her play-pen (converted into a bed).
So now we have indefinitely vacated the upstairs part of our home (which I have just now decided to dub: The Kalahari), using it only to shower and change clothes.
But, when faced with temporary abandonment of its upper floor, instead of graciously accepting its shortcomings and patiently awaiting our eventual return, the house opted for revenge.
It is a very hot, but also very windy day today. This morning, I decided it would be nice to open the windows a bit, and let in some fresh air. My baby was napping in the basement and I was reading downstairs when suddenly I heard a very loud Bang! I ran upstairs, and upon looking in the bathroom I noticed that the window had been blown open to its beyond-fullest potential, and had slammed into the wall. I climbed into the tub, removed the screen and tried to pull the window closed. But the house was putting up a good fight. The rusty hinges had bent and snapped, and the window looked like it was ready to fly off on its own and explore new lands and sights, possibly considering a close neighbor's lawn as its first stop, or worse, a neighbor's head.
If this window flies away and lands on someone's head, or crashes through someone else's window, I will surely be sued, or charged with murder, or something, I thought as I held onto the window, fighting against a wind that appeared to see the potential for entertainment in this situation and seemed determined to see the worst possible damage done.
Right then I saw my next-door neighbor arrive home and get out of his van. Firmly gripping my window, I leaned outside and called out his name. He looked straight in front of him, then up. "My window's going to fly away! Help!!" I yelled in panic.
A minute later he was upstairs in my bathroom, one foot out on the roof, the other in my bathtub, hanging on to the window for dear life, yelling to his son who had made his appearance outside to fetch his friend next door, quickly!
"What are you doing up there, Dad?" his son yelled.
"I'm having a bath! Now hurry up!"
About fifteen minutes later, my neighbour is still in my bathtub, and the other on the roof. The two of them finally manage to force the window to relent and close. Only partly, though. The top half is secured, but the bottom half has proven impossible to fit back into the frame. The wind whistles shrilly through that bottom crack now, and when I close my eyes, I imagine I'm sailing a small, creaky boat on a rough sea.
As soon as the window was sufficiently closed and all possibility of a disaster had been averted, I ran out back to fetch the ladder. Only, when I put it against the house, it would not reach all the way to the roof. The neighbour had to run to his house to get his ladder, while the other guy sat on my roof below my bathroom window, casually looking around as though he were admiring the view, his wife staring up at him from my driveway.
After he managed to climb off my room, I thanked my neighbours, promised them a case of beer, and went back inside. My baby was still sound asleep in her bed in the cool basement.
Or, on this particular June 1st, a veritable, 30 degrees plus humidex, full blazing sun, scorcher of a day, complete with a wind that could blow your house down, I am actually looking forward to cooler days.
But to begin at the beginning. Let's go back to the last week of May. The week I came home from Rome, looking forward to a small reprieve from the hot Italian sun. The week, incidentally, when summer officially came to Montreal. In full force.
The first thing my husband and I noticed upon our return home is that the upstairs air-conditioner doesn't work. "Oh well," I shrugged. "I'm not a big fan of air-conditioning anyway."
Ten days, fifteen degrees later and no company is willing to even come look at our air-conditioner, claiming it "does not work with the particular brand of our unit." Well, bugger. We open our windows (which in fact provides an interesting sequel to this story, if you will kindly read on), turn on the air-conditioner downstairs full blast, but to no avail; the thermostats upstairs stubbornly indicate such horrible temperatures as 28.5 celcius. Even during the night, the readings on the thermostats hardly budge.
What's wrong with this house?? I feel like yelling. How can it be hotter inside than it is outside? But I already know the answer to that. We have chosen to live in a tall, skinny house that is sitting atop a hill on what most likely used to be an open field, with nothing to offer shelter from the blazing sun but a tiny twig someone planted on the front lawn ten years ago and that has since grown about half-an-inch per year. We are completely exposed.
Last year, we discovered with not a small amount of horror that we had set up our baby room in what, it turns out, is the hottest room in the house. We did everything we could to cool down that room come summer, including putting a roll-down blind in addition to the aluminum blinds that were already there, and even duct-taping some sun-deflecting material to the pane. It helped, but only a little. Finally we realized we would have to leave the a/c on full-time. At least it worked then.
Sick of that system, however, we decided to switch the baby's room with the computer room last winter. It was a project that took a couple of days. But it did make a difference. About 1 or 2 degrees' difference.
Last night, finding it impossible to sleep upstairs, we moved the entire family to the basement. We slept on the futon, and our baby slept in her play-pen (converted into a bed).
So now we have indefinitely vacated the upstairs part of our home (which I have just now decided to dub: The Kalahari), using it only to shower and change clothes.
But, when faced with temporary abandonment of its upper floor, instead of graciously accepting its shortcomings and patiently awaiting our eventual return, the house opted for revenge.
It is a very hot, but also very windy day today. This morning, I decided it would be nice to open the windows a bit, and let in some fresh air. My baby was napping in the basement and I was reading downstairs when suddenly I heard a very loud Bang! I ran upstairs, and upon looking in the bathroom I noticed that the window had been blown open to its beyond-fullest potential, and had slammed into the wall. I climbed into the tub, removed the screen and tried to pull the window closed. But the house was putting up a good fight. The rusty hinges had bent and snapped, and the window looked like it was ready to fly off on its own and explore new lands and sights, possibly considering a close neighbor's lawn as its first stop, or worse, a neighbor's head.
If this window flies away and lands on someone's head, or crashes through someone else's window, I will surely be sued, or charged with murder, or something, I thought as I held onto the window, fighting against a wind that appeared to see the potential for entertainment in this situation and seemed determined to see the worst possible damage done.
Right then I saw my next-door neighbor arrive home and get out of his van. Firmly gripping my window, I leaned outside and called out his name. He looked straight in front of him, then up. "My window's going to fly away! Help!!" I yelled in panic.
A minute later he was upstairs in my bathroom, one foot out on the roof, the other in my bathtub, hanging on to the window for dear life, yelling to his son who had made his appearance outside to fetch his friend next door, quickly!
"What are you doing up there, Dad?" his son yelled.
"I'm having a bath! Now hurry up!"
About fifteen minutes later, my neighbour is still in my bathtub, and the other on the roof. The two of them finally manage to force the window to relent and close. Only partly, though. The top half is secured, but the bottom half has proven impossible to fit back into the frame. The wind whistles shrilly through that bottom crack now, and when I close my eyes, I imagine I'm sailing a small, creaky boat on a rough sea.
As soon as the window was sufficiently closed and all possibility of a disaster had been averted, I ran out back to fetch the ladder. Only, when I put it against the house, it would not reach all the way to the roof. The neighbour had to run to his house to get his ladder, while the other guy sat on my roof below my bathroom window, casually looking around as though he were admiring the view, his wife staring up at him from my driveway.
After he managed to climb off my room, I thanked my neighbours, promised them a case of beer, and went back inside. My baby was still sound asleep in her bed in the cool basement.
Sunday, 29 May 2011
Is it ok to let your baby eat off the floor at Starbuck's?
Actually, it's not as bad as it sounds. Ok, maybe a little.
We did a family outing this morning at Starbuck's. I love their low-fat banana chocolate chip cake. Doesn't sound very low-fat, though, does it? I'm not even going to start on the whopper I had later at Burger King. Well ... maybe I will talk about our outing at BK in a bit. But first, Starbuck's.
My husband is having coffee, I am chowing down on my banana cake, and our baby is sitting on the floor, having given warning that if she wasn't taken out of her stroller soon, a fit might very well be eminent. On the floor she goes, and while she's down there, I give her little pieces of banana cake in her hand. I don't much like feeding her when she's on the floor, because I have the impression of giving scraps to a dog, or throwing crumbs at a pigeon, or whatever. But she doesn't seem to mind.
Of course I hadn't thought this through, as usual. A little piece of banana cake rolls to the floor, and way beyond the 5-second rule, my daughter decides to pick it up and, before I can say anything, pops it in her mouth. I know at this point some parents may be cringing. But I would like to share with you some words of wisdom that my grandmother used to share with her kids:
"You have to eat two buckets of shit before you die."
Well, if that's true, my daughter is well on her way.
I don't believe in the lysol-everything solution to germs that has become some sort of fad lately. In fact, I strongly believe that exposure to germs are good for you. I mean, how else do we develop immune systems?
But when I saw my daughter go for another piece of some thing or other on the floor that had been left there god knows how long and by whom, I let a loud "no!" burst forth so suddenly and with so much force she actually flinched. Needless to say, she didn't try to eat that particular morsel of food she had found so inviting.
Now for Burger King. By the way, I am aware of the fact that I am on a fast track to gaining back the 5 lbs. I have lost last month in Rome. But I will compensate by having hummus and a green salad for dinner. Yum.
One of the first things we noticed was the noise. The ceilings were very high, which was perfect for letting the 40-some kids' screams bounce around the vast space. This is a place with family-friendly convenience parents cannot resist. Get food fast, let the kids run around the play-park. By the way, when did those fast food restaurant play-gyms turn into a three story contraption the likes of which one would expect to find at the Family Robinson treehouse in Disneyland?
These places are never just filled with happy kids who run around in their socks. There was one little boy who, for a reason unknown to me, decided to have a crying fit. His mother, a heavy lady who, had she been in a movie, would have likely been wearing a mu-mu and curlers in her hair, was carrying him to the bathroom, holding him firm against her chest by his shoulder and left leg, while he kicked and screamed, gradually turning purple in the face.
Oh, the joys of parenting!
We did a family outing this morning at Starbuck's. I love their low-fat banana chocolate chip cake. Doesn't sound very low-fat, though, does it? I'm not even going to start on the whopper I had later at Burger King. Well ... maybe I will talk about our outing at BK in a bit. But first, Starbuck's.
My husband is having coffee, I am chowing down on my banana cake, and our baby is sitting on the floor, having given warning that if she wasn't taken out of her stroller soon, a fit might very well be eminent. On the floor she goes, and while she's down there, I give her little pieces of banana cake in her hand. I don't much like feeding her when she's on the floor, because I have the impression of giving scraps to a dog, or throwing crumbs at a pigeon, or whatever. But she doesn't seem to mind.
Of course I hadn't thought this through, as usual. A little piece of banana cake rolls to the floor, and way beyond the 5-second rule, my daughter decides to pick it up and, before I can say anything, pops it in her mouth. I know at this point some parents may be cringing. But I would like to share with you some words of wisdom that my grandmother used to share with her kids:
"You have to eat two buckets of shit before you die."
Well, if that's true, my daughter is well on her way.
I don't believe in the lysol-everything solution to germs that has become some sort of fad lately. In fact, I strongly believe that exposure to germs are good for you. I mean, how else do we develop immune systems?
But when I saw my daughter go for another piece of some thing or other on the floor that had been left there god knows how long and by whom, I let a loud "no!" burst forth so suddenly and with so much force she actually flinched. Needless to say, she didn't try to eat that particular morsel of food she had found so inviting.
Now for Burger King. By the way, I am aware of the fact that I am on a fast track to gaining back the 5 lbs. I have lost last month in Rome. But I will compensate by having hummus and a green salad for dinner. Yum.
One of the first things we noticed was the noise. The ceilings were very high, which was perfect for letting the 40-some kids' screams bounce around the vast space. This is a place with family-friendly convenience parents cannot resist. Get food fast, let the kids run around the play-park. By the way, when did those fast food restaurant play-gyms turn into a three story contraption the likes of which one would expect to find at the Family Robinson treehouse in Disneyland?
These places are never just filled with happy kids who run around in their socks. There was one little boy who, for a reason unknown to me, decided to have a crying fit. His mother, a heavy lady who, had she been in a movie, would have likely been wearing a mu-mu and curlers in her hair, was carrying him to the bathroom, holding him firm against her chest by his shoulder and left leg, while he kicked and screamed, gradually turning purple in the face.
Oh, the joys of parenting!
Friday, 27 May 2011
New Blog
I knew I was jinxing myself with that last post! Because, of course, the moment I wrote that my daughter was an absolute, perfect angel, marked the beginnings of screaming through breakfast, pulling of hair and scratching of face, refusing, positively refusing, to let mommy change her diaper, spinning this way and that and insisting on going around with her bum "au naturel."
Sigh.
Ok, so I'm sticking with this blog. I need it, after all. It serves as therapy.
But I did start a new one. A second blog. How did I get from one blog to two? Oh well, never mind. My second blog, which I will write with as much love and devotion as I have been writing this one, is on, well, writing. It is not a practical, step by step guide to how to get published. I would never presume to take such a liberty with my readers. No. This is a blog about me taking a first dip into the world of writing and publishing. And then seeing what happens.
If you would like to check it out, go to http://www.aspiringwriterdiary.blogspot.com/. Or follow the link at the end of my profile: Just Write. I think you have to go to "complete profile" to get to it.
Sigh.
Ok, so I'm sticking with this blog. I need it, after all. It serves as therapy.
But I did start a new one. A second blog. How did I get from one blog to two? Oh well, never mind. My second blog, which I will write with as much love and devotion as I have been writing this one, is on, well, writing. It is not a practical, step by step guide to how to get published. I would never presume to take such a liberty with my readers. No. This is a blog about me taking a first dip into the world of writing and publishing. And then seeing what happens.
If you would like to check it out, go to http://www.aspiringwriterdiary.blogspot.com/. Or follow the link at the end of my profile: Just Write. I think you have to go to "complete profile" to get to it.
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
Back from Rome
Baby and I are back home - and feeling euphoric! I believe my new template reflects my mood: hummingbirds, little purple flowers in a green forest - speaking of which, everything is so verdant here! It's like, while I was away, the world seemed to wake up and don a new, beautiful, colourful dress it just couldn't resist buying as it presented itself, gorgeous and flowing, in a storefront window.
Rome was beautiful, extraordinary, unbelievable. But nothing beats hearing a robin singing a spring tune to the early dawn, trees, garbed in their fresh, new, pale-green leaves, fragrant blossoms just opening their rosy petals, and a warm evening wind carrying the aroma of grilled burgers on a barbecue.
I'm suddenly having a craving for a burger.
Anyway, I'm glad to be home. I missed it. I missed my kitchen. Yay! I have a kitchen counter again! And four, yes, four burners! Oh, and my dishwasher! How I've missed you!
Still. Rome was wonderful. I realize I have not written very often in this blog during my month in Rome. But when one is too busy seeing, well, everything ...
This puts me in mind ... I am seriously thinking of changing the title of my blog (and consequently the address). I will let my readers know, in a future posting, if I decide to do so.
I am a new mom. I adore my daughter. My wonderful, perfect daughter. So wonderful, in fact, that she never gives me so much as a headache. Except when she's pulling my hair - hard. I'm sure we'll kick the habit one day. I have read other "new mom" blogs. The women who write these seem to be able to stick to their chosen topic. I, on the other hand, appear to have some amount of trouble doing so. I could write about my daughter every day. But what would I write? "Today, she has taken two naps, 1h30mins each, and outside of these naps, played happily on the floor with her toys." I don't have to deal with tantrums. I don't have to deal with fussiness. Or endless crying, or painful teething, fevers, rashes, or even sleepless nights. They just don't exist here! I know I might sound like I'm bragging. I'm not. I'm not complaining either, mind you. I'm just grateful.
But here's the thing. People need to suffer to write. Or so I've heard. Actually, I don't believe that, not one bit. But I do believe that a writer needs something to write about. So far, in this blog, I've written about a Tempo car shelter, my ex-dog, ex-boyfriends, handsome (or not) Italians, and how to lose weight (by the way, I lost 5 lbs in Rome! Living almost exclusively on pizza, pasta and gelato! Ok, now I'm bragging). Actually, looking back, it was only in March that I wrote faithfully to the topic of motherhood.
I have a confession to make. You know how some people say that when they have a baby, parenthood becomes their whole life, and their child takes up 100% of their time? Their entire lives have changed, and their baby has become their only priority. Well, that's just not true with me. Sure, my daughter gets everything she needs, including her mother's undying and deepest love. But mommy needs her own life, too. I could never be a stay-at-home mom. Right now, that's what I'm doing, but that's only going to last another very few months. My daughter is going into daycare in the fall, and even now she is spending the mornings with my neighbor, who is, incidentally, a stay-at-home mom. With four kids.
I am a mom. But I am also a writer. A new, just started emerging into the scary world of query letters, submissions and, of course, rejections, writer. I am also working on a first book. An intimidating, 530-pages manuscript that I began 8 years ago. This monster is taking my every last bit of courage to edit.
So there it is. I need a steady topic for my blog, one to which I will write, or else I will just keep going all over the place. Why not let it be: Confessions of a New Writer (or something like that)?
I'll keep you posted.
Rome was beautiful, extraordinary, unbelievable. But nothing beats hearing a robin singing a spring tune to the early dawn, trees, garbed in their fresh, new, pale-green leaves, fragrant blossoms just opening their rosy petals, and a warm evening wind carrying the aroma of grilled burgers on a barbecue.
I'm suddenly having a craving for a burger.
Anyway, I'm glad to be home. I missed it. I missed my kitchen. Yay! I have a kitchen counter again! And four, yes, four burners! Oh, and my dishwasher! How I've missed you!
Still. Rome was wonderful. I realize I have not written very often in this blog during my month in Rome. But when one is too busy seeing, well, everything ...
This puts me in mind ... I am seriously thinking of changing the title of my blog (and consequently the address). I will let my readers know, in a future posting, if I decide to do so.
I am a new mom. I adore my daughter. My wonderful, perfect daughter. So wonderful, in fact, that she never gives me so much as a headache. Except when she's pulling my hair - hard. I'm sure we'll kick the habit one day. I have read other "new mom" blogs. The women who write these seem to be able to stick to their chosen topic. I, on the other hand, appear to have some amount of trouble doing so. I could write about my daughter every day. But what would I write? "Today, she has taken two naps, 1h30mins each, and outside of these naps, played happily on the floor with her toys." I don't have to deal with tantrums. I don't have to deal with fussiness. Or endless crying, or painful teething, fevers, rashes, or even sleepless nights. They just don't exist here! I know I might sound like I'm bragging. I'm not. I'm not complaining either, mind you. I'm just grateful.
But here's the thing. People need to suffer to write. Or so I've heard. Actually, I don't believe that, not one bit. But I do believe that a writer needs something to write about. So far, in this blog, I've written about a Tempo car shelter, my ex-dog, ex-boyfriends, handsome (or not) Italians, and how to lose weight (by the way, I lost 5 lbs in Rome! Living almost exclusively on pizza, pasta and gelato! Ok, now I'm bragging). Actually, looking back, it was only in March that I wrote faithfully to the topic of motherhood.
I have a confession to make. You know how some people say that when they have a baby, parenthood becomes their whole life, and their child takes up 100% of their time? Their entire lives have changed, and their baby has become their only priority. Well, that's just not true with me. Sure, my daughter gets everything she needs, including her mother's undying and deepest love. But mommy needs her own life, too. I could never be a stay-at-home mom. Right now, that's what I'm doing, but that's only going to last another very few months. My daughter is going into daycare in the fall, and even now she is spending the mornings with my neighbor, who is, incidentally, a stay-at-home mom. With four kids.
I am a mom. But I am also a writer. A new, just started emerging into the scary world of query letters, submissions and, of course, rejections, writer. I am also working on a first book. An intimidating, 530-pages manuscript that I began 8 years ago. This monster is taking my every last bit of courage to edit.
So there it is. I need a steady topic for my blog, one to which I will write, or else I will just keep going all over the place. Why not let it be: Confessions of a New Writer (or something like that)?
I'll keep you posted.
Wednesday, 11 May 2011
What's with all the Nutella?
Here are a few odd bits and pieces of my observations on Rome, having been a "resident" here for two weeks now.
Where have all the good looking Romans gone?
Seriously. They must all have been deported. Someone some day had the brilliant idea of shipping off a considerable portion of Rome's men to different countries around the world, for the greater good of civilization.
Following my last stay in Rome, I would tell people that in the three weeks I spent here, I saw two ugly Italian men. That was it. I felt very sorry for them.
I am reading a book - many people may be familiar with it - Eat, Pray, Love, an excellent book in which the author tells numerous tales of her voyages abroad. She spent four months in Rome, and writes that the men here are "achingly beautiful" (or something to that effect). I know what she's talking about; I saw them repeatedly the last time I was here. So what happened in the last very few years? I just don't see them anymore. They have mysteriously vanished.
When I was 17, I met a very handsome military man in Rome named Carmine. I bet Carmine is now pot-bellied and balding.
It is a fact commonly known that Western women are gawked at and whistled at and flirted with continuously in Rome. When I was 17, it was very, very true. Now, obviously, this fact has been transformed into myth. Is this true only for me? Because I am 32 years old and traipsing around Rome pushing a baby stroller? Or is it because, as Elizabeth Gilbert mentions in her book, Roman men have decided to fight against their stereotype and prove to the world that they can be gentlemen as well? Perhaps. And yet, there is the odd one or two who refuse to change and proudly flaunt their talent for awkward flirtation. Like the typical middle-aged man who, moving aside to let me cross the street with my stroller, says behind my back: "Ciao bella!" Or the man behind the counter at the gelato place who asks me where I'm from and tells me I am very beautiful (unfortunately, I could not say the same for him. Poor man.)
So, to recap, the head-turningly handsome men in Rome I remember appear to have vanished. Or, perhaps, as I do have the most good-looking man in the world for a husband, every other man, whether he be Canadian or Italian, now looks to me like he has scrambled eggs for a face. Or something like that.
Why all the ugly little dogs?
Everywhere you go, you come across someone walking a little dog. Most times, it's an ugly little dog. With short legs, hopelessly tangled and greasy, brownish grey fur, and sometimes even a touch of mange; this is an accurate description of most dogs I have seen here. Why? And where do they come from?
Tourists are, after all, the very worst.
And they have single-handedly ruined Rome. I mean, there are more tourists than Romans in Rome, I am sure of it. The Fontana di Trevi has been turned into a veritable Disneyland, the Piazza di Spagna is a haven for people selling fake jewelry, fake purses, and pointless, very noisy toys for all the annoying tourists' kids. Finally, visiting Saint Peter's Basilica has become about as fun as wandering around an airport, with guards, gates, and security checkpoints everywhere.
Rome does not look like itself anymore. Where, for example, are all the pickpockets and gypsies? The professional purse-snatchers? The children walking around with a board that they put in tourists' faces to distract them while they relieve them of their belongings? They have probably given up any attempt to make a living in this city, thinking that if they were to try their hand at stealing someone's purse or wallet, they would risk the common indignation of a mob of tourists. Suppose that their intented victim is part of one of the very many tour groups that dominate the streets of Rome. If a member of such a group was to be targeted for the riches on his person, the result would certainly be a concerted effort of some twenty or thirty men, women and children wearing matching hats or handkerchiefs, to come to the rescue of their fellow vacationer and collectively fall on the head of his attacker.
Finally, what's with all the Nutella?
It is everywhere. Stuffed inside croissants, smothered between layers of cake, piped into the center of cookies, or proudly displayed in huge containers in shop windows, Nutella has taken Rome by storm. It is even featured as a gelato flavour. At the grocery store, you have your pick between three or four different kinds of Nutella. Every café, bakery, or patisserie has a great big tub of nutella sitting on a top shelf, often right by the window, as if to say to every passer-by: "Look! We have Nutella here!" It is even used in carefully contrived plots of deceit. Chocolate croissants and cookies are actually Nutella croissants and cookies. You may think you're ordering a piece of chocolate cake, when what you're actually paying 7 euros for is Nutella cake. At least I haven't seen a Nutella tartuffo. Yet.
Needless to say, I do not think I will be ordering any hot chocolate. I just might get a hot Nutella.
Where have all the good looking Romans gone?
Seriously. They must all have been deported. Someone some day had the brilliant idea of shipping off a considerable portion of Rome's men to different countries around the world, for the greater good of civilization.
Following my last stay in Rome, I would tell people that in the three weeks I spent here, I saw two ugly Italian men. That was it. I felt very sorry for them.
I am reading a book - many people may be familiar with it - Eat, Pray, Love, an excellent book in which the author tells numerous tales of her voyages abroad. She spent four months in Rome, and writes that the men here are "achingly beautiful" (or something to that effect). I know what she's talking about; I saw them repeatedly the last time I was here. So what happened in the last very few years? I just don't see them anymore. They have mysteriously vanished.
When I was 17, I met a very handsome military man in Rome named Carmine. I bet Carmine is now pot-bellied and balding.
It is a fact commonly known that Western women are gawked at and whistled at and flirted with continuously in Rome. When I was 17, it was very, very true. Now, obviously, this fact has been transformed into myth. Is this true only for me? Because I am 32 years old and traipsing around Rome pushing a baby stroller? Or is it because, as Elizabeth Gilbert mentions in her book, Roman men have decided to fight against their stereotype and prove to the world that they can be gentlemen as well? Perhaps. And yet, there is the odd one or two who refuse to change and proudly flaunt their talent for awkward flirtation. Like the typical middle-aged man who, moving aside to let me cross the street with my stroller, says behind my back: "Ciao bella!" Or the man behind the counter at the gelato place who asks me where I'm from and tells me I am very beautiful (unfortunately, I could not say the same for him. Poor man.)
So, to recap, the head-turningly handsome men in Rome I remember appear to have vanished. Or, perhaps, as I do have the most good-looking man in the world for a husband, every other man, whether he be Canadian or Italian, now looks to me like he has scrambled eggs for a face. Or something like that.
Why all the ugly little dogs?
Everywhere you go, you come across someone walking a little dog. Most times, it's an ugly little dog. With short legs, hopelessly tangled and greasy, brownish grey fur, and sometimes even a touch of mange; this is an accurate description of most dogs I have seen here. Why? And where do they come from?
Tourists are, after all, the very worst.
And they have single-handedly ruined Rome. I mean, there are more tourists than Romans in Rome, I am sure of it. The Fontana di Trevi has been turned into a veritable Disneyland, the Piazza di Spagna is a haven for people selling fake jewelry, fake purses, and pointless, very noisy toys for all the annoying tourists' kids. Finally, visiting Saint Peter's Basilica has become about as fun as wandering around an airport, with guards, gates, and security checkpoints everywhere.
Rome does not look like itself anymore. Where, for example, are all the pickpockets and gypsies? The professional purse-snatchers? The children walking around with a board that they put in tourists' faces to distract them while they relieve them of their belongings? They have probably given up any attempt to make a living in this city, thinking that if they were to try their hand at stealing someone's purse or wallet, they would risk the common indignation of a mob of tourists. Suppose that their intented victim is part of one of the very many tour groups that dominate the streets of Rome. If a member of such a group was to be targeted for the riches on his person, the result would certainly be a concerted effort of some twenty or thirty men, women and children wearing matching hats or handkerchiefs, to come to the rescue of their fellow vacationer and collectively fall on the head of his attacker.
Finally, what's with all the Nutella?
It is everywhere. Stuffed inside croissants, smothered between layers of cake, piped into the center of cookies, or proudly displayed in huge containers in shop windows, Nutella has taken Rome by storm. It is even featured as a gelato flavour. At the grocery store, you have your pick between three or four different kinds of Nutella. Every café, bakery, or patisserie has a great big tub of nutella sitting on a top shelf, often right by the window, as if to say to every passer-by: "Look! We have Nutella here!" It is even used in carefully contrived plots of deceit. Chocolate croissants and cookies are actually Nutella croissants and cookies. You may think you're ordering a piece of chocolate cake, when what you're actually paying 7 euros for is Nutella cake. At least I haven't seen a Nutella tartuffo. Yet.
Needless to say, I do not think I will be ordering any hot chocolate. I just might get a hot Nutella.
Monday, 2 May 2011
Viva La Cucina Italiana!
As I sat indulging in homemade Minestrone soup yesterday evening, slowly allowing my senses to fully experience the flavours, I could not help being amazed: I created this? Actually, it had everything to do with Italy. I really had no hand in it.
Before I left home, a friend who comes from Algeria and is now studying in Montreal said to me: "You’re so lucky to be going to Rome. You get to eat Italian food! I miss the flavours of the Mediterranean..."
I understand what she means. The last time I was in Rome was seventeen years ago, and I have never forgotten the flavour of the fresh tomato and basil combination in a pizza margherita. Food just tastes better here. The flavours are more intense. Probably because most of the food one buys in Rome is fresh.
The next time you are at the grocery store, take a good look at the fruit and vegetables you buy. Where are they from? Most of our food is imported. This, of course, is not surprising when Canadian winters last approximately half the year. We don’t have the time or weather to grow much of anything.
I found the recipe for my Minestrone soup online from Ricardo.com. I omitted the bay leaf (for the practical reason that none could be found), and the celery. I used shallots in lieu of a plain, yellow onion. I of course bought the vegetables at a local fruitteria. The shopkeeper even gave me fresh basil for free. I also put real parmigiano reggiano on the table, as a garnish. None of that pre-shredded parmesan, of course.
Shopping for food in Rome is fun. Not to mention an excellent way of practicing one’s Italian. The vendors are very friendly and most will speak to you in Italian, granting you their patience and meeting you half-way to make sure you understand each-other.
In Canada, shopping for food is not something most people enjoy doing; rather it is generally considered a dull and often tiring chore. Most people go grocery shopping once a week. We plan our meals in advance and fit a trip to the supermarket in the slot of time we have set aside in our rushed and busy lives. Some people even prefer ordering fast food to cooking at home, something I am sure most Italians would find unbelievable. I myself am only very rarely part of the “order at home” set, but I do have a large freezer where I store meat I buy on sale. I also pre-plan my meals.
In Rome, shopping for food is quite a different experience. The supermarkets here are, by all definitions, tiny. They are no bigger than our convenience stores. In preparation for dinner, one does not purchase food in an oversized, “we-have-everything concept,” chain superstore. To shop for one meal in Rome, I need to make several stops. And I will walk to each of them.
For example, in preparation for my minestrone dinner, I walked to the “supermarket” (which has a grand total of 2 ½ aisles) for canned beans and pancetta (which, incidentally, I could also have bought at the local cured meats shop). I then walked to the fruitteria, where I bought green beans, carrots, tomatoes, garlic and fresh basil. After that, I walked back to the supermarket, where I bought dried oregano (because the fruitteria didn’t have any that was fresh). Finally, I went to the Casa di Pane (House of Bread) for a homemade Italian loaf.
The result? The most delicious minestrone I have ever eaten, made with fresh ingredients I had carefully picked out that very afternoon. The carrots tasted very much like carrots, as did the green beans, and the fragrant basil, of course. And the tomatoes ... well, no words can do justice to their divine flavour. This is Italy, after all.
Before I left home, a friend who comes from Algeria and is now studying in Montreal said to me: "You’re so lucky to be going to Rome. You get to eat Italian food! I miss the flavours of the Mediterranean..."
I understand what she means. The last time I was in Rome was seventeen years ago, and I have never forgotten the flavour of the fresh tomato and basil combination in a pizza margherita. Food just tastes better here. The flavours are more intense. Probably because most of the food one buys in Rome is fresh.
The next time you are at the grocery store, take a good look at the fruit and vegetables you buy. Where are they from? Most of our food is imported. This, of course, is not surprising when Canadian winters last approximately half the year. We don’t have the time or weather to grow much of anything.
I found the recipe for my Minestrone soup online from Ricardo.com. I omitted the bay leaf (for the practical reason that none could be found), and the celery. I used shallots in lieu of a plain, yellow onion. I of course bought the vegetables at a local fruitteria. The shopkeeper even gave me fresh basil for free. I also put real parmigiano reggiano on the table, as a garnish. None of that pre-shredded parmesan, of course.
Shopping for food in Rome is fun. Not to mention an excellent way of practicing one’s Italian. The vendors are very friendly and most will speak to you in Italian, granting you their patience and meeting you half-way to make sure you understand each-other.
In Canada, shopping for food is not something most people enjoy doing; rather it is generally considered a dull and often tiring chore. Most people go grocery shopping once a week. We plan our meals in advance and fit a trip to the supermarket in the slot of time we have set aside in our rushed and busy lives. Some people even prefer ordering fast food to cooking at home, something I am sure most Italians would find unbelievable. I myself am only very rarely part of the “order at home” set, but I do have a large freezer where I store meat I buy on sale. I also pre-plan my meals.
In Rome, shopping for food is quite a different experience. The supermarkets here are, by all definitions, tiny. They are no bigger than our convenience stores. In preparation for dinner, one does not purchase food in an oversized, “we-have-everything concept,” chain superstore. To shop for one meal in Rome, I need to make several stops. And I will walk to each of them.
For example, in preparation for my minestrone dinner, I walked to the “supermarket” (which has a grand total of 2 ½ aisles) for canned beans and pancetta (which, incidentally, I could also have bought at the local cured meats shop). I then walked to the fruitteria, where I bought green beans, carrots, tomatoes, garlic and fresh basil. After that, I walked back to the supermarket, where I bought dried oregano (because the fruitteria didn’t have any that was fresh). Finally, I went to the Casa di Pane (House of Bread) for a homemade Italian loaf.
The result? The most delicious minestrone I have ever eaten, made with fresh ingredients I had carefully picked out that very afternoon. The carrots tasted very much like carrots, as did the green beans, and the fragrant basil, of course. And the tomatoes ... well, no words can do justice to their divine flavour. This is Italy, after all.
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