The Wild Ones

Saw what divides Italy and Britain so vividly today.
Commuting in on the Tube, there was an announcement that the escalators at the Piccadilly Circus station were out, the station I use for work.
Ohmigod, chaos.
I thought of the two really long, steep escalators at the station there. And all the people, some of whom might not be able to walk up all those stairs, I worried.
And still in an Italy mind-set.
I even considered getting off at another station, but we were only a station away when I heard the announcement.
Got off at Piccadilly Circus.
Really orderly procession -- aided by London Transport staff positioned in key areas along the way -- through an alternate exit there. With not as many stairs.
Everyone behind each other, respecting their distances, moving slowly, but deliberately through the detour.
Until we get to a smaller escalator at the end.
It was full of people, laughing, talking loudly.
They weren't lined up on the right side of the escalator, letting those in a hurry walk up the stairs to the left -- like is customary on the Tube.
Then I heard the Italian voice, the teacher talking to the group of Italian teens crowded all over the stairs.
"Keep right," she said, loudly, to be heard over the din.
"Here, people stay to the right in a line and let others go up the left," she said, sorta laughing. "Move to the right."
Most of the kids moved to the right side.
But not all.
It was like taming a herd of wild animals.
You couldn't get them all.

Our Own Front Door

How important is your house?
Very.
We've got to decide whether to stay in this flat -- or move soon.
Our lease is coming up in two months -- we've been here a year already -- and our landlord's agent has been writing, wanting to know what we're doing.
We're in a pretty spacious flat -- for London, I've got to admit -- a three-bedroom, two-bath place with a big master bedroom carved out of the attic.
But there's no outside space at all. And we live in an old house above an elderly woman and her middle-aged daughter, whose bedroom is just below the flat-screen TV in our living room. She feels the echo whenever we have the TV on. So we try not to have it on much.
And I don't like the kitchen.
We feel cooped up in here. No view out the windows.
Saw a little house the other day near here.
It's about the same size, maybe even a bit smaller, if you measured them up.
But it's a little house, with a front and back garden.
And it has a kitchen with not one, but two French doors, leading out to the garden.
And the garden is sweet, with a rectangular brick patio running along the back of the house lined by a decent patch of grass shaded by a big tree.
It's a little bit more expensive, but it's a nicer living environment. More open-plan, more of an American lay-out.
And it's got parking, which is good for my husband.
I'm working now.
So why not?
Suze Orman would tell you why. Haven't worked that much lately, actually. Been in Italy a lot with my son.
You need some outside space in life, I'm finding, just a tiny bit of Mother Earth to call your own.
If you've ever had it. You get used to it.
The best thing is we get our own front door.
Which is a great luxury. That I've missed.
Although it's more suburban like that, a little house, it's also more urban than here, closer to the high road, but in a quirky, more modern gated community of ten houses. Only a couple minutes from the nearest Tube stop though -- and newspaper.
And there's a mini-cab place just outside the gate, with all the drivers hanging out, which makes it kinda city.
But cool too.
I think we might be moving.
To make life nicer here. You need a place you want to call home.
But I hate moving.
And this will be my third move in 18 months.
Everything finally has its place here in this flat.
Took a year.

Back to Tidy England

London is so tidy compared to Rome.
Got back, the sun was shining, the English windows gleaming, driving in, the city looked so beautiful -- and neat as a pin. That's what struck me the most.
Compared to where I've been hanging out in Rome. Which is not the historic center of Rome, mind you. Didn't get there at all this time around.
Mostly, I've been on the southern edges of Rome a lot, where my son's new job and room is, where a lot of big businesses, international and Italian, have offices.
Anything outside the center of Rome is chaos, basically.
People parked everywhere, double and tripled-parked, lights flashing. Or not. In front of the city's big green trash cans is a favorite. I parked there several times actually.
Billboards everywhere, which clutter up the place. Trash around. Lots of barbed wire around endless building sites.
Not that pretty really. Chaotic more than anything else.
London felt like your grandmother's tidy little sewing box in comparison. Not that much building. Not that much trash (even though the British would disagree). No haphazard billboards everywhere.
Neat and tidy.
As opposed to chaotic and lively.
Whatever.
It's good in a way to be back.
It couldn't be more different really.
What have I missed?
My husband.
Newspapers.
The high street.
Movies in English.
Working.
Good central heating.
Civility.
What will I miss now that I'm back?
My son.
Caffe macchiato schiumato al vetro (coffee with a dollop of milk in a glass, my new favorite). And puntarelle. And mozzarella.
The view out of my living room window.
My own house.
Driving.
Not working.
Chaos.

Who Am I?

Felt the two sides of me -- the American and the Italian -- so keenly last night.
Who am I? Who is anybody?
Went out to a movie and dinner with my old American friend, my new American friend, and an Italian friend of my old American friend.
The movie was an Italian film set in the late 1950s, the time my parents left this country to move to the United States, just three years after I was born.
I kept thinking of that, of them, as I watched the film. This was the Italy they left. This was the Italy I was born into. And such an Italian Italy it was then. Not diluted by anything yet.
And again, just how hard it must've been for them to leave everything here, turn their back on this glorious country with its deeply ingrained traditions, values, and ways, and move to the States, such a different country in every way.
After the movie, we went to dinner.
After a bit of wine, we three American ladies, got, well, a bit American. Loud, boisterous, cracking jokes, making fun, reveling in our shared histories, in the ties that bind us.
"You can take the girl out of Jersey, but you can't take Jersey out of the girl," my old friend joked.
We all laughed, all East Coast girls sharing an old American joke.
The Italian friend and I ordered the same food, a pasta dish with clams and zucchini.
He and I were both hungry, like Italians get. We told each other that. We both understood.
After we ordered, he looked at me and asked if we should order something to start. We agreed immediately on what.
After we ate, he said to me, "it was okay, but not as good as it should have been."
I knew exactly what he meant.
And why.
Without him even saying it.
I mean, mostly, it was excellent, certainly would've been considered excellent in either the U.S. or England.
But there was one thing slightly wrong.
And in Italy, it needs to be perfectly right.
Or Italians comment to each other.
Like he was doing.
To me.
I told him what was wrong.
Precisely, he said, nodding.
Who am I? Who is anybody?

A Year Later

To: President Barack Obama
From: An American expat living in London and the side of a hill in Italy

I hear things are bad over there in Washington.
A friend who works on Capitol Hill told me yesterday that there's an exodus of Democrats, that Democratic lawmakers are so demoralized over the loss of Ted Kennedy's seat -- and another fight over healthcare -- that some are retiring, or making plans to leave Washington already.
She's leaving too, moving home to Colorado.
That made me so sad.
Even way over here on the side of my Italian hill.
So far from you in every way.
Last night, I couldn't stop thinking of your Inauguration last year.
I got up at 6 a.m. and walked several miles in the freezing cold down to the National Mall to cheer you on.
It was a special day.
So many people were there, from all over the States.
Everyone was just so happy, so hopeful.
"Yes, we can," we all shouted in unison. "Yes, we did!"
Just the most wonderful feeling.
I feel sorry for you, Barack.
I really felt that day that you could become one of the greatest presidents America had ever had.
And I still feel you could.
But they're not going to let you, are they?
Things seem to have changed so much there just in the one year I've been gone.
Where'd all that hope go?
That just makes me so sad.
Even way over here.

Illegal Living Room Part II

Had coffee with my new American friend here on my Italian side of the hill, a lovely woman from Brooklyn.
Love her strong New York accent.
How cool is that?
Anyway, got the living room story wrong, folks.
SHE WON HER CASE.
Six years ago.
But she still can't use her living room.
I barely understand it. And she was explaining it to me in good 'ol American.
Which I usually understand pretty well.
The judge, who is no longer practising, made a mistake of some sort.
And her lawyer is trying to find another judge to rule on it now.
Or something.
She's waiting.
Could take a year. Or 10, she said.
Doesn't know.
In the meantime, her living room is the patrimony of our little town here.
Whatever the hell that means.
So it will get resolved, I asked her. You will get the use of your living room at some point, right?
Six years, she replied.
We've been waiting six years already.
And I have no idea how much longer.
Um, would you like to come hang out in my living room for awhile?
It's got a couple of illegal windows.
But we should be alright.

The Illegal Living Room

I thought I had seen it all in Italian building.
But nope. No way.
Met a new American woman here in my town on the side of the hill.
Thought I had met all of them too.
Meeting her was a very pleasant surprise.
But it's her living room I can't stop thinking about.
It's illegal.
It's been sequestered and returned to the patrimony of this little town. So she can't use it. Even though it's right there in the middle of her house, where she's living.
Huh?
I mean, all of us have illegal bits in our houses here. Part of my house is illegal too, as are parts of all the houses around me. And probably all of the newish houses in this town, I would bet.
By illegal I mean outside the boundary of the approved plan.
Everyone stretches the super-strict building plans here a bit -- it's a national pastime -- an extra room or window here or there.
That's really mostly all it is.
But I've gotten away with it, as has everyone around me.
My closest friend here has a few illegal rooms. (And an illegal wall, but that's another story).
But it's not really a problem for her until -- and if -- she wants to sell the house. She bought it like that, with the back of the house all illegal, because she got a good price for it.
But being American and all, she's trying to legalize it, because well, I guess it just makes her more comfortable, even if she doesn't sell it.
This new one though is different.
She CANNOT USE her living room. And it's got a big official Italian sticker on it saying so.
Her builder told on her.
What?
That's the last person who tells on you. He built it, for chrissakes.
My builder actually suggested what illegal stuff I could do.
But this builder wanted more money than agreed for the house at the end, and when they balked at coughing up, he went to the town council to tell them that the living room he had built her was illegal.
She appealed, went to court. (I mean, you have to, when you're talking about your own living room, right?).
She lost.
A local judge ruled that her living room should be returned to the patrimony of the town.
Please explain to me what that means.
As a resident of this town, can I go and hang out in her living room then? (Which by the way is not that big and does nobody any harm at all as far as I can see).
When she showed me her empty, forlorn living room, with its big sticker on the outside wall, I suggested she just use the damn thing anyway.
I mean really. It is part of her house. And this is Italy after all, where nobody ever does anything they're supposed to.
She can't though. Her builder lives just behind her. He can see the illegal living room he built her.
If she used it, he would tell.