Thank Heaven for the Internet

My salad at lunch today

“Friendship is the hardest thing in the world 

to explain. It's not something you learn in school. 

But if you haven't learned the meaning of 

friendship, you really haven't learned anything.” 

~ Muhammad Ali

I left Las Vegas two weeks ago tonight, and I find that incredibly hard to believe. A few days ago, I mentioned that, at times, I feel as though I've lived here a long time, but at other times, I feel as though I just arrived.  I began Italian class three days after I arrived, and I know I mentioned that evening that I was ready to kick myself for having started school so soon after arriving in Bologna. I now know why I did it.

On the first day of class, I hesitantly walked into my assigned classroom.  An older woman sat at the head of the long table.  I mean no disrespect, but she reminded me of La Befana, the Italian "mother of Christmas." (Read about her here.). Her long, salt and pepper hair was a bit disheveled; her long dress was a bit worn (meaning she'd worn it a lot, not tattered); and the aura around her a bit grey.  She didn't look up as I entered because she was apparently more interested in the Sudoku puzzle.

"Buongiorno," i said.

"Giorno," she rasped, the word coming low from the back of her throat.

I quickly debated where to sit and chose the seat next to her because it was near the window and allowed me to see the board without turning my head.  "It's okay?" I asked, and she grunted what I think was affirmation.  At that moment, a woman who had been in the orientation with me appeared at the door, hestitated, and walked in.

"Buongiorno," she and I said simultaneously.

"Giorno," the rasper again replied never taking her eyes from her puzzles.

"I'm Beatrix," the newcomer said to me.

"Cristina."  I shook her hand. She placed her things on the chair next to mine and looked at me.

"You want coffee?" she asked me.

"God, yes."  Relieved, I answered very quickly because I didn't want to stay alone with the rasper. Beatrix and I headed to the coffee machine.

Annette (Switzerland), Beatrix (Germany), Moi

We tripped over words trying to converse completely in Italian as the school requests. In the few minutes we were at the coffee machine, we became friends.  Later that day, a Swiss woman, Annette, joined the afternoon class, and we all fell into a comfortable friendship.

The interesting thing is that we were, almost immediately, able to talk openly about ourselves and to laugh with each other. Beatrix and Annette were more alike than I both in age and in culture, but it somehow it all worked. At lunch, we giggled over the rasper (who wasn't a student but an observer) and Amaury (the Swiss French guy who knows more about English grammar than Americans).

"Did the prison maiden (the rasper now renamed) really wear that same grey dress everyday?"

"Please, do not disagree with me. You are a stupid American who does not know your own language."

We also discussed subjects that were a little deeper—our husbands and children, religion, politics, culture, our three countries, the EU, life—trying in Italian and reverting to English or German when the words escaped us. (They spoke German and would translate for me when needed. Learning one language a month is quite enough, grazia.)

"It is very unusual," Beatrix said one afternoon, "that we can discuss such things with each other so quickly with no worries about what we will all think of the other if we disagree."

(Please allow me to step out of this commentary for a moment to explain that pranzo, or lunch, in Italy is not a McDonald's-grab-a-burger-fries-and-cola-scarf-it-down-and-run meal.  Meals in Europe, not just Italy, are a time to relax, enjoy, and socialize. Our lunches spanned two-to-three hours. More on that another time...)

The three of us had lunch together everyday last week, and as Beatrix returned to Germany on Saturday, Annette, who will return to Switzerland on Saturday, and I have continued having lunch together this week.  She and I have talked a lot about Bologna and our experience here.

"Why," I asked her, "did you choose this school in Bologna?"

"I don't know." She thought for a few seconds. "I usually do a lot of research into things I do, but this time I just picked the school. I don't know why."


I think I do, and for that, I'm grateful.

Signore e Signori

 “We found the bathrooms, which were 

labeled 'Aliens' and 'Femaliens.'"

~ Adam Rex

(Please note: First, excuse my posting of a less-than-delicate subject.  Also, forgive me for heading the post with the photo I took of a mural in the H&M here in Bologna.  I just could not stand the idea of having the photo of a toilet (below) flashing from my Facebook page forever.  Finally, I'll begin this post with another one of those "If you know me. . . " stories because, without it, this whole thing might not make sense.)

My mother, God rest her sweet soul, turned me into a public-restroom germaphobe very early.  Mom had an older sister who lived in Buffalo, New York, and every summer our family would drive up to visit for a few days.  Undoubtedly, we would have to make a pit stop at one of the thruway rest stops.

"Don't touch anything," she'd hiss.  "Don't let your backside or legs touch the toilet."

"Why?" I remember asking one time.

"You'll get germs," she said.  "You'll get sick."   I hated germs. I hated being sick.  I suddenly didn't have to go anymore.

During college, I lived in Mexico for a summer semester.  By that time, I was a little better.  A little (emphasizing the little part), but not much. Like an alcoholic who cannot stay away from drink, I relapsed on the first visit to a restroom there.

I'm not sure how much you know about Mexico, but the older, underground plumbing cannot handle toilet paper.  Therefore, there are signs in restrooms and hotels all over the country (and in the older houses) that one should deposit his/her TP in the can/box next to the throne.  (No lie.  Read about it here.)

That did me in. I absolutely refuse to use public restrooms unless I have no other choice and face a bit of an emergency.

 

Bologna right now is very hot and humid, so at lunch today, I decided I needed to splash water on my face.

"Where is the restroom?" I asked the waitress.

She pointed to the stairs. "At the top of the steps, you'll find it on the right."

Fair enough.  I opened the door and walked into a room that had two sinks and two stalls with floor-to-ceiling doors.  "Ciao," a woman standing at one of the sinks said to me. I nodded to her, glanced in the open stall (Photo above). I am quite naive (or utterly stupid), I guess, but the seat-less toilet stunned me. I had to document it, so I walked in and closed the door so I could take the photo.

I heard the door of the next stall open, and someone turned on the water in the sink.  I looked unsuccessfully for a button or handle because, even though I had not had emergency, the person out there didn't know that. I didn't want her to think I was a barbarian who didn't flush.  I could not figure the stupid thing out, so I waited a few seconds for the water to stop, counted to 10 to give her time to leave the restroom, opened the door, and walked out into a MAN who was still standing at the sink and trying to clean something from his shirt. 

I inhaled sharply. Germaphobia kept me from passing out right there. How in the name of God did I walk into the wrong restroom? But, I thought, when I walked in, there was another woman in there. What the heck was the man doing in there?

"Excuse me," I said and tried to nonchalantly wash my hands and face.  I walked out of the restroom and looked, for the first time, at the door.  There was a woman on the door, but there was also a man. A unisex restroom?

Annette laughed when I told her.

"Yes, there are some here and in other countries," she explained.  "In Switzerland, they are separate."

"I'm going to Switzerland then," I sighed.

I've been to Italy five times, and today was the first time I'd ever been in a public restroom here.

It is also my last.

No Soup (Bread, Espresso, Meat, Wine, etc) For You!

 "A vacation is what you take

when you can no longer take

what you've been taking."

~ Earl Wilson

Here's a little something you might not know: August is vacation month for Europeans. No biggie there, right? August is vacation time in the US, also.  There is a huge difference, though.

When I first contacted Giovanni about staying in this apartment for August, he gave me a good deal because in August, ". . . a lot of restaurants, shops, and bars will be closed."  I'd heard the same thing about a lot of European cities—Paris, Madrid, Barcelona, Roma, Firenze. I didn't, however, realize exactly how many places close and for how long.

Did you know that the European Union requires member countries to give workers a minimum of 20 paid vacation days annually.  That cannot include public holidays. Know how many paid vacation days the US government requires companies to give their employees?  Zero. mmMost Americans do get paid vacation, but a recent study showed that first-year employees get about five days, and depending on the company, that number increases gradually. 

My point is not to argue about required paid vacations and such. It will be what it is.  What amazes me, though, is that places just close up. Lock. Stock. Barrel.  Chiuso.  Arrivederci. Buona vacanza.  See you in settembre. 

There are four bars within the first block of this apartment (and that's just on *this* side of the road).  When I arrived on 1 August, all four were open. Three of the four were closed today. One will reopen Thursday, and the other two won't reopen for a few weeks.  It's the same with two restaurants on this block, as well as a butcher, a salumeria, a wine store, a kids' store, and a bakery.

There is a bakery/cafe near the school that a few of us wanted to try this week.  It's closed until 1 September.  I've noticed a number of stores that close for the entire month. I wonder, in this time of economic distress, how they can do that.  It doesn't make sense.  Why not stagger vacations so they can keep income flowing?  It is not for me to question, though.

I wouldn't mind so much except that my bar is closed for three days, and I had to get my morning cappuccino at the local bar that is open this week.  It was a good cappuccino, but the brioche was not very good.  The owner scored two points for having photos of dogs and cats of his customers on the mirror behind the bar.  "My friends," he told me.

I know today's post is probably a bit boring, but maybe you have some questions regarding vacation.  Email me if you do, and I'll try to answer.  If you want to read more about vacation in other parts of the world, you can do so here.

By the way, I haven't even touched on the hours stores are open.  Note the photo above these paragraphs. This particular bakery is open from 7:30-13:30. It closes for lunch and reopens at 4:30 for three hours. I have a few stories about that, but those are for another time....

This is a list, by the way, of paid vacation days required by law in each of these countries.  Note that this does *not* include public holidays which add another 10-12 (average) days to the total.


Australia - 20         Austria - 22
Belgium - 20            Canada - 10
Denmark - 25         Finland - 25
France - 30             Germany - 24
Greece - 20             Ireland - 20
Italy - 20               Japan - 10
Netherlands - 20   New Zealand - 20
Norway - 25          Portugal - 22
Spain - 22              Sweden - 25
UK - 20                  US - 0

Things That Go Bump in the Day

Begging on the corner

“Do not throw coins when beggars
stretch their hands for alms; help
them to become self-reliant."

~ Sri Sathya Sal Baba

I have been in Bologna for 10 days, which I find hard to believe.  On one hand, it seems like the time has already sprinted by me too quickly.  At other times, I feel like I've lived here forever. I have become friends with Cesar and Lili at Bar Santo Stefano, with others who come into the bar, and with a few people from the school.

Today, I spent almost four hours walking through the streets. I tried to find streets I hadn't seen before and stayed away, for the most part, from the main shopping street and tourist areas. That said, tourist attractions are all over the centro, and one must pass through them at times.

One thing that a tourist notices almost immediately is that there are beggars on a number of the corners in the centro.  This is not, of course, only a Bolognese problem. We've encountered them in almost every big city we've visited, including those in the United States. They are on the Strip and many, many street corners in Las Vegas. We found the beggars in Paris about the worst as they brazenly approach tourists with nonsense about rings and petitions and such.

The beggars in Bologna, in contrast, are almost polite. There are some that walk  around the streets trying to sell tissues, socks, pens, etc. The worst are the ones that walk the piazza and are bold enough to come up to individuals and ask for money. .

My Swiss friend, Annetta, said that a man approached her last Sunday.

"Please, signora," he begged, "I am hungry. Can you give me euro?"

The man, Annetta said, was well-dressed, clean, and did not smell. She was not going to give him money, but she answered him.  "Come with me. I'll buy you lunch."  This surprised the man, and he walked a few steps with her.

"No, no, signora." He obviously was thinking of what to do next. "I need the money to help mia famiglia."

Annetta refused. "Food, yes.  Euro, no." He  turned, walked away, and approached another woman.

Some of the beggars hold out cups or hats, and others call out as women especially pass by.  "Buongiorna, bella." "Che bella donna."   Many beggars sit at corners or on the steps of churches or porticoes and shake a cup.  Yesterday, I saw a "Franciscan priest" begging outside of one of the most popular salumeria.   Usually, there is a little, old man at that corner, but I saw him walking the streets.  When I walked by the corner a few hours later, he had replaced the "priest."

I don't carry a big purse or backpack.  I have a small cross-over that contains a copy of my passport, my insurance, my keys, and a little money.  (Photo below)  I also have a wrist wallet (also below) that I use only if I'm going to the bar.  I usually have to use the cross-body because my keys are as big as the house and do not fit in my pockets comfortably.  The purse has zippers all over it, and I keep a hand on it 99% of the time just as a precaution against someone trying to yank or cut it from my neck.

My purse and wrist wallet

Most of the beggars are quite docile and will walk away quickly when we say, "No, grazia."  At lunch the other day, one tried to sell us tissues, and it took three or four firm, "NO, grazia" and a waiter to get him to quit insisting we needed tissues and to leave.  He was just a pest, if truth be told.

While I'm cautious, I'm usually not afraid of these people. Today, though, that changed a bit.  I was near the Due Torri (Two Towers for which Bologna is famous. Another story. Another day.). As this is a popular area with tourists, it was crowded with people.  I was taking a photo and felt someone bump up against me. I turned around to find a young gypsy standing a little too close to me. She held out her hand.

"No, grazia," I said to her.  I have no idea why I say, "grazia" to the beggars. I'm just trying to be polite, I guess.

"Yes. Yes." She thrust her hand in my face.

"No. No," I insisted.  She reached for my purse.

Without thinking, I spun quickly away from her and swatted at her, being sure not to make contact. I didn't want her screaming for police that I attacked her.

"$@©* &##!!" I shouted at her.  (Luckily, I know a few not-so-nice words in Italian.)

"$@©* &##, signora." Apparently, she knows the same not-so-nice words.

I started to walk down the street, but seeing that there were not a lot of people there, I instead crossed and walked back toward the business area. I watched to make sure she didn't follow me and took the long way to my apartment.

Italospanglish

“You live a new life for every new language you speak."

~ Czech Proverb

I want to start this post with a little background information just so anyone who doesn't know me that well will understand this a little better. (Note: When the original conversation is in Italian, I'll use italics.)

The short of it is this:  When I was registering for high school, I wanted to take French because all of my friends were taking French. My father told me that there was no way he was letting me take French because more people in the world spoke Spanish, and I was going to take Spanish. End of story. I took Spanish, and I wasn't happy....until I entered Mr. Tedde's Spanish I class. He was fun, and he taught well.  I ended up liking Spanish so much that I majored in it in college.

My father and mother didn't speak Spanish, nor did they understand it.  My father's parents were Austrian of Rusyn descent (as I just found out a few years ago), and my mother was Italian. The importance to this is that, because Spanish and Italian share some (and I use that word loosely) similarities, Mom could understand a little of what I was learning. My father, who spoke whatever language it was his parents spoke, could understand nothing.  Yay. (A long story that will come out in the book about this trip.)

My Italian grandmother spoke English to my cousins and me when we were children, but I would hear her speak to my mom, my aunts, and my uncles in Italian. I can remember certain phrases and words, but I never really understood her.  Grams once told me that when she ran a boarding house in Columbus, Ohio, after she immigrated, she had a Spanish boarder who understood her. She, on the other hand, could not understand him. I ended up majoring in Spanish and English in college, and I even did graduate work in Spanish at Ohio State. I taught Spanish for four years and still speak it fluently. 

(Sorry that was so long.)

I decided to start learning Italian after our first visit to Gram's village in 2010.  I tried to get by with the Spanish, but Italian is not the same.  I took classes at UNLV through Continuing Ed, but I can be honest and say that being in Italy last year helped me more than anything.  It was the same with Spanish, by the way.  I learned more in three months in Mexico than I ever did in Spanish classes. Using the language helps you remember.

I'm taking classes through Cultura Italiana.  There are a lot of schools in Bologna, but I thought this one sounded best. We have two hours of grammar and two hours of conversation every morning. The grammar feeds into the conversation, so I like the way this all works.

Still, I have a habit—as I think I mentioned last week—of slipping in Spanish words when I get confused or don't know an Italian word.  In conversation class, Maria (instructor) asked me about this.

"I speak Italospanglish," I told her.

"I don't understand," she replied.

"I'm confused," I said. I knew what she didn't understand, but I was trying to be funny.

"I don't understand," she repeated more slowly. "I don't understand this word you said.  Why are you confused?"

"The words in Spanish and Italian," I told her. "They mix up in my head. I say I speak Italo (italiano)-span(spagnolo)-glish(inglese)."

"Ok. I understand. Do you speak Italian to others in Bologna?" she asked.

"Yes, of course," I assured her. "I go to a bar where the owner is Spanish, and I talk to him in Spanish. I get more mixed up."

"You need to find a new bar, Cristina," she laughed.

I didn't have to find a new bar, though. Cesar and Li, the owners, now speak to me in Italian. If I start to slip into Spanish, Cesar will say, "Say it in Italian," or he'll say the word or phrase for me.

Tonight, I had a bit of a breakthrough. I went to the bar to show Cesar some information on the school, and I didn't know how to say something in Italian.

"I have to say this in Spanish," I told him in Spanish. I then proceeded to throw in Italian words because I was thinking them in Italian instead of in Spanish. 

Che buono.

Fresh Pasta=Food o' the Gods

All you need to make pasta . . .

"Pasta doesn't make you fat.

How much pasta you eat 

makes you fat."

~ Giada di Laurentis

Making pasta is simple, and you need only two ingredients—flour and eggs—to make it.  While I did a post on making pasta previously, I'll show you how we made the tagliatelle since the spinach version is a little different.

Ingredients:
100 grams (about .22 pounds)
1 egg
(NOTE: My grandmother and mother used a cup measurement, and they went with one egg per cup of flour.  i think it's much easier to do so their way.)

Make a well in the flour (See photo above.), and drop egg into the well.  Using two fingers of one hand, mix the egg and flour together (Left and below).

(I use both hands normally, but Davide says that if you use just the one hand, you can use the other hand to push the dough off of your hand. I found that it works great that way.)

******

Let me change gears for just a second and add that should you want to make spinach pasta (or tomato or mushroom or whatever), you would cook the vegetable down and mash it into a paste that looks like what is in the bowl on the right.

You need add only a heaping tablespoonful of the paste to the egg and flour.  NOTE: Because the paste adds liquid to the mixture, you need about 10 grams—maybe two heaping spoonsful—more of flour.

*****

 Continue mixing the the ingredients until you have a dough ball.  If your dough is too sticky, you can add a little flour.  If your dough is too dry, wet your hands and knead the water into the mix.

At this point, you'll knead the dough for about 10-12 minutes. I can't tell you how to tell if the texture is right as I just know. The dough will be smooth and have a little elasticity to it, though.

When you have finished kneading, you can wrap the dough in plastic wrap (right), place it under a damp towel, or place it under an upside-down bowl.  Let it rest 20 minutes.  (Note: You must let the dough rest at least 20 minutes. If you do not, the dough will resist more when you roll it out.)

 You can use a pasta machine to roll and cut the dough, but we used the matterello (rolling pin) to roll it out.  It takes longer, but the chef insists that using the wooden pin instead of the machine's metal rollers makes the sauce stick to the pasta better.

At any rate, flour the wooden board. Flatten one ball of dough with your hand, and roll it with the matterello. After each pass, turn the pasta over. You may need to dust a little flour over the dough every few passes.
  




Rolling the dough is time consuming because you want to get it thin enough so that the pasta will not be too hard.  Davide said that when the dough is translucent, he knows it's done.

Dust the rolled piece with flour, and set aside for 10 minutes.

After the dough has rested again, roll it into a tube (right), and cut it in strips with a sharp knife.  You should *roll* the knife to cut it in strips. If you chop at the dough, the edges will be uneven and rough.

Once you've finished cutting, dust the ribbons with flour and place on towels until you're ready to cook.  Davide had a screen, so we used that (left).

 Here's the only other thing I can tell you about cooking pasta:  Make sure you use a big enough pot to cook it. If you don't use enough water, the pasta will stick together and taste gummy.









 On the left side of this photo, you can see the pot Davide used. He didn't drain the water, as I mentioned yesterday.  He used two big pasta "forks" to remove the pasta from the water, and he threw it into a pan in which he'd added half of the sauce (also on the right). 

Toss the pasta with the sauce, and serve it.









One little side note:  If you have never eaten fresh pasta (and I don't mean the packaged kind you can buy in the grocery), you are missing out.  Pasta party at my house when I get home. . .   :-)

It is NOT Spaghetti Bolognese

 "There is no such thing as

spaghetti bolognese in Italy."

~ Too many Bolognese to credit

It is true, my friends that what you have always considered a wonderful dish—Spaghetti Bolognese—does not even exist in the land where it supposedly was conceived.  Don't get me wrong. Italy has spaghetti, and Italy has bolognese sauce. Italy does not, however, have spaghetti bolognese.  Let me burst your culinary bubble one more time: Tomatoes are NOT the base for a bolognese sauce. They play a very minor roll in all of this.

So, you may ask, what the heck is a bolognese sauce, and with what kind of pasta do Italians eat it?  Thank you for asking, and let me answer the questions in reverse order.

 Italians feel that pairing the correct pasta with a sauce can either enhance or detract from the meal.  Tagliatelle, a ribbon-like pasta that is able to hold the heavy sauce better, is what originated  with the dish. Tagliatelle is similar to fettuccine, but a little more narrow. If you can't find tagliatelle, you can always substitute fettuccine, linguine, pappardelle, stringozzi or even some of the tube-shaped pastas.

Bolognese sauce takes a good three hours to prepare correctly. Yes, you can cook it more quickly, but it will not be as flavorful. You'll note by the ingredients that it is a meat-based sauce that includes a few vegetables. The traditional recipes call for no herbs—especially garlic—except for a bay leaf which adds a little depth to the sauce.

Ingredients:
(This was what we used for 8 people last evening.)
1 carrot finely diced.
1 celery stalk finely diced.
.5 onion finely diced.
a little less than 1 small can of tomato paste
2.25 pounds of ground beef and pancetta  (Use 80% for the correct taste and consistency.)
 .25 pound of pancetta, finely diced and mixed with the ground beef.  (You can substitute bacon.)
red or white wine (About a cup or so)
vegetable or beef stock (About 2-3 cups)
olive oil
salt
pepper

First, wash and dry all of the vegetables.  Peel the carrots and remove the strings from the celery.  Finely dice the carrots, onions and celery.  The pieces should not be more than .25 inches square.

Coat the bottom of a large casserole with olive oil and heat over a low fire.  Add the vegetables and cook them until the onions are almost translucent.

 Break up the meat mixture and add to the casserole. Continue stirring with a wooden spoon until the meat cooks through.








Once the meat is fully cooked, add the wine (You can substitute vegetable or beef stock for wine, if you prefer.).  After the wine evaporates, add salt and pepper to taste.  It is important not to add it until the meat has cooked and the alcohol has evaporated because adding it too soon will make the dish salty.

 Mix in the tomato paste, add the bay leaf, and about 1 cup of stock.  Cover and simmer over a low heat for three hours.  After 20-30 minutes, remove the bay leaf.  Stir the sauce occasionally, and add more stock if the sauce is too thick.

When the sauce is done, divide it into two parts. Add the pasta to one of the pans of sauce and toss.  Divide onto the plates, and top with sauce from the other pan.  Serve with parmigiano and a nice chianti.

 

 

A couple of notes: Except for the meat weight, the other measurements are approximations. Davide (the chef) used a concentrated tomato paste from a tube. He chose it because the flavor was stronger than that of the can, and he needed that since he was not cooking the sauce for three hours. The amount he used seemed to be just shy of what is in a small can in the States. He gave us chianti to drink and used the rest of what was in the bottle in the sauce.  There was maybe a cup.  

Davide also occasionally added stock to the meat if he thought it was getting too dry. I think he put in a large ladle of stock two times. He said that some cooks use water in place of the wine or stock. He thinks the wine and stock make the sauce richer.

He used salt and pepper very sparingly.  One of the other students asked about garlic, and he said, "Niente!"

Davide did not drain the pasta. He lifted it out with huge pasta forks and placed it in one of the pans with the sauce.  He then added a few ladles of the water in which he'd boiled the pasta. He said he does that to give body to the pasta.

Domani (Tomorrow): We make pasta. . . .