I don’t like the word “Expat” – it feels exclusionary, divisive and, dare I say it, a bit elitist.
I never liked being a member of a clique in school either, preferring to spread myself around, hopping from one social and ethic circle to another.
1ex·pa·tri·ate verb \ek-ˈspā-trē-ˌāt\
1: banish, exile
2: to withdraw (oneself) from residence in or allegiance to one’s native country
…Nope, that doesn’t quite define me.
Look, it’s perfectly obvious that I am not from around here (especially when I open my mouth) so I see no real need to announce it, label it, or hide behind it.
Go ahead and call me an “American”, call me a “Straniera” (foreigner), call me “crazy”, but don’t call me “Expat”.
Last week Steve Brenner and I premiered our video “The Food Police: The Rick Steves Episode”. We had such a blast shooting it in Rome and we are so grateful to Rick and his staff for generously promoting it on Facebook and Rick Steves Europe.
On the first day 128,000 people viewed our film and 350 posted comments. I tweeted Anthony Bourdain and began stalking George Clooney’s publicist. It was sort of surreal.
By the second day the views had fallen-off a bit. They dropped even more by day three. I guess people moved on to watch a YouTube video of Korean pop star PSY.
I think that may have been our fifteen minutes of fame.
See Episodes I, II & III here:
Go to www.foodpolice.it to find out more about us and sign up to see what we’re up to next!
Every single path we take in life has its price to pay. Fulfilling my dream comes at the expense of living far away from my son.
Today I especially felt the sting of that choice as I accompanied Andrew to the train station. I decided not to see him off at the airport because he absolutely hates it when I make public displays of emotion.
Honestly, I should have earned an Academy Award for this morning’s subtle and realistic performance as the upbeat and nonchalant Mom…smiling as I gave him a big hug, two kisses on the cheek (Italian style) and waved goodbye through the train window. I waited until I was on the Metro back home to burst into tears.
Andrew arrived in Rome in January to do a semester of university study. This once shy, introverted child had become a confident, independent and adventurous man. It’s astonishing how quickly he immersed himself into the experience: A year ago he was asking me, “How do you say “fork” in Italian?” and now I’m asking him, “Should I use the imperfect or simple past in this situation?” I admit it does bug me a little when he orders the dinner in a restaurant to avoid the embarrassment of his mother (who’s been studying the language for six-something years) mispronouncing menu items. I suppose I should be used to it by now – he’s been smarter than me since the third grade.
We spent his last day in Italy quietly walking around Rome. I could tell he was sad too, but he claimed he was just tired. I know he’s ready to return to his life in San Francisco and resume his studies, earn his degree, begin a career and get on with building the life he wants for himself. I want that for him too, but I will miss my Amore di Mamma more than I can say.
From the time I was old enough to speak, I was a reluctant crusader against the relentless ignorance over the gender-bending name my parents assigned me at birth. 1960s Madison Avenue provided only one example to refer to when enlightening people on how to accurately write the girl-version diminutive of Anthony. “It’s spelled with an “i” instead of a “y”, you know, like Toni, The Home Permanent.” I grew weary of the discourse and confusion about my androgynous moniker and envied girls appropriately named Mary, Cindy, or Barbara.
As I reached adulthood, the naming world evolved and it appeared the heat was finally off women with “men’s names”. Thanks to Oprah’s Book Club, Nobel Prize winning author Toni Morrison became a household name and songbird Toni Braxton was a sexy girl-named-Toni babe. Things were looking up in the given name department…until I moved to Italy.
I snapped this photo of a smiling dumpster a few years back and thought to myself, “If a dumpster can be happy, why can’t we?”
For me happiness is like the AutoGrill on the Italian Autostrada; a pit stop on the road of life. You can pull in, park, take a coffee and hang out for a while, but you’re not permitted to set up camp. At some point you must get back into your vehicle and continue down the highway. Do you grumble as you get into your car, waiting and hoping to come across another AutoGrill soon?
When will we get it? Life is speeding past us like the scenery out our windshields. What we ought to do is run across the parking lot, jump back into our cars, roll down the windows and crank up the radio, singing bad pop songs at the top of our lungs.
I am very lucky to be included in your circle of friends. Because of the distance between us we don’t see each other as often as I’d like, but when we meet it’s as if no time passes – we just pick up right where we left off. I know what a rare and special gift this is.
I lit a candle for you today. It burns brightly for happy memories, solidarity, friendship, peace and, most of all, love.
Just a few kilometers outside the center of Orvieto there’s an area known as Localita’ Ponte del Sole. Drive slowly on the winding road and be careful not to blink or you might miss it: A small hand painted sign with the words “Risto-Pizzeria da Zia Graziella” nailed to a tree. The arrow points you down a white road that leads to a clearing…you’ve arrived at Zia Graziella’s place.
At first it might seem a bit unorthodox to find a pizzeria operating out of a private farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. However, when you consider that Italy is a country where food is one of its greatest sources of pride and cuisine part of its national identity, a speakeasy-style establishment thriving on a word-of-mouth reputation makes perfect sense.
Chef Zia Graziella has been creating pasta dough for over thirty-five years – first as the proprietor of a fresh, homemade pasta shop in the historical center and now as a highly regarded, wood-fired pizza cook. What makes her famous dough so extraordinary is that each batch is produced from an eighty-year old “mother” starter that she rolls out to a paper-thin consistency. Her recipe uses no oil and toppings are made with only the freshest ingredients picked from her garden or gathered from local area farms.
The price for a pizza dinner is fixed but the menu is fluid and dictated by the growing season. The meal includes antipasti, three or four different kinds of pizzas, dessert, wine, and coffee. Tonight, for example, we dined on Pizza Margherita (fresh tomato and mozzarella), Pizza with Fennel, Potato and Spicy Salami, and finally, Eggplant, Mozzarella and Tomato pizza.
The pizza flows like the nearby Tiber and can be stopped by leaving at least one slice on the platter – a signal to the kitchen that you’ve finished with the main course and are ready for dessert: a Pizza Nutella. I think it was somewhere between the coffee service and the pouring of Limoncello that I slipped into a Graziella-induced coma.
Honestly, I’d love to tell you that this amazing, one-of-a-kind restaurant is the best-kept secret in Umbria, but I’d be lying. Everyone knows the charming and talented Graziella: Martin Scorsese claims her gnocchi is the best he’s ever eaten and Richard Gere has her on speed dial. Not a VIP? Don’t worry – when you eat at Risto-Pizzeria da Zia Graziella, you’re more than just a celebrity, you’re family.
Risto-Pizzeria da Zia Graziella, Localita’ Ponte Del Sole, 38, Orvieto, Italy 05018, +39 389 792 5102
Shortly after arriving in Italy, I accepted an invitation to a book signing and reading event in Rome. When I learned of the book’s subject matter (a thirty-something woman who finds love with an Italian and moves to Rome) I thought, Oh no, not another fairy tale about coming to Italy, having an affair with Marcello Mastroianni and living happily ever after! Needless to say I was skeptical. Seriously, is there anyone out there who could bring freshness to this tired and overly saturated genre of storybook fantasies allaThree Coins in a Fountain, Under the Tuscan Sun and Eat, Pray, Love? I know I sound jaded, but my expectations are low.
After a brief introduction author Estelle Jobson sat down on a cushion in the courtyard of The Beehive Hotel, opened her book, Finding Rome on the Map of Love, and began to read. As I listened to her recount the stories, I noticed the corners of my mouth began to spontaneously turn upward. Her elegant and proper South African accent was in sharp contrast to the wry, sardonic and sassy repartee. Hey, this girl gets it! When she finished I was a bit sad, but fortunately I’d purchased my very own autographed copy of the book and immediately cracked it open on the train back to Orvieto.
During the first couple of chapters, I was gulping down Estelle’s pages the way a typical American might eat their dinner: swallowing without taking time to taste. Perhaps I’ve been in Italy long enough that a voice inside my head warned, “Don’t be in a hurry. Savor each flavor and texture.” This book was just like a good Italian meal; I never wanted the literary feast to end. And when it did end, I felt warm and utterly satisfied.
Estelle Jobson is a talented writer who has a true gift for observation. She describes things that, as an expatriate, I’d experienced but was never able to fully articulate. What appreciate most about Estelle’s storytelling is the way she doesn’t laugh at Italians, she laughs with them. Her book is filled with intelligent humor, compassion, and edgy insight. She’s sarcastic without being mean; clever without being pretentious; and emotional without being overly sentimental. Estelle sees Italians the way they really are and reconfirms, at least for me, why I love living among them.
I’ll stay with the food analogy just a little bit longer. I really enjoyed chewing slowly on every single delicious “bite” of Finding Rome on the Map of Love. Her words were propriobuonissime!
Like scrappy, bebopping Pied Pipers, Perugia’s popular street band Funk Offgets this party started with a nightly parade that snakes through Orvieto’s narrow and ancient cobblestone alleyways. Music lovers, young and old, scamper and skip behind these energetic hipsters as their infectious beat draws more and more followers along the route. The bluesy procession ends with an impromptu jam session in the Piazza della Repubblica, where you’ll find you can’t help but tap your feet, move your body and smile: It’s Umbria Jazz Winterand “baby, it’s cold outside”.
The international flavor and welcoming spirit amidst the holiday lights and chilly, frigid temperatures creates a unique atmosphere that makes this festival something special. For five nights, starting from December 28 to January 1, Jazz fans flock from all over Italy and beyond to partake in the music and brotherhood for which this festival has become world renowned.
The old year goes out with a bang!Capodanno is celebrated with concerts and spontaneous jam sessions all over town. Ring in the New Year with fireworks and lots of reveling in the streets. On New Year’s Day arrive at the famous Duomoearly to secure your spot for the first Mass of the year. Inside this majestic Cathedral you’ll witness something you don’t see every day; hymns sung at a Roman Catholic “Mass for Peace and Gospel” by Dr. Bobby Jones and the Nashville Gospel Super Choir. Hold onto your seats because this joint will be jumpin’!
I’m happy to report that because the end of the world didn’t come this week, my tour of the Christmas lights in Rome was able to go forward as planned. In fact, my personal “guide” for the evening had a new prophecy for me:
“I predict you are going to come to Rome very, very soon…and be astonished from the lights all over, thinking it was the effect of that good wine you just had.”
Maybe it was the wine, or it might have been those sparkling blue and white jellyfish that floated above my head, or the draping of light bulbs that covered an entire boulevard from end-to-end, or the gigantic trees in every piazza…
Whatever the reason, I was totally astonished and also extremely grateful to be here in Italy for this glittery Roman holiday tradition.
Last night Rome was so bright, I should have worn shades.
Orvieto or Bust: 