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Proper Bathroom Etiquette

I put my euro into the slot at the automatic gate and a high-pitched alarm sounded. The gate wouldn’t open so I started fiddling with the coin return button in an attempt to make the buzzing stop!  Fifteen seconds of that ear-piercing noise brought out the bathroom attendant who shouted at me in Italian to move my bag. “Can’t you see that your suitcase is too close to the gate and that’s what’s causing the commotion?” he growled at me menacingly.

Big Fat Chicken

I’ve never been very good at confrontations; I get really nervous in tense situations, which usually renders me completely inarticulate. If someone is aggressive or mean to me I dummy-up, only to think of a pithy comeback later when it’s too late.

Parlo Italiano un po’

But something strange happens when I speak Italian: my personality changes and my communications become more direct and my tone tougher. Perhaps because my vocabulary is limited I don’t mince words. What finally comes out of my mouth is basic and instinctual. In Italian, I don’t pull any punches.

The change has come…

Without missing a beat or hesitating one millisecond, it came over me — a reaction as natural and spontaneous as I’ve ever had. “Eh, no, non ho capito perche’ il problema non e’ ovvio, SCUSA!” I yelled back at the attendant, adding the appropriate hand gestures for greater effect.  He backed off. Maybe this place is rubbing off on me?

by Toni DeBella

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"Orvieto Sunset"

I have an Italian passport, a codice fiscale and my city library card.  I received the “friend-of-a-friend” discount on my Roman root canal and get the locals’ price for my morning caffe latte.  I’ve accumulated two tablecloths, four plug adapters, six wooden hangers, a set of espresso cups, a milk foamer, a bathmat and a thicker skin.

Going back and forth, arriving and departing, being here and then there makes my head spin!  My months in Italy have passed at lightening speed; the countdown has begun and the melancholy is setting in.  There is just over one week until I must return to my American “base camp”.  I get confused about which place I can call home: San Francisco or Orvieto?

I’m often asked if I am living la dolce vita? Stereotypes and dopey clichés are the stuff of Hollywood films, tour companies and real estate agencies – images perpetuated to sell the fantasy.  No, I don’t live either Under the Tuscan Sun or in The Dark Heart of Italy.  Honestly, this kooky existence, even with its sometimes harsh reality, beats the Eat, Pray, Love version of romanticized Italy, hands down.

The other day I overheard one women whisper to another as they passed me on the street, “There’s that americana”.  It sent me flashing back to my preteen, middle school days for a moment and then, suddenly, a satisfied smile came over my face because being the topic of town gossip, I decided, is much preferable to being invisible.

I know that I am still an outsider looking in, an invested observer circling around the perimeter of Italian life.  I quite like the view from over here…for now.  Sometimes you have to let things unfold at their own pace and in their own time.  I’d rather stay in Italy, but I must go back.  I cling to the hope that one day il destino will throw me the proverbial bone and I won’t have to leave.  Until that time comes, I will make like a bad penny and just keep turning up!

by Toni DeBella

“Orvieto Sunset” and the other images of Italy were contributed by Patrick Delaney, a fellow expat from Dublin, Ireland in the process of building a house in nearby Montecchio. Umbria.  Patrick, an architect, has been painting in oils for ten years.  He believes good paintings are about light and shade and atmosphere.  His favorite artist is Caravaggio – he only wishes he could paint like him.  (But mind you, he gets into as much trouble!)  For more information about Patrick’s work, you can contact him at delaneypm@eircom.net.

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I don’t know why, but the sight of my friend Brian “putting” about Orvieto in his 2000 forest green Piaggio Ape makes me smile.  Perhaps it’s because he’s such a distinguished and elegant Englishman that the visual of him in that little Italian pickup truck (“ape” means “bee”) creates a contrasting effect – as if one is looking at an enigma.  But once you get to know Brian you’ll discover the many facets of his personality: father, grandfather, friend, soul mate to the lovely Antonella, and an adventuresome, rugged, country-boy-at-heart hobby farmer.

I got to wondering about how Brian happened to land in Italy, so on one of our morning jaunts around the Rupe I asked him, and he graciously agreed to spin his wonderful tale of two teenage boys, a yellow and grey 150 LD Lambretta scooter and 4,000 kilometers of roads that began the dream to live in Italy.

Just sixteen and eighteen years of age respectively, he and his friend Michael Williams set out from Rotherham, England for Italian parts unknown.  It was 1957 (a very good year) – a decade post-World War II when Italy was a much different country than it is today.  He remembers it as a simple and innocent time.  

Brian  doesn’t recall the girl in the photo’s name, only that “she didn’t fancy me.”

The exchange rate to lire was good, the girls were pretty and exotic, and the boys’ youthful exuberance and open hearts bought them life lessons you couldn’t pay a million euros for today.  Per esempio, a collision with the back of a tractor ended amicably with a “wine” summit on the tractor owner’s portico.  Both parties agreed to assume equal fault in the matter with just a gentleman’s handshake, a “grazie” and a “ciao”

As with most journeys, this one came to an end and Brian dutifully returned to England to join the family’s tile business.  When it came time for a trade course, his father sent him off to Malmö, Sweden – knowing full well the risk of sending him to the training in Modena, Italy – Brian might never have returned!

Enjoying a visit with the grandchildren

Brian worked hard and raised his family, venturing back to Italy whenever he could.  With his children grown and his tile business sold, he retired at the young age of 51 and made a “bee” line straight for Italy where he has now lived for 21 years…and counting. 

Although today he drives around on three wheels instead of two, I think it would be safe to say that life in Italy is very sweet for Brian and his little Ape

by Toni DeBella

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You’ve probably heard of the Stendhal syndrome, named for the famous French author who detailed his experience of being overcome with emotion by the immense beauty of Florentine art.   In 1979 an Italian psychiatrist finally gave the syndrome its official name after reporting nearly 100 tourists at the Galleria degli Uffizi had fainted – some sent to hospital when their heads hit the hard marble floor. Personally I have never actually swooned from viewing a painting, but I do get a bit light-headed at the sight of Michelangelo’s David.

Art: The Good, the Bad and….

Unfortunately there won’t be any swooning happening here. You see, at the base of the rock that I live on, in front of the town’s train station sits a sculpture in a fountain. This “work of art” makes a very strong first impression to visitors arriving by rail on their way up to town. It is my understanding (I did some asking around) that the artist is internationally renowned and important enough that the City commissioned not one, but two of his works for installation.   I don’t get it.  I can’t even describe the fountain to you without using terms that would make a 9 year old boy collapse in a heap of laughter at my “potty” humor.  Fortunately no one really cares what I think about the fountain, and why should they?  Who the hell am I to judge the merits of a piece of art?  What I know about art couldn’t fill an espresso cup.  Art, as they say, is in the eye of the beholder.  Enough said.


by Toni DeBella

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The information I was given at the education office of the centro sociale (community center) was that the Italian class commenced at 3:25 on Thursday afternoons.  The photo is of the scene on Thursday at exactly 3:24 p.m.  Oops, apparently the class actually begins at 4:30 p.m.  I located the teacher and she recommended I come, instead, to her class on Tuesdays at 2:30 p.m.  Okay, I’m game.  I’ll be back on Tuesday afternoon…

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

If I hadn’t experienced it myself, I don’t think I would have believed it.  My friend, who attended class with me, was witness to the casino (mess) that was my first public funded italiano per stranieri (Italian for Foreigners) course.

It was a blast from the past – reminiscent of the glory days of flying spitballs, pimple-faced awkwardness and hallway passes alla “Welcome Back Kotter”, the iconic television sitcom about a street-wise teacher saddled with a class of overzealous, unruly misfits.

This afternoon’s cast of characters: a pretty blond, if not somewhat scattered teacher; a macho hooligan who passed out our text books while making wisecracks with a unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth;  a skinny, greasy-haired and sullen boy who interrupted class to take a call on his cellphone; a dull-witted, sloppy adolescent surfing his Facebook page during the lesson; a painfully shy North African women who refused to  speak if asked a question – she just sat there until the teacher moved on; a young Eastern European couple who sat so close together they almost became one person and, my favorite, the know-it-all teacher’s pet who corrected your answers before the instructor got a word in edgewise.

The class was disorganized, the overhead projector didn’t function and the audio CD was scratchy and unintelligible. However, I did learn some things I didn’t know before – the words l’orario fisso (fixed schedule); lo stipendio (salary), and turni (shifts).  Also, silenzio! (be quiet!);  No, non si può fumare qui dentro! (No, you cannot smoke in here!) and Spero che tornerai la prossima settimana (I hope you will come back next week).

I believe “sweathog” translated into Italian is sweathog.

by Toni DeBella

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It never ceases to amaze me how tiny the world has become.  From my little apartment in San Francisco, I have an idea.  I sit down at my desk and pound out my thoughts onto my computer.  Because of the nature of the internet today, my viewpoints and impressions are broadcast instantaneously across an ocean where a man sitting at his computer in Italy happens to run across my article, Orvieto, Italy: A Land Where Time Stands Still.  Something moves him to send me a short note – he says he likes what I wrote about his hometown.

Just a few short months later, I find myself sitting across the dinner table from a lovely couple to whom I’d been introduced that evening.  Halfway through the supper conversation we discover the link: “So, you’re that Toni DeBella”, the husband declares to our astonishment. You could have knocked me over with a feather!

In these crazy moments, the once unthinkable becomes imaginable.  Here we all sit together in a restaurant in Orvieto, experiencing firsthand the growing obsolescence of continents and landmasses with hard-drawn borders.  Can’t you just picture it – the entire human race clustered in one big archipelago – chained loosely and floating alongside one another, just waiting to collide?  And do you know the most amazing part?  My story is becoming more and more common and every day.  Il mondo e’ piccolo (it’s a small world), and it’s getting smaller all the time.

Read another “small world” story by Lisa Chiodo at Renovating Italy here.

 
by Toni DeBella

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“You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.”-C.S. Lewis

Every single one of us has our own unique and special mechanism for coping and strategizing our way through the world’s challenges.  I find that what works best for me is a random, shotgun-style approach to personal achievement.  I call it the “Spaghetti Theory”: throw everything you have at a predicament and see what sticks.

This philosophy encompasses a combination of the law of averages, blood, sweat and tears, and a bit of dumb luck. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn’t, but in less than two weeks I will be heading for Italy again – launching “Phase One” of my grand scheme. I am  so close that I can almost taste it. For nearly seven years I have been feverishly “flinging noodles” at the walls of life in a concentrated effort to reach my goal. I’ve been plotting, concocting, commiserating and essentially boring the living daylights out of my friends, family and even complete strangers.

“Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.” – Winston Churchill

Curiously, as my objective moved from the realm of fantasy into the universe of real and tangible possibility, an odd thing happened – I began to experience a disbelief that I could actually get what I want, followed by a paralyzing fear that perhaps once I get it, I might not want it any longer!  Here I am, standing on the precipice of my dream coming true and finding myself in such a discombobulated state of mind.  Of course you’ve heard of a fear of failure, but did you know that some folks actually suffer from a fear of success? After all the obsessing and preoccupation, could I honestly be afraid of crossing the finish line? …Nope, don’t think so.

Teetering atop the high-dive, I am ready to take the plunge into the deep-end. There is no way in hell I’m going to come this close to the prize, only to turn in retreat before getting my just desserts.  I owe it to myself and to the many friends who have already blazed the trail abroad or who are taking up the rear.  I am not so special. I am only one of many dreamers of an Italian life.

You can read the wonderful and inspiring stories of other dreamers/bloggers at: Renovating Italy, http://www.renovatingitaly.com; Destination Umbria, http://destinationumbria.wordpress.com/; Bagni di Lucca and Beyond, http://bagnidilucca.wordpress.com/; My Melange,http://mymelange.net/; Bleeding Espresso, http://bleedingespresso.com/; and Indulge – Travel, Adventure, & New Experiences, http://lesleycarter.wordpress.com/.



by Toni DeBella

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During this entire month of November Bootsnall is inviting bloggers from around the world to participate in 30 Days of Indie Travel : a daily blogging effort to look back on our past travel experiences.  Trying desperately to keep up with my fellow bloggers (failing miserably), I am reposting this piece from April 2011.  My justification for the short-cut – I am being “Green” – Reduce, recycle, reuse!!!!  Today’s Topic: BUDGET.  Here is TRAVELING ON A BUDGET “ALLA TONI”…

One of my great fortunes in life is having two close friends who work as Flight Attendants for major international airlines.  These two women both collectively and single-handedly enable me to feed my addiction to Italy (or as I sometimes like to refer to it, “my crack”).  The companion fare or “buddy pass”: a way of traveling that is not for the faint of heart.  It requires nerves of steel, the patience of Job, the imagination of Sherlock Holmes, and the ingenuity and resourcefulness of MacGyver.  It also helps to have an innate ability to build alliances and form coalitions with the other “buddies” in line for the few choice “non-revenue” seats.  It’s sort of like “Survivor”, but in an airport.

Companion fares are a fraction of the cost of a regular ticket, but as the old adage goes, “You Get What You Pay For.”  Don’t misunderstand me, I am eternally grateful to my friends for sharing their privileges with me.  However, if you are planning to travel this way you must go in with your eyes wide open and accept its cruel game of “standby roulette”.  I have sat many a time at the gate testing the theory that I can telepathically compel myself onto the airplane by chanting  over and over again “please call my name, please call my name, please call my name” like some twisted mantra, in an effort to will the gate agent, (who’s forehead I have just burned a hole through) to say those seven magic words, “passenger DeBella, please come to the podium”.

Ah, the sweet glory of nabbing a seat in business class from New York to Rome! Warm nuts, champagne, fluffy socks, a blanket made of natural fiber and, the pièce de résistance, a seat that reclines almost flat.  Once you have flown business class, it’s hard to return to coach.  In the back (an airline industry term for “where the losers sit”) I feel like an immigrant crammed into steerage on the Titanic.  Should things go awry, I am convinced any real lifesaving procedures will be afforded to the platinum American Express cardholders first.  But I’m not thinking about that today – today I am one of them.  The cabin crew addresses me as Ms. DeBella.  “Ms. DeBella, what would you like as your entree?” “Ms. DeBella, would you like a warm towel?” “May I get you another pillow, Ms. DeBella?” They don’t call it business class for nothing.

But there’s a dark side to “standby, non-rev” (another airline term for “cheapskates who sponge-off their friends and family”).  I’ve been stranded in Milan for 3 days (my traveling companion was a high-strung, hot-tempered, not-so-easy-going Italian – very stressful!), Rome – 3 days (I finally resorted to tears and someone took pity on me), New York – 5 days (Icelandic volcano eruption – seven million other passengers and me marooned, so I don’t really count that one).  I have slept overnight on a bench in a food court at Frankfurt airport, aligned with 8 other rebuffed “buddies” (we filled an entire B&B in Fumicino, Italy) and naively accepted an offer from Domenico, a complete stranger I sat next to on a flight from Hahn to Campino, to drive me to Orvieto on his way to Viterbo.   He could have been an ax-murderer, but as it turned out, he was a really lovely guy.

The bottom line is I will take the opportunity to travel anyway I can get it.  I love airports – they are happy places for me.  When I am in one I’m either going somewhere far away or returning from a wonderful and unique adventure.  It’s certainly challenging to fly around the world without a structure or a guarantee.  Honestly I sort of enjoy the game – it feels like a test of my character and determination.  Over the years I have managed to overcome a lot of obstacles, so perhaps the hardships make arriving at my destination all the more satisfying.  So, like the title of this blog implies, I will beg, borrow and steal to get where I am going.  Buon Viaggio!

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One Day – Day 9 of 30 Days of Indie Travel Project

During this entire month of November Bootsnall is inviting bloggers from around the world to participate in 30 Days of Indie Travel : a daily blogging effort to look back on our past travel experiences.  I am a bit behind in my efforts but Bootsnall invites everyone to participate in any amount they can. Here is my belated contribution…

If your tour guide totes a long stick with streamers in the colors of the French flag and speaks at you through a microphone transmitted to a speaker in your ear: it’s going to be a run of- the- mill travel day.  On the other hand, if Christophe, a former pharmaceutical executive-turned fine art dealer (who knows Paris like the back of his hand), invites you for a spin around the City of Lights on the back of his motorbike: you’re about to have one of the best travel days of your life!

For the record let me say that weaving in and out of traffic on the streets of Paris is definitely not for the faint of heart. Caught off-guard by the unfathomable opportunity presented to me, I jumped at this once-in-a-lifetime offer before really thinking it through.  Throwing caution to the wind, I chose to worry about the implications of my decision later.  Hey, if things go badly, it would be a chance for me to experience the renowned French healthcare system firsthand.

I gripped the back handles of the bike tightly and attempted to relax as we zigzagged around gridlocked cars and stylishly-dressed pedestrians, ricocheting precariously into the roundabout encircling the Arc de Triomphe (which Christophe claims is the most dangerous place in Paris).  We reached the Champs-Élysées alive and cruised down this legendary boulevard towards a day I will never forget.  October 6, 2011: My best travel day ever!.

Photographs  by Manuela Calvet and Toni DeBella

You might also enjoy:

Renovating Italy by Lisa Chiodo

by Toni DeBella

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Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” – Mark Twain

In a perfect world there would be no boundaries and we would all be citizens of the world, free to roam from place to place at our heart’s desire. Until that day comes, you’re going to need a government-issued passport.

Passport 101

King Henry V of England, most noted for his great military mind is also credited with inventing what is considered the modern version of the passport. Earlier references to the passport have also been found in the Hebrew Bible. In medieval Europe a document was required in order to pass through the gates of a city wall or traverse a territory.

American in Paris?

The latest statistic regarding the percentage of Americans (less than 30%) who own passports is a little sobering and quite frankly, a bit suspect. I disagree with the popular assumption that Americans are fundamentally unadventurous, isolation-loving people without a global perspective. I assert that the low number of passports issued is misleading and actually a reflection of many mitigating factors including: 1) The geographical make-up of the United States. It is a vast, diverse land filled with amazing places (national parks, big cities, beautiful beaches, majestic mountains, etc.,) that keep Americans sightseeing within its borders; 2) The U.S. neighbors only two other nations, unlike Europe which has nearly a total of 50 border-crossings on its continent. For example, an Austrian boards a one-hour flight or sets out on an eight-hour car trip and reaches a myriad of foreign countries. A one-hour flight from San Francisco takes me as far as Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Portland, and somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean; 3) If you are a member of the working middle-class it is likely you have only two-weeks vacation a year and on top of that; 4) foreign excursions can be quite expensive.

But for those who choose to hold a passport, they hold unlimited possibilities in their hands. This tiny book has power. With it you have permission to pick-up and jet-off to strange and exotic locations at a moments notice. My son has let his passport expire and I am continually nagging him to get it renewed. “You never know when you might need to fly to Paris for lunch”, I say. He rolls his eyes. He’s right, this situation doesn’t come up too often – but it never hurts to be ready just in case. As for me, I caught the “travel bug” later in life and I caught it with a vengeance. Just recently I renewed my passport and sweated those few weeks without it. It was a relief to find it in the post safe and sound. I look forward to the next 10 years of gallivanting.

My recent passport is only the third in my lifetime. Growing up in our family meant we never ventured farther than our Ford Country Squire station wagon could take us. In college, I went to Mexico quite a few times, but back in “the day” you weren’t required to carry documents to go south or north of the border. In 1982 I took my first international flight to Sydney, Australia for a friend’s wedding and joined the prestigious group “world traveller”. Since that time I’ve been to only a handful of different countries: Mexico (twice), Costa Rica, The Bahamas, England (twice), Germany (twice) and of course, Italy (dozens of times). In two months time I will be adding France to that list. My Passport Personality: Late Bloomer.

On this ever-changing, fluid planet it is nearly impossible to maintain an accurate list of countries in the world. The Travelers’ Century Club has compiled a “Master List” of countries, territories, autonomous regions, island groups, states and provinces that theoretically make up the world. Currently there are 872 places pinpointed. No one person has visited them all, but a few have come close. My friend Marisa is in her 30s and has one of the most impressive passports I’ve ever seen. (The photo at the top is from a page in her actual passbook). She considers it among her most prized possession. She’s travelled since she was a baby and in her teens and early 20s lived many years abroad (both on land and on boats). She is now gainfully employed as a maritime attorney, so her globe-trotting has stalled a bit. But deep down inside she will always have the heart of a vagabond and wanderlust in her veins. Her Passport Personality: Marco Polo.

So, what does your passport say about you?

by Toni DeBella

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