That's Apples and Oranges

 I wrote about visiting the open market yesterday before we had started to eat what we did purchase. Today we had artichokes and red moon apples. Being something of an apple producer myself, this variety was kind of surprising.  On the outside the skins are kind of a reddish rust color; but on the inside they're actually red.  They're slightly tart like Granny Smith apples and the flesh is a little grainy--perhaps because apples ripen in September-October so the apples we bought on Saturday have to have been in cold storage since then, and even our best winter apples don't do well towards the end of March.

I also bought 5 kilos of oranges. (I meant to get 5 lbs, but still get a little flustered when ordering.) So, I wanted 5 lbs. and got 11. At fruit stands you're not allowed to select your own fruit. The vendor does it.  You can touch the fruit; and can also ask for a taste before buying, but when it comes time to buy, they make the selection and you keep your hands to yourself.

The oranges were really ugly on the outside; but the vendor had sliced a few open to show what they looked like on the inside.   I don't think I've ever had juicier oranges. I tried to peel the first two at the dining room table, but that's impossible. Now I stand at the sink because the juice goes everywhere. I've decided that oranges in Italy are like apples in the US--in that there are lots of varieties, and that includes a wide variety of flavors.  The blood oranges seem to be preferred across Italy, and you can find navel oranges here--the main selling point is they're seedless.  I have decided that I like the flavor of blond oranges more than most other varieties.  You can buy red orange juice or blond orange juice in the store.  Red oranges.  Hmmm, sounds like an oxymoron. I remember when my brother Evan noted that blueberries are red when they're green. Is that a triple oxymoron?

Orange red and orange blond...

The Open Market

 We went to the open market yesterday.  I've become a little reluctant to take photos in unfamiliar places because there seems to be a big concern in Italy about privacy issues. There are quite a few signs in many areas (particularly stores) warning that photography is forbidden. So, yesterday, I only took one photo of the marvelous array of fresh fruits, vegetables, cheeses, salami, and seafood. That's when I knew I had to take a photo--ever so cautiously so as not to attract attention.

 Maybe some time we'll be brave enough to try the seafood--but Robyn says there were too many eyeballs looking back at us from the squid bins. I agreed. 

Our friends who showed us how to find the market are temple missionaries from Arizona. We talked about our reluctance to buy the ubiquitous seafood. Eric suggested that the fact we live far from the ocean and don't really have the same access as people who live in seaside cultures might have something to do with it.

A few booths before the seafood location, Eric and I looked at a slab of what looked like salted, dried, fish about the size of a four-inch high bushel basket.  Neither one of us had the slightest idea how it would be used--let alone purchased. 

I think our discomfort with seafood is also related to the fact that when Robyn and I first came to Italy she ordered jumbo shrimp and it was delivered  whole on the plate--head, eyeballs and fins. It was easier for me three years ago when Dario Vardeu, a dear friend who lives here took us to dinner. I was able to watch how and what parts he ate of the strange creatures on our plates.  Since it's just me and Robyn at our meals, we're not taking too many chances--and I have experience on that note.

Forty-nine years ago while I was here as a missionary, my companion and I were served rabbit. My serving included the rabbit's back and the kidneys were still attached by the renal arteries.  I wondered whether I had been served a delicacy or not.  I figured that rather than risking offense, I'd eat one.  When I tasted it, it was awful; but I knew if I drank lots of water and ate bread with it, I could get it down--which I proceeded to do.

As I worked up my courage for the second kidney, I figured I'd try it in one bite to minimize the discomfort.  As I tossed it in my mouth, our host looked at me incredulously and said, "You ate the kidney! I've never seen anyone eat rabbit kidneys before!"

I almost lost what was in my mouth and long since swallowed. I said, "Oh, they're fine..."  After that, I determined I would either ask about what was on my plate or not eat it if it was unfamiliar.  Practically everything at the seafood section is too mysterious for us to even know what to ask. 

Having a Nice Trip

 

Three years ago, I came to Rome with three friends to help with the Rome Temple open house. That experience convinced me that Robyn and I had to return to live here—while we were still heathy enough to do so without worry--(yet to be fully determined).

 

For a few days before the official open house got underway, we were assigned at each of the two guard houses of the plaza entrances to the temple--to help arrange deliveries and to explain to people who wanted to enter the grounds that it wasn’t yet open, and to greet other volunteers as they arrived.  They needed us because there was an even mix of Italian and English speaking arrivals and we were multi-lingual with abilities in Italian, English, German and Spanish—all of which came in handy. We would open the large gate for vehicle deliveries and encourage pedestrians to walk on the edge of the driveway. That’s because there was a 2” piece of angle iron sticking up in the middle of the driveway for the gate to stop on.  Unfortunately, it was very much the same color as the cobblestone pavement and lots of people tripped on it—including us.

 

Once, while Eric Anderson and I were engaged in our duties, I noticed out of the corner of my eye someone in a suit come running up to the guard house.  His toe caught the piece of iron and he went flying—completing 75% of a forward flip—landing on his back. I was sure we were going to need an ambulance and ran over to see James J. Lund, Esq., our fearless leader, lying on his back trying get his breath. When it was clear that nothing was broken or bleeding, we started to laugh uncontrollably. Two of the gardeners had heard the crash and came over to investigate. They went over to the flower bed, picked a red flower and put it on Jamie’s chest. He reenacted the event the next day while I took photos.

On Wednesday, I noticed they have added a bright yellow caution decal warning people they could trip on it.

Travels Close to Home

 Some things haven't worked out--so far--as we had planned. We expected to purchase an automobile when we arrived; but have learned that foreigners can't purchase motor vehicles unless they have an official residence. While we live here officially--having been granted a visa, we don't have an official residence until the local constabulary meets with us and grants us a "permission to sojourn." Arrivals from abroad have to register with the police (within 8 days) that they have arrived and they're granted an audience to appear sometime in the future. Our appearance is on May 31st. Until then, we're relegated to bus, taxi, shank's pony, or leasing a vehicle by the month.  No vehicles are available to lease until June first.  Until then, I have been exploring the neighborhood on foot and occasionally by bike.  When Robyn wants to venture out, we take the bus downtown--or go to the mall at Porta di Roma--which is often worth a smile or two.

Last week at the mall, we noticed a huge advertisement at the entry for (we think) vaping devices.  The ad is basically in English and Italian but neither language clearly states what's for sale.  The part that made us smile is where it notes that it's a "Radical Pop Collection by Toilet Paper." I thought that the word Pop was short one by one letter: o. The rest of the ad tells people that it's a limited offer in unlimited styles. 

Earlier this week, I ventured out on foot to see the sights. I came across something that made more sense yesterday after Robyn and I went into the city center and watched a movie on the history of Rome. 

I hate to betray my ignorance of Italy, but in that video I learned that when the Roman Empire collapsed, so did the city of Rome. It went from more than 2 million inhabitants in its heyday, to little more than a place for sheep and cattle grazing with perhaps as few as 30,000 people living on the ruins of ancient Rome. From its collapse to the renaissance Rome was little more than scattered populations that considered themselves kingdoms designated by defensive towers.  Earlier this week, I came across a stele designating the site of the tower of King Dicicoli. 

I looked around for a tower, but nothing appeared in the distance. There was an elderly fellow (about my age) walking his dog through the field and I asked him if he knew where I could see this tower depicted on the monument.  He said, "Oh, that disappeared centuries ago." When I got home I looked up the aforementioned king and there was a photo of the remains of the tower. I'm going to go back to see if I can find it--even though today, it doesn't quite reflect its former glory. 

Addendum (March 21/2022): I went back today to see if I could find the tower. Below is a photo I took that replaces one I got from off the web that was quite pixelated. I rode my bike to the area and walked around where it seemed reasonable to leave a tower. All I found was a sign that said: "Accesso alla fogna." (Sewer access.) 

I figured I'd looked close enough and started to leave and passed a couple on the dirt path. I asked if they knew where the tower was. The fellow pointed up ahead and it was clear I just hadn't been looking in the right place. He noted that it's not much of a tourist site because it isn't "ben tenuto." (kept up.)  I agreed, took a photo and went on my way.

(Pre addendum) A few minutes before not seeing the tower, I came across an interesting warning sign. It wasn't very big so I walked up close to see what it was.  Here it is enlarged:

 While photographing the sign, a truck drove up and the driver warned me, "There are bees here, and they'll sting you!" We chatted for a few minutes and I noticed they had a beehive in the back of their truck and they were headed over to a line of multi-colored beehives. We talked about beekeeping in Utah, and that they're not out yet because it's still snowy. He said all their hives are single levels, but by the end of May they'll be stacked four and five high.

Yesterday, while traipsing through Rome we saw an archaeological dig, and near that, we saw an ancient artifact that I haven't seen in years: a pay phone.

After seeing the ancient columns, we walked to Campidoglio--Capitoline Hill, and climbed the 125 steps to an ancient Cathedral--Santa Maria in Ara Coeli--and then to the piazza designed by Michelangelo--which provided the motif for the piazza of the LDS Rome Temple and the architecture of the temple itself. The 125 steps to the church are quite a hike and Rick Steves reports that women unable to bear children used  to crawl up the stairs on their knees in hopes of bearing children.  They don't do that anymore--which might account for Italy's having the lowest birthrate in Europe. The  photo below goes from Robyn's toes at the top of the stairs to the street below--the top of the photo is the bottom of the stairway.

 Mi Dispiace! I use this one a lot to apologize, since it means I'm sorry. Literally, it means "It displeases me". Three weeks have flown by and I haven't blogged once. Thankfully, Almer has been writing lots of funny things that have been happening. 

Do you remember Nicoletta, the cute Italian girl that lived with us for a year? She is married with two darling little boys and they were living with her mom in Trieste when we got to Rome. They decided to try living in Rome, hoping for better job opportunities for Brian and a larger ward. They rented an apartment in the same complex as ours and started all the business of ordering a kitchen and all their light fixtures and furniture. I got to be a grandma (nonna) for a few weeks and it was awesome. Noisy but awesome :) Sometime during those weeks they decided that Italy was not what they needed right now, and they moved back to the states and sent all their furniture back and cancelled their kitchen. I have really missed them and the grandma-ing. Here is a picture of their youngest son, Mateo, helping us put together our furniture and at the same time helping the guys hook up our internet, which we still can't use because they haven't delivered the modem. :( )

Just before they left, we took them out to dinner to a place called, "The Wild Wild West". The food was good, but I thought you might get a kick out of their menu. Here is one page:

I had several LOL moments reading this menu. I had always pretty much assumed hamburgers were an American thing (Google it), but maybe not, since these guys felt they had to specify an "American Burger". The next one down is the "Cow Burger" which might seem redundant to you, but please remember that lots of Italians eat horse meat, too, so you might want to know for sure your hamburger is beef. They also eat pigeon soup, which I have not tried yet. Back to the menu... The "Caesar Burger" seems a logical way to snag those die hard Italian patriots. The "Country Burger" I am guessing is the opposite of the "Downtown Cow Burger". (I made that up) Last on this page is my favorite "No Meat Burger". This seems like a logical menu item for all those vegetarians out there, but hold your horses, Lone Ranger! The blurb says the burger is 100% vegetable protein from a recipe excusive to the old wild west. I don't know about you, but I haven't read about too many veggie burgers in the old wild west histories. Almer thinks that they meant the recipe is exclusive to that restaurant, but the name is different, so who knows. On another page, they also have a Toro Seduto (Sitting Bull) Burger and a two-person plate called the Grigliata Generale Custer. You might not want to order both of those at the same table or things could get really ugly. Anyway, the menu was tons of fun!

Ciao for now!

A Visit from the Parish Priest

The local Catholic Priest came by yesterday to bless our apartment for Easter. My kids wanted to know if someone turned us in, but it's an annual tradition to visit all the homes and bless them.  

We got a letter in the mail a couple of days ago telling us that he would be coming Monday the 14th between 5 and 8 PM. 

I wasn't sure how it worked, and so he walked me through it. There is a prayer on the reverse of the card that I was supposed to read. He asked me if I could read Italian and I said I could. (I think I can read Italian out loud much better than I can speak extemporaneously.) I read it, he added a couple of comments, and then said, "Now you recite an 'Ave Maria.'"  I said I didn't know it by heart because I'm not Catholic.  He was a little surprised and asked me what my religion was. I told him and he said, "Oh, then we give you a different blessing."  

He got out his aspergillum--that's a device for sprinkling holy water--and walked around flipping holy water on the various rooms and stairs and saying a very nice prayer--and then he got me in the face with some for good measure. Robyn wasn't able to participate because she was in the middle of her weekly Italian lesson in the bedroom. 

I thoroughly enjoyed it. If I remember and have the time, I'll append the prayer from the card with my translation if anyone is interested to see it. Right now, Robyn and I are leaving to do some tourist things. We'll be back later this evening.

Parrocchia San Domenico di Guzman Preghiamo San Giuseppe Salve, custode del Redentore, e sposo della Vergine Maria. A te Dio affidò il suo Figlio; in te Maria ripose la sua fiducia; con te Cristo diventò uomo. O Beato Giuseppe, mostrati padre anche per noi, e guidaci nel cammino della vita. Ottienici grazia, misericordia e coraggio, e difendici da ogni male. Amen. Padre nostro, Ave Maria, Gloria... La benedizione di Dio Onnipotente, Padre, Figlio e Spirito Santo discenda su di voi e con voi rimanga sempre.

Parish of Saint Dominic of Guzman We pray Saint Joseph Greetings, caretaker of the Redeemer, and spouse of the virgin Mary. God entrusted his Son to you Mary placed in you her confidence; with you, Christ became a man. Oh blessed Joseph, Show that you are a father as well to us, and guide us in the path of life. Obtain for us grace, mercy, and courage, and defend us from every ill. Amen Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory…The blessing of God omnipotent, Father, Son and Holy Spirit descend on you and remain with you forever.

I Can Get Lost in the Elevator

 

I don't know if this is a European convention or just Italian, but it takes some getting used to. When you get in an elevator, (as indicated in the photo) the first floor is actually zero--perhaps that's what is meant by "ground zero."  I cannot remember how many times I've gotten on the elevator planning to leave our apartment house, only to push number "1."  That takes you to the floor above ground level.  If you want to walk out of the building, you have to select "0."  However, if you want to go to the trash cans, you have to select "minus 1" because you have to go through the garage to get there.  We live on the third floor which is really the fourth floor if you're American.  I try not to use the elevator because I don't want to be sick when I die. I want to get as much exercise as will keep me reasonably healthy.  But when I'm running up the stairs, I often think I have arrived after I have gone up three flights of stairs.  Several times, I've put my key in the door and wondered why it won't unlock.  Then, I look down at the door mat. Ours says, "Rome is Always a Good Idea."  If it doesn't say that, I realize I've stopped at the third floor and our place is the fourth floor --AKA the third floor. (Strangely, all the messages on the floormats outside the doors are written in English. One of them below us says, "OH NO, NOT YOU AGAIN!"

 

It is funny, though, that when we get on the elevator we usually have to pause and think, "Where do we want to go?

Gentiles in Rome

 

We’ve been in Italy for over a month and a half and we got our second piece of mail yesterday. It reminded me that Utah’s first non-Mormon governor, Simon Bamberger, was Jewish; and it was the only state in the Union where a Jew was also a gentile. That came to mind because the solitary piece of junk mail we got was addressed to “Gentile Famiglia living at…” While that would usually be translated as “kind family,” gentile is also a synonym for Gentile. I imagine that if a Jew in Utah qualifies as a gentile, Robyn and I qualify as a Gentile family in Rome.

Robyn’s on her own today at the nail salon. I went with her a couple of weeks ago to translate her requests. Today, she wanted to handle it on her own.  We worked on a few words before she left and I’m confident she’ll do fine. Better, in fact, than I’ve done in some unfamiliar circumstances. [Post Script on Robyn's ability to handle it on her own: I noted that she worked on a few words before leaving. I helped her put together a couple of sentences on a piece of paper that she could practice while she walked over to the salon. Her pronunciation is quite good and I had great confidence in her as she boldly walked out the door.  She said that when she arrived at the salon, she firmly handed them the note I had written with the two sentences on it. They read the note and everything went swimmingly.]  

We ended up buying a kitchen scale at the grocery store because my hearing isn’t what it used to be—especially through these dang surgical masks everyone’s required to wear.

At the checkout stand, the cashier always asks if you want a grocery bag. They’re required to charge for them—they’re about 40 cents apiece, so most people bring large tote bags to avoid the couple of bucks it would cost to have your groceries bagged in plastic.  The cashiers also have sale items that they suggest you buy while they’re ringing up your purchase. Well, I thought she asked me if I wanted a borsalino (grocery bag), and I said, “yes, two please.” It then occurred to me that she said, bilancio not borsalino. My mind started running through what the heck a “balance” was and what I’d do with one. I looked up to see she’d charged me for two kitchen scales and slid them over to my groceries. “Oh, those balances.”  I said, “No, I don’t want them.” She took one back and I couldn’t figure out how to say quickly enough, “No I don’t even want one, thank you,” and out of my mouth came, “va bene,”  which in that instance meant, “Oh, what the heck I’ll take one.” A few days later, I found we needed one anyway because Italian recipes call for ingredients by weight rather than volume. That instance helped me pay more attention to what the cashier says and I’ve avoided all kinds of unnecessary purchases since then.