Garbage Day

Ciao di nuovo! I sit here brimming with joy beyond description, from - it seems such a little thing! - pickup of garbage.

Here everything (tutto) goes in a separate cassonetto, each of which is picked up on a different day. See below, doesn't matter that it's blurry because it's just as bad if not worse in clear focus.

                              

My pickup schedule says 2011. So I email a very nice neighbor, who somehow sneaks into my locked apartment and leaves a 2017 schedule on the table. Nice to know that should a thief come in, I will happily not be aware of the entry.

Only after hearing a sound suspiciously like a garbage truck do I check the schedule, to discover that compost (the smelly one I really want removed) is picked up today! I have learned to immediately up and GO when I think of anything at all, never ponder a circumstance or it will be too late - so I grab and tie my green, smelly bag, dashing down the steep cobblestone driveway to find - an EMPTY brown cassonetto. 😞

Poi (next) I run up what passes for a street toward the sound of the idling garbage truck - - - and there it is! Facing away from me and about to speed off. To stop the driver who just jumped in, I holler "SCUSI!" (having learned that scuzI is for strangers, scusA for friends).  Over the roaring engine he actually hears me, turns around and shouts, "Umido?" I know what that means!! With glee he has likely never seen, I shout "SI!" as I waive the little drippy bag, and he says something which obviously means toss it in the bin - there are two on the back  - and I am able to say "Giallo?" as there are both a yellow and a green bin.  After his "Si," I scream Grazie and toss it in, elated. Because not only is my smelly bag gone, this is the first time EVER I have not gotten a single word wrong!

I plan to spend the rest of the day celebrating, perhaps prosecco will be involved. Sure, I cannot go to Barcelona tomorrow as planned due to the unrest and protests which may again shut down transportation, but I can be a light in the world in my own little way by sharing the jubilance I have from the piccolo cosi. What matters is JOY, which I can get from trash!! The rest is garbage.

Got milk?

Sera! That's a time-saving way to say buona sera, and since grocery shopping today took ten times longer than at home, every second counts.  Ten times? Y E S and here's why. (one example)

I ran out of milk that I had purchased with my Italian friends - with them it was a breeze! So off I trotted to the supermercato, naively imagining I'd pick up another quart, nothing to it. 

First, I underestimate the time it takes to locate "fresh" milk. Once I finally do, I face the daunting package recognition factor. Nothing is in a package I recognize nor has words I understand. 


I begin to examine a few of a shocking number of cartons indicating (I suppose) various milk types. Latte Fresco Partzialmente Scremato is one type. Oh sure, once you know the words because you looked them up on Google Translate, it's in-your-face obvious. 

From what I can determine there are 15 milk types, each with at least two words which require translation. One look-up takes one minute, because I cancel the previous lookup, re-typing each new word carefully, starting over if I make one tiny mistake. 

So! 30 minutes later, I proudly place one quart of 2% milk in my small, red rolling cart. And then, with dread, remember that I'm also out of cream, agh! Happily, cream selection goes much faster as there are only three brands, mainly differing in price, Hallelujah!!! What appears to be cream is something called "Panna Fresca." Now too late to look that up, I go on blind faith. 

My favorite carton displays a cow for easy I.D. and bears the words 100% latte Italiano. Who knew!? Some cows brazenly wander across the border into Switzerland, so they are not 100% Italian.

There was no 50% Italiano cream, not surprisingly... I just know it's cheaper and must have sold out. 

Signs

The 11 most helpful signs in Luino. Why didn't I understand them sooner? Who needs words with these clear indications of exactly what to do.

CENTER YOURSELF TO CALM DOWN

CENTER YOURSELF
THEN LOOK UP
DON'T DO ANYTHING ELSE
UNTIL YOU HAVE LOOKED UP SUPER HIGH

DON'T DRIVE OVER THE WALL
THIS APPLIES TO EVERYBODY IN THE PIAZZA
EVEN IF YOU HAVE A BIG TRUCK

LOOK DOWN AND TO THE RIGHT

HIDDEN UNDERGROUND TUNNELS  

GERMANS PAY MORE THAN ITALIANS
TO HAVE CARS TOWED ON MONDAYS

YOU SHOULD GO THAT WAY FOR SURE

DO NOT LIVE IN THIS APARTMENT BUILDING

YOU ARE SO FUCKING LOST
FORGET IT AND GO BACK HOME

Yoga, Italian style

I have joined a gym! And they just began a trial yoga class, yay!  

My friend Patrizia gets me all signed up at the front desk for a good price, and off we go to Studio Two with my new gift - a bright orange towel with "E-MOTION" in large white lettering, slung over my shoulder which gives me a bold feeling and display of "I know what I'm doing"-ness. 

Pilates class two days ago was quite good; the instructor spoke very slowly - like no one in this entire province, I guarantee that, so I added several words to my ever-growing vocabolario of things I'll surely need to say, such as "inhale!" and "through the nose!" 

We enter Studio Two, where there are no lights and only two other women. After five minutes, another woman arrives, speaks a bunch of Italian, laughs, then goes out because - Patrizia tells me - she is looking for "Iron Legs." 

The three Italian women talk up a storm in that dark studio while I do some stretches then get a long blue styrofoam tube to roll around on. Time flies by, and thirty minutes later the instructor, Angelo, appears, only 35 minutes late! 

[Aside: Chiara, my Italian-born yoga teacher in Seattle, attended a yoga class in Italy last year which involved everyone of both sexes stripping naked to put on their yoga pants, smoking cigarettes, talking a lot, doing a few poses, then smoking more cigarettes and resuming the conversation.]

No one is smoking at MY new gym! Now that Angelo is here, I do the yoga of twisting my neck and head around to see what he is doing, because I don't recognize any instruction except "piano" which it turns out doesn't mean I should find one and start playing it, although he does look at me every time he says it, and I can play one. 

An entire hour goes by from one painful position to another, with my added pain of the head-turning, and Angelo never adjusts anyone, as he prefers looking at himself in the mirror. 

On the upside yoga, like pilates, adds to il mio vocabolario - "piano" means move with snail-like slowness from one position to the next, which I cannot do slowly because it hurts my ginocchio, which I love saying because it rhymes with Pinocchio. 

Ciao dall'Italia! 

Purchase of Life-Changing Vest

What a day!!! Today I met Ricardo, from whom I purchased the most amazing vest EVER.

It started while passing by one of those women-catching sale (sconto) racks on the sidewalk when I couldn't resist the handsome parka vest with subtle orange, green and purple flowers. Sounds awful, but it's not! Plus, nights are chilly in September and I did not bring anything warm from the U.S. except a coat one could use in the snow.

Upon examining the label for fabric content, where made, etc., I noticed 'environmentally better,' or maybe that was the other vest I looked at first. Anyhow, I went inside to use a "specchio" and met Ricardo. What a friendly, charming person!! He spoke some English, so I informed him, "I like this because it's good for the environment," not even attempting to say it in Italian, which was a much needed break I can assure you.

That's when he told the story of the vest! 

There was a man in New York who was walking when suddenly his foot hurt very much and swelled up. When he got home, he took a knife and cut the shoe. Then he called his son, who was making shoes at that very moment, and said, "Stop!" So his son stopped. Then his son made a new kind of shoe that had slits in there, so air was involved.

It was only a matter of time until this slit system was applied to vests. This new kind of vest (see diagram with little arrows) takes the perspiration as it evaporates from your body and moves it up, then down, then back up, then over to the right and left, always up and down, making you feel good!

I will always feel good when I wear this vest - thanks to this man's foot swelling up in New York and the fact that people perspire. Why fret over earthquakes, hurricanes, nuclear bombs and waste, climate change, Donald Trump or Kim Jong-un? I've got my vest on. 

Bells

If you, like many, hate going for more than 15 minutes without the sound of loudly ringing bells, Italy is the place for you! (Truth: Immediately after completing that sentence, one bell sounded.)

                                                

For those who don't know, one bell sounding means it is quarter past something. You'll find out quarter past what when the next bells ring in 15 minutes, at which time one bell will be rung for each hour of the day, plus two bells on a higher tone indicating it is half past that same something (whatever hour it is). Three bells sounding mean it is quarter to something.

I have noticed that I am frequently wrong about what time it is, as I seldom pay attention for the first - who knows how many! ringing bells. Only sometime after the beginning do I notice they have started up, usually due to having been engrossed in conversation which neither I nor others involved understand. And since the clock in my appartamento is broken yet still on the wall because it is "carino" (cute), I depend on those bells when not in the mood or correct location to check a device. 

On domenico there are bells all day long!!! They chime Catholic songs (I'm told) and various tunes arbitrarily at any old time, in addition to the time-reminding bells. One Sunday a particular tune ended with 33 rings on the same pitch!

I believe bells stop ringing at midnight, but maybe it's 11, and start up again around 7 a.m. There is no a.m. here, you just keep counting up to 24, but an exception is made for bell ringing! I confirmed this by paying attention - just now, bells rang nine times plus two, not 21 times plus two. Italians must have determined that would constitute simply too many bells; they have to draw the line somewhere.

My final (but not last, in fact first up) observation about the bells is that they are not in tune.  And they sound not so much like a ding or a dong as they do a metallic 'clunk' on some pitch which changes slightly, in an unpleasant way, during its life span.

The most popular bell song consists of three notes which after a beginning few "dings" reminds me of the beginning of Three Blind Mice in reverse. Do Re Mi, Do Re Mi rather than Mi Re Do, Mi Re Do but with the same rythym. This is repeated for some time, then moves into Do Mi Re, Do Mi Re, and a different rhythm, ending with - who knows because I choose to concentrate on anything else at all.

Alright, I have now listened to the ending and it is, for those who must know, Mi Re five times, concluding with Re Re. 

This blog has taken 30 minutes to complete, because I just heard three bells ring. Allora (so) ciao dall'Italia and SHAMA Lama Ding Dong!

dall'Italia 2017

Sono arrivato in Italia! Sono stanco morto! Ho jet-lag ... and that will be all for l'italiano, amici.

My big goal is to actually blog, which involves learning how to insert pictures, so let's try one now.
OK forget it, this will take all night. . . domani.

Hmm. This picture is not from Italy. But ya gotta love it. Still working on photo insertion.