Ligurian Coast Family Style

We have just returned from 6 weeks in California and the girls and I are experiencing jet lag and culture shock. With another week until school starts, we headed to Liguria (the Mediterranean coast) for some sea and sun.

We are staying at Loano@village, a family resort near the ocean. It's a bit like Italian version of the Catskills in the fifties. There's a team of 20 something year olds who work as the lifeguards, activity leaders and wait staff all day and then at night they perform a show.

Last night was “Chicago”.  A valiant attempt by a bunch of amateur Italians to do a very American show (as my husband said, they could be speaking Russian for all he can understand them).  Topped off by the French DJ singing “Mr Cellophane”.

It was perfect for my daughters who were fixated on the stage. In the past month we have seen performances by the London cast of Mathilda, Pink Martini and now this.  I gotta say, that for kids who are living in a town of under 200 people, my girls are having quite the theatrical buffet.

I notice that the young women in the cast, all dressed in skimpy cabaret outfits have bodies considered fashionable in the 50s. Round, plump bellies, not emaciated stick thin Barbies like in California.  Bimba asked me if the (fishnet) stockings are made with holes or did the girls rip them.  And she wants feathers to put in her hair and a garter belt like the one the lead singer wore.

The young men are endearing in a dorky way.  They aren’t modelesque sportsmen, but are rather geeky and pimple faced. I notice that all of the young staff have an enthusiasm and lack of self consciousness that I am not used to seeing. There’s an innocence to them.

Combine this with the family atmosphere which is just inherently Italian.  Grandparents sit with small children at the café, three generations share the pool during Aqua Zumba class.

The dorky counselors who think they're cool in a truly endearing way are as likely to be playing charades with s group of children as they are to be playing cards with a table of eight year olds.  And not in a "this is my job" way.

I watch one counselor, acne covered face (he could barely be out of his teens) - who confidently played a debonair cabaret owner in last night's show - now wearing baggy pants and sporting an orange wig, apparently to please the children.  He hops up from his chair to go give an elderly woman a big hug and order her a cafe. Then he sits down with her and chats earnestly. I wonder if they're related or if this is just a guest he has gotten to know. I see another counselor who played the confident MC in last night’s show, organizing a group of six year old girls into a hula hoop contest before going over to greet an elderly couple with a huge grin.  He brings them over to sit at a table near the hula hoooong girls.

These can’t all be family relations.  Are they long time customers?  I envy the familiarity between the children and the young men and women. The ease and comfort of the older people.  There's a sense of place and belonging that is completely foreign to me. 

Where I come from you are guests.  Hotel staff maybe be lovely but they're not great friends.  They're not family.

Everyone here seems to belong.  My thoughts are interrupted when one of the young women from the show, offers to teach my girls some of the choreography.  Petite’s face is a mixture of delight and panic.  A grandmotherly lady at the next table encourages my daughter, “Dai!”  Go! Dance!  The guy with the orange wig offers the lady his arm and sweeps her into a Charleston jig.  Bimba and Petite stand up and follow along while the French DJ starts his rendition of “All That Jazz”.

Who's on First?

I feel like Alice in Wonderland. Sometimes I feel like I am living in a movie - sometimes it's a "romantic" film with scenes in Paris and the rolling hills of Italy, sometimes it's a comedy of errors, and sometimes, like now, I just don't know what to make of it.

Yesterday, I went to Turin to try out my new office for the first time.  I’m starting a small counseling practice and renting office space from a psychiatrist colleague, Franca.  After a typical morning of prying the children out of bed, tantrums about what to wear, not wanting to get dressed, who gets what for snack and disappointment that we are out of Isabelle’s favorite cereal, I raced out the door for the hour long drive to Turin.

It was pouring rain and I was happy to find a parking space right in front of the building.   I parked and ran into the foyer.  Franca texted me last minute that she wouldn’t be able to meet me with the keys and that she would send a Fillipino man to meet me. It sounded like either he is a colleague or the cleaner.    The concierge, a FIllipino woman, was just coming into the fall.  I figured I must have heard wrong, and maybe this was the woman, not man, who would have the keys. I asked, in stilted Italian, for the keys and she handed me a bunch on a chain. I felt like all was going smoothly. I was an hour early for the workshop I was about to lead and would have plenty of time to prepare.

I tried the key in the lock. It wouldn’t fit. I know I'm not technically adept, but after five minutes of carefully retrying each key in the lock, it was pretty clear that none of these keys fit.  Franca had warned me that the concierge is not particularly friendly (no problem, I used to live in Paris!) so I wasn't thrilled at the prospect of having to knock on her door again.  She opened the door and I tried to explain the keys wouldn’t work, shrugging and apologizing like maybe it's my fault for being such an idiot that I don't know how to work a key in a lock.  She closed her door with a sigh, carefully putting up her "back in ten minutes sign" and followed me back to the apartment. Only this time, she rang for the elevator and indicated that we needed to go to the third floor.  

I pointed to Franca’s name on the office door and assured her that this is the office I want.  It dawned on me that we are having a misunderstanding.  She seemed to think that I was the cleaning lady for the third floor apartment.  

At that moment, a Fillipino man entered the hallway. Ah ha! I was relieved to see that he was expecting me.  Phew. He must be the man with the key.  

“Do you have the key?” he asked me. Thus began a comedy of "Whos' on first," in a melange of Fillippino, broken Italian and English.   "You have the keys!" "No you're supposed to have the keys," at which point I dialed Franca’s number and and thrust the phone into the man's hands. I could hear Franca bursting into a tirade.  Even though my understanding of Italian is minimal, I got the gist of her leaning into him for not understanding that his instructions had been to bring me the keys.  

He handed me the phone and Franca explained apologetically in broken English that she would hurry down to the office with the correct keys. 

Twenty minutes later, after many apologies back and forth and thank yous, I was finally alone in the office. I needed to prepare for my workshop.  Moms ouldl be arriving in ten minutes at this point, and I should at least get my bearings. But at that moment, in this private office, the size of my Paris apartment, I was tempted to just lie on the floor and revel in the solitude. 

Swim Class for Mermaids

I’m sitting at a café in what feels like the ghost town of Niello Belbo, waiting for the mechanic to switch the car tires from snow to normal. This is a dream compared to watching Isabelle have a tantrum at home (where I left Clay and Azalia).  Two old men are sitting at the table behind me speaking in Piemontese. At least I think it’s Piemontese. It does sound vaguely French, but with a hint of German and some waves of Italian.  I recognize about every fourth word as Italian or Italian related so I assume it’s Piemontese. I’m having a hard enough time learning Italian.  Everyone I have seen so far (all of five people) is a man over the age of 65.  They may be ten years younger for all I know, but people age quickly here. Farming is hard work and the weather takes it’s toll.  This is a far cry from the areas in Paris I used to frequent, where the culture dictates that women care for their health, skin and body.  Here, people are weathered from working outside in the sun, snow and wind. 

The men eye me cautiously as if I am truly a foreign specimen. Sitting here with my laptop, among shuttered up houses, I suppose I do look quite out of place.  But since my alternative was plunking down in the driveway of the mechanic shop, situated under a closed up pizzeria, I preferred to seek out a café, or at least a bench.

Spring has sprung and the wildflowers are popping up everywhere. I have flower envy and can’t wait to get to the local agricultural center to pick up the geraniums I ordered.  I’m used to hopping over to the garden store in Mill Valley and picking up whatever I want to plant.  Here, things come and go each day.  If you want a certain plant, or flowers, or fruit you had better pre-order or be there on the day of delivery.  I found out the hard way when I showed up last year too late in the season to fill our empty flower parts.  Geraniums were gone. Everywhere. Sold out and no more to come till the next year.  This is truly a “buy what’s in season” locality. 

This morning Azalia was in school for a whole 4 hours today because they started swimming.

First of all I can't believe she agreed to/ wanted to go.  Isabelle started last week and once Azalia heard about it she was so excited.  Although she is also torn, because she is convinced that she will turn into a mermaid at 16, and doesn’t want to risk sprouting a tail early.   Today is a huge contrast to yesterday morning during which Isabelle woke up in a foul mood and continued to tantrum hysterically right up to school.

Today they both bounded out of bed happily, put their swimsuits on under the clothes and headed to school with smiles.  Honestly, I sometimes feel like I live with Jekyll and Hyde.  I never know which one I will wake up with!

Clay watched as Azalia’s entire nursery school (ages 3-5) boarded the bus (there is one bus in town , driven by the father of Azalia’s best friend.  I suppose that should be comforting for Azalia for her first bus school excursion! The other week, Isabelle's swimming was cancelled because another local group needed to use the one and only bus.

I can't believe my little baby went off on a field trip! On a bus! To swim class.  She has never wanted to get into a pool unless Clay or me or a grandma was in there with her. I also can't believe the teachers actually do this (my idea if a nightmare - taking 17 preschoolers on a bus to a pool, have to deal with swim suits and toileting and whatever other issues are bound to come up).

Either Azalia is having a wonderful time or is freaking out that she is going to sprout a tail.

Life here and now

A lot of friends have asked me how life is here and I have felt hesitant to post something that isn’t well written and is suitable for the public eye. Because I want to be able to be frank and describe what’s going on for us in the here and now.  

So please excuse the quality of writing.  This is for my friends and family in the USA, who want to have a glimpse into our life here. 

Honestly, much of the time I feel like I am Alice, fallen down the rabbit hole to Wonderland.  Where to start?  

SCHOOL

The town the kids go to school in is quite small. I won’t even say a “one streetlight town” because there are no streetlights. I think there is one stop sign.  That everybody ignores.  Isabelle’s class (2^nd) has 7 kids, They share a room with 3^rd who also has about 7 kids.  For whatever reason, Isabelle seems incredibly comfortable here. The only glitch is one teacher who is a bit strict. He dresses like John Travolta and goes out for a lot of smoke breaks (yes, very different from California) but I don’t think he is the most nurturing…Shockingly, Isabelle is top of her class. I am amazed since this is all in ITALIAN and she is one of the few non-native Italian speakers.  I don’t know how she does it. I am struggling to buy toothpaste and she is able to spend her whole days speaking and learning Italian. She has a knack. I don’t.

Azalia took a bit longer to settle in but she seems to have now hit her stride.  She had her first playdate at our house which went amazingly well. She seems suddenly comfortable speaking Italian, at least with her friends.  I have a basis in French, and I only lack confidence. In Italian, I am truly flailing.

I have to say that this entire experience is a very interesting anthropological experiment.  The villa is in the countryside between two towns. The town the kids go to school in is very tiny, picturesque and a bit more “removed”.  In the other direction, we have the “large” town of Dogliani. Coming from San Francisco, these are all tint country towns but I realize my life has truly changed when coming to Dogliani, feels like a trip to “the city”.

How to describe life here? Is a bizarre combination between having been plunged into a rural, agricultural, farming community, but then there are pockets of sophistication and culture that are foreign to me. And not because of the language. Like clothes. On one hand, there’s farmers dressed in old clothes, covered in dirt, and on the other, hand everyone in town looks hip and chic.  Not the casual, yoga pants, baseball cap wearing style of California.

FOOD
Food is very particular here, as I learned it was in France too. For one thing, meals happen at specific times, across the country. The entire country pretty much closes for lunch 12-3 or thereabouts.  Lunch is a multi course affair, even at school. Beginning with a pasta, then a meat course, and then a dessert.  Shockingly, Isabelle is actually eating food at school. This is a first.  Her school is catered by a local restaurant.  They prepare the meal and bring it over at lunchtime.  Snack time (merenda) is at 4pm and is almost always a sweet – chocolate, biscuits, something like that.  The kids also bring a morning snack to school.  Again, it’s usually cookies or chips or chocolate.  A far cry from Isabelle’s second grade class in the USA, where the kids earned points according to the health rating of their snacks.  We’ve gone from fresh fruit to chocolate bisucits.  Hmmmm….how are the Italians all so thin?  Even Isabelle commented on the frequency of chocolate as a snack. 

Dinner is normally served after 7:30, a problem for us since our kids are exhausted by then and Isabelle is ready to head to bed or risk a tantrum.  I’m popping my kids into the bath and then heading them for bed while other families are just starting dinner.  Every since Isabelle was a baby, she has been ready to go to sleep by 7:30 and even though she spent most of her life in Europe, I could never adjust her to the later schedule here. I honestly don’t know how other kids do it.  Or maybe they are just exhausted much of the time. 

Clay has delved into his passion of pizza making and is now hosting regular weekly or bi weekly pizza dinners.  We hosted one Wednesday night from 4-7.  The Italians thought we were serving a snack.  For our family it was dinner. 

The kids have recently started asking about sex and I’ve given them the blunt basics, which they find astounding, curious and bizarre.  They seem obsessed with whether or not the cats are “doing sex” and they just figured out that their parents must have done it twice to have two daughters.  Not my comfort zone to discuss this topic, but I know I have to remain calm and cool and not freak them out or squeal “Ick I don’t want to talk about this!”  Azalia is obsessed with mamas and babies (as she always has been) and babies in mamas’ tummies.  Isabelle wants an older brother or sister. I told her that’s not possible. She asks if we can adopt one for her.  She also wants a child size car that she can drive. Oy.