Happy Halloween!

It might not be a big holiday in Italy, but the boys and I are dressed up for Halloween!

Plans for the day? Some pumpkin carving and maybe a scary movie.
Where ever you are and how ever you celebrate, wishing you a safe and happy Halloween!

The Ghost of Halloween Past

Halloween might not seem like a very important holiday to the average person, but to me, as an expat it can feel very important indeed. Though the American tradition of dressing up on the 31st of October has crept into some aspects of Italian culture, it is still a very small, unimportant holiday here. These are the days when I feel like am a world away from "my people".

I remember many of the times I dressed up, as a child and as an adult. I think of the Halloween parties at school and how the endless day seemed to stretch out for hours. At last evening would come, my brother and I would put on our costumes and set off to collect our precious candy. I remember one year he dressed up as Darth Vader and I went in a Princess Leia. I was furious each time someone said "What a cute little angle," as if the hair buns on the side of my head weren't a CLEAR sign that I was Leia!




Another year I decided to make my own costume. I took one of my jazz dance outfits and paired it with my Mom's old red wig and a pair of Groucho Marx glasses, nose and mustache. I look at the photos now and I wonder what I was thinking? At the time I am sure I was thinking, dang I look good!



As I grew older, I opted for "stranger" costumes, in a clear attempt to impress my older brother. Yes, I went out one year as a foot ball player and, even worse, as a dead solider complete with a bullet hole in the middle of head and complemented by a trickle of blood running down my face. God bless my parents for always letting me be me.

The highlight of my Halloween memories was the year I went to school dressed as a little old woman. This might seem like a great costume, but what you must understand is that I played it to the nines. I spent the entire day walking around the school in a gray wig, glasses resting at the tip of my nose, cane in hand and knee highs hanging just below my skirt. I stayed in character, even speaking in a shaky, little old lady voice. I may not have won an Academy Award for my performance, but I did win best costume that day.

Tomorrow will be a bit sad for me. There will be no jack 0'lanterns sitting in the windows of my neighbors, no children walking through the streets of our town dressed up in cute costumes, no one knocking on our door asking for candy. I do plan to celebrate though. This afternoon my sweeter-than-sweet husband, in the pouring rain, drove me out to a pumpkin patch where we picked up a large, orange pumpkin. Tomorrow, with a glass of good Italian wine and two nosey cats watching, I will carve myself a nice little jack O' lantern.

Happy Halloween indeed!

**Thanks Mom and Dad for emailing these wonderful photots!**

Almost Home

We have all heard the saying that "most accidents happen within a mile from home". I figured it was true; after all we do drive on those roads more often than any other. Well, after driving a zillion miles to Milan last weekend and then a zillion more miles back home, the Italian and I became a static. We had just entered the city limits of our sleepy town and came to a stop sign. As we waited for our turn, we were hit from behind. With a loud thump, our car lurched forward; it felt as though the driver never even touched his breaks. It took us a few seconds for our brains to piece together the information. Without thinking, I jumped out and started walking towards the back of our car. I saw the car that hit us start to pull forward and I thought that he was just trying to get out of the way of traffic. Oh how wrong I was. The next thing I knew, I heard the squeal of tires and watched as the jerk sped away. I got a glimpse of the license plate number and before I knew it I was jumping into the car yelling "Go! Go! He's getting away". All reason went out the window.

This would have NEVER happened in America. I am not saying that hit and runs don't happen; I am referring to fact that I jumped into the car and yelled at my husband to chase the guy. In Indianapolis, I would have jotted the number down, stayed on the scene and called the police.

The perp making his getaway.

I don't know what I was thinking; I was driven purely by instinct and adrenaline. We drove in the direction that hit-and-runer went, but after a few minutes reason came back into our brains and we pulled over. With both of us apparently uninjured, we got to survey the damage done to our poor car. Not only did the guy break our bumper, he hit us so hard that he pushed the metal part up towards our back tires. We decided the best thing to do would be to go to the police with my partial license plate number and file a report. Just as we were reaching for our seat belts, a familiar car slowly passed by.

"Mother ****er!", I yelled. "That's the a##hole that hit us". The idiot, who was trying to hide from us, ended up driving right by us. We threw the car into gear, wanting to catch up with car. We didn't want to confront the guy, we just wanted to get the rest of his license plate number. He spotted us in his rear view mirror and, this time, stopped.

I lost the ability to speak Italian. I jumped out of the car and began tearing this guy up one side and right down the other in English. It wouldn't have made a difference had I been speaking Italian anyway. The guy was a foreigner who spoke little Italian.

I am still a bit surprised by actions that evening. Why did I feel safe to confront this guy in Italy when I would have never done it in America? Is it because people in Italy don't walk around with guns in their cars? Or is it because I feel safer living in a smaller town?

The bottom line is that no one was hurt and, now that we caught the jerk, HIS insurance will get to pay to fix our car. And the Italian, well he learned a few new "colorful" English words that evening.

A Day at the Fair

I sat on the wooden bench patiently waiting; headphones stuffed into my ears, my nose shoved into a good book. Somewhere in the airplane hanger my husband was digging through boxes of old, vinyl records, looking for something to add to his collection. The Milan Record Fair is always a highlight for him and he shops and buys with a look in his eye that reminds me of a child on Christmas morning. I came with him not to shop, but rather in hopes of where the day might take us when the shopping is done. Two years ago, on my maiden voyage, we wandered into down town Milan after the shopping spree came to a close. We walked through the city's large square; the Duomo looming high above us, crowned with countless spindles. We walked through the imposing Galleria, stopping to window shop, and took a peak at the famous theater where Verdi once worked.

This year we decided to stop in the city of Reggio Emilia on our way back to Romagna, but for now I wait on the wooden bench while the Italian shops his heart out. My jacket is buttoned and zipped, a wool scarf tied around my neck and yet I am still cold. The damp, cold October air has found its way into the building. The plastic roof and concrete floor of the airplane hanger do a terrible job of keeping the weather at bay. My toes are frozen solid and I began to wonder if it might actually be warmer outside than it is in here.

Occasionally airplanes, on their way to and from the nearby Linate Airport, pass by over head. I can hear their low rumbles over the music from my IPod, but John Mayer doesn't seem to notice and continues singing in my ears. The high pitched sound of a small dog barking pulls me out of my book. I glance around for the little beast, but do not see him. Sitting back I watch the crowd of people gathered at the fair; the show is much better than the book I am reading and so I put it down. The hanger is full of Italians shopping, buying, resting, eating and chatting. I love to watch them. How well they seem put together, men in dark suits and women in skirts and high heels, just to go to a silly record fair. I love to watch their facial expressions as they talk with their friends and how their hands seem to take a on life of their own. Never in my life have I seen such animated people like the Italians. I find it both interesting and beautiful. Since my move to Italy, I often find myself just sitting back and watching the show. I sometimes feel as though life is a movie and I have the best seat in the house.

A woman walks by with a rat-of-a-dog stuffed into her purse. Only his head and front paws hang out and he is as limp as a rag doll while he sleeps. I wonder if he is the culprit who was making all that noise earlier.

An hour has passed since I took my seat on the bench and already I am so cold that I contemplate waiting in the car. Surely it will be warmer in there in, won't it? By now my feet are two frozen blocks stuffed into a pair of sneakers. Is it possible that the temperature has actually dropped inside the hanger since I arrived? I tell myself that it will be worth the wait; we will have a chance to explore a new city when the shopping is done. It will only be worth it, of course, if I don't die of hypothermia first.

A Visit With Jackie

Jackie and I spent several hours in the car getting lost, finding ourselves and getting lost again. During our adventure in the car, we were able to see many sides of Ancona that we had missed when we were last there on foot. Our travels also took out into the countryside where rolling hills stretched out endlessly in front of and behind us.

We at last found the Common Wealth Cemetery, a World War Two cemetery that is the final resting place of allied soldiers from around the world. We walked quietly through the grounds reading the grave stones of the men who gave their lives freeing Italy from the Fascists and Nazis. We didn't stay long though; as if on cue, a gentle rain began falling from the sky as we entered the cemetery.

Late afternoon we headed for Jackie's home in the hillside city of Macerata. I had packed enough bags to stay for a month and immediately regretted it as I began the climb to Jackie's apartment. Six flights of stairs later we arrived at her front door; I breathless and unable to take another step.

Highlights of our visit included "English Night" hosted by the school where Jackie teaches, a late night dinner at a pub, breakfast and a morning walk through the historic city center, a Mexican lunch fiesta at Jackie's house and making homemade Carmel apples.

Before we knew it, we were saying goodbye at the train station; promising to get together again soon. It had all gone by in flash, but boy did we have fun.

And as for that Tex Mex restaurant we had gone in search of? After two and half hours of driving and several stops for directions, we finally found ourselves in "the neighborhood". Stopping at a gas station, we asked the attendant for one last set of directions. Yes we were very close, he told us. Unfortunately the place had closed for good two months ago!

Better luck next time.

A Trip to Macerata

It was still dark when the Italian and I tip-toed out of our house just after 6:30am, even the sun was still in bed. We passed only a handful of people on our drive to the bus stop: the newsstand and a couple of cafes were open, ready to serve the early morning workers. My husband dropped me and my bags off at the bus stop where a few other tried souls waited for the bus with sleepers still in their eyes.

I was on my way to Macerata to visit my friend Jackie. An American woman who lived in Indianapolis at the same time I did and yet it wasn't until my move to Italy that our lives finally crossed paths. At times it is almost strange how much we have in common. We both lived in Indianapolis and moved to Italy because of love. We both have a fun-loving, free spirit and can find humor in almost any situation. We both married Italian men a little older than ourselves, both them with quiet, sweet dispositions. We both are the younger sisters to older brothers, became aunts the same summer, love living in Italy while missing America, and we both struggle with living so far from the people we love (our families). Yes, it is nice to have much such a wonderful friend. Being with Jackie is like having a part of America, a part of Indianapolis, right here in Italy with me.

Past adventures with Jackie include, but not limited to, my first Thanksgiving celebration in Italy (I had only been in the country for three weeks when Jackie invited me to her house for the holiday), a convertible car ride in the rain with the top down, an Expats in Italy get together at Lake Como, a Mexican fiesta, no less than three weddings (two of hers and one of ours), several day trips to Bologna, Urbino, Fano, and Ancona, an afternoon at Miniature Italy and a road trip to Rome where we went for the sole purpose of eating at the Hard Rock Cafe. I had only two days to spend in Macerata with Jackie, but if history tells me anything, I knew those two days would be packed with fun.

One bus ride, two train rides and three coffees later, I arrived at the train station in Ancona. I exited the station, while scanning the crowd for Jackie like the Terminator searching for its victim. Not spotting her, I walked outside and took my place amongst the travelers waiting for their rides at the curb and within a few minutes I heard a familiar voice. I turned around to see Jackie walking out through the train station doors, without either of us knowing it our paths had crossed inside.

Hugs and hellos were exchanged before walking over to her car. There we tossed my bags into her trunk and jumped inside the car with Jackie taking her place behind the wheel, her semi-new driver's license grasped in her hot little hands (really it was in her purse).

Jackie had found out that there was a Tex Mex restaurant in Ancona. Both us love Mexican food, something not easily found in Italy, and so we were excited to find the restaurant. She was smart enough to print off directions, complements of Map Quest, and so we started in search of our Mexican fiesta. According to Map Quest, lunch was a mere nine minutes from the train station. What Map Quest didn't know, nor did we, was that all of the street mentioned in the directions were impossible to find as most of the streets in Ancona were not marked. The few street signs we did find were never any of the streets that we were looking for.

There's Mexican food in them there hills!

Jackie maneuvered her way through the crazy Italian traffic like an old pro. Occasionally we would throw our hands up in the air at other drivers, in an attempt to appear more Italian: like when several motorists passed us by driving on the sidewalk. Not only did Jackie deal with the traffic like a skilled driver, she drove up and down the steep streets of hilly Anocona in a stick-shift car. I was truly impressed.

I did my best to be a good co-pilot, but finding our way was impossible with the absence of street signs. Our nine minute drive had run well over a half an hour when I spotted a street sign for the SS-16, one of the streets named in our directions. "This is it!", I shouted with enthusiasm. We followed the road and for the first time that morning we felt as though we were on the right path.

"This is it," I said to Jackie. "This is the right way, I feel it in my bones". No sooner did those words leave my lips when we spotted the train station. After all of that driving around the city, we ended up right where we had started from.

Not lost in translation, just lost.

Never ones to give up on a Mexican meal we started our search over, laughing so hard that our sides hurt. If the rest of our visit was anything like the first half hour, I knew that it was going to be a fun two days.

Fun WIth Google

As many of you know, Opus has had a problem with snoring. It seems to be getting worse with the cooler weather of autumn. We took him to the vet's and she didn't seem too worried about the whole thing, stating that "Opus looked just fine" as she peered into his throat.

Just this afternoon, I was awakened from my nap by the high pitch wheeze of Opus snoring. Because of the pitch of his snore, earplugs are worthless: his larger-than-life snores pierce right through the foamy plugs. I don't have the heart to throw him out of the bedroom and so I just put up with. I figure that if I am tired enough, there is a slight chance that I might just sleep through it.

Just a few hours ago, while chatting on the phone with my mom, I Googled "Opus and Roscoe" on an image search, just to see what would come up. The first two photos were of Roscoe, courtesy of Deb from "The Rambling Roundtrees". I had to laugh when I saw the next photo, it was titled Opus. One click of the mouse and I found myself on a medical equipment website staring at an anti-snoring devise called the "Opus Nasal Pillow Mask with headgear". I couldn't stop laughing!

I don't care if the darn thing does cost $189.99! Its got Opus's name written all over it! If you don't believe me, just out the website

Almost Done

As you see, the Italian and I have given up. Thank you all for your comments and emails. I tried everything, but to no avail. In the end, I have chosen a new template that I found while perusing the net. I think this one is going to work just fine. Now I just need to add my links, fiddle with colors and wait for the Italian to finish by title header.

Sigh.

I promise to write a real post before the day is over. Thanks for your patience.

From Worse to Not-Much-Better

No, I have not forgotten you my dear readers. As you can see, I am still having a fight with my template and the template is wining. I am starting to get worried because even the computer -whiz Italian isn't able to make my header bigger without messing everything up. We are stumped. When we try to make the header bigger, it just displays several of the pictures instead of just one large one. We don't know why and can not seem to figure it out. I think I am going to take a break for a while and cry.

Will be back soon. In the meantime, my blog will con tine to look a little strange. At least I have a title again.

All of this just for an extra column!

From Bad to Worse

As you can see, I seem to be missing something. In an attempt to change my blog header, so that it would fit my new three column blog, I somehow managed to erase the entire thing. I can't even tell you how much time I have waisted trying to figure out to fix it on my own. I am throwing the towel in on this one. As soon as the Italian gets home, I'm going to have to ask him to fix it.

This is what my new title might look like if I can ever get it on the page.

For me, web design is a lot like speaking Italian: I know just enough to get myself into trouble, but not enough to get out of it.

Happy Columbus Day

In honor of Columbus Day, I thought I would take a moment to talk about the fabulous Italian who "discovered" the Americas.

So without further delay, Reboot proudly presents, "The History of Columbus According to Me".

There has been much speculation about Mr. Columbus's life. Some say that the man who discovered the Americas wasn't even Italian at all. One theory believes that he was the bastard son of a Portuguese prince. As an adult, he participated in a revolt against the King and Queen of Spain. The revolt failed and years later "Mr. Columbus" found himself needing to ask the King for a favor. Thinking it would be awkward to ask a favor from a man he tried to over throw, Mr. Columbus gave himself an alias, claiming to be an Italian sailor from Geno named Christopher Columbus. Now there is no doubt that there was a man born in Genoa with the name of the Christopher Columbus, but some speculate that THAT Christopher Columbus was NOT the guy who first discovered the Americas. There are several reasons that some scholars believe Chris was a Spanish noble rather than an Italian sailor. The Christopher Columbus from Genoa was the as a son of a weaver and he would not have had the opportunity to receive the education necessary for the achievements of the "historical Chris Columbus". Letters written by Chris clearly indicate that the writer was well educated. The other reason is simple, all of the letters written were written in Spanish. As an expat myself, I can honestly say that it would be a bit strange if Columbus were Italian that he would always write in Spanish. My letters to home are always written in my native language.

So the debate continues with a scientist from Spain trying to prove that Columbus was actually from Spain and an Italian scientist who is sticking with the story that Chris was Italian. But I'm not here to rain on any one's Columbus Day parade so I will give you the story as learned in the schools of America.

This is my story and I'm sticking to it.
Christopher Columbus was born in Genoa, Italy in 1451. Little is known about his early days so we will fast forward a bit. Somehow he got mixed up in the shipping business and soon Chris found himself traveling the world on boats and making a living out of shipping and trading.

At some point he decided that he could find a better route to the Orient and asked the King of Portugal for some help. He requested three ships with enough equipment to sail around the world for a year. Then he got greedy. Chris also asked for one tenth of the revenue generated by any lands he discovered and also wanted to be named "Great Admiral of the Ocean". Unsurprisingly, he was turned down.

Not one to give up, Columbus solicited the King of England and also the King and Queen of Spain. The King of Spain didn't like the plan either, but gave Chris a lot monetary benefits to keep him loyal to Spain. The King didn't like the initial idea, but had seen some potential in Columbus and didn't want him to be wooed by any other Kings.

Chris still has this crazy idea of finding a route to the Orient and wouldn't give up on his dream. Several times he requested a cruise around the Atlantic, but was always turned down.
Chris, "Can I go an my expedition?"

King Ferdinand II, "No".

Chris, "Now can I go?".

King Ferdinand II, "No".

Chris, "What about now?".

King Ferdinand, "I said NO".

Chris, "How about now?".

King Ferdinand, "NO, NO, NO!!!!".

Chris, "Please, please, please! I promise to be good,".

Chris kept asking until, like every bad parent, the King gave up and gave in.

King Ferdinand II, "Fine go! Just fricking leave me alone,".

Chris, "Grazie!". Unless you believe he was Spanish in which case he would have said "Gracias,".

In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue. Although some of the voyage was funded by the Spanish royals, part of it was also funded by Italian investors who Columbus had lined up. The King also agreed to give Columbus a percentage of the revenue made in any land discovered as well as being made "Admiral of the Sea". Of course the King agreed to all of this because no one expected Columbus to return (aka survive).

After two long months at sea, land was spotted on October 12. Columbus named the island San Salvatore, a little place we all know as the Bahamas. Chris also went on to explore Cuba and Hispaniola, before returning to Spain with his new spices, exciting stories and the good news that a new world had been discovered. I'll leave out the part where he tells everyone that the land he discovered was near China.

"Mama mia, eets a new vorld! Thes way boyz. I can'ta believe we a made et to China!"

I always have to laugh when I hear about Columbus discovering the Americas. How does one "discover" a land that was already "discovered" by the Vikings and was also inhabited the natives, who were very restless. I do have give Chris credit where credit is due. In all fairness to him, he did discover land that the Europeans didn't know existed at the time. Columbus's discovery was the start of the great "let's go explore the Americas" campaign and from that point on, the Americas were never the same.

He traveled the world even in death
Columbus died of a heart attack at the age of 55. His remains were buried in Valladolid and then later moved to Seville at the request of his son. In 1542 Columbus's remains were then taken to Hispaniola were they stayed until the French took over. Columbus was then moved to Havana, Cuba, but when Cuba won its independence Columbus was on the move again. This time settling back in Seville where his remains remain today. Or do they? Like the beginning of his life, there is much debate as to where Columbus's final resting place is. The church in Hispaniola (Columbus's second final resting place) claim they still have Chris, though DNA tests confirm that the bones in Seville (or at least SOME of the bones) are those of Columbus.

The last, final resting place of Christopher Columbus (at least for now)

A Side Note
In Italy and Spain, Columbus is observed on October 12Th: the day Columbus landed in the Bahamas. In the United States, Columbus Day is observed on the second Monday of October thus creating a long weekend for the Americans.

So to the Americans, Happy Columbus Day! And to the Spanish and Italians, come back and read this post again in four days.

Blogger at Work

Please bear with me as I tweak my blog. Keep in mind that it is a work in progress.

Speaking of Meatballs

In my previous post, we learned how to ask for meatballs in Italy. More importantly, we learn how NOT to ask for meatballs in Italy. Now there is something else that I must share with you dear readers, for it is very important to know this if you plan to visit Italy. There is no such thing as spaghetti with meatballs. Yes you heard me right, it does not exist here.

Italians are very particular about which foods can go with which foods. For example, you will never find slices of garlic bread with a plate of lasagna. Why? Because both are carbohydrates and here in Italy, you don't eat carbs with carbs. The same is true about meat and pasta. Pasta is considered to be a first dish while meat is always serviced as a second dish. Please, NEVER try to mix the two. I did it once with disastrous results (I may be exaggerating a bit).

One morning I spent several hours making a dish that included a pine nut cream sauce over a bed of angel hair pasta and topped with grilled chicken and tomatoes. I had gotten the recipe from an authentic Italian cookbook (so it said) and spent the morning chopping, dicing, grilling, mixing and cooking. In the end, I had a fantastic lunch waiting for my husband when returned from work and, in my opinion, it was heavenly.

My husband looked at his plate and flatly said, "Why is the chicken on the top of the pasta?". And that is how I learned that Italians do not mix the two. I, the red-blooded American, cut my chicken into tiny bites and mixed it into the pasta. The Italian removed his chicken from his plate, ate the pasta first and then moved onto his "second dish". The only time you will find meat with pasta is if the pasta is covered with ragu bolognese sauce or if the meat is actually INSIDE the pasta (though in Romagna our pasta is always filled with cheese).

So my friends, what have we learned today? That there are some gastronomic myths about Italy that simply are not true. You will never find garlic bread with your pasta, there will be no chicken with your chicken alfredo and for heavens sake, there will be no meatballs with your spaghetti; not as long as you are eating Italian food in Italy.

If you haven't seen the movie "The Big Night" run out and rent yourself a copy tonight. It is a story about two Italian immigrant brothers who are trying to start an Italian restaurant in America. One of my favorite scenes is when a women in the restaurant tries to order spaghetti with meatballs. Of course the brothers are appalled that someone would want to eat such a thing. The best line in the movie is when Stanly Tucci's character politely explains that "Sometimes the spaghetti likes to be alone".

Though you can always find yourself a plate of spaghetti with meatballs in America, here in Italy "the spaghetti likes to be alone".

Dear Cara,

Has it really been a year since we first met? Has a year already passed since the first time I held you tight in my arms, smelled your sweet, soft skin, and gazed into your tiny, baby blue eyes?







A lot has changed in a year. You walk, talk and my how you've grown. You have gone from a little baby to a tiny person with a personality all your own.


I hate living so far away from you. I never meant for it to be this way, but as you will learn, sometimes life takes you to places you never dreamed of going.

Not a day passes by when I don't think of you and I worry that you have forgotten me. I want you to know that I am more than a photo on a shelf. I am more than a face on a computer screen. I am your aunt and if I could, I would wrap my arms around you and give you a hug right now.




Just because we live so far away, doesn't mean that I am not here for you. I am only a phone call away and when you get bigger, you can call me anytime. I will be thinking of you on your first day of school and wishing I could be with you to dry your tears after your first broken heart. But because we live so far away, we can look forward to long visits with each other. I can't wait to show you all around Italy and take you places many of your friends will never visit.


Sending you my love from across the miles and wanting you to know that you are always in my thoughts, in my prayers and deep inside my heart.

Love,
Aunt Cyndi

Balls of Meat, Please

One morning I had a craving for meatballs and decided we would have some for lunch. Knowing that it would take a lot less time (with better results), I set off in search of homemade meatballs made by hands other than mine. Where does one go when shopping for homemade meatballs? The obvious choice was the butcher shop and so that was where I went.

When I arrived small gaggle of elderly women were gathered in the small shop, squawking loudly in a dialect I have yet to learn. Some had handkerchiefs loving tied around their heads making them look every part of the old-Italian woman stereotype. Too busy chatting to place their orders, they waved me ahead to the front of the line. I peered into the packed display case and immediately spotted my prize. Nestled between the pigs feet and skinned rabbits was a tray of freshly made meatballs just waiting to be eaten.

The butcher's wife stood behind the counter greeting me with a wide-tooth grin. "Dimmi," she said still smiling, tell me. Not knowing the Italian name for meatballs I made a mistake commonly made by expats and tourists around the world, I literally translated the English name into Italian word for word. Unfortunately this doesn't always work.

"I would like six balls of meat," I said as I tried to add a touch of Italian grammar by saying balls of meat rather than meatballs. Laughter erupted from behind me, somehow the old women had heard my mistake over their loud chatter. Instantly I knew that my translation had failed.

I found out the hard way that the Italians don't call meatballs by the same name. By literally translating the word meatballs, I had essentially asked the butcher's wife for balls (slang for testicles) of meat.

"May I please have six testicles of meat," says the foreigner.

The butcher's wife, trying to conceal her smirk and not understanding what I wanted, asked me to try again. I felt my face become hot and I wondered just which shade of red I had turned. "I don't know what you call them in Italian, but in English they are called meatballs. You know, balls made from meat, cheese and bread," I explained pointing to the tray in the display case. A second round of laughter broke out and I was sure one of the old women would drop dead from all the excitement.

"Ah, polpette," the butcher's wife said also pointing to the tray of meatballs.

"Yes, polpette," I exclaimed with an embarrassed smile, a sigh of relief escaping from my lips. Six meatballs were placed into a paper sack, I paid for my polpette, thanked the butcher's wife and left the busy shop. A third wave of laughter exploded as I walked pass the group of old women and out the door. I no longer had to wonder which shade of red I had turned. My face, feeling as hot as the desert sun, was surely candy-apple red.