Yesterday, a package arrived, long overdue and highly anticipated. Quite overdue since my estimated time delivery window expired a few weeks ago and usually with Amazon I never have problems with on-time deliveries to Italy. So I opened a troubleshooter email and wondered how I could prove that it hadn’t arrived.

When my package arrived, I had a little surprise waiting for me:

Presentazione in Dogana €2,50
Spese Postali €3,00
IVA €4,75

Presentation in Dogana?? Postal costs? Tax, on what? I have never had to pay duty on an Amazon package. But I have learned to treat the Italian postal system as a child I’m babysitting – one that has no discipline and will do what they want no matter what you say. Some other expats have reported problems with the postal system and even avoid it entirely and use a “higher” postal system from the Vatican.

Besides the actual mechanism of moving around and delivering the mail, one of the biggest hurdles is actually getting mail into the country. In fact, they have a package graveyard near my house, conveniently disguised as “Dogana” (Customs) where packages go to die (or are “put down” if you prefer that gentler term). If you look closely, there are letters missing in front of Dogana which I believe read “Cimitero” (Cemetary) until angry and grieving package relatives decided to scrape them off. Maybe.

Here are some prohibited items that cannot be sent to Italy – the complete list of prohibited/restricted items is available on the US post office site. Make sure you check it so you can avoid sending restricted items, or at least labeling them correctly as such. Besides the things you’d expect to see on a restricted list such as arms and weapons (check), a few raise eyebrows like exposed photographic and cinematographic films or albums (no family Christmas card, Michelle!)

Some that stand out from the pack, and may have you scrambling to change things last-minute in your packages are:

• Haberdashery and sewn articles of any kind, including trimmings and lace; handkerchiefs; scarves; shawls, needlework including stockings and gloves; bonnets, caps, and hats of any kind. (The fact that they have used the word haberdashery here makes snort)
• Hair and articles made of hair. Guess no sending a hair shirt for a Sweet Sixteen, eh?
• Human remains. But carrying them on a plane is probably fine.
• Live bees, leeches, and silkworms. Can you imagine if the bees got out after being handled by the Postal Service?
• Nutmeg, vanilla; sea salt, rock salt; saffron. Now, this is just unfair. We are stuck with vanilla “aroma” instead of good extract.
• Playing cards of any kind. Vegas can’t offshore their old playing cards anymore – who thinks this is mafia-related?
• Toys not made wholly of wood. This has particular significance for me because I received several care packages when studying in Italy labeled with “wooden toys” on the customs label, stuffed with all kinds of crazy prohibited items like a kilo of saffron. Ok, not really. But they didn’t question.

Now, what you can bring on a plane is apparently different. I “have heard” that people have brought over cheese, toys not wholly made of wood.

So if you made it this far, you’ve realized I still haven’t told you my big secret.

The big secret is, up until yesterday, I didn’t have a single cookbook in my house! Before moving I gave away or sold the few cookbooks I had. I love using the internet to exchange and discover recipes, but I finally decided things are settling down a little for me after four years of living here and I want to start having a “home” feeling again, so I selected a few old and a few new books (including David‘s The Perfect Scoop which I had been waiting for forever) to dip my toes into cookbook water and decide which books will make it into my closely-guarded traveling bookshelf.

Who’s got some other cookbooks to recommend to me?? Or what’s your favorite?? Easiest? Most-used? Put them in the comments and next week I’ll send a random commenter a package of the digestive sugar I recently talked about (and they are GOOD!).

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La Mia Italia….My Italy.

I thought about the theme for quite a bit, because even though I’ve been living here for almost 4 years, Italy doesn’t feel like “mine.” My husband makes noises every time I say “home” because he knows I’m talking about California. But after I stopped shoving the square-peg Italy into my circle-shaped idea of home, I feel we are both taking baby steps towards each other.

And seeing as yesterday I got my Carta d’Identit� in a mere 15 minutes, I am seeing today’s patchy blue sky instead of the scattered clouds that are covering it.

I recently took down my posts from the early days of this blog, when it was still called a “journal” or “online diary,” because it read like an abbreviated version of my daily activities for my friends and family back home. Some of the entries flit from topic to topic with every paragraph (or sentence), and some are brutally honest and raw and painful for me to re-read because I remember what was behind the words.

Looking back, I realized that THIS was La Mia Italia.

I came to Italy confused and alone. In the States I was surrounded by a lot of people, some supportive and some distracting. Once I removed this support system and the distractions, I had no choice but to face myself and figure out what I wanted to do, and be completely responsible for moving my life forward.

One of the big changes for me was getting out of debt. I couldn’t fathom how, when making such “big money,” I was so in debt (over $10,000). I was spending carelessly and therapeutically. Now, making 1/3 of what I did before, I’ve been debt free for 3 years. Did it take coming here to do that? To change my mentality, to remove my salary as an enabler? I think so.

Of course that’s not all Italy is to me, but it represents a huge catalyst of change in my life.

And then I started thinking about all the other people that moved here, and what Italy means to them (Shelley, don’t worry, I’m not going to duplicate your post!) and I realized that for each of them, being in Italy means something different. Just check out the sidebar of other Expats – raising a family, becoming a writer, following love, opening a business, pursuing a career, and of course drinking lots of wine and eating lots of wonderful food. Reflection, exploration, comfort.

Italy is not special because it does all those things. Italy is special because it does all those things for US. And just like finding a pair of jeans that fit, different people try on Italy and see if it fits. For some it doesn’t.

This is a post from the first month I had moved to Italy – I was in Milan the first time, before moving to Rome. It was a weekend that was pretty solitary but I was starting to get into a routine in a new place and feel that I was a part of it. This is the beginning of La Mia Italia for me.

I have a private concert in my apartment several times a day. I am on the fourth floor (which is 5th floor to those of you who don’t start your numbering at 0 like the Italians) and every day I climb 94 steps to my door. I counted this, once in English and once in Italian because I thought I lost count the first time (I didn’t) just to make sure. My door is a big, imposing door with no doorknob with a key that is long and antiquated that opens the five deadbolts that slide into place like a fortress. The front door also has stained glass on it, partially covered at one point by brown paint which I am determined to remove.

It is this apartment, at this height, which allows the music from the apartment across the park and across the street to stream directly into my open windows as if I had summoned it. It comes at different times of the day, for different durations, and at different volumes. But it is always the same, piano music with no accompaniment (luckily I also enjoy this music).

I have two theories about the origin of this music.

One is that it’s a tormented pianist, who has come to this apartment to escape…life, a love (lost or found), or society. It’s in this apartment that he escapes into his own world by pouring his emotion out through the music, until he can play no more. Then, sweating, and worn out, he leaves the bench until he again is awash with this passion to play.

The other theory is that it’s an ederly man or woman, who lives alone and listens to this music to remind them of…memories, love, family, but something that is lost to them that they are trying to regain through the feeling of this music. This music is pretty passionate and I often listen to see if I can hear mistakes, pauses, or other indications that it’s live and not recorded, but I am undecided.

Leaving this morning to run some errands I rushed across the street only to see that the windows were now closed, and I was no closer to the truth. I stood and stared up at the building as long as it was decent to do so, and moved on. The mystery is probably better than the reality.

Today is Sunday, a day where the country shuts down, pretty much everything. I had of course to prove this to myself as I went to the grocery store, which I knew was open as I had seen a sign the day before about their being open for 4 hours on Sunday. On the several blocks to the store, I passed a lot of stores, and tourists who were finding out the hard way that window shopping was all they’d be doing that day. A gelateria was open as well as a random bookstore, but no more. I got my six bottles of l’acqua naturale (very heavy but worth it), mosquito repellant room dispenser refill, and mosquito repellant stick and some Baci Connetti, tiny ice cream cones for a treat.

You don’t often hear about people languishing in cold baths. That’s because they don’t. It’s one of my better ideas that I had to have a cold bath on of course, a pretty humid day. As I inched in to the bath, I had to rethink my great idea, and I did not linger long.

Going to the disco in the park the other night, I discovered I hadn’t visited the castle in Milan, the Castello Sforzesco and accompanying park, Parco Sempione which I was delighted to find out was open on Sundays. I took the metro there and discovered it was in one of the areas of my Mastercard-searching-frenzy a few days before. The park was alight with lots of people, sunbathing, playing basketball, laying on the grass and hanging out. It seemed to me to be the Central Park of Milan, a haven away from all the cement of the city.

I wandered around the park, discovering that I was woman, snake, and bird as I discovered another favorite pastime of those in the park – attracting attention of women. There might have been a time when I was hissed or whistled at more, but I can’t remember. I sat at a few benches, and then a park bar to enjoy the view, a Corona, and do some reflection. Afterward, I walked around Milan, ended back at the Duomo, which I saw before but didn’t go into as I was so disappointed by the covered facade, but this time I went in and listened to part of a liturgy in Italian, which I understood most of. There have been few times when I really understand how small I am and it seems to be very clear to me in a few places…the Duomos of Milan and Florence, St. Peter’s in Rome, and the Notre Dame in Paris…to name a few.

Now as I sit here in my apartment, Milan has become a hurricane of wind and passion. I shut the covers of my windows partway so I could still enjoy the breeze (or torrent) but leaves were coming in and now the rain is coming too so I shut the cover-downs outside (much like blinds but heavier) and leave the windows open to enjoy the show.

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5.00 Having finally located gate information monitors, I scan them quickly for my entry, CDG, Paris. Where is it? Ah, yes. I took this flight out of Linate because the other one out of Malpensa would have been impossible to get there without a car. And it’s being operated by Alitalia, unfortunately, but after I’ll have beautiful Air France.

5.01 There’s something written next to my flight. Cancellato. CHE???

5.04 I wheel over to the Alitalia check-in desk. A single representative is manning the desks at this hour. He seems bored. The couple in front of me mention “Paris” and I start paying attention. A small line is starting to form to the left of the desks.

“He’s called the supervisor, we just have to wait here.” A few other flights are cancelled, but they are all national flights, and they are all Alitalia. I smell a strike.

Unfortunately for us, Air France entrusted this part of the flight to Alitalia and the line of people missing their connections in Paris is growing – Chicago, SF, Caracas, Brasile – everyone is getting screwed by this.

A woman in a red coat comes out from a back room, a walkie-talkie in her hand. She asks the representatives to move us to another set of desks. We form an awkward line, not knowing what the outcome or the circumstances are, or if there is even need for a line. But arriving at 5am has a way of making you feel proprietary about a thing as simple as being able to complain. The red coat flashes about but never lands on us, the unhappy customers.

5.20 It’s now clear the line is necessary as two representatives are starting to process the customers misplaced on their flights. I am fourth in line, yet this gives me no hope. My flight is surely lost.

6.30 “You’re on a flight to London, then to San Francisco.” …Ok. I throw my bags at her, and I take this carbon-copy piece of paper the size of a check and full of codes which is going to convince United to give me a seat in London. There are a hundred people behind me waiting to be re-routed.

7.50 My flight, which is supposed to leave at 7.30, is now getting off the ground. I realize that I have no idea what time my flight in London is leaving and how quickly I’ll have to run. I remember she said 10-something, so I’ll hurry but I should be fine.

9.00 We land in London, and I race for the connecting/transfer desk, which is located 3 sets of stairs, 4 moving walkways and 2 ramps away from where I landed. I need a boarding pass.

9.15 “May I help you?” A helpful United representative looks at me and takes my flimsy piece of paper. It’s working, I think.

“Alright, then. You’ve missed the flight. So you’ll have to go talk to the Alitalia representative.” He points down the counter to a darkened corner where a lone man sits.

“Missed the flight? But it doesn’t leave until after 10!”

“Yes, but we close check-in an hour before. Sorry, next!”

WTF. I go down to the sfigata Alitalia desk which is not actually a desk. It’s a guy named Luigi (yes, Luigi) with an Alitalia lanyard around his neck, sitting in front of a display for Air Uzbekistan (no joke). There’s a couple in front of me, but when I hear the words “San Francisco,” I decide to not wait my turn in line. Not keep to myself, and not to respect the privacy of others. I insert myself into their situation.

“Wait, I’m going there, too – why don’t you do mine as well?” I apologize to the couple, but I really couldn’t care less.

Luigi, our Alitalia representative, well, let’s just say that he is consistent with the level of Alitalia quality I’m used to. Which is, crap. He fuffs about looking for another flight before finally telling us we’ll be getting on the Virgin flight at 11.30. He takes a few moments to tell us about the amenities Virgin customers receive and it a moment’s pause would have begged the question “Why is one airline’s customer service representative touting another airline?” but then again, this is Alitalia.

9.45 We have a new, worthless piece of paper which is going to convince Virgin to bring us close to her bosom and let us board her luxury jet and go home.

10.02 We get off the shuttle and arrive at Terminal 3. I have forcefully befriended the Milanese couple I barged in on and we have already daydreamed about the luxury that awaits us.

“May I help you?” A smart-looking woman with an angular haircut holds her hand out for our ticket. We hand her the flimsy paper and I quickly explain the situation.

“Right…you’re too late for this flight.”

“Late?”

“Yes, we close an hour before boarding.” I’m sensing a common element here with flights in London.

“But the flight is at 11.30!”

“No, it’s at 11.” Clickety-clack, clack, clack go her fingers. “And…we don’t even have a reservation for you. Alitalia didn’t book anything for these names.”

“Right.” She recommends we go back to the transfer desk but I make my way over to another, non-Virgin desk and commandeer their phone to call back there. But I know it’s useless. Our useless piece of paper is even more useless without a flight on it that hasn’t departed.

10.30Back in Terminal 2. “Luigi, we missed you.” Cretino, I feel like yelling. “How is it that no one made our reservation or even called them to tell them to hold the flight for us?”

“Oh.” Luigi picks up the phone to call his “supervisor” but he could be talking to a dial-tone for all we know. Pass the buck, m’amico.

Luigi glosses over the fact of what happened, and again recounts the luxuries that we missed by missing the Virgin flight. “What a shame that you missed it.” My fingers are itching, for his neck. “There’s a limo for first-class passengers, and if you’re really in a hurry, they use a motorcycle. It’s so cool!”

Luigi, bless him, is easily distracted. But this time we’re not as happy-go-lucky as before. We’re now being booked into our fourth flight to SFO for the day. I wave a few fingers and snap to refocus Luigi. Ok, so no I don’t, but what I would have given for a doggie treat to dangle.

Luigi hangs up after the fourteenth phone call (including one to his roommate about paying the rent) and accepts my challenge to check with the United desk to this time to CONFIRM our reservation and get our boarding passes before we leave the area.

11.00 I press our luck by asking for some meal vouchers as we’ve all been awake since 4am. 20 minutes later, after being assured by Luigi that another set of useless papers are “in arrivo” any minute, we give up and thank him for the “gesture.” He’s getting off in 15 minutes so I’m sure he’s not too concerned. “If you see a woman with a green Alitalia vest….” avoid her like the plague, I finish silently in my head.

As we’re going down the escalator toward the shuttle, Luigi sticks his head over the railing and yells, “she’s coming, she really is!” We shake our heads and laugh it off, Luigi is such a typical romano, until he comes bounding down the escalator after us, taking two steps at a time, with three flimsy papers in his hand. “Look, look” – I feel slightly like I’m witnessing the retrieval of a frisbee by a retriever. So proud of himself.

He rides the last few steps down with us, and then smacks his forehead. “You’re going to Terminal 3? These are only good in 1 & 2.”

We take the vouchers anyway and board the shuttle. We won’t miss a fourth flight.

I’m back.

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Back in July, I had a little operation done on a part of the body not mentioned on sites that don’t begin with XXX. It wasn’t serious but I didn’t really know that at the time, because it’s not something people often talk about, and it was hard to translate everything to know if the medical term really meant “worry” or just “be uncomfortable.” After the fact, I have discovered a lot of people I know went through the same thing.

I wanted to share my experience because the more you talk about it, the more you know…and of course, my ability to laugh at myself and the situations I get into doesn’t hurt, either.

One of the things I should have put on my “Firsts that count as Rites of Passage in Italy” list is

…a man who is not your boyfriend spends a lot of time between your legs.

I’m used to having a male gynecologist now – I had received some unwelcome test results from my US (female) gynecologist right after I got married in California in 2005, and I had only two days there before I left to go back to Italy. So I knew I would have to “take care of business” in Italy.

I have yet to run into a female gynecologist here in Italy – although at Pavia’s hospital there are several “in residence,” they are relegated to tasks like the Pap smear. Fellow expats…is there a plethora of female gynos where you are? Some female gyno stronghold I don’t know about?

This is not to say male doctors are not sensitive to the patient – there is always a female nurse present during the examination, and from what Michelle mentioned, they have another person present at all times when they’re….down there, even for routine things.

Sometimes other colleagues will stick their heads in from the adjoining room and talk to the doctor while he’s examining you, like yesterday. It doesn’t bother me, but I feel like raising up and saying, “As you can see, we’re open, come on in!”

Flash back to that day in July….(there’s humor here, I promise)

I sat with a dozen or so other ladies waiting for their turn at the day hospital. They called my name – I was one of the first up that morning. The nurse walked ahead of me through a short corridor then ending up…with us in the operating room.

She pointed at a chair – a plain chair, nothing special about it. Brown plastic without armrests. “Get undressed. Pants, socks, underwear. Put these on your feet and this on your head.”

She handed me a sea-foam green cap that I normally associate with all those ER-type shows and I thought, right, we’re in an operating room. In her hand there were also two long forest-green bootie-type things that came up to my knees when I put them on.

Luckily that day I didn’t have a baby tee on or a tank top as it was summer, and I was able to cover a few more millimeters of skin. But what shirt can really cover everything??

Though I was nervous as hell, I started laughing. All my hair is tucked up in this cap, I have a short-sleeved shirt on, I have these new-age booties on (and not even color-coordinated with the cap) and I have both fannies hanging out.

How can I maintain a sense of dignity?

I have used my “Cracker Jack” drawing skills to give you a better visual of what I looked like that morning. Anyone who knows me knows that sometimes I blush easily, leading to a flaming red face. Please, PLEASE laugh….it was a moment that I hope not to repeat but I may not be able to avoid. :)

But I got over the unease quite quickly. There’s not really any room for modesty when you’re talking about health.

I launched myself into the stirrups “giddy up!” and an angry woman came in, which I learned was to be my anesthetist. I was nervous this woman was going to be putting a large needle anywhere near me, but it went as well as it can go when talking about needles and nether regions. The operation didn’t take long, and there are a few sensations and memories I will keep to myself about it.

Fortunately, I have never experienced the uncleanliness that they mention in these recent expose’ about hospitals in Italy. Pavia has one of the best hospitals in the country, and I’m fortunate to be able to go there for this kind of stuff. Of course, the waiting rooms are nothing special (no magazines in the hospital for us) and are really just chairs lined up in the corridor outside the rooms, and are not reminiscent of the sterile-plasticized-helpful-parenting-posters-everywhere like back home. But, the operating room was spotless clean and all the instruments/machines looked new, and that’s what mattered to me. The examination rooms are also clean.

I went with a British friend to a gyno appointment in Rome in 2004 and there I felt the facilities were really grim – bad lighting, fold-up chairs that made up the waiting room, and a sense of dirt everywhere, though the doctor and nurse were friendly and professional. She asked me to come inside so I could help translate but I knew in her place I wouldn’t have wanted to be alone, either. I also went to the “emergency” services a few times but those rooms are really just examination rooms and are not like staying in the hospital. I expected a bit of chaos because, well, it’s an emergency.

I wish someone I knew had talked to me about having gone through this – more about the procedure I had done: LEEP – cervical biopsy – Colposcopy – Cervical Dysplasia

Luckily, there have been some advancements in the area of Cervical Cancer and its precursors just this year which may make this operation (and its cause) unnecessary in the future!

• FDA OKs first cervical cancer vaccine on CNN
• New Drug To Possibly Treat Cervical Dysplasia from NBC

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