The Days of the Blackbird - I Giorni della Merla

Blackbird complaining

Monday. Feeling sleepy. "Ti piacerebbe che fosse venerdi'!" (You wish it was Friday!) my mother would say. Another day started like this: oh no, it's Monday, and it is almost 11 am. William's cheeks are no longer hot like fire - the poor guy has been sick for almost a week and my foot has not recovered as fast as I would have liked - There is nothing to eat in the fridge. Let's get out of here!, I said like a volcano erupting. Come on Tronk, where are your shoes? Sono qui mamma. (There are here mom)

We managed to share a pleasant hot buffet at an Asian restaurant not far from where we live, although I must say it turned out that Tronk enjoyed spitting most of it in the floor. I don't envy the guy who had to clean the mess. Then Tronk asked for two things, two things without which he never falls asleep: a binky and his white muslin blanket (the one we used to swaddle him). It has become his security blanket. I put him in the stroller and covered him with his warm sleep sac. I immediately saw his eyes wobbling, as if I had put him under the effect of a powerful sleeping pill. Sooner than expected  he was knocked out. My original plan of taking him to the local kids playground was out the window. I was looking for anywhere to take Tronk to. I decided to set my mark on Walegreens (another five blocks). By the time I got to Walegreens,  I could hardly feel my hands and my foot was still attached to my leg but it had become like a dead rat. William had no intention of waking up. If I could have gone three more blocks I could have taken him to Isis Maternity, where they have a small indoor children's playspace. The sort of place where Tronk would have been able to do a bit of walking, socializing and playing and I would have had the luxury of browsing through nice expensive clothes without too many interruptions.

Didn't happen. "You stop here, find a place where to rest and wait until Tronk wakes up.", said my foot with a rather authoritative tone. Ok. 

Starbucks was too far. I went inside the closest cafe' at the local cinema. For the Italian readers, this is a place with a bar which only sells ice cream topped with candies, blue Italian ice in winter and popcorn topped with liquid butter - Don't ask me why but here in the US these are considered treats. Not the sort of thing I was dying for yesterday. A real coffee? Not quite. Dirty water topped with milk foam was the best I could get there. I settled with cranberry juice, one of the few drinks I could have there which I knew would not make me feel as if they were giving me a sugar IV. I sat at one of the tables in the empty cafe' of the cinema and watched Tronk sleep while I was taking small sips of cranberry juice. Unfortunately, I didn't have a book to read.

Hey, who do you think you are? Sleeping Beauty?

3:10 pm. Tronk knocked out

3:40 pm. Tronk still sleeping. Only me in the cafe'

4:15 pm. Not the slightest move in the stroller. Still only me at the cafe'

4:30 pm. Wish I had purchased a ticket to watch a movie! 

He eventually woke up when I noisily took him to the bathroom, probably on purpose to wake him up. I was expecting to see a very happy boy after such a long nap but no. Tronk was in rage. John came to pick us up and, with his help, I took Tronk home as soon as I could. Once home, Tronk was happy.

Nevertheless, I was so exhausted and couldn't accept that once again I started the day with good intentions but in the end I found myself stuck in a rather unattractive place, this time in a movie theater without being able to see a movie. What a day to start the week. I can't even blame it on the snow as this year we hardly got any. This reminded me that in Italy the last three days of January are called "i giorni della merla" (the blackbird's days). It is that time of the year when all I want is to emerge from the dark tunnel of winter to  see some light...

Long, long ago in Milan there was a very hard winter. The snow was falling from the sky and covered the whole city, the streets and gardens. Under the water spout of a building at the station Porta Nuova was the nest of a family of blackbirds, which at that time had feathers white as snow. There was mommy blackbird, daddy blackbird and three baby blackbirds, who were born after the summer.
The little family suffered from the cold and struggled to find breadcrumbs to eat, as the few crumbs that had fallen from the tables of men were immediately covered with snow.
After a few days daddy blackbird made ​​a decision and told his wife: "Here there is nothing to eat, if this continues we will all die of hunger and cold. I have an idea, I will help you move the nest on the roof of the building, close to the chimney of the fireplace, so while waiting form my return you will not be cold. I'll leave and will go look for food in the places where the snow has not yet arrived."
And so he did: the nest was placed near the  chimney  and  daddy blackbird left. Mommy blackbird  and her baby blackbirds were all day in the nest, warming each other and also absorbing the smoke from the chimney all day long.
After three days daddy blackbird  came home and almost was not able to recognize his family! The black smoke coming out the chimney was painted black all the feathers of birds!
Fortunately, from that day on the winter became less rigid and the blackbirds were able to find enough food to get to spring.
From that day, however, all blackbirds are born with black feathers, and to remember the family of blackbirds whites become blacks, the last three days of January are called "Three Days of the blackbird."


I am glad there are over.

De Gustibus is a relative concept - De Gustibus e' un concetto relativo

"Dress Casual!", says every store in the mall

I better stop making fun of the Bostonian fashion. In the last six months or so I've noticed a strange phenomena in my wardrobe. It slowly seemed to have changed from a well of colorful treasures to a closet that I can barely recognize. I pick one thing, then another, then another, yet I don't seem to be able to find anything I fancy wearing.

Something similar happened to me when I moved to London. After only a year I was living there, I couldn't help finding stuff that I wasn't keen to wear, mostly large, straight cut, Italian garments in black color. Although classy, they were ideally suited to old Italian widows crying behind a Saint in religious processions! "Io quella pelliccia li' che mi hai dato per Natale non la metto piu'! Guarda che vivo in Inghilterra, non in Italia! De Gustibus Mamma!" (There is no way I will wear that furry coat you have given me for Christmas! I live in England, not in Italy! De Gustibus Mom!).

Amazing how perspectives and matters of taste change relatively to the country where one lives. Winter was not winter in London without me wearing my double-breasted extra small long coat alongside my sleek black leather boots. Similarly, summer was not summer in Ireland without me wearing my Capri pants in khaki color with cargo pockets. Funny how I used to dislike those pants before moving to Ireland! Same with my pairs of bright blue pants (with rope tightened around the waist) that I was wearing constantly when I was living in India. Back in the UK, I was keeping them in my wardrobe hoping to find an occasion to wear them. Few months later, I was hiding the pants in a suitcase on top of my wardrobe.

I now look at the first shelf of my wardrobe and all I am able to find is a pile of long sleeved striped tops. If they don't have big ass stripes either in the colors or in the pattern  - not that the prep thin blue stripes on a cream color from Anthopologie look any better! - they have a washed out look from the colors fading away or some other hippie details which make my clothes look old and worn out. Then on the top shelf, I see a couple of intimidating looking polos starring at me as if they were saying: "I know I am casual but at least I am plain! Go on, wear me! ". Tired of looking at them, my eyes go to the bottom shelf of my wardrobe and I see a large collection of tee-shirts with either sport themes or comics printed on them, the sort of thing which only children would wear these days in Italy. It is cold, maybe I should just put on my North Face jacket. No, that one no! I am lost.

Buy them, wear them and chuck them away. Understood?

Yet another top with stripes, which costs three times more than the others

Here in the US I simply cannot help sticking everything in the washing machine and in the dryer constantly. As a result, the nice sweaters I used to wear (and not wash) in London have now all turned into rags for cleaning floors. How about my pretty tops and dresses from French Connection and Monsoon? Where are they? The answer is in the attic and this is the simple reason why I put them there. What is the point of wearing expensive and uncomfortable clothes to cook spaghetti al ragu', to walk in neighborhoods where there are only houses and few people jogging in sweats and to wash dirty clothes? There simply is no point.

And, to tell you the truth, now that I have a broken sesamoid in my left foot I cannot help but praising the advantages of the Bostonian fashion. Quick and easy and, above all, pain free. Now, if you would like to excuse me, I am going to the nearest mall to see if I can buy more tops with stripes to put in my wardrobe.

UPDATE ON 7 FEBRUARY 2012

At some point I discovered LOFT and Ann Taylor, stores where it is possible to find fairly nice merino wool sweaters.  I started ordering items from them online.

This is the ad they have just sent me today...

Spring Fashion from LOFT

More exciting than Santa - Piu' emozionante di Babbo Natale

While last year Christmas in Tronk's eyes was equal to tearing at colored ribbons and wrapping paper, this year Christmas has revealed a few more interesting things to him. Even if he probably understood very little of the birth of baby Jesus, the shepherds and the bright star with the tail, no doubt Tronk has learned all about Santa and the good things he brings on Christmas Eve. He enjoyed meeting him in person on December 16th and he became obsessed with wearing his hat (he wanted to wear it to eat, to sleep, to shower, basically all the time. To keep our sanity, at some point I had to tell Tronk that Santa needed his hat back!). No wonder he turned sad when I told him that Santa had gone. Luckily, I had something better to tell him to cheer him up.

"La Befana", the most loved witch in Italy

Mamma: "Tronk, verra' presto la Befana, volando sulla sua scopa, con un sacco carico di doni. Se fai il bravo, ti portera' dolci e giocattoli. Se sei cattivo, ti portera' carbone" (Tronk, La Befana will soon be ‘flying’ by on her broomstick, with a sac full of gifts. If you have been a good boy, she'll bring you sweets and toys. If you've been bad, she'll bring you coal)

A puzzled look on Tronk's face followed. The movies on you tube did not help.
Tronk: "Ma e' brutta e vecchia!" (But she is ugly and old!).
Mamma: "Si, e' brutta e vecchia ma se sei buono, ti porta dolci e giocattoli. Non sei contento?" (Yes! She is ugly and old but if you are good, she will bring you sweets and gifts. Are you not happy?)
Tronk: "Si!" (Yes! meaning: I don't know what the hell you are going on about but I'll say yes so you'll stop talking about this)

Surprise, surprise... he was more excited than on Christmas day. At first, when he discovered the long stocking  with a message from La Befana hanging on his whiteboard, he was very hesitant to touch it and was disappointed to find out the pieces of coal that I put on top to make him think that he had been a bad boy, just like my mother used to do to me. He soon realized, however, that there was more to it... Cookies and even cars, his favorite things on earth. The last time I saw him so excited was probably the day he discovered how to open doors!

Thinking about it, there has not been a single La Befana day in my childhood without me being excited. This is because after receiving presents on Christmas day, I knew that the Christmas season was not over until the 6th of January, the Epifania day (from ancient Greek: the manifestation of God). On that day, my last day off before school, I was expecting extra gifts, including the carbone dolce sweet and, for some reason, I have such special memories. So it was only after the Epifania day that I would consider Christmas over and would come to terms with having to postpone my wish to receive gifts until Easter.

What is this black thing? Coal for me?

Mmm, cookies!

Oh, a present for me

Ah, ah, ah, ah ah! (noises of excitement)

"Apri mamma? Apri mamma?" (Open mamma? Open mamma?)

Hey, I like the ugly witch!

May I introduce you to my son Mina? - Ti posso presentare mio figlio Mina?

Mina Kruse

The Italian nonni (and myself) no longer have to worry about us calling our child "Tronk".  William has now chosen the name he wants to be called with and it is not "Will", nor  "Liam", nor "Bill" (these would have been far better alternatives!). No. He has decided that his name is Mina! 

I don't know if this name even exists in English (I hope not) but in Italy Mina, also called "The Tiger from Cremona", is a famous woman singing love songs (like Barbra Streisand). She is so famous you won't find anyone in the streets of Italy who doesn't know her and some of her songs. If you are Italian, you think of Mina as the sensual woman who used to sing "Parole Parole", "Grande Grande", "Il Cielo in una stanza", Tintarella di Luna" and other songs about impossible (or lost) love affairs, who has now turned into an old maid.

A quick search on "Mina" on Google Italy

It all started because Tronk could not pronounce his name William.

"William, can you say William?" "Mina!"
"Wil-lia'm?" "Mina!"
"W-I-L-L-I-A-M?" "Mina!" 
"WILL? WILL?" "Mina!"
"Ok, Mina!"

I was hoping it would be a matter of time he will say it right, the same way he moved from saying ape (bee) to saying scarpe (shoes). No luck. We all continued to call him William and he continued to give us the same reply, "Sono Mina!" (I am Mina!) Now even his girlfriend Naima calls him Mina and I feel there is little I can do. I will soon have to introduce my son Mina to his school teacher.

I have tried to show Tronk a recent version of Mina singing "Grande Grande" (see above photo, first picture, second row) to make him understand that Mina is a 72 year old woman with hair dyed in orange, not a little boy. And this is what happened. He denied that the old woman is Mina and made it very clear to me that Mina is him and that I have to call him with that name, whether I like it or not.

UPDATE 1) - Below are a number of comments from my friends on Facebook

Annika:
So, you don't have umlauts on your keyboard? "Minä" is "I" in Finnish.
Axel:
No need for Umlauts... "Mina" is "I" in Estonian ;-)
Anna:
Mina is "mine" (like in minesweeper) in Russian. Hope, no explosions :)

UPDATE 2) - He finally said it!

On Monday 16th January at exactly 2 and a half years of age, Tronk finally agreed with me on his own name. I was using the bathroom. All of a sudden, I heard Tronk say these words, crystal clear: "William! William! Wil-lia'm! Sono Will-ia'm! Mamma" (I am William! Mom) with the tone as if he had suddenly had an ephifanie. I was so excited but skeptical that it wouldn't last, I have continued to question his name. Luckily, he has continued to answer "Sono Wil-lia'm! Mamma" (I am William! Mom). I just hope that he settles with this discovery and that he doesn't start asking me to call him Willianapa' or some other name that he likes.

Silence on New Year's Eve in Boston - Capodanno in Silenzio a Boston

Perhaps I am not traveled enough but I had never experienced a more silent New Year's Eve than this in my life! - here in Arlington (where we live) and in Cambridge I have not heard a single BOOM! - I really was not expecting the kingdom of capitalism not to spend a single dollar on fireworks on New Year's eve. Especially after seeing the spectacular fireworks show the Americans come up with every year on the 4th of July. How can the transition to a new year mean so little to the people here compared to most other countries in the world? (see proof here)

While I was writing this, John showed me this photo.

This Year's Fireworks Show in London

I suddenly remembered what New Year's Eve used to be in London. In a couple of occasions I was  there, under that ceiling of lights, pressed against thousand of drunken people screaming "Happy New Year!". The first time I was 24 and I was drunk, together with a bunch of girlfriends who were more drunk than I, so all I can remember is the long walk home like a Zombie, all the way from Trafalgar Square.  The second time, I was in my late thirties and I remember I was so surprised of having found such madness appealing the first time. The worst part of it was at midnight, when a bunch of disgusting drunks (with bad breath and spots all over the face) would jump on me while screaming "Happy New Year", to give me long kisses and big hugs. Escaping was not an option, although it was better than the man shooting a gun into the sky a meter from me in Munich or the people throwing empty bottles and old furniture from their balconies on me and my friend in Naples.

Fireworks Banned in Turin (who says that the rules have to be followed?)

The fireworks always scared my father as they reminded him of the bombing raids during the Second World War on Turin. Despite the ban (with fines up to 500 euros) on using fireworks this year, the Turinese people have welcomed the arrival of the new year with more colors and noisy shots than ever and, once again, they set trucks and even apartments on fire!
After all, having a silent start of the new year is not bad at all. Happy peaceful 2012 everyone!

The Christmas Jinx - La Sfiga di Natale

This year Christmas was on its way but I just didn't want to get the message. We had an exceptionally warm fall and Christmas was not in my thoughts until the Immacolata Virgin day (8th December), the day when the Italians start putting out their Christmas decorations. The tour of the Enchanted Village was kind of an exception. On the 8th I finally realized that Christmas was coming whether I was prepared for it or not.

However, this year, the Christmas Jinx (la sfiga di Natale), the little monster who likes to come just before December 25th, came back to ruin it all. What could go wrong two weeks before Christmas? Anything could ruin it when I was a child: a bad mark at school, a broken piece of antique (probability of this happening in my parents' house: 90%!) or a snappy comment to my mother. Anything really could turn Christmas into a disaster in my childhood. Because of that, many Christmas arrived in Italy with my parents and I angry, resentful and with a heavy feeling of loss. "Another shitty Christmas!", I would think each time. There were years I just wished Christmas would go away.

Later in life, after I moved to England, the Christmas Jinx kept coming back in different forms: snow near the airport where I was supposed to fly, a new job three days before Christmas and my parents falling down. Every year, the same farse. Same blown up expectations, same telephone calls, same special arrangements with friends, same fantasies about people I was going to see and the things I was going to do. I was already imagining the taste of home (food), the Italian booze (good wine), the old Signora with the three layers of makeup on her face gift wrapping my present, the "Buon Natale" wishes after midnight mass, the smell of panettone, moscato and hot chocolate in the backroom of the San Lorenzo Church, the unwrapping of the presents under my parents' nativity, then, on Santo Stefano's day, the calm after the storm: the Christmas movie at the local cinema after a nice aperitivo. It'll be great! Can't wait.

"NO!" said the Christmas Jinx Monster this year. "This year you will not go to Italy for Christmas. Sorry!".

The bad luck started coming in early December. I was having a problem walking with one foot. The pain kept increasing and the week before Christmas my ability to walk went down to zero. Then three days before our big trip to Italy, the ugly truth came out from the podiatrist's mouth, "See that line on the x-ray? You have a broken bone in your foot". I was told I had to wear this boot and wait six weeks until it heals.

My lovely boot

Those words fell on me like the curse of a spirit. The next day, I was at home, frantically trying to pump air into my giant boot with the feeling as if my left leg was about to explode and fire my wounded toe as a missile. No kidding. I was struggling to carry out my daily duties without experiencing pain - and by duties I don't mean cooking, feeding or potty training Tronk. No, I mean, going to the kitchen to get some water or going to have a wee without toys stuck to the velcro of my boot! Later that afternoon I had something important to do - run a Children Christmas party with around 40 people. No, I could not postpone it (see video)

The day after the party my foot was in agony and there was still nothing packed for our upcoming trip to Italy (this year we had to purchase three tickets at a high cost as Tronk is older than two to have the luxury of spending Christmas in my own country).

"No! I cannot go on this trip!" I said to John after spending a night trying to find a pain-free position. So there I was, sitting on the couch, with ice pack on my toe, first investigating the number of restaurants open on Christmas day - zero! - then, the available take out food options on that day - chinese!

The only thing that seemed to help me feel better in the truly Italian way was to know that there were a few other people in bad shape: my mother suffering of shoulders' pain, friends in bed with flu and even an old school mate unable to walk (just like me). My Facebook status (later deleted): Mal comune, mezzo gaudio! (Misery loves Company) Christmas was about to greet me like the Damocles sword. And I kept thinking:

All I want this Christmas is booze!

It turned out that even with a broken foot I could still join the madness one day before Christmas and buy a few decorations. I was hopping like an old crippled woman all over Target and the Christmas Tree Store. At the end, I managed to take home a few New England cheers: a wreath, a pine garland, a pine ball and a brand new Christmas tree (one of those "profane trees" that my parents disapproved of in favor of the nativity).

Tronk on Christmas Eve

As soon as I put our presents under our new Christmas tree, it all suddenly started to fall into place. I suddenly realized that we were about to have our first Christmas together as a family, with our own customs and traditions. We opened the presents in PJs, without having to go through my parents' fuss. This happened to be the perfect choice for keeping Tronk busy while I was cooking.

Amazing what Santa can do compared to the TV to keep a child entertained! It all turned out great. No Chinese for lunch but delicious Italian ossobuco cooked in tomato sauce with mashed potatoes and green beans, loads of French wine and a yummy chocolate panettone for dessert. A nice Italian movie and Christmas mass later in the day with Tronk announcing to everyone in the church that there was Jesus, the wise men and angels all around us.

He just did it when he saw the person next to him kneeling

 What happened this year reminded me of what my mother often says, "Non tutto il male vien per nuocere". The closest English equivalent would be "Every cloud has a silver lining". I have got to keep a positive attitude.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow! - Lascia, lascia che venga giu' la neve!

I am telling you, Christmas is on its way!

This year, for some reason, I was not able to get into the Christmas spirit. Me, the one who used to be so excited when the kiosk with minced pies and mulled wine would suddenly appear in Covent Garden in London. Me, the one who would always feel emotional when I would hear the first Christmas Carol of the Season in early November. "Time for wearing my red coat!" I would start telling myself, while thinking of all the things that the Christmas Season would soon bring to me. For me, and for almost every Londoner, living in a tiny apartment with a kitchen used as a living room, Christmas was the greatest time of the year. Time to celebrate and to treat myself, without having to worry about my bank account, time to buy gifts for my loved ones and, above all, time to socialize! And how could I possibly complain for having to accept one more drink down at the pub instead of having to work late at the office? It's Christmas lady! You've got to have one more drink!, someone from the office would invariably say.

"I wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!" (see last year's Christmas posting). I only had to hear a few notes of this tune and for me Christmas was on its way, along with all the things that I was really looking forward to about the Christmas Season; not just food and drinks with family and friends but also time to think and to re-evaluate decisions, while looking for a more deeper meaning of Christmas. For me this would usually happen during the midnight service with the chorus at the San Lorenzo Church in Turin, a tradition we had for years in my family. Then on Santo Stefano's day (the day after Christmas), a moment of silence on my part would follow, in front of my father's nativity, which he has been putting together since he was a boy to create every year the spiritual meaning of Christmas in our family. 

Here in New England, since I had William in 2009, I have started dreaming of a really white Christmas, just like in this song:

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas

With every Christmas card I write

May your days be merry and bright

And may all your Christmases be white

Ironically, last year and most probably also this year, snow in New England, the State which gets buried under snow for 4 months per year, did not come I believe until after Christmas. Certainly, after we left Boston for the Christmas holidays, on December 23rd. So this year, once again, I have forgotten that Christmas is on its way. Well, until yesterday, when I said to John in panic: "OMG! Two weeks from now we are going to Italy. What?? Cards? Gifts? We'll better sort all this out today!"

I blame it on the snow that has not come yet and on my two year old, who cannot stand any shopping experience in a non familiar store for more than 20 seconds. If I add the requirements of having to travel by public transport with no stairs and of going to an area with large, clean and accessible restrooms plus a children playarea or a toy store nearby, where Tronk can jump, push and scream to his wish, the number of shopping options I have left are down to probably one or two. As a result, here in New England, I can only acknowledge that Christmas is coming until I see the snow outside the window. The houses topped with Christmas tree decorations and commercialized cartoon characters don't seem to do the trick for me here. I just look at them and smile but when I look at them I just cannot get into the Christmas mood. 

Can't you see that Christmas is coming??

I now do. Wondering how did it happen? Yesterday I finally saw the snow. Yes, snow was falling! And I found something better than CVS to truly get into the spirit of the Season. I discovered... the Enchanted Village.

Neve! Neve! Neve! (Snow! Snow! Snow!)

William at the Enchanted Village

Originally created in 1958 by a Bavarian toy maker, the display is a reconstruction of a little New England village with 28 fully decorated holiday scenes, 250 "automata" figures and real snow falling (and melting) on us.

One of the animated scenes at the Enchanted Village

Judging from the cute (or corny, as my husband would say) exhibit, life was hard back then in New England, yet so much simpler. No big chains, no mass production, only small independent stores selling products that were fresh, handmade and nicer to look at. And the children were playing with snow balls in the street, in their handmade toggle coats, elegant hats and matching scarves. Beautiful! "This is what I needed to see to get into the Christmas mood. We should come to this village every year!", I said to John.

There are two things I completely failed to acknowledge: (1) the Enchanted Village in 1950 was seen at the time probably as tacky as the giant Snoopy standing next to Joseph and Mary in a nativity scene in someone's yard today (2) the Enchanted Village exists because a big ass furniture chain has decided to bring the original display from 1950 back to life thanks to the large chunk of money the chain invests every year in entertainment. 

Thank you Jordan's Furniture for making me feel the magic of a white Christmas (un Natale con i fiocchi).