The important things: bread, wine, bicycle

Pane--  (rhymes with cane; see earlier entry) means bread.  This has been something that is surprisingly hard to find around here.  Not bread in general, but good bread.  I repeat, not easy to find!!  Our school has fairly good bread, but my grocery store sells hard, tasteless bread.  Recently I did find a good small loaf called ciabattina at the bakery right across the street from my apartment.  It costs .30E for a loaf. 

My first time going to the bakery was almost movie material.  I crossed the street and heard old, jazzy music.  I looked around to try to find it and it was from an apartment right above the bakery.  There was an old man with an old radio playing music.  His clothes were hanging up on the line, he was shouting something down at me, and I felt like I was really in Italy.  Ahhhh.

Before we leave carbs, I must say that along with good bread it is equally difficult to find good breakfast pastries.  Nothing is quite as disappointing as biting into a delicious looking pain au chocolat and getting a mouthful of lemon flavor, followed by chocolate.  For some reason, the Italians think that lemon zest and chocolate is a good combination.  I disagree whole-heartedly.  I think chocolate is best kept by itself and lemon is best in lemonade.

Vino Bianco—white wine.  I live above a tiny little wine shop that sells wine from a keg for 2.20 E/liter.  And it is tasty.  And you bring your own bottle.  The owner is a sweet woman whose mother was there with her the day I went.  The mother speaks no English, but loves to talk.  I love listening because she speaks very slowly.  The daughter is a mother herself and we were comparing schools, ASM vs. local schools.  The older mother is friends with our cafeteria head chef.  Perhaps that is why the wine is so good at our teacher meals.  I also got a frequent shopper card on my first visit and didn’t even need a codice fiscale. 

 Bicicletta--  bicycle.  Yikes!  It (along with some other 450 pounds) finally arrived this weekend.  My shipment made it.  I finally got to change my sheets and wash my towels.  Neither of which I did before in fear of them not drying by the time I needed to use them again. 

1.  unpacking my dishes.  2.  clean sheets at last, drying

Back to the bike.  So, I now have my bike.  It is a little red cruiser that I bought from my friend, Anne, back in the States but never had much chance to use there.  I have had it four days now and have ridden it three of those.  I have not had any major mishaps yet.  My biggest problem was that my bell fell off earlier today and distracted by that I nearly ran into someone.  I got some dirty looks, but I brushed those off when minutes later an Orlando Bloom look alike waved and smiled at me walking my bike across the street. 

I ride the long way to work.  It is about 3.5 miles each way, but there are no hills and no 90-degree turns so it takes less time.  I often think of The Wizard of Oz and the wicked witch riding on her broom.  My shadow makes me think of this (especially when I’m wearing a skirt!), as does the soundtrack my bicycle provides.  Remember that music that plays every time she is flying? 

Also, do you remember where The Wizard of Oz takes place before Oz?  Kansas!  Yes, I bike through what feels like the Midwestern plains of the US.  Every single day I think of driving to Wisconsin through that boring state of corn fields called Indiana.  Toto, I think were not in Milan anymore. 

Today was a beautiful ride through mist and a glorious sunrise on one side of the path and the full moon setting on the other side of me.  Wow! 

Finally, here are two words in English that they need in Italian:

1)     muffler-  as in get your *&&($## motorcycles some %$#%^@!! mufflers.  For some reason using them is not popular here.  My ears suffer for it and I curse the motorcyclists every. Single. Day.!!!

eardrum-shattering Italian motorcycle

2)     Personal space—I feel like I am playing bumper cars everywhere here.  On the sidewalk.  On my bike.  And especially in the grocery store.  Carts and people bumping into each other everywhere.  No “excuse me”s; no “Oh, I’m sorry”s.  Riding in the taxi to the questura (DMV/prefecture-esque government office) today, I realized that even real cars are like bumper cars here.  No lanes.  Speed up and see if you can slow down before you bump into someone else.  Ugh!