I first spotted this shop while waiting to meet a real estate agent across the street. At the time, I didn’t give it much thought, assuming it was a tiny shop selling shitty antiques.
When I was younger I loved going through antique stores. I’d look for old coins, books, or jewelry. As a young adult, I looked for art and furniture. However, after buying a dining table, bed frame, and a few chairs, I decided, , “Mollo Tutto!” (Enough! No more!) The furniture was rickety and the art work fell apart. It felt awful living with such precarious furnishings.
So I mostly ignored the shop, Ditutto Dipiu. The name means “More of Everything.” After looking it up in google translate, I thought, “More like, more of everything I don’t want.”
But, then we (at-freaking-last) found an apartment we liked, and we decided to write a proposal. The apartment was not only unfurnished, but we’d have to install our own kitchen. I estimated the costs of buying everything, and suddenly, recycled furniture seemed like it deserved another look.
Jole was the one who suggested I give Ditutto Dipiu a try. I was helping her come up with a lesson plan for her class, (why she asked me for help with such a task, I’ve no idea), and I asked if she knew of any good used furniture stores – brick n mortar, or online. She showed me subito.it, and then recommended I head over to Ditutto Dipiu. She said they had loads of stuff – and she assured me that much of it was of high quality.
So I stopped in on my way home. Holy cripes, she wasn’t lying. What looked like a tiny store front, gave way to a huge warehouse of everything you could imagine … that’s right … everything, and more.
The furniture wasn’t all rinky-dink and wobbly. Many pieces were solid and of top quality Italian craftsmanship.
I noted the furniture, snapping a few pictures as I went. This dresser/desk is 120 euros.
On that visit, I bought a salad spinner and radiator humidifier. Not for us – but to replace those that had broken at our temporary airBnB apartment.
Rather than asking for 8 euros, the clerk asked for my address and documents. Apparently, they didn’t allow purchases without registering. I wondered if that was a government policy. I gave him our temporary apartment address and my California drivers license.
He printed out a sticker, slapped it on the back of this card, scanned it, and handed it to me.
So now I’m all registered, legal, and set up to bargain hunt, ala Frugal Wood’s Style, here in Verona Italy.
Turns out, another family beat us to signing a proposal for the river apartment. We’ve since found a place across the river. It’s partially furnished, and comes with a fully installed kitchen. So finding furniture on the cheap is no longer urgent. Even so, I’m sure we’ll need to buy some stuff. When I do, I’ll be sure to start at More of Everything.
After nearly 2 months in Verona, we still haven’t found a home. Before moving here, I’d signed a contract to rent a beautiful top floor condo in Borgo Trento. But the owners sold it, and our contract was negated. We found out after arriving. We’ve gone from one airBnB to the next, all while apartment hunting. It seems every time we find a place, something goes wrong. On top of it all, we have to register with the questura (local police), arrange for all our boxes to be delivered, and get our son off to school every day.
Note: As we began recording Verona Episode 2, I started a five minute countdown on my phone. After passing the four minute mark, Max became unresponsive as he focused on the timer. He seemed to think that we had to end exactly at 5 minutes, and he wanted to alert me when time was up. If he hadn’t diverted his attention so completely to the time, I think he would have answered our questions about Italian language and history classes. We’ll see how we do next time.
Christmas present spoiler alert for Michelle, my sister: Turn back now if you want to be surprised!
We’ve been utter failures at finding a place to live here in Verona. I’ll detail the experience in a later post. Suffice to say it’s been a few months, we’re living in a temporary hovel, and I’m coming both unhinged and unglued. Two days ago, we toured an apartment that’s kind of meh but good enough. Capitulating, we asked to sign a contract. I received it in email last night.
Yesterday, after my penultimate Italian class at Inclasse of Verona, Dirk and I met with the owner of our temporary/bridge-to-home/hovel airBnb to sign a contract for this month. He was surprised to learn that his friend, Paola, hadn’t called us yet to arrange to see her apartment, which she intended to rent. He explained that this apartment was just about his favorite place in the city, and we really must see it. Top floor, terraces, the works. FFS.
But we got to talking tax and maritime law, and you know how that goes. That’s right, it was difficult to move on from such intoxicating subjects.
As he assembled his belongings, I asked him to call Paola on our behalf. Come to find out they’ve been renovating and her mother in law didn’t want to show the apartment until it was perfect. Paola explained, “You know how mother in laws can be.” Sarcastically, I said, “nooooo. I wouldn’t know at all.”* She didn’t pick up on my tone, however, and continued to explain how mother in laws could be.
*To be completely honest – my knowledge of bad in-laws comes second-hand. My mother in law is wonderful. I won the in-law lottery. And I’m not writing this to cover my ass. It’s absolutely true. Helen is a sweetheart.
Reminder: Italian humor != British humor.
She asked to meet to talk, and proposed 4pm at school. Her 11 yr old son also attends, and she picks him up at the same time we pick up DS. At that time we could arrange the viewing.
Ruh roh. But … but …. I had my class field trip to a Valpolicella winery at 2:30. What to do? It took all of 2 seconds to resolve the matter. Send husband as family ambassador to meet Paola.
Dirk accompanied me to my meeting spot with the class. As we discussed his meeting, I said, “act normal!” (as in Little Miss Sunshine). No one got the reference, but the Aussies thought it was funny. The Italians? Not so much.
Valpolicella is gorgeous. It’s a small valley to the northwest of Verona. We toured the grape processing, wine fermenting, and bottling facilities of Terre di Leone.
Obligatory Grape Shot:
Loading grapes into the stem separator ( later I learned that guy up there is the winery owner ):
My adorbs* teacher, Giacomo, complete with wild-n-crazy hair, snapping a photo:
Here’s our tour guide explaining the effect oak barrels have on the wine. I understood nothing (except for where the barrel maker’s label is located (Answer: at the very top of the lid)).
Here’s our tour guide explaining the complex process that went into each of the six bottles we were about to test. I understood nothing.
When a call came in from a realtor, suddenly, my brain snapped to attention. Over the phone, I held a full convo. We agreed to meet at 2pm Friday. When I returned to the wine tasting room, it was back to hearing the Peanuts teacher – wah wah wah wah wah.
One day it will be effortless (it has to be, right?), this comprehending of a foreign tongue. But that day ain’t today. Nor do I suspect it will be tomorrow. But one day. I have to tackle that Elena Ferrante novel, after all. Laudable goals here. Nothing but laudable goals.
I discovered that I possess the refined tastes of the proletariat.
We tried small pours from 6 bottles. From left to right:
1. Table wine. Valpolicella Classico. Aged in casks 4 months.
2. Ripasso. Where the cheap table wine went through 2 stages of fermentation.
3. Classico Superiore. similar to #1 but aged 10 months.
4. Calssico Superiore Ripasso. #3 taken through fermentation 2x.
5. Amarone #1 aged for years
6. Amarone #2 aged > 4 years.
My fave? 1 & 3. Nearly everyone else raved about the Ripasso – #2. That was my least favorite.
#3 reminded me of a wine that my sister loved. I don’t remember the name of it, but that right there was the taste.
We stood around in the cold, and Maria – a substitute teacher who I hadn’t met until the tour* – asked me questions. Like so many other Italians, her eyes widened, just so slightly, upon the mention of my son’s school. I interrogated. Her opinion: parents pay for grades. She knew a teacher who was pressured to inflate grades. I made a mental note to let DS’s teacher know that we did not want inflated grades. If DS earns a C, we’ll teach him how to handle a C. Better to learn how to deal with reality. The world ain’t made up of gentle and inflated As and Bs.
I thanked her for being candid, then explained my understanding of the school. (I forget if I’ve written about it). Briefly: there are two tracks – regular Italian certificate, and IB. For kids on the IB track, there’s no getting around the tests. Grades really don’t matter. We intend for DS to be in the IB track, so we should be okay. She added that as far as she knew, they hired really good teachers. It was mostly the administration that had a bad rep. This aligns with what Jole had told me.
Giacomo announced it was time to go? But wait, we hadn’t been shuttled into a retail room to buy wine. “Oh you want to buy wine?” he asked. He called out for our host.
OMG how refreshing! Not being herded like cattle into the retail funnel.
I bought 2 bottles of #3 for Christmas gifts (one for my sister), and one bottle of #1 for me to enjoy, prolly this weekend.
When I returned home, I asked DH about meeting Paola. He said the apartment is 4 bedroom, 2 floors, 2 terraces, a bit up the hill in Valdegona. She’s going to pick us up at 9am Friday (4 hrs from now as I write), to come have a look. We’ll see.
For your viewing pleasure, one more obligatory grape shot:
*Why do I still use the word, “adorbs?” Because, in addition to being adorbs itself, I get to imagine the 20 something kids of the family recoiling and cringing upon reading it. It’s a win win.
When we were living in Malaysia, I reduced my wine purchases to a few bottles a month, as drinkable wine could set you back 100ringgit a pop. At an exchange rate of 4ringgit to the dollar, that’s a $25 bottle of wine. Back in the US, $7-$12 was more the range I went for.
Eventually, I found a bang-for-the-buck value wine. Piccini Chinati, from Italy, sold for 72 ringgit a bottle. It offered the optimized balance of drinkability and affordability. Still, $18USD, so ouch.
Imagine my surprise/horror, when, soon after moving to Italy, I encountered this display in the local grocery shop near our apartment in Verona:
Did you do the math? That’s right, this bottle of wine is 5x more expensive in Malaysia.
I think it’s time to celebrate this discovery with a financially-guilt-free glass of vino. Salute.
Maria Callas was neither the voice, nor the diva to me. To me, she was a mix of cautionary tale, and mentor.
Here, in Verona, I first noticed the Maria Callas Exhibition during a house hunting trip back in May. Yesterday, I bought a ticket, slipped the audio tour headphones over my ears, and slowly progressed through each exhibit room at the Palazzo Forti Verona. Each display was mildly interesting, but two specific displays brought back vivid memories.
One detailed the timeline of Callas’s relationship with Aristotle Onassis. The other, a room of manikins wearing dresses – Biki, Yves Saint Laurent – from her post-fat diva life.
In December 1996, I was 24 years old, and just six months into my new career at a silicon valley semiconductor company. I flew to Boston and presented at a conference in Boston’s Copley center. My talk was on using configurable processors, simple chains of multipliers and adders, to implement filters commonly used in DSP algorithms. Applications ranged from radar communications to video manipulation. I was a green engineer. My talk was mediocre, and it was at a conference organized by the company my father was a director at. So my notions of grandeur were tempered somewhat. Still, I remember wanting to feel important, like a contributor to the Science. After the talk, to about nine attendees, in a small room off to the side of the convention, I didn’t feel terribly important. But – I didn’t feel small either. I’d answered most of the questions well enough, and a couple attendees said the presentation was informative. Good enough for me – I was on my way.
My parents were staying in a room down the hall from me. I still felt like a college student – with my parents paying for dinners and chaperoning me around. One day, my mom noted that I dressed like what a college student might think a professional dressed like, and suggested we go shopping. She noted that I now had a silicon valley salary,* so why not spend it? I responded as I usually did with my mother: I tacitly agreed that it sounded a good idea, but I took no action.
One night, my mom and I took in a play at Boston’s Wilbur Theater. It was Master Class by Terrence McNally. Faye Dunaway played Marie Callas. It was, if I recall correctly, the first time I’d ever heard of the opera singer. But I knew Faye Dunaway from Bonnie and Clyde.
The story was set in Juilliard in the mid 1970s, at the end of Ms. Callas’s career. By then she’d lost her voice, as well as all the people she’d ever loved. She was unreserved and harsh as she dispensed curt advice to her students. She admonished them for childish notions such as sentimentality or not giving every performance the full measure of their hearts. As each student began a song, the stage would go dark, all except for a single spotlight on Faye Dunaway, and she’d reflect on her life. Two recurring topics were Aristotle Onassis and fashion.
Numerous times, she referred to her role in her relationship with Aristotle as being that of a bird in a cage. She was his trophy, his prize to possess. She was on display for him. She filled this role easily, as she was the preeminent songbird of their time.
I discovered, in the Maria Callas exhibition, that, prior to meeting Arno, she’d spent a couple years losing close to 40lbs. She’d cultivated a diva persona, and taken on the role of fashionista. To match the voice, she’d groomed her plumage to match.
Ultimately, however, there was a cage between Maria and her lover, and even as she hoped to be let out, she privately knew she never would. Confirmation came when reading the paper one morning. He’d married Jacqueline Kennedy. Faye Dunaway reenacted the scene on stage. It was heartbreaking to watch, but I couldn’t help but think she was an idiot all the same. Why would you choose to get your personal fulfillment by being someone’s bird in a cage? That imagery has stayed wth me for two decades. As has the motto of Blanche in Streetcar Named Desire**, “I always rely on the kindness of strangers.” Damned fools!
Walking through the exhibit, I discovered new information about her relationship. For example, she renounced her US citizenship in order to be legally available to marry Mr. Onassis, should he ask her. He never asked her. Also, she had his child, but Homer failed to thrive, and only lived a few hours after birth. After Ari, and the death of her baby, she was never the same. From then on, a haunting emotion came through when she sang. Watch and listen to this 1973 performance in London. The voice, the song, the feeling. Bellissima. And Gah – that gown. I love it.
In the play, when she snapped back to coldly lecturing her students, she gave them her thoughts on fashion, being a diva, and how to make an impression on people. She advised wearing understated but well fitting and top quality clothing. And a scarf. A scarf that said who you were – that you could wear with purpose and conviction. She configured it through the class depending on her mood, and it somehow boosted her presence.
The next day, my mom asked me if I wanted to go shopping. I readily agreed. $300 later I owned a new, perfectly tailored suit, a couple sleek blouses, and a scarf. To this day, I’m particular about wearing clothes that fit. I tend toward pieces that convey an understated message of confidence. When the air has a bit of a chill, I wear a scarf. I still have the scarf that I bought in Boston that week I saw Maria Callas.
*note: SI Valley salaries were high back then, but nowhere near what new engineers are paid today.
Two weeks ago, my husband, my son, and I moved to Verona Italy. This is the first in a series of podcasts about a family of Americans adjusting to life in Italy.
It’s our second overseas jaunt. We come here by way of Penang, Malaysia, where we lived for four years. The first two years were as employees of a semiconductor firm. We’d moved there on an expat assignment, having worked for many years at the same Silicon Valley semiconductor company. After two years in Malaysia, we quit our jobs and began living off of savings. This is what people in the early retirement community refer to as FIRE (Financial Independence / Retire Early). But after four years of perpetual summer, I couldn’t take it anymore. My husband, Dirk, didn’t want to move back to the states, so I chose Italy. Now, here we are. And this is our story.
Pictures from Sanremo July 2015 – I took Italian classes at Omnilingua. My teacher, Carmen was adorable, and my classmates were there to learn. I learned to cook risotto from an experienced Sanremo chef – hint: boil the hell out of the tomatoes before squooshing them into a sauce to then boil down with the risotto.
Sari is a Muslim feminist, university professor, and peace activist, not to mention PhD. The first time I saw her she was running toward me through a light rain in central Banda Aceh, Indonesia. I stood in front of the main Mosque, with all skin duly covered; I wore long pants, long sleeved shirt and scarf to cover my hair. As if anyone could be wooed by my stringy thin hair. But this was a mosque and I’d been instructed to dress appropriately.
Her toothy smile grew with every stride toward me. We made quick introductions and then she found us a becak driver and hurriedly gave him directions to her home. Max, my son, and I piled into the tiny motorcycle side car, luggage and all. We crouched under the plastic tarp while Dirk, my husband, climbed on the seat behind the driver. Sari disappeared.
We motored off into traffic and what now was heavy rain. Max told me about apes who crush leaves to make medicines, wondered whether black holes could swallow two suns whole at once, and brainstormed ways to design jet-packs. Such are the daily conversations when living with an eight year old boy. I watched the streets of Banda Aceh go by. While similar to Malaysia, the feel is more like Cambodia, but with more hijabs. I didn’t see a single woman with uncovered hair.
Fifteen minutes later we were at Sari’s house.
I first discovered Sari on couchsurfing.org, just two days prior.With Max having a week off of school, we decided to go somewhere. Dirk had heard good things about Sabang Island, so we booked a few nights at a budget beach-side resort there, and set to find a place to stay in Banda Aceh for one night in transit. I sent a few requests to people on the couchsurfing.org website and Sari was the first to accept.“Meet me at the main mosque, Baiturahman,” were her instructions, adding, “please wear a proper clothes when you are around mosque because people will see you strangely if you wear not a proper one. I am sorry I have to say this. I will be there around 3.30-3.45. I will keep watching a husband and wife with one kid :-)” Later she emailed to recommend we bring a mosquito net. “Uh oh.” I thought.
Now here we were, three expat Americans in Indonesia for the very first time.Sari brought out a tray of coffee and pastries.She lives with her mother in a relatively large house, and works at the local university teaching gender studies and English.She studied in Australia and Virginia.She disclosed some personal thoughts on religions but I’m not at liberty to tell them here. Sorry. Let’s just say she loves meeting people and learning about their experiences. I could tell I was going to love her as a host. She was warm and welcoming and well, she served us coffee and pastries – Sari’s a grade A host.
Then she showed us to our room.
Now that we’re living off of our savings, and frugally embracing free travel on couchsurfing.org, I’m not fussy with accommodations.But walking into our bedroom I felt reticent.Watermarks on the wall indicated an old and still at-it leak.Dust dunes filled in the screens of the half moon cut-outs above the interior windows.Immediately, I dug out a loratadine and a monolukast sodium from my ziplock travel dispensary.
Readying myself for any kind of allergic attack triggered by dust mites or mold, I took the pills andI hastily inhaled a squirt of Qnase in each nostril. I then verified we had the prednisone… just in case. We did. Phew.
Now to be clear – this hyper sensitivity is something I have to deal with everywhere we go. Sari’s house was great! Aside from some issues that were squarely my problem, I was thrilled to be there and liked Sari immensely. She had welcomed us with engaged hospitality.
When we emerged from our sleeping quarters, Sari offered to walk us to the corner and point out the good places to shop and eat. We accepted.
We passed a coffee shop that was popular with the aid workers in the years after the 2004 tsunami.I asked why it didn’t look like a devastated city. It seemed old and in tact.
Sari explained.“The water stopped 8km from the shore, but this area is 9km away.People moved here and further inland after the tsunami.Our house was just one km from where the damage ended.So this area still is of the old roads and houses.But we didn’t go unscathed; our house shook in the earthquake.It cracked quite a bit.”
We walked to a local food cart, ordered a spicy noodle dish and sat down.Similar to how we’re treated in rural areas of Malaysia, people stared at us, especially at Max.His blue eyes and strawberry hair are novelties to in areas of southeast asia where the locals are unaccustomed to ginger foreigners.
Over an early dinner Sari explained that she works to encourage more women to run for elected office so that women and children can make their voices heard.She explained the history of the Aceh struggle against Jakarta from the seventies to 2004, when the tsunami hit.As usual, it came down to resources.The Acenese wanted a greater cut of the profits from this province.They were getting 25%.They wanted 75%.So for 30 years they fought.Ironically, it wasn’t war that brought compromise, but another devastation: the tsunami. In 2005, the Acenese gained what they had fought for for so long.Among other compromises, Jakarta gave them their 75%.
I asked abouta picture I’d seen in Sari’s house. It was of her family decades ago: mother, father, Sari and Sari’s brother.In it, they all wore western clothes. Sari and her mother wore stylish hair, uncovered. I asked why her mother and she wore hijab now.
“We have to.It’s the law.” she explained.“In 1999 in Aceh province, the leaders made a law saying all women have to cover up in public. We could be arrested if we didn’t wear it.The strong leaders were from the rural areas, where people are very conservative and very religious.We were fighting the government and the rural leaders held the most power among the rebels.It was then that they made the law requiring all women to cover themselves.Of course, at that time, only men were in power.Women and children had no voice.”
“So that’s why you wear the hijab…” I thought aloud, “because it’s the law.Would you not wear it if it wasn’t the law?”
“No! I wouldn’t wear it!” Then she shared her true and colorful feelings about the law. But I won’t share them here. I wouldn’t want to get her in trouble.
Later in the conversation the topic of ISIS came up.Recently, they published a declaration that Islam dictated they should take women and children into slavery wherever they conquered infidels.Sari shook her head.“I know, it’s awful.Nobody thinks like that.”
On the walk home, we found ourselves snaking between cars and scooters in high density barely-moving traffic. The intersection was chaotic and noisy. People inched forward here and there trying to gain position so that if and when traffic started flowing, they’d be first to go… all of a few inches more.
Sari noted the traffic was heavy because so many people had moved into this section of town since the tsunami.The infrastructure was inadequate for such a high population. This traffic jam had all the chaos of Saigon, and the vehicle density of the 405 in LA. Poor bastards.
Later that night, after the traffic cleared, Sari’s brother drove us to a part of town where the tsunami had deposited a fishing boat atop a house. Sari explained that she had lost her sister-in-law’s family in the tsunami as well as a dear childhood friend. Everyone lost loved ones.
We returned home and thanked Sari for the day. After preparing for bed and placing my go-to allergy armory on the bed stand, we rigged up the mosquito netting and Max and I climbed in. I remained as fully clothed as an orthodox muslim. I wasn’t going to take any chances with those skeeters.
Dirk slept in his tighty whities. Guess who got bit all along the portion of his leg that touched the netting during the night? That’s right. This guy:
The next morning, Sari joined us on the front porch. She served us coffee that her brother had brought from a village in the Inodesian hills. It’s where her family is from, and they still have extended family who live there. Then she called to confirm our cab ride to the ferry. It was time to leave for Sabang Island.
Over 160,000 people died in the 2004 tsunami. Sari said everyone lost loved ones. She lost her sister in law and a dear child hood friend. As we drove to the ferry, we passed the Tsunami museum.
I was relieved not to have time to visit. It would make me very sad. And I wanted to stay happy, because I was so thrilled to have met Sari. Indonesia is a rich country indeed, with jewels like the one we found in Banda Aceh.
I nearly ranted online against the rampant human rights violations in Thailand. It was in reaction to people posting comments in a Mr. Money Mustache forum thread about wanting to retire there. I wanted to scream, “But Thai corruption is pervasive, and often police, after ostensibly ‘saving’ refugees, sell these vulnerable people into slavery.” Anecdotes for you:
I cited, as further evidence of Thailand’s reprehensible state of existence, the fact that the US State Department classified them as ‘Tier 3’ in the 2014 Human Trafficking Report.
Then, before posting, I looked up Malaysia, our home right now, in the State Department report. My jaw dropped. ‘Tier 3’.
That report pulled the rug out. I can’t believe human trafficking is as bad here as it is in Thailand. So I read more of the report.
‘Tier 3’ means the government is making little to no effort to comply to international standards for combating human trafficking.
The actual trafficking is different in each country. In Thailand – it’s what those articles point out. Corruption is endemic at all levels of government, and government agents often take active roles in the trafficking. In Malaysia, the government simply looks the other way. It has also created laws that work against the vulnerable. For example, in 2013 Malaysia passed a law putting the onus on immigrant workers to pay for and deal with all immigration costs/issues – not the recruiting agencies who bring them in and subsequently turn them into indentured servants. So in Thailand, officials actually engage in misconduct. In Malaysia, the government is more passive – turning a blind eye to shady practices and with that law, somewhat enabling private agencies to violate the rights of immigrants. Neither country is making much effort to rectify human trafficking abuses or fix structural problems that disenfranchise immigrants.
I’m having a mini-crisis here. How can I live in a Tier 3 country? Cognitive Dissonance? Looking into the details I still think Thailand is much much worse. But, it’s not non-existent here. I’ve met two Filipino maids, one here and one in Singapore (admittedly Sing is not in Malaysia), who are essentially indentured servants. Both women have small children back home who they only see ONCE A YEAR FOR A WEEK! And the other 51 weeks of the year they’re raising other peoples’ kids. And they’re making NOTHING.
I’ve written a few drafts on my FB status but haven’t hit ‘post’. The latest draft:
“To my expat friends in Malaysia – if you are looking to hire help for around the house, please hire locals and pay them market rates. There are scant protections for foreign workers recruited by agencies.
Don’t be a part of the reason that Malaysia, in 2014, fell to ‘Tier 3’ status on the US State Dept. Human Trafficking Report. :(. We can do better. (http://www.state.gov/documents/organization/226847.pdf)”
But IDK. I’m a guest here. Not an activist. But how can I just be okay with ‘Tier 3’?