Whence last we spoke, back in October, I was very focused on cocktail creation. Why? Well, drinking helps, right? 🙂 K, maybe that humor is a little dark for the moment. Joking aside, the short and diplomatic version of my story over the past few months is this…
A ponderous post from my stressful position in a Costa Rican hammock. Jealous yet?
I have put myself in harm’s way to write this post, so you better read it. And like it, dammit.
Our fearless group of expat bloggers returns to you this week with a doozy. We’ve asked our Italian (and one French) partners to talk about what it’s like being with us crazy expats. Oh, how the tables have turned.
Many of the culturally shocking aspects of my life here in Italy cannot actually be attributed to living in Italy, but instead to living in a small town. Case in point, this past weekend I voyaged to rural Ireland and found it shockingly comparable to a small town experience here in Italy.
A Collective Post By Some Of Italy’s Best Known Expat Bloggers – Rick Zullo of Rick’s Rome, Misty Evans of Surviving Italy, and me… of here. (Spoiler alert: We all came to the same conclusion.)
A serious post for a serious day. In respectful remembrance of the Holocaust, here are some of my grandfather’s WWII photos, including those from Buchenwald concentration camp.
The super stealth detective skills of yours truly, put to the test in the ultimate question: “did my Italian man cheat on me?”
I feel like I’ve climbed Everest. I’ve cured cancer. I’ve solved world poverty. I’ve lost ONE WHOLE KILO in a week, whilst remaining inside the geographical confines of Italy! AND, I am fairly certain I didn’t offend anyone in the process.
Adapting to a new culture can be a tumultuous process. It’s a mistake to not talk about the difficult parts of living in Italy, for fear of ruining the fairy tale image. (For those of you who don’t like to read, I made a graph that sums it up pretty well.)
My marito pointed out to me today that the infamous “Striscia Notizia” has made a rather large and perhaps revolutionary change to it’s format. Does objectifying men make up for the years of objectifying women?
Those of you expats who are particularly strong-willed (read ‘stubborn’) may be able to relate to this short, yet accurate, assessment detailing the three phases of submitting to the way things are done here in Italy – or, as I like to call it, “1,2,3, é così”‘.
In my vast one year of experience (but 6 years together, with 5 of them in Italy), I shall try to address and debunk some common myths about marrying an Italiano, with a concerted effort to artfully sidestep the stereotypes and generalizations that sometimes get me in trouble.
Exploring my thoughts on tight versus loose, regarding men’s lower body garments.
How do you tactfully beg this of your fiance’s brother at their mother’s dinner table? This was the task I was charged with one memorable evening two years ago.
The second week after arriving in Italy, as I was knee deep in my attempt to nest in my boyfriend’s bachelor pad, our toilet broke… it was a Friday morning. This is the story of my naive attempt to have it fixed.
The story of an Italian husband saving his own hide with none other than… food.
It’s that time of year again here in rural Emilia… that time of year when La Famiglia gets together for a full day of literally pigging out. The Maialata (‘maiale’ means ‘pig’ and ‘-ata’ kind of makes it a ‘fest’) is a traditional meal that takes place in January, when farmers used to butcher their pigs for the coming year’s supply of prosciutto and salame.
The following story has been one of my favorites to tell and retell over the course of my time here in Italy. It was one of my first culture shock experiences, and it took place the first month I was in Italy – about 4 years ago. It exemplifies the understatement that Italian do all business by word-of-mouth and personal recommendations.