Often I get comments from Italians that Americans do not eat well – processed food, Big Macs, artificial cheese, no vegetables, etc., and that nobody knows how to cook over there.  On one hand, I do admit that the American supermarket aisles are far more packed with processed fake foods, and yes, I know plenty of Americans who do not cook.  However this is not always the case, and it is certainly not the case in  my hometown of Seattle!

I read this great piece on things that Texas and Italy have in common, over at Bleeding Espresso as part of Michelle’s Gita Italiana.  It got me thinking of how well I was able to live in Seattle – even if it was more expensive than here – while maintaining the Italian lifestyle I love so much.  If you dream of being an expat in Italy, but have just not arrived at that moment yet, it’s well worth it (and healthy) to explore your own city and try to find ways to bring Italy to you.  Here are some ways to do so in Seattle.

The Market Culture. Anybody who has been to Seattle has been to the Pike Place Market.  There are plenty of farmers markets all over the city, but Pike Place is an icon of Seattle and is teeming with stalls selling fresh fish (and by the way, the pacific northwest has some amazing salmon), fruits and vegetables, flowers, local wines.  The area around the market is full of small, hole-in-the-wall ethnic restaurants, cafes, an Italian Grocer, wine shops.  When I would pine for Europe while living in Seattle, this is where I would go. A café au lait and a croissant at Le Panier while watching the market wake up in the morning?  Priceless.  When I lived in the First Hill neighborhood, almost downtown, I would walk to the market and get my produce there.

The Café Culture. Another thing Europeans commonly say about America is that our coffee is no good.  That’s because they have not been to Seattle!  And no, I am not talking about Starbucks.  I’m talking about smaller local businesses such as Caffe Vita, Caffe Umbria, Vivace and many more. These folks roast their own beans, and with Italian machinery, Seattle’s baristi (at cafes such as Senso Unico) will serve up some of the best espresso on that side of the pond.  The difference between Seattle cafes and Italian bars, however, is that in Seattle you are most likely to enjoy your coffee drink seated in a big cushy armchair as you work on your laptop (almost all Seattle cafes have wi-fi).

The Foodie Culture. We Seattlites love to eat.  And we love to cook.  And we cook well.  A lot of people have gardens and are able to get their ingredients right in the backyard.  Someone is always having friends over for dinner, and there is always creative use of local ingredients (such as our seafood).  We have a wine culture too (yes, our state has its own Wine Country, and you haven’t lived until you’ve tasted one of our floral merlots).  One great thing about Seattle being a port city, is how international it is.  You can find cuisine from all over the world – France, Italy, Spain, Japan, Vietnam, Argentina, Ethiopia and the list goes on.  Being an Italian food lover, I found it very easy to recreate my favorite recipes using the ingredients available to me in Seattle.  It’s a good life!

What does your hometown have in common with your adopted country?

*This post was written for AffordableCallingCards.net. Not only can you read more posts about expat life written by myself and other bloggers, it’s a great place to look for cheap phone cards.  Yes, I know, with the internet it’s easy to keep in touch.  But we expats also like a regular phone call every now and then!

“Oh Tina, you silly girl,” everybody at the table says, laughing, “that’s so cute that you think the common cold is caused by a (chuckle) virus. Ha ha ha ha ha. Everybody knows that you catch a cold from the cold! Ha ha ha ha ha! Virus!  Oh Tina, you are too much.”

“Oh Tina, you silly girl,” everybody at the table says, laughing, “that’s so cute that you think it doesn’t matter if you go outside right after you eat.  Chuckle chuckle, ha ha ha ha ha.  Everybody knows that if you go outside after a meal you get la congestione!”*

Six months later…. I’m on an air-conditioned shuttle bus, covering myself with a shawl, with a tummy ache, and frantically text-messaging a friend, “I ate lunch and then walked and then sat next to the air conditioning!  I think I have la congestione!”

*La congestione: an Italian phenomenon that takes place if you don’t allow for digestion to fully take place after you eat and go be where it’s cold, or go swimming, go where you might sweat from heat and make yourself cold, or really any sort of environment that has anything to do with being cold.  Apparently, it messes everything up as when you digest all your blood is concentrated on your digestive system.  When you go into a cold environment the blood distributes to the rest of your body to keep you warm and digestion is blocked.  Which is why you should always wear a scarf!  (…and you thought it was just for fashion didn’t you!)  As a bonus, you could also get the influenza (not to be confused with the common flu), which is an Italian flu-like phenomenon that lasts exactly two days.  Remember, cold is evil!

As Switzerland expat Chantal recently expressed, you know you’re a perpetual expat when “people ask where you’re from and you finally have an answer. You say, ‘It’s complicated.’”

While some people relocate to just one country, there are others who, like me, have changed country/continent of residence several times.  My first living abroad experience was in Switzerland in 2002… later I lived in Italy, then Argentina, and now I’m in Italy again.  With the exception of Switzerland, which, while beautiful, was just not my cup of tea, my identity has become so intertwined with the places I lived that I have no idea what to say when people ask where I’m from (which happens often here).  Having two passports does not make things any less complicated.

It’s rather entertaining when they try to guess.  Germany? France?  Uruguay? (Yes, someone in Italy asked if I was from Uruguay and I have yet to understand why.)  They can’t always tell where my strange accent in their language comes from (because it’s mine, all mine!), and I don’t encompass a “typical look” of any one place.

My answer, like Chantal’s, is “it’s complicated”.   This usually draws the curiosity of the asker, and I am launched into my story.  Responses I get are usually in line with “Oh yes, I totally knew it”, which makes me chuckle.

A while ago, a friend shared this video. It’s Argentine and the song is called “De donde sos?” …which means, “Where are you from?”.  It’s sweet and silly (and the guy singing it is cute) and I thought it was perfect for this post.  It defines my “expat type” – the whole reason I started moving abroad in the first place was because I wanted to become part of a place from the inside. What happens really is that the place becomes a part of me and stays that way.

How do YOU answer when people ask where you’re from?

*This post was written for AffordableCallingCards.net, the expat community site. You can click here to read more posts about expat life written by myself and other bloggers.

I remember a poem I learned as a child, by Christina Rossetti, called Who Has Seen the Wind? – in fact, I can still recite it:

Who has seen the wind?

Neither I nor you:

But when the leaves hand trembling

The wind is passing thro’

Who has seen the wind?

Neither you nor I:

But when the trees bow down their heads

The wind is passing by.

I wonder if there is a Southern Italian version involving the various winds that we have down here.  How do you make the phrase: “When your curls are extra curly and your patio is covered in Saharan dust it’s probably the Scirocco” rhyme?  Or “When, despite the warm weather and sun, the wind makes your skin shiver it’s probably the Tramontana and you’d do best to drive a ways and take a dip in the Ionian Sea”…?

Growing up in Seattle, I never knew the wind to have different names, only because it wasn’t part of our culture to speak of the wind in such a way.  As far as I was concerned, it was a language reserved for deep sea fishermen.  Here, however, people base their activities on the wind, and every wind from every direction has a name that everyone knows, rendering it exotic.  The Levante, the Tramontana, the Scirocco (my favorite), the Maestro, among others.  I can’t keep them straight!

The two winds I do know very well by now are the Scirocco from Africa (my apartment stays humid, and outside the wind is warm and pleasant, though at times so strong it’s a nuisance to my hair, which I just throw into a bun) and the Tramontana from the north (it’s a cool wind but that’s when we choose the Ionian Sea over the Adriatic and have the loveliest beach days).

It’s rather impressive to me that such importance is given to the wind.  It’s something I love about living in the Mediterranean – here, there is a connection with nature that seems truly ancient.  From the wind to the soil to the sea to the phases of the moon.

How do people relate to nature where you live?

*This post was written for AffordableCallingCards.net, the expat community site. You can click here to read more posts about expat life written by myself and other bloggers.

I’m sitting in a cozy café in Seattle, drinking my caffè latte, working and enjoying the whir of the espresso machine in the background.  On my left is a big window looking out to the sidewalk.  I see people walking to work, the bus, the market.  I’m contemplating moving over to that big comfy couch over there and snuggling up with my laptop to finish this translation.  It took the barista 7 minutes to make my caffè latte, which is normal since it’s not “rush hour”.  It’s 10:30 am, and there aren’t many people in the café.  Yesterday it took 10 minutes.  People order their drinks and then settle down with their computers.  It’s a relaxed atmosphere. The barista takes her time and we have time.  Sometimes people go up to the counter and chat with the barista.  It’s always fun to eavesdrop.

In Italy, I am walking through the historic center on my way to work or a class, or perhaps to meet someone.  I realize that the coffee I made at home just didn’t do the trick, and it would be nice to have just a teeny bit more caffeine.  I have 5 minutes before I have to be where I’m going.  I duck into a bar (where you get coffee), go to the cash register, tell the cashier I want “un caffè” (which is what you say when you want a shot of espresso), and pay.  I bring my receipt to the barista, who presents me with a little cup with my dear espresso in less time than it takes me to say “caffè”.  I down my caffè standing up (to sit down, I’d have to pay extra) and continue to my destination.  I haven’t even spent 5 minutes in the bar.

In Argentina, I enter the cafe on the corner and pick a table near the window.  Eventually the mozo, waiter, approaches me and I ask for “un cortado” – a cortado is kind of like a caffè macchiato.  He soon returns with a full tray, and one at a time, he sets my cortado, a small glass of sparkling water, a little plate of cookies and the sugar on the table.  I say “Gracias” like I always do, the waiter says “No, a vos” and I take my first sip, slouch onto the table like everyone else in the café, and look out the window.  I could spend 3 or 4 hours in here and never feel pressured to leave or spend more money than I have.  I eventually decide it’s time to go, and catch the waiter’s eye.  Once we lock eyes, we nod at each other and he comes to the table (just like in a milonga).  I ask for la cuenta, the check, and pay him, batting my eyelashes in the hope that he’ll give me some coins with my change so I can take the bus.

What’s the café culture like where you live?

*This post was written for AffordableCallingCards.net, the expat community site. You can click here to read more posts about expat life written by myself and other bloggers.

I’ve been in Seattle a while now… busy…. trying to tie up some loose ends, spending time with people I know (so many of whom I still haven’t seen), dancing tango, drumming up students, translating and trying to get new work for that.  I’m also starting to experience some “culture shock” – amazing that it took me a good three or four months before I noticed any of it.

It’s not a complaint, just an observation, though I do have strong opinions.  One cultural difference I’ve noticed lately is the food culture.  In the U.S., this is definitely a culture of large portion sizes and snacking.  There really is an obesity epidemic (of course this can be tied to a lot of causes and I’m no expert, so can’t get into it here).  I don’t remember really seeing much obesity in Argentina, apart from a few rare occasions.  I’m not exactly the picture of self-restraint when it comes to eating (oh do I love to eat), but when out in public, I’ve noticed that the average person eats probably three times more than I do (and I eat plenty), and most of the time it’s food for which I could not begin to identify the ingredients.

It took me a while to notice that, because my circle of friends here is a rather international mix of Tango dancers and foodies, who relish in choosing good ingredients, cooking with love, and surrounding themselves with friends with whom they can share their creations.  That, and Seattle is a goldmine of beautiful ingredients for cooking.  It’s a great place for picking up healthy habits and being creative with food.

But recently I was on a cross-country trip because of my uncle’s wedding (which I’ll write about later, it was a wonderful trip to Rhode Island), and on the airplane as well as in the connecting airport I noticed some eating habits that surprised me.  Is it really necessary to down a cheeseburger (and fries) at 6 in the morning?  Do we really have to gorge on all the artificial snacks on the flight and then have a big lunch at the connecting airport, only to gorge on more snacks on the connecting flight?  At the connecting airport I saw random people at my gate and other gates, loading themselves with piles and piles of faux food and telling each other “we’d better eat all of this so we’re not hungry when we land”.  The thing is, these people were waiting for flights lasting not more than two hours.  Couldn’t they wait and eat real food at their destination when they actually *were* hungry?

People can do whatever they want and I won’t judge, but this just isn’t healthy for the human body and can cause medical problems further down the line.

The other thing I’ve noticed here is that it’s really hard to get together with people.  Me included.  When I’m in Argentina or Italy I’m much easier to get a hold of.  And so is everyone around me.  It’s very much a culture where people make plans with little notice, from “Hey, do you want to have coffee tomorrow?” to “I’m having an asado tonight, wanna come?”. – These are people with lives, jobs, families, worries.  Yet they somehow make time to see each other.

In the States, people say things to each other like “Sure, I’d love to get together. I’m available in three months.”  – This really happens!  People are so “busy”.  And I’ll admit, it’s hard not to fall into the pattern.  I almost get that way too when I’m here.  I try really hard not to, though.

The people I know from Tango seem to be an exception – they’re all pretty spontaneous and passionate about life (it’s true!) and I see them frequently because it’s not too hard to bring these folks together – particularly when beautiful tango music is guaranteed to at least be playing in the background.

I have a hard time in general making plans too far in advance (especially three months).  Due to the ever-changing nature of my work and also due to my dancing, the best way to see me is to ask me what I’m doing in the next few days to a week.  If I make plans too far in advance I end up canceling them because something always comes up.  And I’ll admit that I’m just terrible lately – there are friends who have been trying to track me down to get together, and I’m just all over the place.  I’m not perfect at all in this regard.  But there really is a cultural difference when it comes to making plans.

Those are the two main things I’ve been thinking about lately.  I could get into other differences I’ve noticed, but I’ll save that for another time.  Right now I have a translation and would like to write about my trip to Rhode Island in my next post.  Also, Tango Magic (Seattle’s tango festival) is coming up!!

Today I asked myself what I would tell somebody if they asked me to describe Buenos Aires.

I closed my eyes and thought of the streets in my neighborhood, Paternal, quiet and lazy, with the occasional truck passing slowly through, the driver spewing announcements (publicity perhaps?) with a megaphone.  I thought of the milongas, particularly the one I go to every week, the music playing just a bit too loud, the people I get to so lovingly embrace on a regular basis with their different cologne smells, embracing me back.

I thought of the colectivos, buses, that cruise through the streets of Buenos Aires, always full at all hours, full of people who do this every day, who are tired after a day of work, or perhaps tired from another day of no work.

I thought of the train through the province, the people that get on to sell things, barefoot children in tow, perhaps this being their only income, and the passengers who are perhaps more accustomed than I am to the contradictions outside the window, of poverty and shantytowns right next to the homes of the well-off.  I thought of the strange, “wild-west” feeling when I get off the train in a certain little town in the province, the little center that seems to have been thrown together with whatever available materials but is bustling nonetheless.

I thought of the cypresses at Chacarita which, while not quite as old and knowing as the ones in Italy, give me comfort.  I thought of the gasista who came to upgrade our gaslines and did his work but then left all his equipment in the house and has not come back for it.  I thought of the construction worker outside who was humming “Naranjo en Flor” while he hammered away, a favorite Tango of mine.  I thought of the essence of Tango that oozes through the city in the most unexpected places and how I feel sorry for people who are too skeptical or ignorant to notice it.

I thought of the way I feel when I dance in the magical milonga of La Glorieta and look out from the gazebo and see apartment buildings peaking out from behind the trees.  I thought of Argentine cumbia and how while I don’t like it too much, it is definitely a part of this city and its identity, in a strange way.

I thought of my terrace and my sage plant, the strong Argentine sun that makes the terracotta tiles too hot.  I thought about the facial expressions and posture of people in cafes, and how some people here really have seen the worst.

I thought of how freely the women down here move their bodies when they dance, and how some of the critical tango tourists I’ve met would never really understand that what they are seeing really IS tango, and that regardless of their expectations, it is a dance of the people of this city.  I thought about the Spanish I speak every day when running errands, out and about, and how it’s always so heartwarming to hear people say “no, a vos” after I say, “gracias”.  I thought of the waitress in the little restaurant in my neighborhood and her natural beauty and laid-back way of saying and doing things that just makes you so comfortable.

I thought of all the growth I have experienced while being here.  I thought about the wonderful visitors I’ve met with who have a curiosity similar to mine, and what a joy it is to share with them.  I thought about how lucky I am because a lot of foreigners would never have the chance (or perhaps desire) to go beyond their own preconceptions of Buenos Aires and really experience it for what it is.

These are the things I thought of but I just couldn’t come up with the words.  All of these visions flashed before me and struck my heart and, speechless, I began to cry.

(UPDATE: The two examples below are based on true stories that I witnessed with my own eyes.)

Dear innocent, unsuspecting newbie to the traditional milongas of Buenos Aires, a few suggestions to make your transition into milonguera life a bit smoother.

1. It’s winter in Buenos Aires and very cold at night, so you subject yourself to throwing on a pair of trousers under that dress for the cold commute between home and the milonga.  I totally understand that and have done it myself.  We all do it.  When it’s cold it’s cold.

But what makes you think it’s logical and classy to change OUT of your trousers in front of everyone at the milonga?  What makes you think we want to be distracted from cabeceo-ing to watch you hike up your dress and pull down your pants?  And I know you think you are being discreet, but the traditional milongas are very well-lit, and do you think for a minute that the men don’t notice it?  Because they do.  If only you knew what they were thinking.  Then again, maybe you don’t want to know.

Maybe this was okay to do at your practica in your hometown.  But you’re not there anymore.  You’re in Buenos Aires.  And you’re not at a practica you are at a milonga.  Here, it’s about how you present yourself.  People here make a special occasion of their favorite Saturday night milonga.  Look around you at how people behave.  They dress in nice, clean clothes, they smell good, they present themselves nicely. Ever hear of the Italian expression, La Bella Figura? (Making a good impression, basically…) Well it applies here too, in terms of how you behave and present yourself in the milongas.  That’s just the way it is.

Tip: the bathroom is right there.  Just a few steps away.  This means that when you arrive you can saunter over to the ladies’ room and pull down your trousers to your heart’s content.  Your friends at the milonga thank you for politely observing this.  If you have a problem with this or wish to leave said trousers on under your dress (something I must admit I have never understood), maybe traditional milongas are not for you.  Try Villa Malcolm. It’s much more casual, and also very dark.

~~~

2. Some folks have an issue about dancers changing their shoes at the table.  I honestly don’t care where you change yours shoes as long you are discreet and there is enough space for you to do so without knocking your head into the table next to you and causing water to spill.  But what I DO have an issue with is this:  do you really think it’s attractive to hoist your foot on your knee and rub foot powder into your foot, between your toes, all around, put your tango shoes on and then get up to dance without even washing your hands?  Ick!

Tip:  Well, I think it goes without saying.  But I’ll say it anyway:  If you must rub any sort of substance into your feet, do so in the ladies room and WASH YOUR HANDS.

I know there are a lot of codigos to remember in the traditional milongas, but it doesn’t take a set of rules to know what’s simply logical.  The above behaviors I have mentioned don’t even need codigos, they are just basic common sense.

And now you are just about ready to milonguear…

Reading Melinda’s post about her ortolano, green grocer, in Florence, I was inspired to write about mine in Buenos Aires.

Here we call them verdulerias. They are all over the place here, in just about every neighborhood.

On my block there are two verdulerias that I like, depending on what I need. One is right downstairs (well, on my street anyway) and one is around the corner. I mostly go to the one downstairs because the verdulero is just wonderful with me. He helps me learn the Spanish names for the various items and he is patient with me. I never touch the produce, he picks it out for me – and he really knows what he’s doing. I’m always happy with what I get.

He also will sometimes suggest things that are particularly good right now, or steer me away from something that might be just average. He always knows where something came from. If the price of a particular item has inflated a lot (which happens here), he will tell me right away and give me a chance to decide if I really want it (or that much of it).

It’s something I’ve always loved to do. In Seattle there is Pike Place Market which Seattle residents enjoy in the winter and avoid in the tourist-filled summer. Pike Place can get expensive though, so there are also local farmers markets in most Seattle neighborhoods that I found a lot of times to be more affordable (and delicious!) than the supposed “organic” sections in the supermarkets.

I always try to buy produce from markets/ortolani/verdulerias because it’s fresh, in season, (mostly) local, harvested when ripe, rather than supermarket produce that lacks luster and is kind of sad to look at under fluorescent lighting.

There is something romantic and so human about being able to walk a few steps down the street, and make contact with another human being as they personally help me pick out fruits and vegetables.

There is something quite satisfying about coming home with colorful vegetables that still have their dirt-covered roots in tact. Something so natural and real about having fruit that has seeds (read: non-GM) and tons of flavor. (Might I add that the grapefruits here are the possibly best I’ve ever had?)

Since getting over my linguistic shyness that prevented me from going into verdulerias and finally taking advantage of the ready availability of delicious, nourishing produce, my energy level has gone up, my skin is clearer than ever (a side benefit of eating more fruits and vegetables) and I have been more inspired to cook interesting things.

We also have a butcher in the same location (I’m finally over that linguistic fear too and have started going), and across the street there is a panederia, bakery, where one can buy some different kinds of bread and various facturas, pastries. I realize that this way of food shopping is not possible everywhere (at least in most cities in the U.S.) so I feel fortunate, grateful, that I have it right at my fingertips.

I grew an ass.

And with that came attitude.

I didn’t notice it before but I think the past few months in Buenos Aires have really been months of personal growth for me. Both in terms of my derrière and in the way I feel about myself and present myself.

In North American culture the goal seems to be to have no ass, or any curves at all for that matter. My loved ones up here seem surprised at how excited and proud I am to have something back there to sway when I walk or dance. I guess it has something to do with living in Latin America where the woman’s body is celebrated in a different way than up north. I find myself excited to shop for new additions to my wardrobe that will show off an hourglass figure. Basta with these clothes that “slim” us down, making us look more masculine and less natural. I feel more Sophia Loren than ever.

With the new culo came a boldness to the way I walk, the way I present myself. I walked into the internet cafe in Seattle today with my new Buenos Aires strut, and loud high-heeled boots that click-clacked on the floor as I made my way to my table. It is so quiet in here but I think I’m doing everything so loudly and with such spice, from the way I settle into my chair to the way I set my cup of coffee down on the table. I’m not doing anything halfway. World, I am here!

Everyone else in the room is just quiet. Staring at their computer screens, trying not to look at me. I feel a little odd not hearing anyone hiss, “che, hermosa!”… though it’s also kind of nice to be left alone. I’m probably a bit much for these reserved people. But, so be it.