The Swedes Conquer All

I finally gave up and succumbed to IKEA. We desperately needed a new shower curtain (the plastic faux Impressionist one we had was ripped and crusted with hard water). And all the shops have been closed all month.

Thinking we could catch the shuttle bus on Saturday morning, we headed to the train station. When no shuttle bus could be found, we took a cab. Note to self: Do not take a cab to IKEA Florence. Twenty-five dollars later, Brent ran the IKEA gauntlet for the first time (not happily).

A few different items to be found in IKEA Italy including: platform beds whose mattresses jack up to provide storage underneath, a grocery trolley I'm coveting for hauling all the bottled water home and limoncello bottles in the kitchen supplies. And, the Italians obediently follow the arrows on the floor, moving en masse between displays. We were definitely going against the flow. Brent and Jack gave up and went to the cafeteria.

And I was left to shop--blessedly--on my own.

Fire Wire

I've realized that I packed ass backwards. I didn't pack any hangers. I forgot some critical elements of a well-stocked kitchen--cutting boards, soup pot and chili powder for example. But the one thing I've been waiting most anxiously for is the fire wire for my camera. (I'm afraid it's headed to storage. But Brent's finally arrived this week.)

So, here's the view from our window....

Fellini

Went to the beach this weekend...Saturday was Ferragusto, the arbitrary date decided by the Council of Trent (or some such) to celebrate the Assumption of the Virgin. The Italians sort of treat it like we do Memorial Day or the Fourth of July--big party with family, lots of food, fireworks. And everyone escapes to the beach or the mountains because all the restaurants and shops are closed and it's hotter than hell in the cities. There wasn't a Vespa to be heard and empty parking spots on Vespucci Bridge Friday night....

The Italians do the beach differently--no competing clusters of towels and umbrellas spiked in the sand like the flag on Iwo Jima. They construct little pergolas, one after the other, that you rent--along with three beach chairs, two chaises and a box on stilts for valuables and food. All very civilized (and much more comfortable). Except, the beach is a big wall of humanity. The point seems to be happening upon all your neighbors and friends and family in their bikinis on your way down to the water. And, of course, toasting yourself to a leathery consistency. (Privately, Brent and I wonder what the skin cancer rates are....)

A constant stream of people amble up and down the beach. And in the afternoon, the bucket brigade (tweens with full pails) launch guerilla warfare--drenching adults who are not wet. I'm a little suspicious, since they doused me (in the water up to my calves) but not the four adults sunbathing six feet away.

Somali and Ghanian and Pakistani fake handbag/swim coverup/bone bracelet/coconut hawkers pick their way through, back and forth, hour after hour in flowing kaftans and baggy pants.

We munched on leftover frittata and crudite.

You-know-who asked why the little girls don't wear swim tops. (He totally missed the topless adult at the pool.)

Ferie immersion complete.

Super Market

Esselunga...Proof that American culture has chewed up and swallowed Italian. More than Coca-Cola or "The Godfather." I'm sure Esselunga eventually will do away with macellarias and mini-markets and all the little shops that make Italy so charming. And I'm ashamed to say, I'm in heaven. It's a good thing I went to Mercato Centrale early. Otherwise, I would never have gone there.

By Italian standards, Esselunga is a big box store. By American standards, it's your neighborhood Albertson's or Safeway. But it blows Il Centro--our too-expensive neighborhood shop-- out of the water. It means buying ground beef and chicken breasts in silent, unthinking anonymity. It means one-stop shopping with your six-year-old tagging along. I found boxed tissues, succulent plants and a dizzying array of wine.

It's a stroll over the river and a few blocks. But it's my new daily (or twice-daily) jaunt. I've settled in to supermarket homogenization. American habits are hard to break....

Parle Americano?

We've discovered the Armed Forces Network and the munch and I are wallowing: I watched a CNN broadcast about Cash for Clunkers from July 30 yesterday and was perfectly happy with old news. He's watching everything from "Dora" to "Seemore the Safety Seal" (never heard of that one before)--shows that at any other time he would reject as "little kid" fare.

Despite my best intentions to learn Italian with the help of television, I'm realizing it's not very efficient. And just having half an hour that I understand completely is a relief--even if it's not enlightened. I can shut my brain off...

Of course, when the American cartoon programming ends in the afternoon, classes begin again with "Pokemon" in Italian.

"Isn't there another way to get around?"

I can tell we're near meltdown when the Munch's little feet slap the pavement. The clop clop of his sandals is how he registers his protest of yet another walk. He's very suspicious of the word now.

"We should take the bus. They go everywhere."

That might be true. And as soon as mom is ready to tackle the bus schedule, we'll do that. But the kid is in for a rude awakening: We are going to be walking. A lot. I figure cold turkey is the best method.

Still, I gave in. We're staying home today. No Mercato Centrale. No Il Centro grocery store. No Boboli Gardens. Just vegging in front of the TV. Nothing could be better to a 6-year-old American kid who seems relatively unimpressed by his surroundings.

Plus, I've got four blisters on my feet...

No broccoli

I'm shopping twice a day, like any good Italian. And the limitations of this model are becoming clear:

I know the Italians are foodies. But it's a specific kind of foodie--their kind of food. A tiny bottle of Worcestershire sauce cost $6. And my attempts to find dried dill the other day were futile. Twenty kinds of fennel, but no dill. And I miss ubiquitous broccoli--reliably lying under lights and sprinklers January to July. It's the only vegetable the munchkin will eat. So right now, he's subsisting on yogurt, protein and starch with the occasional Tuscan pear thrown in. He looks no worse for the wear.

Two days ago, I decided (like a crazy person) to lug 12 liters of water home--con gas e naturale. My arms are black and blue and my shoulders still twitch. The munch is no help. Pears and eggs would end up smashed if I forced the issue. So, I shop all the time....

That said, it's all fresh and delicious. And shopping and cooking daily feels much more authentic. Made salmon with a mustard and celery leaf (no dill) sauce last night. Never thought I'd do that. But it worked.

I packed too much

I've always disdained Rick Steves' followers, their smug rolled pants, rolling backpack, "backdoor" traveling ways. So, I felt their eyes on me as I lugged my massive, bulging carryons on the plane to San Francisco and then to New York and then to Frankfurt and then to Florence. The obvious question was undeniable, even to me: Who is this crazy woman packing everything she owns into four suitcases?

Even so, it wasn't enough. I packed towels and sheets and toys and bath gel and clothing for 30 degrees Celcius. I didn't even think about dish cloths and foil and cleaning supplies....

And all of that doesn't matter. When we looked out the window, Brent said, "Pinch me." I did. Hard.