So Italians really DO say Mamma Mia....
I kid you not, we saw and heard real live Italians use the phrases "Mamma Mia" and "Ooh la la" in real live conversation. It's on a par with hearing Minnesotans and North Dakotans use the phrase "you betcha" in real live conversation, but I'm starting to become inured to that. (If you were offended by the movie Fargo, it might be because there was some truth to it, K? You DO talk like that.)
So we think that we saw the Italian version of The Daily Show. It was on in the corner of this little local bar that we went to for pizza, and on it there was news footage of several burning cars in Milan, at least one of which appeared to have been a police car. So here are several minutes of all these cars engulfed in flames, panicked crowds, sirens, shouting and frantic camerawork with March 11, 2006 datestamped on the bottom of the screen when all of a sudden the scene switches to a news desk, two news anchors, and a full-grown man dressed like a little chick bouncing around them. "Tweet! Tweet! TweeT" Who needs to discuss what appears to be a homegrown terrorist incident when you can put a man in a chicken suit? Surely something was lost in the translation, but I nearly fell off my chair laughing. My brilliant husband pointed out that it was probably some satirical comment about bird flu, but I was highly entertained even without the context.
Italy is freaking amazing. I was so underdressed for Rome though - omigod. Where o where is my Armani. I showed up in my el cheapo Famous Footwear brown shoes - just nondescript Merrell knock-offs I wear in lieu of boots that I thought would be good to hike in - and I literally couldn't even make myself go into the Ferragamo store because I was embarrassed by what I had on my feet. At least I had my sexy coat that I paid way too much for, but other than that, my only consolation the whole trip was that at least I wasn't wearing bright white tennis shoes. Nonetheless, anyone who did speak to me who did speak any English immediately assumed that I was foreign. Guess the blond hair and freckles gave me away as being derived from a different gene pool. That definitely didn't happen in Finland last summer, where everyone assumed I was a local - which I was, just several generations removed.
So what is it with Italian drivers? The lines on the road are just there for decoration, apparently. We're tooling down the A1 toward Rome, and there are not one, not two, but three cars ahead of us that are happily straddling the lane marker for at least a couple of miles, just because they can. What - they pay taxes on the whole road so they might as well use all of it?
I absolutely loved what little I saw of Italy, though - wonderful people, wonderful cities and countryside, wonderful food - can't wait to go back and would do a Frances Mayes if it weren't for the money thing and the scorpions thing. (Yes, I'm a wimp.)
So we think that we saw the Italian version of The Daily Show. It was on in the corner of this little local bar that we went to for pizza, and on it there was news footage of several burning cars in Milan, at least one of which appeared to have been a police car. So here are several minutes of all these cars engulfed in flames, panicked crowds, sirens, shouting and frantic camerawork with March 11, 2006 datestamped on the bottom of the screen when all of a sudden the scene switches to a news desk, two news anchors, and a full-grown man dressed like a little chick bouncing around them. "Tweet! Tweet! TweeT" Who needs to discuss what appears to be a homegrown terrorist incident when you can put a man in a chicken suit? Surely something was lost in the translation, but I nearly fell off my chair laughing. My brilliant husband pointed out that it was probably some satirical comment about bird flu, but I was highly entertained even without the context.
Italy is freaking amazing. I was so underdressed for Rome though - omigod. Where o where is my Armani. I showed up in my el cheapo Famous Footwear brown shoes - just nondescript Merrell knock-offs I wear in lieu of boots that I thought would be good to hike in - and I literally couldn't even make myself go into the Ferragamo store because I was embarrassed by what I had on my feet. At least I had my sexy coat that I paid way too much for, but other than that, my only consolation the whole trip was that at least I wasn't wearing bright white tennis shoes. Nonetheless, anyone who did speak to me who did speak any English immediately assumed that I was foreign. Guess the blond hair and freckles gave me away as being derived from a different gene pool. That definitely didn't happen in Finland last summer, where everyone assumed I was a local - which I was, just several generations removed.
So what is it with Italian drivers? The lines on the road are just there for decoration, apparently. We're tooling down the A1 toward Rome, and there are not one, not two, but three cars ahead of us that are happily straddling the lane marker for at least a couple of miles, just because they can. What - they pay taxes on the whole road so they might as well use all of it?
I absolutely loved what little I saw of Italy, though - wonderful people, wonderful cities and countryside, wonderful food - can't wait to go back and would do a Frances Mayes if it weren't for the money thing and the scorpions thing. (Yes, I'm a wimp.)