Our love story: Part 9

I woke up the next morning refreshed and feeling almost like myself. Noemi wasn't in the room; she must have gotten up earlier. So I took a minute to take in what a real Italian apartment was like.

The first thing I noticed were the shutters.

Let's take a detour and talk about one of my pet peeves: fake shutters. And people, all the shutters in Utah are fake. They're nailed to the sides of windows and, if they did close, they'd never envelop the windows all the way. My whole life, I've been bothered about why people would put fake shutters on the outsides of their homes when it's obvious those shutters would never fully close over the windows.

Oddly enough, this photo is from a Romania site; but it's Parma!

Oh, and if your house is one of those, I hope the above comments weren't offensive. Because, guess what else; all my houses (including the one I'm living in right now) have had fake shutters. So yeah, super annoying.

Back to Italian shutters. Not only do they close, but Italians use them every single day. So you can imagine my excitement when I realized I had slept in a room with closed shutters (I hadn't noticed them the night before because it was dark and I was delirious). So what did I do? What any normal, shutter-lover would do in a similar situation.

I jumped out of bed and ran over to those shutters. Then I opened them up. They creaked loudly, but they opened alllll they way. And I was able to look out over Parma, Italy.

I also made another, startling, Italian realization: the window didn't have a screen.

Now, logically I know screens aren't safety devices. I mean, we all know better than to lean against a screen because it'll pop out. But the whole idea of a screen being added protection between me and the outside world had never occurred to me until I was in Noemi's apartment in what had to have been at least the fifth floor.

And there was no screen between me and falling out that window.

So, while my shutter excitement was still going strong, an anxiety about a screen-less window had surfaced.

Then I started wondering something else. How do Italians keep bugs out of their homes? They had two options: leave the shutters open, and invite all the insect world to live inside, or keep the shutters closed and pretend they were in dark caves. Those shutters were actually really impressive and super helpful for any kind of sleeping in.

Speaking of sleeping in, I was mad I had slept so late! How much of my time in Italy had I just wasted sleeping?

I tiptoed out of Noemi's room and looked out into the hallway. Where was everyone? Things were quiet, but the bathroom was unoccupied. So I took advantage of it.

After a shower and getting dressed (I hate staying in my pajamas, it's very much a mental thing and an issue that deserves its own post), I stepped out once again and found myself in the hallway with Noemi's mom. She greeted me with a "boungiorno!" I replied in like (it was one of three Italian words I knew), and then she started speaking in Italian. Fast. She soon noticed the panicked look on my face and quickly switched to English.

Phew.

Turns out, Noemi's mom was an ex-pat who had married an Italian and made a new life for herself in Italy. I never would have guessed she was American; she looked totally European to me.

The first thing she asked me in English was, "How are you?"

Me, being the very American that I was/am, replied, "I'm fine, thanks. How are you?"

I mean, that reply is automatic, right? That's what we say. When we ask someone how they are doing, we rarely ever expect them to come right out and say things like, "I'm feeling overwhelmed/sad/nervous today. It's just how we start our conversations. You ask each other how they are, both parties say they're fine, then you talk about what it is you really want to say.

On day, I hadn't realized how ingrained that little saying was in our culture until Noemi's mom looked at me very seriously and then clarified, "No, I mean, how are you really?"

Oh, she actually wanted to know? That was surprising, but also refreshing. So I told her the truth, "I'm really good. I'm so excited to be in Italy! Everything is so different. I love it."

She smiled and then said, "I've been here for so long; everything seems normal to me. Tell me, what is different here from the United States? What have you noticed? Tell me what it's like to see Italy for the first time."

I loved that question. So I told her. I told her about how much smaller Italian cars are compared to their American counterparts. I told her I had no idea how Italians drove on the skinny roads and parked in such tight spaces. I told her the restaurant last night hadn't offered doggy bags. I told her about the shutters outside the windows and how different her bathroom was from mine. I told her that the light switches were confusing because they were on the outsides of rooms, instead of inside the rooms themselves.

She listened with a fascinated smile on her face and thanked me for my observations. Hearing me had brought back her own memories of coming to Italy for the first time and viewing the country with American eyes.

After our conversation, I rounded the corner and entered the living room. Marco and Toby were finishing up the day's plans. I joined them and learned we'd be heading into Centro.

Centro is Italian for "Center." As in, the center of town. And, if you're picturing quaint cobblestoned streets, cafes around every corner, and ancient bell towers dominating city skylines, you're absolutely right. Just remember to add in crazy one-way roads, Italian cars zooming around corners, and all the Italians looking like they just stepped out of fashion magazines.

The three of us went over to Perla's and got Liz. As soon as Perla's family opened the door, they shouted out enthusiastic Italian phrases and enveloped all of us in hugs and kisses. Perla's family was very different from Noemi's.

For starters, Noemi had only recently been baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She was the only member in her family and her parents weren't too sure about the religion she'd joined. Noemi had one brother, who was away at college. So it was just her and her parents in their very nice apartment. Perla had grown up in the church, her entire family attended with her. There were more kids and more mouths to feed in Perla's apartment. It was noisier and much more like the chaos I was used to.

But I didn't know all that until later. Until then, I'd been worried about Liz the whole time I'd been awake. How was she doing in a strange apartment with people she'd never met and could barely communicate with? As soon as I saw her, I realized my fears were unfounded. She bounded out of the room, chattering excitedly to Perla. In Italian.

How did she understand so much? I couldn't believe it. But that was Liz; she was the master of being comfortable in any situation. I envied her ease.

We said our goodbyes and. finally together, the four of us went out to explore  downtown Centro. That day we saw the baptistery, the duomo (an Italian cathedral/church), and everything else touristy. We ate lunch at a pizzeria where Marco and Toby acted like they had been starved for pizza until that moment.

That night, when we came back foot-sore and  starving, Noemi's parents fed us a delicious pasta dinner. I thought I would die from happiness. There is nothing, nothing, like eating food at an Italian's house. I think they're all great cooks. It must be in the genes.

And yeah, I know Noemi's mom was actually American, but I still considered her an Italian that spoke excellent English.

As we huddled around the little dining room table, Noemi's parents remarked that they had never gone through so much water before. They had a huge case they'd purchased for us and it was already half-way gone. We had each taken a two-liter bottle with us that morning and were now draining the bottles at dinner.

Italians don't drink a lot of water. Wine, juice, and coffee seemed to be their staples. So having four  LDS, water-drinking people like us at their house was a culture shock for Noemi's family.

But man, not being able to drink out of the tap was a culture shock for me.

Marco and Toby had me in constant fear over the tap water. I wouldn't even drink the bit of water that got in my mouth from brushing my teeth. I was always thirsty. But I was so glad that Noemi's mom had gotten non-fizzy water for our culinary use. Because I swear that drinking carbonated water made me thirstier than ever.

Okay, now I've just finished part nine of this delightful story and you're probably wondering where the romance is. Right? I mean, this series is called, "Our LOVE story." Well guess what, I'm just telling it like it was. The first several days in Italy weren't super romantic. But don't worry, things started getting pretty interesting before our first week in Italy ended.

Part ten