There are now two marble plaques commemorating the death of anarchist Giuseppe Pinelli in Piazza Fontana. In 1969, Pinelli fell to his death from the fourth-story window of police headquarters during an interrogation for the Piazza Fontana bombing, which killed 16. One tablet, installed by city officials overnight Continue reading
Grey, foggy Milan is about to get a lift with a new city color scheme.
Working with architecture professors from the Politecnico University, officials developed a “color plan for urban decor” in a palette that includes red and yellow.
These primary colors would mean an extreme makeover for light poles, clocks, trash cans and benches painted grey, black and kelly green respectively. Continue reading
I managed to change a train ticket in Venice at the last minute. It was a major triumph.
First Jabba the Hut behind the counter puffed at me, saying he wasn’t sure he could change my Internet ticket. So I Spaniel-eyed him.
He reconsidered. Then punched in a few things with monstrously fat fingers and waited for the computer’s verdict.
“You shouldn’t have fought with your boyfriend,” he commented, smiling through a row of green-gray teeth. Because, of course, the only reason a woman would need to get the hell out of Dodge in a hurry would be a love spat.
Anyway, he managed to get me on a Cisalpino — great but rare Swiss trains — leaving in 10 minutes. I said “grazie” and ran.
Two stops out of Venice I find myself sitting across from Erica, a woman I take a class with here in Milan and her sister, visiting from London.
Coincidence?
No, Fate! It’s a random Thursday and a trip neither of us ever take. I shouldn’t have been on the train. The seats are reserved, the train is packed. It definitely means something.
Erica fields a mobile phone call from her boyfriend who insists we play the lottery.
The lottery, or lotto, is one of the things that unifies Italians. In fact, in the 1500s — centuries before there was an Italian state — Florentines were already holding lotteries with cash prizes.
How do you know which numbers to pick?
Well, if you’re lucky like we were, life hands them to you. Her man implored us to play our seat numbers (71,72,78) and the carriage number (8).
It struck me as a good idea. The only other time I’d ever played the lotto using this method it worked, rectifying a bad vacation. A bed and breakfast in Lecce had requested a deposit –1/4 of the total plus two or something — wired down before the stay. It was an odd figure, say €138 euro.
On arrival we promptly managed to knock down a low wall in the B&B’s garage while trying to park. A guy in cement-spattered overalls trotted by the next day with an estimate: €138 euro. My Italian companions insisted on playing the 1-3-8 combination — we won €200.
There are many other ways of finding your lucky numbers, the main one is dream interpretation. Developed around the time of the lottery in Florence, a book out of Naples called the “smorfia” (book of numbers) is a guide to turning figures in your dreams into winning numbers.
I’ve never had much luck with it. Perhaps the smorfia only works if your dreams are a little less impregnated with pop culture. Many a time I have pored over it wondering how to place H.R. Pufnstuff or if Alice from “The Brady Bunch” qualifies as dead woman walking.
Anyway, now I’ve got my numbers and if you don’t see me on Thursday, I’ve hit it big.
In most countries, people check the weather forecast before leaving the house.
They may also check traffic. Or, with skyrocketing gas costs, prices at the pump.
In Italy, people check the strike-o-meter, or scioperometro, a strike forecast published on the Internet.
Italians, with strong union representation, are some of the most active strikers in all of Europe. They are fourth with an average of 113 days lost per 1,000 workers in protests.
As a freelancer who usually works from home, they don’t affect me that much. But the law of travel in the Bel Paese states that if you have to go anywhere, especially from one city to another, more than once in a month you’ll get nailed by some sort of transport strike.
A recent view of upcoming strikes, including ferry personnel.
Often they pass for civilized – called and announced well in advance and only for a few hours – but if you get caught in one, it is a real nightmare.
I’m still working through the scars from being stranded at Malpensa airport for seven hours in an attempt to get to Budapest. The strike per se only lasted two hours. Unfortunately, the only other flight to Budapest was five hours after that.
Malpensa (whose name aptly translates into “bad thought”) has to be one of the biggest, emptiest, cruddiest airports around.
Almost everything (including restaurants, clothes shops, food shops, most newsstands and the spa) had shuttered on a Saturday afternoon. Opting to take refuge at Burger King nursing a Moretti beer was preferable to hanging out at either the pharmacy or the chapel. Even worse? If I had checked beforehand, I could’ve booked directly on the next flight.
The genius behind the strike-o-meter is that it groups all the strikes into one national calendar, so you don’t get caught out by some small union paralyzing traffic in Rome.
Here’s this month’s forecast:
May 5
Airport personnel strike in Milan, noon to 4 p.m.
24 hour national train strike
May 12
National airport personnel strike, noon to four except in Rome, 10-6 p.m.
May 23
Alitalia pilot strike, 10-6p.m.
You have been warned.
A couple of days ago, I was hauling a stash of groceries home with my bike. As I passed a cafe, a guy sitting outside nursing a cappuccino yelled, “Signorina, look out for the bag!”
It was a good thing he did, the plastic bag was about to rip from the handlebar scattering a load of pears, some camone tomatoes and a bottle of Vermentino on the square.
I wasn’t so surprised at the shouting: once you leave home, everyone is in your business in Italy.
The barista downstairs thinks nothing of mentioning that a tanning bed session might do you good, the newsstand lady will comment that pink really isn’t your color, the doorman will ask pointed questions about certain contributions to the recycling bins, leaving you agonizing over whether condom packets count as aluminum foil.
It was the signorina thing. That gets me.
As in most Romance languages, in Italian there is a distinction between a young, unmarried woman and a married, older one.
Just two forms of address, signorina (unmarried) and signora (married).
Paola, a self-declared feminist, taught me Italian when I was in my early 20s. She explained since the sexual revolution, women under 18 are “signorine” after that we all had the right to “signora.” Married or not.
“Don’t let them ‘signorina’ you,” she explained. “It’s a subtle put-down.”
Despite being more or less old enough to have a daughter shifting from signorina to signora, I still have a schizophrenic identity.
I’m resigned to signorina at the bank. And signora for the wafer-thin girls in trendy shops. I morph into signorina when the flirty guys try to sell me more of that Sicilian cheese with peppercorn at the market and back to signora when a teenager apologizes for bumping into me on the metro.
What surprised me about this signorina? The savior of my tomatoes wasn’t that old — unless you have seven children in tow, you’ll never get a signora out of anyone over 50 — maybe late 40s. And he had no reason to flatter. For a split second, I was still on signorina ground.
Newsweekly Io Donna ran an editorial about the “signora – signorina” debate, suggesting when someone asks which category we fall under, the pithy response should be: “dottoressa,” meaning one has a university degree.
Fair enough. Italian doesn’t lend itself to hybrid forms — like Ms. in English — and it would take the emphasis off marital status. Until that happens, I won’t get my knickers in a twist over the occasional, accidental, signorina.
I don’t remember the first time I heard partisan anthem “Bella Ciao,” but the first time it meant something was during a Fourth of July concert at the American Consulate in Florence.
Nehemiah Brown, one of the most inspiring expats I know, runs a Gospel school there and put it in a gig he did for diplomats and locals.
The song is about waking up one morning with Fascists at the door, deciding to join the resistance movement, knowing it means probably not coming back alive, but ultimately the fight for freedom is worth the price.
Each verse ends with a punchy “Bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao!” as the partisan says goodbye to his girl.
So the Americans who didn’t know Italian — much less the cultural context of the song — started clapping along with the “bella ciao” part.
And wondered why the Italians winced at first, then sang along too.
When I asked Nehemiah about it, he just laughed, admitting he knew the kind of effect the song would produce.
Why were the Italians — and anyone who understood — uneasy?
Italians aren’t big on anthems; they still don’t have an official national one, believe it or not.
And “Bella Ciao” has become the de facto song for celebrations of April 25 Liberation Day, as in liberation from the Fascists with the arrival of U.S. troops.
With the exception of Mussolini’s granddaughter Alessandra and her political cohorts, not many Italians have black shirt nostalgia, but “Bella Ciao” has since become a hymn mostly associated with the extreme left — and that kind of affiliation makes a lot of Italians uncomfortable. (The motto for one media collective named in honor of the song is: “To rebel is right, to disobey is a duty, to act is necessary!”)
Nehemiah, sidestepping the political implications with the immunity of a foreigner, used to teach it to Italian kids at grade school. He was surprised to find the kids didn’t know it but that even conservative parents were moved to hear their offspring belt out this historic ditty.
It’s about time to re-evalutate the song. Give a listen with a haunting choral version courtesy the National Association of Partisans website; a more standard upbeat version is worth hearing here, courtesy the Marxists. Translated lyrics here.
Most people wouldn’t pick Milan as a tourist destination, but should you attempt it, aim for Design Week.
This is a working city, best when humming with some sort of event. And while the Fashion Weeks seem like they’d be a good choice but unless you’re Suzy Menkes or a 20-pound Ukrainian model, trust me, you won’t have any fun.
Design Week, usually held the first week in April, is more democratic.
Even if you don’t go to the fair (officially called Salone Internazionale del Mobile ) or snag any cocktail invites, there are a ton of events — 350 this year– outside the fair (fuori salone) that anyone can visit, often getting free drinks and food in the process.
It’s also democratic because even regular joes can have an opinion. Most times you can touch, try out, sit down. Hmmm. This chair is uncomfortable. Wouldn’t this look great in my kitchen? Pretty, but you could never read by that lamp.
And, if you have the good sense to be single or at least unaccompanied (somehow this always eludes me), it’s also a great way to meet talented young things. (The Belgian/Dutch showcase always seems to have the most talent, in both senses of the word).
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| Rodent power |
This was my first year doing just the fuori salone, even a neighborhood reccy was well worth it.
Diana Eugeni, an architect friend of mine, launched a gizmo called “Jack Bag” to keep your Gucci from touching the ground. A curvy key chain made of plexiglas, it latches on to the table and provides a hook for your handbag, ever more important now that restaurants seem to have all decided that normal square chairs are hopelessly démodé. It’s part of a project called cutnpaste where designers sell their stuff directly to consumers.
At the Dutch/Belgian fuori salone, there were fuzzy weeble-wobble stools, a goth lamp with a stuffed mouse in the base, a bracelet with a razor blade (“kill yourself whenever you want,” the tagline says) and some fabulous ceramic vases with a tulip print.
The Established & Sons installation in an ex-pelota court was the place to be: A-list British designers (Zaha Hadid, Jasper Morrison, Sebastian Wrong) plus free beer.
While the Miele kitchen store plied guests with free crepes, the most creative use of food in a furniture fair goes to BMW, sponsors of a molecular cooking extravaganza/DJ set with chef Carlo Cracco whipping up dishes made with liquid nitrogen. (I organized a segment for Discovery Channel once on molecular cookery. It looks neat, but the only thing that really tastes better made with liquid nitrogen is ice cream. The super-quick freeze locks in the flavor and it doesn’t melt quickly or give you ice-cream burn).
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| Take your place |
Bigger is better seemed to be an ongoing theme. Of the outsize installations, Jacopo Foggini’s enormous chandelier (the same one lording over Luciano Pavarotti during the Turin Olympic opening ceremony) was probably my favorite.
The giant Ikea furniture — a couch, a sofa, a bookcase — placed around town seemed slightly ominous rather than playful. A reminder of how many of these bright-eyed, creative nordic types may end up with careers in indentured designer-dom.
Since 9/11 the U.S. government has issued gloom and doom travel advisories for Italy, the main point being to scare the bejesus out of tourists who were coming anyway.
For example: “The Department of State remains concerned about the continued threat of terrorist attacks, demonstrations and other violent actions against U.S. citizens and interests overseas. Americans are reminded that demonstrations and rioting can occur with little or no warning.” Continue reading
by Nicole Martinelli If you’ve ever tried to stand in line in Italy, you’ll understand why self-service scanning at supermarkets has taken off.
Something in the Italian character simply refuses to stand in an orderly fashion and wait. Women in fur coats park baskets near the checkout, disappear, come back and add items, and when they are done, cut in with the banshee wail: “I am in line!”
Hence the appeal of quick, orderly DIY checkouts. Self-scanners have long been called the next big thing in supermarkets, but perhaps because of the hellish line situation, Inferno-familiar Italians were quick to adopt them…
Read more at wired or download the podcast.
zoomata.com staff Can you say omertà?
German high school students are learning Italian thanks to the son of Sicilian mobster Bernardo Provenzano. Continue reading
