Americans abroad · European travel · ex-pat life · Göteborg Sweden · Gothenburg Sweden · international travel · Malmö · Skåne · Skåne Sweden · Travel

Graduation – Swedish Style

American Graduation

June. Summer has arrived and all across America it is time for prom, senior ball, senior ditch day and graduation. High school graduation is a milestone in a young person’s life. 30 some odd years later and I still remember mine.

In the USA students assemble in long dark robes with mortarboard hats on their heads. They are dressed in nice clothes under their robes. Select academic high achievers give speeches about the future. Often a special guest speaker such as a community leader will regale the students with tales of what lies ahead.

American students somberly walk single file on to the stage to be handed their diplomas. Occasionally, a few of the more adventurous students will do something silly during the procession, but in general, the graduation ceremony is a serious affair. While some parents laugh at the students who dare to be silly, most “tsk tsk” because the time for exuberance is after the ceremony. After the ceremony, students move their tassel from the right to the left and then, and only then, they throw their mortarboard hats in the air with “whooo hooos” “whoop whoops” and “yee haws!”

Studenten-The Swedish Graduation Ceremony

Given that this is all I know about graduations, imagine my surprise when I attended a Studenten – the Swedish high school graduation ceremony. Like the USA, Swedish students are dressed up for this important event. Girls wear white dresses and the boys dress in suits. This is where the similarities with America end. In Sweden, high school graduation is a party from beginning to end!

Studentmössa

In addition to their finery, every Swedish graduate wears a white hat called a studentmössa. Typically, the studentmössa is a white cap with a black or dark blue band, and a black peak. It looks like a sailor’s cap to me. I asked many a Swede why the sailor cap. No one was quite sure. The variations on the history of the studentmössa are many. Most agree, however, that in Sweden, the studentmössa was first worn in the mid 1800’s at Uppsala University at a student meeting.

Inside the cap is a lining which varies according to school colors or it may resemble the Swedish flag. Students put their names on the front of the hat. In between the student’s first and last name, there is a gem. There is also a colored band between the white and black part of the hat. The color of the band and  gem tells onlookers what program the student is graduating from. Gymnasium or high school in Sweden is a bit different than the USA in that students choose a course of study in high school to either prepare them for a job upon graduation or to prepare them for what they plan to study at university.

Utspringet

The morning of graduation, most friend gather for champagne. Yes, they start drinking first thing in the morning on graduation day.

Next, each graduate receives a leaving certificate – like a diploma in the USA.  What follows, however, is a joyous running out of school – “utspringet” – with your leaving certificate in hand through a crowd of parents holding placards with the graduates’ baby photos. Some of the parents go for a darling baby photo. Others use an embarrassing photo, but every graduate has one. Each placard has the name of the graduate and with the year and date of the graduation. Most of the placards are decorated with a blue and yellow background representing the national colors of Sweden. Rumor has it that the King and Queen of Sweden participated in utspring for the prince and princesses. That is how important utspringet is.

The graduates run through the crowd and onto a stage where dance music is pumping. The graduates then dance, sing, blow horns, shake noise makers, jump, set off flares and generally have fun. From the evidence on the grounds around the school it seems that a good number of the graduates have fueled their dancing booties with Red Bull and alcohol.

After each group has gone through the run/dance/party on stage portion, they go into the crowd searching for their baby photos and hence, their families.  Well wisher don them with necklaces of blue and gold (again, the national colors of Sweden) from which are hanging flowers, teddy bears, champagne bottles and other things that may represent the student’s personality and interests.

Flaket

From there the graduates move to rented flat bed trucks or fancy cars and continue the dance party. The trucks are decorated and are essentially a mobile dance club which drives through town honking their horns and playing music with graduates hanging off the trucks, singing and dancing. You can literally hear them from miles away. And you hear it all day, every day, for about a couple of weeks as different school have different graduation dates. This mobile party seems completely dangerous to me, but what do I know? It happens all over Sweden every year.

After the mobile disco ends you may see graduates running through the more populated parts of town in groups singing, dancing, yelling, blowing horns and whistles and chanting through megaphones. Some members of the group carry boomboxes and they lead the group like the Pied Piper keeping the party going. I was having lunch in a main square the other day and my friend and I could not hear each other over all the noise. Also common are pranks around town – silly things like jumping in public fountains to cool off (and sober up??).

 

 

After the truck ride and run through town, the graduates return home to friends and family waiting to celebrate the student with more festivities well into the night.

During the day I ran into my son who was graduating the following year. I said,”Wow, this is so different than America.” Ever after a good time, he replied with a gleam in his eyes and a smile, “I know!”  For a long time I have felt guilty that he has missed out on so many of the American high school traditions. I think he is ok with embracing this new tradition though. I’ll take it – let’s hear it for small victories.

Americans abroad · Bologna Italy · Emilia Romagna · ex-pat life · Italian food · Italy · Parma Italy · parmigiano-reggiano · Prosciutto di Parma

Prosciutto With Black Truffles and Truffle Mustard Dressing

This appetizer is so simple and so full of flavor you may end up serving it at every party you have from here on out!

The Recipe

Ingredients
4 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil
3 tbsp apple cider vinegar
1 tsp truffle mustard or dijon mustard
6 thin slices fresh black truffle, finely chopped
Salt and pepper
8 small slices ciabatta
1 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil (for brushing)
4 slices prosciutto
Small salad leaves, your choice
8 thin slices of fresh black truffle

Method
Make dressing first by mixing 4 tbsp olive oil, cider vinegar, mustard and finely chopped truffl e. Season with salt and mix well. Preheat oven to 160C. Brush ciabatta bread pieces with 1 tbsp of olive oil and toast lightly in oven for 8-10 minutes.

Meanwhile, cut each prosciutto slice in half to obtain eight pieces. Once toasted, remove ciabatta pieces and, while still hot, place a piece of prosciutto on each and nestle on serving plate with small salad leaves. Drizzle with truffle dressing and finish with a truffle slice on each crostini. Add a couple of turns of pepper over the lot and serve.

Thank you to http://www.goodfood.au for the recipe.

Americans abroad · ex-pat life · Italy · Parma Italy · Travel

“Toto, I’ve A Feeling We’re Not In Kansas Anymore.”

toto

Today my poor daughter did what I long to do most days. She burst into tears when the tutor asked her what the correct article was for her sentence in Italian.

I have always loved words.  I like reading. I like researching the origin of words. I like learning about colloquialisms. I like learning the difference between a colloquialism and an idiom.  I like to keep lists of words that appeal to my ear.  Words like verdant, flummoxed, phalanges and evanescent.

About a hundred years ago I took a year and a half of French. I was young, I never studied and I rarely paid attention.  Not surprising then, that my French didn’t stick.  Living in California I picked up a smattering (another favorite word) of Spanish – you know, enough to order food and beer and find a bathroom when needed, but I have always felt as if there were a hole in my education because I don’t speak another language other than English.

So, imagine my delight when I learned we were moving to another country where I could immerse myself in another language – a beautiful Romance language no less.  I was naive enough to think it would be easy.  I thought, “First I’ll learn Italian since we will be living there. Then I’ll learn French because the kids are learning it and I certainly don’t want my teenagers to have a whole other language that they can communicate in that my husband and I do not understand. And, besides France will be so close and its a Romance language too so how hard can it really be?” HA!

It has been a year and I still don’t speak Italian, let alone French!  I can get around, I can order food in a restaurant. I have simple conversations with shopkeepers, but I am frustrated at how long it is taking me to really learn Italian.

Learning a new language at age 49 is very difficult for my old brain. Il mio cervello e’ stanco e anziano.  I had always heard (from other Americans) that, “English is one of the hardest languages to learn.” My experience, and discussions with people who speak English as a second or third language does not bear that out, however.  The people in my Italian class and our European friends all tell us that English is simple. In English the articles do not change very often (a, an, the) and our verbs do not change for every person as they do in Romance languages. Granted, English pronunciations and spelling are difficult, but our grammar is relatively simple.

Italian verbs change for every person (I, you, he/she, we, us, you guys, them) that you are speaking of or about. And they have a separate verb tense if you being polite. There are so many articles I need charts and graphs to remember them all. And, there seems to be an exception for every grammar rule that I learn.

I also discovered that Italians don’t believe in silly rules. Rules are mere suggestions.  When I asked a friend  why the grammar rule that I just memorized didn’t apply, her answer was “because it is more poetic to say it this way.”  Now I have to think about the poetry of the language too?   Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.

Americans abroad · Emilia Romagna · European travel · ex-pat life · Parma Italy · Travel

L’Onda

Life in a foreign land

Life In A Foreign Land

When adapting to a new life in a foreign land, I think Dame Judy Dench put it best:

“Initially, you are overwhelmed. But gradually you realize it’s like a wave. Resist and you’ll be knocked over. Dive into it and you’ll swim out the other side.  This is a new and different world. The challenge is to cope with it. And not just cope, but thrive.”

Dame Judi Dench
The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel

Americans abroad · Emilia Romagna · European travel · ex-pat life · Firenze Italia · Florence Italy · international travel · Italian food · Italy · Parma Italy · Travel

Guidos – Driving In Italy

Guidos – Driving In Italy

In the USA, a Guido is a slang (some would say pejorative) word for an Italian American.  In Italy, however, Guido is a boy’s name or when used as a verb it literally means “I drive.”

We had been in Italy for a week when my husband had a work conference in Florence.  Would the kids and I like to come along? School had not started yet. We could not move into our apartment yet and it was Florence, so Hell yeah!  The only hitch, Joe would be taking a bus with the other employees so I would have to drive the hour and half on my own with the kids or take the train. Since I spoke no Italian I figured driving would be easier than trying to buy train tickets, figure out schedules, etc.

Besides, I had been driving around Parma and back and forth to the local Ikea (pronounced hilariously to my children as ‘eee’ kay- yuh‘) with no problems. Plus, we had a GPS in the car.  How hard could it be?  It is only 1.5 hours away.  Driving to Florence was no problem!

Armed with the overconfidence that comes with 30 years of driving, we set out.

THE ITALIAN DRIVER

On the ride down I became acquainted with the Italian driver.

For a large portion of the autostrada (highway) between Parma and Florence, there are only two lanes. One lane is perpetually occupied by semi trucks.  Semi trucks which travel at a very high speed and get right up your bum.  Thus, the only option if you don’t want to be a semi sandwich is to go around them in the other lane.  This is an option equivalent to playing Russian Roulette.

Guidos - Driving in Italy

The cars travel at speeds far faster than the semi trucks.  They also drift across the entire autostrada paying no attention whatsoever to lane lines.  At first I thought they must be drunk they way they were swerving, but it was happening so often that I realized it was just the way they drive here.

Now, I am a responsible driver with my two precious kids in the car so I am going to drive responsibly. Apparently, driving responsibility is a personal affront to Italian drivers.  My driving habits bring on a host of activity from the Italians – honking, fist shaking, lights flashing, swerving to see if they can squeeze their car between me and the semi in the next lane.  At one point the driver behind me was so close to me that when I looked in my rear view mirror I could see the part in her hair.  I can still remember the pink hair clip she was wearing.

So after an hour and a half of pure white knuckle driving we arrived in Florence. Finally, I was going to park the car and relax.  Ha!  It took us 1.5 hours to get to Florence and another 2.5 to find the hotel.

Driving in Italy

The GPS kept trying to send me down one way streets or streets that were blocked off.  I was driving in circles and now the autostrada seemed like the bumper cars at the fair.  Imagine the same speed, drifting and erratic driving but now on ancient narrow streets with people and scooters added to the mix. And no where at all to stop or park.  The streets that I needed to get to the hotel were either blocked or too narrow for a car to fit.

After 1.5 hours of trying to find the hotel on my own, I was in the middle of a full blown, all out, screaming at the kids, nervous breakdown. I pulled over as best I could and simply stopped. I called Joe. He sweetly tried to help and offer suggestions over the phone from the bus. He called the hotel for me. I cried and screamed at him. He didn’t understand how awful it was.

WHEN IN ROME . . . OR FLORENCE

Through my tears I noticed a crowd of police men and women directing traffic. Surely they could help me.  I eased over and once again decided to block traffic like an Italian native.  The police woman thankfully spoke English.  She asked me where I was from. I explained that we had just moved to Italy a week ago and that we were joining my husband for a work trip. She told me that tourists should never drive in Florence. My husband’s work should have told us that.  The hotel should have told us that.  She explained that it is difficult for the locals to drive in Florence because the streets change almost on a weekly basis according to politics. That explained why the GPS was having such a hard time. She asked where my husband was.  I told her he was on the bus with his office mates.  “Hum.” she said with a raised eyebrow.

“Allora” she tells me, “you must drive over that bridge there.  Once you are across the bridge you go straight and your hotel is very close.  Another right turn and there you will find it.”

“I can’t go across the bridge. It is one way traffic going the opposite direction. And the street is blocked with a chain,” I respond.

“Ignore the traffic. It is the fastest way and I will have my colleague meet you at the chain, He will unlock it and you can drive through,” she tells me.

“Huh?!” Did the police woman just instruct me to break the law? I am stricken with terror at the thought, but I am also so close to having a permanent breakdown that I decide it is worth it. Jail would be a welcome relief from Italian drivers.

I grip the steering wheel and proceed to drive against traffic across the Ponte Santa Trinita.  Everyone, justifiably this time, is once again honking, screaming, shaking fists at me, but damn it, we made it across. We pulled up to the chained street. We waited for 30 minutes. No one came.  I negotiated the terrors of Firenze traffic again to wind my way back to the police woman.  She instructs me to do the same thing again. I tell her that I already did what she suggested but no one came to meet us at the chain. She tells me I must be patient.  I cross the Ponte Santa Trinita again. Against traffic. Against all reason and sanity.

This time, however, I noticed a city bus lumbering along. I thought to myself, “if that bus can fit, then so can I.” I threw caution to the wind. I ignored the chain and decided to follow the bus. It worked! I swear I heard angels sing when I finally found the street that our hotel was located on. We were close. All I had to do was find the piazza to park in as the hotel had instructed me.

I pulled up to what is, to this day, the tiniest piazza that I have ever seen. There were a few of the teeny Smart electric cars parked, but even they were parked all akimbo because space was so tight.  I didn’t want to leave the car double parked only to come back and find it towed away.  So I stayed with the car, our luggage, a distraught Lena and the passports while Aleksander ran to the hotel and asked what to do.

Guidos - Driving In Italy

Aleks returned and said that the hotel advised us to just leave the car double parked until we checked in.  What? What was this new world where the rules just do not apply?

But, it was all I needed to hear. We abandoned the car, blocking people in.  At the front desk I asked where the piazza for parking was that they kept telling me about over the phone.

“It is just there. Where your car is.”

“That is the hotel parking? There is nowhere to park in the piazza.”

“We know.  There is never any parking there. Just leave it there with the keys. We will take care of it.”

With pleasure!

Americans abroad · Emilia Romagna · European travel · ex-pat life · international travel · Italian food · Italy · Parma Italy · Travel

A Slight Turn Of Phrase

 

Learning Italian
Photo by Shutterstock

Learning Italian

When learning Italian, it is important to remember that inflection and emphasis on a particular syllable can make all the difference between getting your point across and really offending someone.

A slight turn of phrase can change the meaning of a word entirely.  I believe in trying to speak the language. I try to speak the language. I butcher it regularly and generally frustrate Italians, but it is the only way to really learn and I feel that it is respectful to at least try to speak the official language of the place that I live. But Lord knows, I have really made a mess of it at times.

In the beginning, we were meeting all kinds of people and lots of new kids at school. In Italian, much like Spanish, instead of asking “how old are you?” you ask a child how many years they have.  The phrase in Italian is “Quanti anni hai?”  I was pronouncing the word anni (years) like “ah knee.”  My friend Dena, an American who has lived in Italy for over 20 years, was kind enough to tell me “Oh, be careful how you pronounce anni.”  See, I was pronouncing anni like ani.  Ani means anuses.  This explained the strange looks and giggles I got when I asked children at the school how many anuses they had.  The correct pronunciation for anni is (ahnn knee) with an emphasis on the double n’s.

Then, at language circle one day my friend Paola was discussing the little yellow structure near the stadium.  I said, Oh, you mean the casino?” She looked at me shocked. “No, it is not a casino.” “Sure it is, it says so right on the building.  “aah, you mean casino’ ‘”  Apparently, there is the casino where one gambles and then there is the casino’ which is a brothel.  Oh and casino can also mean a big mess depending on context. In this context I made a casino of the word casino.

And then one time Paola did an entire lesson on the difference between papa’, Papa and pappa.  The first,  papa’ (pa·pà) is pronounced with a short emphasis on the first syllable then a hard accent on the second syllable.  This is one’s father.

Next there is Papa (pà·pa) with a capital letter. This indicates the Pope and is pronounced by keeping an equal emphasis on both syllables, but with a slighter stronger emphasis on the first syllable. But only a slightly stronger emphasis. Too strong an emphasis and you’ve blown it.

And finally, there is pappa. The double consonant ‘p’ requires us mush mouthed Americans to linger for a time on the two p’s. Pappa is baby food. A small snack for babies.

To this day, I cannot hear the difference between them all.

Even Father Christmas Wasn’t Safe!

But my biggest and most famous gaffe happened right after we arrived.  It was Christmas and I was determined to keep up our holiday tradition of a new ornament in the kid’s stockings.  I really wanted to find ornaments that said “Buon Natale.” Unfortunately, all the ornaments that I saw said “Merry Christmas” in English.

We were out on our last Christmas shopping excursion and Joe was having a coffee.  I tried one last store. Low and behold I saw exactly what I was looking for.  I went up to pay. I said my few phrases in Italian and the clerk instantly recognized I was not Italian.  She asked where I was from in English.  I told her and complimented her English. She said she needed to practice. I told her I really needed to practice my Italian as I had only been in the country for 3 months.  We decided that she would ask me questions in English and I would respond in Italian.

She asked me why I was buying the ornaments. I replied that I was buying the ornaments for my children’s stockings. She turned bright red. Her eyes opened wide.  I had clearly said something wrong.  I felt the need to explain further – to fix what I had said incorrectly.  I told her that I was buying the ornaments for the stockings of Father Christmas. At that point the clerk emphatically said “basta basta” or “enough, stop.”  She held her hand up to make sure I got the point.  The little boy behind me let out a guffaw and a snicker.  The clerk told the other patrons that I was new and didn’t speak Italian. The mother of the boy said, “Certamente!”

So, let me explain.  I was trying to say ‘calza’ which is the word for stocking. I put the wrong ending on it and instead said ‘calzo’ which, with my bad American pronunciation, sounded like ‘cazzo’ – the slang term for the male genitalia. So, in the first instance I had told the clerk that I was buying the ornaments for my son’s willy.  When I tried to explain further, I only made it worse by dragging Santa Claus’ willy into the discussion.  Everyone in the store had a good laugh about it.

Then months later at the school I was introduced to a friend’s family from England.  My friend said to her nephews, “This is the lady that said she was buying ornaments for Father Christmas’ willy!”  They all laughed and told me that the story had gone around London. Oy!

But, hey, the mistakes are half the fun and the things that we will remember for years to come.

Americans abroad · Emilia Romagna · European travel · ex-pat life · international travel · Italy · Parma Italy · USA

I Swam Away To Purple John

parmigiano reggiano
Purple John cheese

 

Prosecco, Prosciutto and Purple John cheese

I just re-read my first post from 2009. It took me 2 full years, but I did indeed swim away from my perfect island – smack into what one might metaphorically say are shark infested waters. Namely, the chaos of everyday life in Italy. It is a beautiful chaos, however, complete with Prosecco, prosciutto and Parmesan cheese, also known as Purple John cheese in our house.

Let me back up a little. In 2009 I was living in suburban California. My family and I lived in what may well be one of the nicest, most pleasant places to live and raise kids on the planet. It is easy to live there. It is safe, friendly and offers a fantastic location, perfect weather and excellent schools. That being said, I have always been a gypsy at heart and I wanted more challenge in my life. As the saying goes, “be careful what you wish for.” An international move is not for the faint of heart.

Vision Boards and Meditation

 

So there I was in 2009 hoping to move internationally. Since my husband is the primary breadwinner, this involved getting him on board with my vision. We had casually talked about living abroad over the years. His plan was to move abroad when our children were grown and gone. He saw us spending our golden years traveling and touring the world. My vision was to take the kids with us; to broaden their worlds now; to have them learn another language; to assure them that they needn’t be afraid to experience all that the world has to offer. So the question became, how to bring the two visions together?

I studied my options and evaluated the tools I had in my arsenal. What I arrived it was this: my husband is a first generation Polish American. In the eyes of Poland, he is a Polish citizen despite being born and raised in America. I encouraged him to apply for his dual citizenship. He may even tell you that I badgered him.

My argument went something like this: The world is becoming more global with every passing day. Once he had Polish citizenship (i.e. European Union benefits) then our children would also be Polish citizens with EU benefits. Armed with an international education, fluency in three languages and a comfort level of living in either the US or Europe, the world would be their oyster when they graduated from college. This move and experience would afford them more opportunities, more choices in the long run. These arguments were hard for him to deny. Eventually he acquiesced and applied for dual citizenship.

Next, I adhered to all the new age tenets and I simply willed it to happen. I envisioned an international move in my mind’s eye. I meditated on it. I made a wish every time we went through a tunnel on our way to and from San Francisco. I posted a picture on my bulletin board of London. I had photo magnets of Paris superimposed with a Chinese fortune cookie insert that read “Follow Your Dreams.” But most importantly, I researched international job offers for my husband and continually placed the ads in front of him. He may even tell you that I badgered him.

We evaluated a number of situations that arose over the two years but none of them were quite right. My husband was on board with my vision at this point but didn’t want to move just for the sake of moving. It had to be the right job; the right living situation. We considered Barcelona, London, Grenoble. We decided to be patient. I turned it over to the universe.

And, then one day the right job and the right living situation did come along and va bene . . . here we are. It is September 2011 and we have moved from the suburban comfort of Pleasanton, California to Parma, Italy.

Serendipity

At this point you are probably thinking, that is all very interesting, but why the Hell is this blog called Purple John?

When my daughter was a toddler and just learning to speak she frequently made up words that sounded similar to the adult versions. Quite often, she would repeat a word with her own twist on the pronunciation. For example, she would say strawbellies instead of strawberries; froggy instead of foggy. One of the words she transposed was Parmesan. In her 3 year old mind Parmesan cheese was Purple John cheese. For years our family has been asking one another to pass the Purple John at the dinner table.

Imagine our surprise then when we realized we were moving to Parma, Italy – the birthplace of Purple John cheese. Apparently the universe has a sense of humor.

Americans abroad · Emilia Romagna · European travel · ex-pat life · international travel · Italy · Parma Italy · Uncategorized

Strip Malls Italian Style

Picture


August 2011

Arrived. Tired, bedraggled and sleepy but we made it. Kids cried upon arrival but were laughing later in the day. Internet connection is sketchy at best. Cannot move in yet, but we are going there to unpack and organize. Just want a home again. It has been months.

Things that are going to take some getting used to:  lack of space; I have an Easy Bake Oven for an oven – seriously – none of our pans will fit in it and we have a dorm room sized fridge.

Things that I am super excited about (besides the culture, learning another language, travel, shopping):  the best pizza ever a block away (Lena said she can never eat pizza in the USA again); a champagneria a block away; an H & M across the street, a movie theater across the street and are you ready for this . . . an outlet mall about 10 minutes north of us with Roberto Cavalli, Versace, Dolce and Gabbana, Armani, Missoni, Escada, La Perla, Furla, Frette, Bruno Magli, Miss Sixty, and Valentino to name a few. And about five more minutes away from the outlet mall is a thermal bath and spa. Yay!!!!