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The Most Popular Game In The World

Football match in Italy. Parma vs. Inter Milan
Italian football match. Parma vs. Inter Milan

Italian Passion

Italians are a passionate bunch in general, and their passion for life can be triggered on a dime. Amazingly though, they also seem to make up with one another right away. I have seen them yelling and screaming at each other, faces reddened, spittle flying, arms waving and then shake hands and walk away five minutes later. Given this passionate culture, I was eager to attend a football match because one thing that Italians are very passionate about is football, the most popular game in the world.  You know, what we Americans call soccer.

Football, The Most Popular Game In The World

We decided to support our local football team and we went to watch Parma play against Inter Milan. I was a tad nervous because my husband had warned me that when Parma scores the crowd goes a little crazy – their passions are unfurled with yelling, screaming, shoving, running up and down the stands. Joe was actually knocked over at the last game he went to. He was not hurt, but that knowledge made me anxious as neither my daughter, nor I, do well in crowds. I was also anxious because Inter Milan was ranked fifth and Parma was ranked sixth, so tensions were indeed high. Ultimately. my desire to experience Italy to its fullest won out over my fear. We donned our blue and yellow and headed out to the stadium.

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Upon arriving, I noticed that there is no alcohol allowed at an Italian soccer game. Now, bear in mind that Italy is a place where one can find a full bar just about everywhere – the park, the movie theater, the shopping mall, the gym. But not at a football stadium. I have to say, that I support this practice.  I think it is a wise idea to prohibit alcohol at sporting events where passion and loyalties are on overdrive. One of my dear friends in California is a sweet, gentle guy unless you encounter him at the UCLA/USC football game. Then, he is a rabid dog. Give him some beer at the UCLA/USC game and he is a rabid bear. It may be a good thing for America to follow the Italian example in this case.

Something else that I noticed was that even stone cold sober, Italian fans are INTENSE about, and loyal to, their football team.  One of our Italian friends welcomed his second daughter into the world on the morning of the game that we attended, but he still made it to the match that afternoon!

Warning – Foul Language Ahead

The intense loyalty that they feel for their team is most often manifested by hurling insults at the other team. Through the entire game, Parma fans were chanting “Inter, Inter, vaffanculo, vaffanculo!” which literally translates as “Inter, Inter, up your a**,” but is used more as Americans use f^%k you.  Imagine half of a stadium chanting “f^%k you!”  Here were some of the antics I was hoping to experience.

Italians are a poetic people. They value the poetry of their art, food, fashion and language.  Given this love of language, a simple vaffanculo would not suffice and the fans occasionally intermixed the vaffanculo’s  with the chanting of an Inter Milan player’s name and then “pezzo di merda.”  As in, for example, “Zanetti piece of shit.”  They also broke into song once or twice singing along to the tune of Guantanamera but replacing the Guantanamera with “pezzo di merda” and then a player’s name so that the tune went something like this – “ pezzo di merda. Zanetti, pezzo di merda. ♪♪ peeeezzzzzo di merdaaa, ♫ Zanetti, pezzo di merda.”  Again, imagine a huge crowd all swearing together in song. Fascinating and entertaining stuff, I tell you.

The most perplexing expression of loyalty for me, however,  was the yelling of “cinesi vai via!”  or “non ci sono cinesi in Italia!”   This translates as “Chinese go away” and “There are no Chinese in Italy.” As factually incorrect, and as racially insensitive, as these comments were, the funny thing to me is that they were yelling these insults at Inter Milan player Yuto Nagatomo . . . who is Japanese.  I swear I saw Nagatomo looking around for the mysterious Chinese guy once or twice.

The final thing that I noticed about Italian football games is that the previously blogged about colpo d’aria – the dreaded hit of air – that Italians feel must be avoided at all times and at all costs for fear of ending up in the hospital –  seems to have a waiver for football matches.

Football match in Italy. Parma vs. Inter MilanFootball match in Italy. Parma vs. Inter Milan

During our game, for example, the weather was rainy and cold and yet scores of fans were without umbrellas or rain gear.  And quite a few were without shirts. In the rain! There they were, standing in the freezing rain, getting hit by air for 2+ hours and not a one seemed to be concerned that they were going to end up in the hospital.  Once again, questions arise in my American mind about the colpo d’aria malady.

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Alas, for Parma fans, despite their best insults and choral talent, Inter Milan won.  Parma didn’t score a single goal so I didn’t get to see the post score craze of happy fans that I craved.  And despite the racist epithets, Nagatomo dominated the field.  But, you know what they say . . . karma is a Japanese Inter Milan player.

Americans abroad · European travel · ex-pat life · international travel · Italian food · Italy

Mangia, Mangia!

Photo by Getty Images

“Watching Italians eat (especially men, I have to say) is a form of tourism the books don’t tell you about. They close their eyes, raise their eyebrows into accent marks, and make sounds of acute appreciation. It’s fairly sexy. Of course I don’t know how these men behave at home, if they help with the cooking or are vain and boorish and mistreat their wives. I realized Mediterranean cultures have their issues. Fine, don’t burst my bubble. I didn’t want to marry these guys, I just wanted to watch.”
― Barbara KingsolverAnimal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life

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!