Living Outside the Lines: Living in Not America

Growing up a military dependent, it is a reasonable expectation that one might live all over the world.  Not this dependent, but then again, when do I ever fit what one might consider the norm?  Other than my father’s tours in Vietnam, during my lifetime, he had only two official duty stations; Charleston Air Force Base, South Carolina, and Fort Hood Army Post in Killeen, Texas.  As a career loadmaster, he frequently flew temporary duty missions [TDY], but our family was fortunate enough to avoid frequent relocations.

 

My husband joined the Air Force just after our one-year wedding anniversary.  He also experienced only two duty stations; Mountain Home Air Force Base, Idaho, and San Vito Air Station, Italy. The difference? My husband served seven years versus my father’s twenty-two.  Having spent most of my life in just four states (if you count the ten months in Florida when I was barely a toddler), the move to Italy with a one-year-old in tow was quite an experience.

 

The culture shock was huge.  Literally, overnight, we were thrown into a world with strange food, a foreign language, unusual customs, an unfamiliar monetary system, and even things somewhat normal, weren’t quite the same as we were accustomed to back in the good ole’ U. S. of A.  What do I mean?  Let’s start with something as simple as plugging an alarm clock into the wall.  Don’t do it!!!  All the currents in Europe are 220 volts, not the 110 volts of the states.  Accidentally forgetting meant sudden death to our 110 gadgets inserted into the socket without a transformer.

 

Base housing was limited, which meant finding suitable living arrangements “on the economy”, or in the areas outside the security of the base.  Our landlords were Italian who spoke no English, yet insisted on ushering me inside their home each month to serve tea when I arrived to pay the rent.  Talk about awkward silence.

 

Our apartment was spacious with tile floors, granite countertops, two full baths that were strangely side by side, rooftop access, a patio accessible from both the master bedroom and living room, and a single car garage. It also had absolutely no cabinets in the kitchen, no refrigerator, no closets, no telephone, no linen storage; no washer/dryer hook-ups and a pull handle near the bathtub, which opened the front door.  I never did figure out why anyone would be so inclined to open the front door while sitting wet and naked in the tub???

 

Acclamation was tough; we were there six months before I gathered the courage to drive, and even then it was out of necessity, not desire.  Americans are taught to drive defensively, not the Italians.  Pedestrians best beware, as drivers will hop onto the sidewalk if it strikes their fancy.  It was 1992 so there was no Google maps or Siri.  I knew enough Italian to ask for directions, but understanding those directions, not so much.  The few times I got lost, prayer was my only hope. Jesus, as it turns out, is a great navigator.

 

A trip to the grocery store required strategic planning as most of them closed two hours every day for the afternoon siesta.  The weekly outdoor markets were exciting, the bounty available ranged from freshly skinned squirrels and farm fresh produce to high-end furniture and leather shoes.  The most fun aspect of the markets was bargaining with vendors for a better price.  Haggling in the Italian bazaars prepared me for negotiating later on while shopping in China, Hong Kong, Haiti and Guatemala.

 

Our blonde headed, green eyed, thumb-sucking son, riding in a backpack on his daddy’s back never failed to draw a crowd.  Italians loved his fair complexion; light hair and eyes but despised his thumb sucking.  Often we’d hear “aspetta,” meaning “wait”, and someone would reach up to brush his cheek, try to remove the thumb from his mouth, and then gesture requesting to take a photograph. It would not surprise me to stumble across an Italian national with a photo of my son.

 

Our VHS collection, DVD’s had not been invented yet, which included, “Garth Brooks Live in Concert,” “101 Dalmatians,” and “Beauty and the Beast” when we arrived grew significantly during our two years in Italy.  The Armed Forces Network left much to be desired. Programming was often at least six months behind.  Beverly Hills 90210 was at the peak of its popularity, and I was an addict.  My father graciously recorded weekly episodes and spent a lot of money mailing me video recordings so I could keep up with Brandon, Brenda and the rest of the gang.

 

Italian food in the states is Americanized and quite different from what we ate while stationed in Italy.  One of my favorite dishes was steamed mussels, cousin to the oyster, in a clear, flavorful broth.  Orecchiette pasta, which translated means “little ears,” also became a favorite.  I sent everyone in our family bags of the ear-shaped pasta for Christmas one year along with a recipe for Italian pasta sauce.  Authentic Italian sauce is not the heavy tomato based sauce we eat in the U.S.  Their sauce is thinner, lighter colored, and with much more seasoning.

 

Two of the most important Italian words I learned were “dolce vino” or sweet wine.  Many restaurants made their own wine, and the smooth, sweet, white house wines were what I preferred.  Most Italian chocolate is not sweet, so asking “dolce?” before taking a bite was important, unless one preferred eating bitter baking type chocolate.

 

Remember, it was 1992, so no cell phones or Google translate.  We carried English to Italian, and Italian to English pocket dictionaries everywhere.  Forget trying to speak English to anyone from Southern Italy.  They would look right through us, as if we were clothed in Harry Potter’s “Cloak of Invisibility”, but no matter how badly we butchered their language, they would go out of their way to communicate if we at least made an attempt.  I remember a particularly hilarious game of charades in a pizzeria.  We wanted pepperoni, but it was only available after 4PM.  It probably took us at least ten minutes of gesturing, but finally, we understood, it was too early for “salami”, a.k.a. pepperoni.

 

Despite the separation from family and everything we had ever known, I cherish the experience of living in a foreign country.  It opened my eyes to a different culture for the first time, and also brought a greater appreciation for everyday conveniences often taken for granted.

 

Until Next Time,

 

 

Becky J Miller

“Warrior Princess”

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