Tipping point

Ada hit a tipping point last week. She had now lived longer in Italy than she has in the U.S. Isn't that nuts? I can't believe how much she's grown up the past 8 months; all the milestones she's met since being abroad. Walking, jabbering, climbing, exhibiting more and more independence, growing molars (MOLARS!)

I think we need to redouble our tooth-brushing efforts. . .

Tipping Point from Paige Anderson on Vimeo.

A love/hate, as always

I've started looking at one-way tickets to Utah. It's made me at once excited and sad, like many changes in life seem to. So many things are entangled in love/hate relationships, no?

I've started to make mental lists about everything, gelaterias, things I'll miss, favorite streets, charming walks, scenic bike rides, quirky shops, best store-fronts, museum schedules . . . I've also started allowing myself to think about Utah summers. Mmmmm, Utah summers . . . are there any better?

Things I will miss about Italy:

In one of our favorite piazza's, Piazza Cavour (proximity to the best gelateria in town may have something to do with it).

1. Piazzas. Why doesn't America have these? Why don't we have beautiful outdoor spaces (the mall doesn't count) filled with benches where people just hang out, eat gelato, read newspapers, and chat about whatever people chat about? Some of my favorite ones are small and tucked away, but Piazza Maggiore is always filled with people, live music, tourists . . . you get a sense of community when you're there even if you're the farthest thing from somebody's neighbor. The piazza's have provided tons of entertainment for Ada. She likes making friends and trying to beg ice cream off people (don't worry, I don't let strangers feed my baby). There are always dogs roaming by or pigeons landing here and there that she chases after, pointed finger leading the way.

2. Hanging laundry on the line. As much as I complain about how time consuming laundry (and everything else) is here, I think I'll actually really miss the slower pace of everything. There's a subtle gesture that people do here that I think evokes everything slow and care-free about Italians. When I hang laundry it's like a moment of meditation. It's a practice in caring about each part. It's also beautiful when it's all out in the garden swaying.

3. Walking. I hope that I can maintain some parts of our routine here even when we live out west for a bit. I think it's therapeutic. I have loved going to the store nearly every day with Ada. It's a good chance for us to breathe in some fresh air, check out the store windows and say hello to our friends at the Coop.

4. Bikes everywhere. I love the bikes here. I love the variety, the repainted finishes, the baskets, the clinky chains and squeaky breaks. I think I'll really miss the feeling of riding on cobblestones.

5. Window shopping. Man do they store owners seem to pride themselves in their window displays. I love it. It's made me second guess my cyber shopping tendencies. . .


Things I won't miss about Italy:

1. Cigarettes. The smell is bad and it seems like Spring has made everyone double down on their packs of cigs, but the butts every where is what kills me. Also, trying to keep them out of Ada's little hands when we're in a piazza or at the park is seemingly impossible.

2. Hanging laundry on the line. And doing dishes by hand. And how the laundry detergent just isn't up to par.

3. Walking. As much as I love it, sometimes it sounds so nice to get in a car and just go.

4. Motos. While it's impressive to see extremely well-dressed Italians zip by on a Vespa, they're so loud and stinky.

5. My bathroom. It's small. And there isn't a tub (and both Ada and I really need some tub time). And it has a bidet (Ada's new favorite depository) which always has crayons or toys in it. And the towels are scratchy. (Do I sound whiny?) I'm just looking forward to my big, soft, bleach-stain-and-all bath sheet that is folded neatly in a plastic box labeled "Towels and Bath stuff."

That sad face is not because I got mad. That's a total Please-don't-make-me-stop face.

I'm working on a Bologna City guide and some Best-Of's. Hopefully I'll have something to share soon.

Living in Italy: Walking and Biking

We're car-culture thoroughbreds. You would think that the thought of being car-less for 9 months would have been a scary one.

Not so.

We were excited at the freedom of not having a car. (Freedom? What?) Yes. Gas. Parking. Registration. Traffic lights. Car seat.

The scarier thought for me is driving in Italy. Mike said it best when he pointed out, "The Italians don't slow down, they just stop." It's true. You step out on a crosswalk and the cars barrel towards you, but they always stop. Just abruptly.

Living in centro has its perks. Everything is close enough to walk to. That being said, it has its disadvantages because everything is close enough to walk to. So you walk everywhere. And sometimes errands take hours. Like three errands take hours. Because you have a 20 minute walk between each errand. On some days, I love this. On others, I wish I was warm in a car and Ada was asleep in her car seat (and then I remember lugging around said car seat in and out of the car and in and out of stores and I quickly find myself blessing our carlessness again).

We also bike quite a bit. Mike and I almost exclusively bike to and from the University. And we (almost) always bike to church. If Mike runs to the store, it's usually on his bike. If he goes to scout out a good bread shop, he takes his bike. I've loved having them here. To most places in and near the center, they're faster (and less crowded) than the buses. The rain is the only thing that stops us. Ada's not so keen on it.

Some people thought that it might be frightening to ride in a city positively buzzing motorini, cars and buses. Truth be told, I feel safer here than in Provo. People are more aware here. They actually look for pedestrians and bikers and motorists and everything else.

Don't get me wrong, the streets are absolute chaos—organized chaos, but chaos nonetheless. They are narrow and winding, bumpy, and traffic rules are less rules and more like guidelines. But I love it. I feel truly Italian when I'm on my bike. People ride with their kids everywhere and I really think riding along with us is one of Ada's favorite things to do.

For the few places we go outside walking and biking distance, we take the bus. Or if it's really, really outside, we prendiamo un treno.


Want more of our day-to-day routine?
Living in Italy Part 1: Laundry
Living in Italy Part 2: Dishes

Kinda like thrush, only with more fizzing

"Good pizza dough should be sticky," she told me. Julie and Paolo just moved back to Bologna with their three kids after living in The States for a few years. Paolo is a baker. Julie is a nurse. She gave us a pizza dough demo a few weeks back.

I should have come home that day and tried it out. At the very least I should have written something down because after two weeks elapsed, the details of her demonstration had already begun to blur.

I remembered that the flour, poured directly onto the counter, made a nest to hold the yeast, oil and water. I remember how sticky her hands were, but how they didn't slow her down or make her seem less practiced. It was just part of the process. She made the dough with all the finesse of a true Italian; quickly and gracefully.

I was far less graceful. The walls of my flour nest broke, sending the yeasty water and oil mixture all over the counter and down between the fridge and the drawers. My sticky hands, I'm sure, looked far less masterly and purposeful than Julie's. They were constantly trying to free themselves, like they couldn't work right from under all the dough. Not just the dough on my my fingers, but on my palms would stretch and stick to everything they touched. To make matters worse, I didn't use enough flour and the bitter active yeast powder flavor came through. Only then did I read the package and realize I had used twice as much.

So with my sticky hands I grabbed the bag of flour, the container of salt, the bottle of olive oil and tried to make up for it.

In the process I got yeast in my mouth.

Have you ever had active yeast powder activate in your throat? No? Well wake up and feel the burn, my friend! The experience is one you'll have a hard time forgetting (because it burns and fizzes for what feels like hours. And tangentially: remember baking soda and vinegar volcanoes? Why in the world haven't we been using active yeast powder? That stuff puts the old baking soda and vinegar standard to shame.) I could go into all the details of how I activated yeast in my throat, but imagination is much more fun.

After I had finished kneading my dough it seemed so harmless as it sat there rising in an oiled bowl. Then I looked at the counters, the fronts of my drawers, the floor by the fridge-- evidence of a very unpracticed dough maker--and though, Maybe not quite so harmless.

Never so free

I got married on a Thursday. On Sunday, my four-days-a-married-women self flew across the country with my four-days-a-married-man husband and settled into a one room basement apartment filled with borrowed furniture. When we walked in for the first time, in my head I kept repeating, "It's just for the summer. It's just for the summer. It's just for the summer. . ." so I could hold it together.

We ate off paper plates while my brand new dishes sat in boxes back in Utah. When I pictured cooking my first meal as a married woman, I hadn't really envisioned it consisting of freezer burritos, a bag salad, and orange slices. I lost my job before my first day just weeks before we flew out, so I spent all of my time writing thank you notes for wedding gifts I'd never seen, looking for jobs, listening to NPR and visiting a museum here and there.

Some of those first few days there are among the loneliest ones of my life.


I saw my husband less than I ever had before. I didn't have family close. I had no friends. For the first several weeks I was isolated and alone most of the day. I thought it would be so different from what it was. I was newly married. I expected the whole summer to be bursting with newly wed bliss and a sense of companionship that I had never before understood. And yes, there was some of that (on the weekends). But there were also very hard, very lonely days spent wondering why this thing that felt 100% right was so 100% hard right now. People had told me to wait to get married until Mikey had gotten back from his internship. "And miss out on the adventure?!" I'd say, "No way!"


I'm not writing this for a pity party.

Truth is, nothing could have been better for my marriage. As soon as we got back home we were pulled in a thousand different directions by family, friends, events, deadlines, school work, callings, co-workers, younameits. Were it not for a summer of having my husband as my only person (even if I didn't have him to myself as much as I wanted), I don't think my marriage would be as strong as it is right now. I also don't think we would have been prepared to do what we're doing right now.

I have expected to feel the same pangs of loneliness here. So far, the flickers of isolation have been fleeting and few. It has been a welcome reassurance. I think that nothing could have brought me closer to my baby, closer to my husband and closer to my Heavenly Father like this past month-and-a-half have. I don't feel cloistered. I feel so free.

Free to dance in the kitchen while we're making pancakes together. Free to play "pillow-bomber" with Ada before bed. Free to write. Free to paint. Free to make my life what I want to make it. That's the best part. I'm someplace so new that it feels like a fresh canvas. I can't say what I want to say when I meet someone at the grocery store. I can't remember street names or how to get the address I just looked up. So I gesture and wander, and in doing so, realize this wide-eyed newness is what makes me grateful to be here every single day.

Living in Italy: Dishes

I know you're all dying to know how we do dishes here, right?

Short answer: we do all our dishes by hand (like so, so many people do. In fact, Mikey have only had a dishwasher at 1 of the 5 apartments we've lived in). But I had never seen one of these before:

the dishwasher

Above the sink is a cupboard that has drying racks rather than shelves. You can remove a plastic tray from the bottom of the cupboard so that the water drips directly onto the drain board/into the sink. Pretty nifty. Since counter space is so limited, it's great that we don't have to devote any of it to dish drying (Ironically, I took this picture after we had dinner guest so we had lots and lots and lots of dishes to do. It's the only time I've used another drying rack in addition to the dish cupboard).

We have come to refer to the cupboard as "the dishwasher" (when in reality, we are the dishwasher). As in "Hey hon, could you empty the dishwasher?"

If I don't get to have a big window looking out on the backyard over my someday-dream-home kitchen sink, then I want one of these puppies. I think they're brilliant.


Want more of our day-to-day routine?
Living in Italy Part 1: Laundry

Take a walk around

I had a bit of a break down yesterday. It came out of nowhere and probably stemmed from a lack of sleep more than anything (Dear Ada, when will you sleep again like you did at 2 months? Remember the 9 hour stretches?)

It came all at once and left me dissolved to tears about nothing in particular (but it felt like it was about everything in particular. You know, I have to give Ada a bath tomorrow and bathe myself, and leave the house by 10.  How did my life get so hard?)

Retrospectively I think most of us would agree that our meltdowns are silly, but in the moment they are serious and paralyzing. I also think that we have mini-breakthroughs in moments where facing a flood of tears makes us face questions that may have been pressing to be heard. Jack Johnson sings "I hope this old train breaks down, so I can take a walk around." I think I really needed the walk around. That's what breakdowns allow us to do.

I was asked this past weekend if my life was isolating. It might seem so, I answered. But gratefully I haven't felt isolated. The Italians are a warm and though I can't speak their language well (at all) yet, I feel communicated with. My day-to-day routine isn't glamorous or exciting, but it's comfortable and sweet.

But the question was like a canker sore. I thought about it over and over. It may have sowed the discontented sadness. Who knows.

I realized in it all that I missed my husband. Yes, we were together more over the last weekend than we had been in the days previous, but it felt like it had been many, many days since I had had a meaningful conversation with him. And he's the only person to have real conversation with. He's my person. And I realized that he too missed having me as his person.

We sat on the couch and held each other and came to understand a little better what it means to be husband and wife and what it means be intentional about our relationship. It was one of the sweetest moments since we've arrived.

And one of the biggest goals I made for myself while we're here started to happen: the closeness I feel to my little family swelled and grew even more. I might be bursting by the end of this adventure.

Wished I could have remembered

There's a tactic used by the salesmen (and, as it turns out, the missionaries) here. They buzz the outside the door of a building and try to get someone to let them in. Once they're in, they go door to door. It's like the jackpot of door-to-door selling (well, the jackpot of doors, not necessarily sales).

Nearly every day close to lunch time I'll hear the door buzz, I pick up the receiver, ask who it is and more often than not it's a muffled, jibbery voice that I don't recognize. My general rule of thumb is, if they don't ask for me using my name, I don't open the door.

After our apartment manager came yesterday morning and relite the pilot light, he still wasn't convinced everything was working right with the water heater (Me: "You mean it's not supposed to make those igniting-boom sounds every few seconds while the water is running? I thought that was normal here." Him: blank stare, long pause, followed by a curt, "No.") He said he would call a technician who would probably be here Monday.

Hours later the door buzzes. I answer.

They respond, "Jibber, jabber."

"No, grazie." I hang up.

It buzzes again. I pick up. "Si?"

"Caldaia?"

"Como?" (I know, it's not Italian, but it's one step closer than the German I keep remembering here).

"Caldaia?" 

"No, no. Grazie."

"No caldaia?"

"No." Hang up. ONLY REALIZE THAT I KNOW THAT WORD. CALADIA = BROILER (hot water heater). I had read that word the night before. Shoot.

I pick up the receiver. "Signore?" But they don't really work like that. Double shoot.

I panic. Should I call the apartment manager and tell him I just sent the repair man packing? I feel so dumb. He said Monday. It's Thursday, not even Friday. Should I run out to the street? Can't. Ada is sleeping . . . My brain continues humming along these lines until I hear another buzz, or rather three buzzes, followed by a knock on the door. (Ada is no longer sleeping). I try opening the door. It's locked (and you can only lock/unlock doors with a key, even from the inside). They hear me run away from the door.

"No, no! Signora! Aspettare!!"

"Un momento! Chiave!"

I open the door. Probably the sweetest looking old man is there with a very grouchy, grizzly looking younger guy with shoulder length ringlets and the biggest back pack on I've ever seen while not backpacking.

In broken Itailenglish he slowly says (and using exaggerated hand motions), "Signora. I landlord. I apartamento here. Come--"

"Si, si si!! Scusa! Prego, prego!" I basically just threw all sorry I'm an idiot terms I could think of at them.

They came in. The grizzly guy, as I realized when the door opened, was the repair man I had just dismissed a handful of times. When I heard the clang of his backpack hit the ground after he lifted it off his back I felt even worse than I did before. The thing must have weighed sixty pounds and been full of tools and parts and gadgets.

He fixed the hot water heater. And had he asked me, I would have kissed him.

And the landlord? I want to adopt him as my Italian grandfather. Even though he told me Ada was a "Bello bimbo."

An explosion or a frosty rinse off

Living in a new country sets you back in a lot of ways. Most notably, in the ability to communicate (sometimes you have to get really creative), but also in things like home maintenance. Yes, Italians have washing machines, and hot water heaters, toilets and everything else, but they're all a little different than what I'm familiar with. Oh, and the troubleshooting instructions (if they have instructions at all) are all in Italian (and rightfully so).

We are going on something like 36 hours without hot water. When Mike was doing dinner dishes night before last he wondered why the water wasn't getting hot. I thought maybe it was because we had a load of laundry going.

Turns out something isn't right.

Mikey has spent a lot of time turning knobs willy-nilly and I have been looking at YouTube videos (I love this guy) and Googling "How to fix your hot water heater." We're brilliant. I know. This is a time I would normally call my dad, he would tell me what's wrong and how to fix it or say, "Call someone," if he knew the job was out of my league.

We tried following some videos, only our water heater doesn't look like the ones in the YouTube videos (shooting through roofs. Thanks Mythbusters). It's rectangular. And there are lots more pipes and wires and things inside. So I started Googling our make and model with words like "pilot light" and "gas water heater." Those searches returned things like this:

Man airlifted to hospital with burns after water heater explosion
"The explosion occurred at the center of the home near the water heater, which has a pilot light that could have ignited the gas."
New York Water Heater Injury Attorney
"The water heater turned on and the pilot light reacting to the fumes created a violent explosion"

This made me a little uneasy. I made Mike put down the matches, stop the troubleshooting, and go door to door asking for help.

Help should be coming this morning. We'll see.

Until then, I'm not showering. Or doing dishes. Or laundry.

Living in Italy: Laundry

One of the things I'm learning quickly is that doing things I would do a few times a week back in Utah is a daily must-do here. Take the floors for example. I rarely see carpet here. (They have some in the church, but it might as well be tile it's so dense and hard). I never knew how much dust and specks of dirt that carpet hides, and now that I know I just might vacuum more when we have it again. Our tiled floors don't hide a thing. So I sweep every day. Sometimes twice a day. (Otherwise Ada looks like a dirty dust bunny by the end of the day).

Laundry is another nearly daily task. Dryers are also a rarity in Bologna (Italy? Europe?). Everything gets hung dry either on the line in the back yard or on one of two drying racks (that Ada uses as her personal hideout when unfolded and laden with clothes).

The washing machines are almost always in the kitchen (they're hooked up to the plumbing that the sink is hooked into so when the washer drains, the sink gurgles a bit) in the apartments I've seen. The machines are small and only hold 5 - 7 kg. This is another reason why doing laundry (almost) daily is easier.

It's teaching me think ahead and plan more. There's no "Oh shoot, we're out of undies, I'll quickly toss a load in and switch it to the dryer before I go to sleep." Things take 12 - 24+ hours to dry here! You would have soggy undies and probably a rash the next day.

This does make cloth diapering a bit more intense. I have to do a load every other day because the liners take a day and a half to dry (unless I get them out quickly in the morning and catch the little patch of sun in our yard for a few hours. Then it's usually the standard 12ish).

But doing a load a day (and sweeping the floor once a day) makes the chores seem small. There's no saving up wash for a big laundry day that takes over a whole afternoon. There's no big-time Saturday cleaning the floors either. These things happen incrementally each day and I'm learning that putting in small, consistent efforts pays off in the long run.