Italy is filled with life’s little paradoxes.

For example, Italians drive super fast, BUT eat really slow.

Case in point.  Today I was nearly killed several times by speeding motorcycles, fiat automobiles, as well as a little kid on his bike.  If something has wheels, the Italians have a need for speed.

On a return trip from a hike this afternoon, a motorcycle cruised by me at a speed no less than 90 mph, only to be followed by a tiny BMW that was right behind him going something close to 80. I’m  fairly certain  I saw a grey-haired man driving behind the wheel. 

 Twice on my approach into this walled-city, three teenagers on their motorized velos swooped around me while I froze stiff against the stone wall, flattening myself as much as possible to get out of the way.

 Just a few blocks later, a boy about eight or nine almost took me out on his bicycle when I rounded a corner and surprised him. 

 Italians like speed.  No wonder it is the birthplace of the Ferrari.

 They like speed, that is, until it is time to eat dinner, or drink a cappuccino, or enjoy a scoop of gelato.  Then the Italians shift into low gear. 

 Dinner around here just gets going around 8:00 or 8:30 or maybe even 9:00 or 10:00 if you’d like.  And even then, once it gets going it involves a minimum of three courses – starter course, pasta course, and then the meat course…of course!  That doesn’t even begin to consider the possibilities of wine pairings with each course or the inevitable temptation of dessert.

 Time investment?  You’ll be set back at least 2 or 2 ½ hours and that’s if they recognize you are American and speed it up a bit. 

 The Italian coffee experience works much the same way.  No one orders a tall, skinny macchiato to go.  No one even thinks about ordering anything to go.

On several occasions I’ve watched  people slide into an Italian bar, order a small shot of espresso or café, take two or three sips, and then slip back out the door within three minutes or less.  That’s even quicker than getting through the drive through at McDonalds for a McCafe Latte.  The Italians don’t seem to mind that they don’t have time to drink a whole cup.  And it certainly doesn’t occur to them to try to “speed it up” a bit by drinking it on the run.  Ironic for a people that can’t seem to slow down on the roadway! 

 But that’s not the only irony that the Italian culture presents. 

The Italians notoriously value family.  How many jokes have you heard about Italians and their mothers?  From the experiences we’ve had here in Cagli with the locals, it sounds like those jokes may not be far off.  The average Italian lives with his/her parents well into their late 20’s or early 30’s.  Many Italians prioritize living near their immediate family and take care of their parents into their retirement years.

 But Italians also don’t get married.  And they don’t have kids.  Their birth rate is less than one child per person which currently puts them in a negative population growth rate. 

Ironic.

Despite the many paradoxes; however, Italians have captured my heart.  Despite the cultural differences, I sincerely hope that when I return to the states I will be able to hold onto some of the things I’ve come to value the most about my time here in Cagli.

 I hope I will eat more gelato. And eat it more often.

 I hope I will slow down, worry less about my “to do” lists, and take time to visit with friends –at length—when I run into them in public places.

 I hope to remember what it felt like to be without language and to feel like a minority.  I hope I will remember how powerless I felt when I couldn’t read a menu or a bus schedule or a road sign.

I hope I remember how heartbroken I was when I couldn’t understand an elderly women I was photographing  in the street window  as she gestured and tried to tell me her life story.  Her desperate search for her wedding picture, framed and yellowed from exposure, substituted for my miserable apology . “Mi dispiace, no copisco Italiano” ( I’m sorry, I don’t understand Italian.) I hope I remember how disappointed I was that language separated us, even though our life stories did not. 

 And mostly I hope I will become increasingly discontent with being a tourist rather than a global citizen.

I hope I will think more bravely about how I want to travel in the future.  I hope I will be less content to stay at the Fairmont Hotel in Paris and much more interested in spending a month studying French in Provence or teaching English in Cambodia. 

 I hope I will return from this trip not the same person I was when I left 17 days ago.

By Carrie Root

I call myself a minimalist. And I find it very hard work in the United States to remain one. Daily I fight a losing battle, trying to rid myself of things I don’t want or need. Still, life at home seems to pile “stuff” up, leaving me feeling overwhelmed with too many things and too little time.

Almost as soon as I arrived in Italy, I realized that these few weeks were going to be simpler in many ways. I oooed and awed with my flat-mate over details in the design of our temporary home. A drying rack for our dishes was built into the kitchen cabinet, allowing wet dishes to drip straight down into the sink below. The tiny refrigerator fits perfectly in the cabinet under the counter, just the right size for a few days of provisions. I felt like Goldilocks, trying everything out only to discover it was “just right.”

Time in Cagli is also simple. I have been here for two weeks now and I have not yet seen a single Cagli resident look rushed. They work in the morning, rest in the early afternoon, and head back to work until early evening. I think somehow these people have attained the perfect notion of the “right” amount of stuff and the “right” amount of time.

Even if I did bring back this minimalist lifestyle to the United States, I am skeptical that it would be easy to maintain. When you are surrounded by the rush of time and the pressure to consume, it is downright stressful to go against the grain of mainstream culture. I’m honestly not sure it can be done. But I love this simple life and I will envy it when I return home. And maybe I’ll find a few ways to bring my dream of a “just right” home to life.

It is late afternoon; the sun slowly slips away as the thunderstorm containing cumulonimbus clouds creep from behind the mountaintop moving over the city of New Cagli, Italy. I make myself aware of the time as well as the weather conditions as I rush to the small, family owned, used computer store to purchase an adapter for my camera. Two women are seated to my left on a bench in the park talking, giving no indication that they intend to leave. Thunder roars in the distance, and my pace quickens. I have to get to the computer store, purchase the adapter, and walk to the recreation center for an interview before the clouds burst. Having no umbrella doesn’t bother me; it’s the possible lightning striking that concerns me.

Although the clouds are darker and the rain drizzles to the ground, no one rushes or seems to notice. The day continues as usual. People are unbothered by the idea of a thunderstorm despite the crackling of the skies. I am shocked as I run quickly to my destination and wonder what are the statistics of lightning striking people in Cagli, Italy. It has to be high if this is customary behavior. The salesman in the computer store is kind and allows me to wait until the weather improves.

The walk to the recreation center is just as adventurous. The construction men are cutting metal on the side of the street. The men have no goggles for eye protection nor do they wear gloves for their hands; they ignore the multiple sparks that fly in all angles from the metal. I approach the men with caution expecting them to cease until I pass. They glance my way and continue to work. Politely I step into the street and speed past hoping to avoid the sting of a spark gone astray. I am uneasy and wonder what the safety rules and regulations are for construction workers; I wonder if they have rules and regulations at all. I have come to the conclusion that safety in Cagli is not a priority- safety is not first.

Photo by Gavin Roddy

By Lynsey Genson

Twenty-six year old Elisabetta Panico owns a clothing boutique on the ancient piazza in Cagli, Italy.  Determined to stay close to her family, she worked in the store for three years before a combination of entrepreneurial spirit and government incentives allowed her to become one of the city’s youngest business owners.

Elisabetta is a native of Cagli, a place largely unchanged since its beginning in the 12th century. Motorcycles whiz through the piazza and the people wear bright modern clothing, but locals will tell you not much has changed.  Old timers sit against the wall of city hall each day, memorizing every stone and the angle of every face.  Their families can be traced back to this area for centuries.   Life moves slowly, tradition and family are paramount, and the true Italian culture prevails.

Young Cagliese, such as Elisabetta, find limited  career opportunities.  Those without a thriving family business to carry on either choose to work in a local factory or must leave for one of Italy’s major urban areas.   However, three young entrepreneurs were able to envision a different future.  Elisabetta Panico, Matteo Susini, and Gianluca Caselli found a way to stay near family and still prosper professionally.

Elisabetta’s shop, Exclusive, is a new concept shop for Cagli.  It sells jewelry, accessories and clothing exclusively for women.   To survive in a challenging economy, she says she also focuses on providing lower-cost merchandise and superior customer service.  Since she knows most of her clientele, she stocks their favorite colors, styles and sizes.

Because she was a woman under the age of 26, Elisabetta also received financial incentives from the local government to open a new business.  This provided her the assistance she needed to upgrade the interior of the old building and open the store.

Photo by Gavin Roddy

At age 36, Matteo Susini has lived in Cagli his entire life and has deep family roots.  He inherited the family business, a local hair salon.  Taking the salon to the next level, Matteo turned it into a school called Loft Project.  Loft Project provides education, managerial advice and technical advances to young adults looking for a career in the industry.

He also opened a trendy hair salon with modern décor and upscale furnishings  down the road, with modern décor and upscale furnishings.  He serves clients as well as provides practical application in his shop for educational purposes.  According to his website, Matteo envisions a team “constantly aimed at growing, technically and professionally, to a higher level.  These instruments are then transferred to the clients through beauty and satisfaction.”

Tourists are a small part of Matteo’s clientele, which consists mostly of locals and residents from surrounding towns.  He says he knows that if he wants to continue to grow the business he will most likely need to expand into a larger city nearby.   But, he noted, “Cagli will always remain my home.”

Photo by Gavin Roddy

Gianluca Caselli, who is known by everyone as “Seven,” loves Cagli.  His entire family lives in the city, so he vowed to stay.  After working as a bouncer and surviving a work-related accident, he said he wanted to be his own boss. There were no incentives to help Seven start his own business.  Using all his savings, he purchased the bottom floor of a building close to the town center.   At one end of Caffe’ del Corso is a low-lit, trendy wine bar that plays American music. At the other is a casual eatery and bar.

Seven, who is 29, says he feels the town has not changed much since he was a small boy.  The café’s patrons remain Cagli locals and neighboring townspeople. On rare occasions, a tourist appears.  Despite this, Seven works 12 to 15 hours a day.  “It is too much and sometimes I wish I could work for someone else and work less,” Seven says with a sigh.  “However, the more I work, the less I have to pay someone else to do the work.  And I’d rather do this than work in the factory.”

My usual routine: wake up, turn on lights, shower, blow dry my hair and start the laundry while the curling iron warms up. Pop something to eat in the microwave, charge my cell phone and electric toothbrush. All this is done whilst casually watching television.

Upon arriving at Via Lapis in Cagli, Italy, I was informed life here would drastically alter my usual habits. Italy does not produce much of its own power, as it is not necessarily safe to do so considering its terrain and the frequency of earthquakes it experiences. As a result, power must often be purchased at a high price from France. Electricity, an already expensive luxury, is even more costly when too much is consumed. When a resident uses more than a certain amount of voltage he or she is charged double, and the power will more than likely shut off.

When these facts combine with a travelling American’s routine, some adjustments must be made. The gas on the stove must be shut off unless in use, and only one burner may be used at a time while cooking. The television cannot be on at the same time as any other electrical equipment, and only one electrical item may be charging at one time. If the washing machine is running you must make sure to turn off the lights and any other frivolous appliances. Lights should never be left on unless one is in the room.

Living this way makes me realize how privileged I am when in the States. I have spent 25 years of my life taking advantage of cheap electricity, always consuming and never considering how wasteful I was. How many times have I cooked in the States while watching television? How man times do I wash a load of laundry while electronically drying another at the same time?

A shocking realization was that Italians find the notion of clothes dryers to be absurd. Wasting so much energy seems impractical when clothes can air dry well enough without the help of machinery. No wonder Americans have such bad reputations regarding wastefulness.

Life in Via Lapis is different that what I am accustomed to. When making dinner I can no longer multitask. It is not feasible to cook pasta noodles and sauce on the stove, while baking bread at the same time. I must plan my wardrobe in advance so jeans will be dry when I need them three days later.

At first I was frustrated with the inefficiency of this system, however, it was surprisingly easy to adjust my habits. I am interested to see how I integrate what I learned in Cagli into my former routine. I wonder if I will notice a change in the electricity bill I am always complaining about.

It is clear that motorized vehicles have the right of way in Cagli. This practice is unlike the United States where it is the law that people have the right-of-way when on the road. My first fear after my arrival was of being run over as by a wheeled vehicle. Car, motorcycle, bicycles all seem to pose a threat to bodily harm.

The small streets of Cagli are barely wide enough for a car and person to stand side by side. I quickly learned to be on the look out for coming vehicles. In my journeys I quickly discovered that it is essential to stay close to the buildings and be ready to quickly duck into doorways when these wheeled beasts approach.

When on foot the people of Cagli are kind and thoughtful. When behind the wheel they become aggressive and irritable. When pedestrians cause them to delay they behave as if they are angry and exasperated. They mutter words of irritation, roll their eyes, and make hand gestures.

Why does this feel so different than in the United States? In the United States it is the law to give pedestrians the right of way. If there was no law, would people dart their cars in the path of pedestrians?

While standing in line at the lost luggage desk, an Italian man pushed his way past me and began speaking to the person who was helping me. The airport employee would not deal with him and told him to get back in line. A few minutes later the Italian man starts yelling at the airport employee. This employee ignored the man and kept working. Ignoring the man only made him more angry. He began banging his fist on the desk and screaming. The employees ignored him more. He screamed louder and a crowd of people started yelling with him. A high level employee came out to speak to him. The mob grew louder as she spoke. Finally, an officer with a automatic weapon laying on his chest joined the woman. However, the level of shouting never changed and the employees behind the desk just kept working–not bothered by the commotion. I on the other hand was very concerned with shouting,
banging and guns drawn. Yet, quite quickly, the Italian man and mob just walked off. Just like nothing ever happened. I have no idea what the problem was, but it was unnerving to me. If this happened in the States, the police probably would have arrested the man. However, he just walked away and everyone went on as normal.

Last Wednesday during market, I spotted a woman shopping with her dog. I bent over and extended my hand tentatively toward the dog, trying to gauge whether it would allow me to pet it. “Hello, buddy” I said, “Are you a friendly dog?” The woman responded in English, without any discernible accent, “Yes, he’s very friendly .” For a split second, I was speechless. She had just been conversing in very rapid Italian with one of the vendors. Since many of the people we’ve encountered in Cagli speak only a little English, if they speak English at all, I assumed the woman spoke only Italian. As it turned out, she was born in Cagli and has lived here for over twenty years, but had also lived in San Francisco. I should know better, but still fall into the trap of making assumptions about people.

A funny thing happened to me last week. On my second night in Cagli, Italy, I found myself feeling like a tourist pretty darn quickly. I had always loathed having to deal with tourists in my hometown. Perhaps the most infuriating example was of an American from New York arrogantly deriding my beloved Pittsburgh as being a “shit-town” (his phrase, not mine) on a pay phone in the heart of the city. I remember how each oink he made about suffering the indignity of being sent here for a week by his company seemed to wallop me in the gut.

Even though most tourists I encountered did not have the same malevolence in their hearts that this skunk man had, they always appeared to have a level of condescension in their behaviors. Whether it was my friend the Quebecer getting a picture next to our Roberto Clemente statue so that it looked like the Hall of Famer was picking his nose, or a Pittsburgh “Lucky Duck” sightseeing bus somehow blocking traffic in both directions, every action they made seemed to mock us. And just for the record the “Lucky Duck” tour bus was actually shaped like a large, anthropomorphic duck. Imagine explaining that to your boss when he or she asked you why you were late.

So how on earth did I become one of these awful creatures? I can see the moment so clearly. I was walking with my camera in hand down the streets of Cagli, Italy. I had to snap photos of the townspeople at night for my class and out of the darkness came a sound bound to scar me for the rest of my life. A young Italian teen called out, her face like an angel but her mouth like a scorpion, “Hey American. Peace! Love!” As her friends laughed she dealt the final blow. Both hands made peace signs as she and her posse turned into an adjacent alley, their laughter following them.

I stood there stunned, my pride in shambles. Somewhere far off in the horizon the “Lucky Duck” tour bus much like the dreaded “Flying Dutchmen” was waiting for me to board and join its crew of the damned. I had become a tourist.

My instructor calmly reminded me after I had told my tale of woe that the wise St. Ignatius Loyola said that we should assume that everyone has the best intentions and work from there. But the Jesuit priest had died long before flash photography and could possibly understand the indignity I had suffered. Then denial set in. Perhaps, this young teen was aspiring to join the Italian version of the Peace Corps and was practicing her goodwill missions. Or she wanted to smooth over diplomatic relations between Italy and America by offering a gesture of peace.

But finally I was forced to accept the tragedy that had befallen me and admit to the world that I was…a tourist. In this new age of acceptance I have grown to realize that in the increasingly global world, tourism will only naturally grow. And by now joining their infamous ranks, I see things from both sides now. And being a tourist the one thing I think the world needs more of is patience and empathy. So the next time you see someone trying to find directions in a language other than your own, or taking pictures of every building they see, or even riding a large duck through your city, please be understanding. That tourist may be me. And remember the tables can turn quicker than you think.

It is about 11 pm and I am getting ready for bed in the sunset colored bathroom. Laughter erupts from the street below. Curious, I open the wood shutters to see who would be up making so much noise. I can’t see anyone but two very young men – no more than16 or 17 – walking away from the direction in which the laughter originated. More laughter, followed by the giggles of young women. I close the shutters which does little to muffle the sound of the people below – now in a loud conversation interrupted frequently by laughing, giggling, cheers and yells. I finish brushing my teeth and walk into the bedroom where my roommate is sleeping. I crawl into bed.

I don’t know how much time goes by as I toss and turn, covering and uncovering my ears, silently cursing the 15 or 20 people that were keeping me from sleeping well tonight so I can be fresh and alive in the morning. What I assume to be a police officer drives by and speaks to the youth through a speaker. Although I am not sure what the officer has asked them to do, I assume he has done the right thing and asked them to go home – that is what would have happened hours ago in my neighborhood. I feel relieved.

The voices become faint and I begin to fall asleep. Suddenly, as though they knew the police officer was out of earshot and would not come back, more loud laughter and giggles erupt. The sound carries so well I can almost hear every word – if only I could understand it. Unable to fall asleep anyway, I begin to wonder what they are talking about and why they chose to stand under the windows of this apartment. They are quite young, so I imagine they are teasing each other about who likes whom and who is a better athlete, or something like that. The way the girls giggle tell me they are interested in one or more of the boys. The alley next to our apartment is secluded; they probably don’t even know they are bothering anyone. I wonder how to say “please be quiet” or “please go somewhere else” in Italian. The piazza clock strikes midnight. I feel relieved again – how much longer can it go on? Don’t they have a curfew? Aren’t their parents wondering where they are? When I was their age, my parents would have dragged me home by my ear if I hadn’t gone home yet at this hour.

It is now ten minutes to one o’clock. It is quieter. I can tell that some of them have left, but there must be at least 5 or 6 left. Still laughing and talking. I still can’t fall asleep.