At the airport in Bologna, they confiscated my hair product. Some of you may be equally dependent on yours. I said, "There's only a little left!" and she said, "We have to go by how many ounces it says on the bottle." Then she gestured toward the big bin in which they throw out all the passenger loot and said, "Is it okay?" I can't say no to an airport security personnel, so I just said, "Okay, but I will not look as good tomorrow."
She nodded. She had long hair so it seemed she got it, even if it wasn't curly (curly people have more dependence on hair products). Then I had a thought. I had a small empty bottle I was bringing back (a good leak-proof one is hard to find) that I showed her. "Is it possible to...." I said the first half in Italian and the second in mime. She actually agreed and walked over to the bin, dove into it, and retrieved my hair product. I squeezed what was left into the small bottle. I think I said "molto" about fifty times when I thanked her.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The Rain in Spain
The small guidebook I had bought on Madrid said that one of the great things about it is that no matter the season, it is always sunny. I arrived to a gray sky which opened as the cabbie drove to the city. If I hadn't read that line, I wouldn't have felt cheated, but the writer had given me expectations.
Madrid looks so different than Italy. It still feels like a distant cousin, but visually it is not at all the same. Its buildings are tall and clean-looking, polished and white and ornate, and it seems all the ones on corners are round and not angular. They look grand, as my mother would say. Rich and new, compared to Italy's colorful but dark narrow streets and buildings that have dilapidated facades (which I find beautiful). Like New York, streets in Bologna and Florence and Venice have a gritty, busy, gray feel to them. Spain felt more like DC.
Other differences: Very few places on the street where you can dodge in and grab a panini, pizza, or pastry to eat en route (or even eat there), whereas in Italy they are every block or two. No bidets in the bathrooms. And no laws against smoking inside restaurants.
My hotel is hip, or at least is trying to be. The elevator only has a blue light in it, the kind that illuminates anything white that you are wearing, and nothing else. It is not as cool as they probably thought it would be when they designed it. When you are in an elevator, you want to be able to see things more clearly and it somehow makes it harder to think clearly too. Then you get out and are all blinky because regular lights are so much brighter.
My room has a long entrance hallway with a blue light at the end of it. Turns out it is a blue plastic sliding door to the bathroom, lit from behind. The closets are the same. Inside one closet there is a cardboard storage box I think I have seen at the Container Store. It has snacks in it; their version of the minibar. The bathroom has red accents, a very high tub wall (can't be good if you are very tired in the morning or not limber), and a purple shower curtain. The sink has double faucets over a long rectangular basin. The left one sprays directly upward and backward.
I have a terrace, which was exciting. It was cold and windy out there, but I was standing among the ornate Spanish building facades. I looked up and there were cherubs sculpted above me. Across the street was a stately structure with high ceilings. On the corner, a gorgeous rounded building with an enclosed glass space that looked like a capsule.
The truly cool thing about the hotel is that poetry is etched onto every landing and over every bed. I loved having it there. Unfortunately, it was mostly in Spanish. I asked the front desk if they had translations of them and the guy said I should copy the poems down with the authors' names and I could probably find a translation somewhere. I couldn't have been the first non-Spanish-speaking guest there. I'm sure they spent time choosing the poems. A booklet with translations would be a plus. However, I was on the only floor that had an English quote on the landing, so that was a nice discovery.
I had to keep remembering to say "Hola" and "Adios" instead of "Ciao". Other than that, I could only get by with my limited Italian because no one really knew English.
I know two people who hated the food in Spain and I had prepared myself for the same because it is so meat-heavy there. I decided to go to the supermarket and get things for late night, the plane, and also breakfast, since I would be up too early to eat it elsewhere. The supermarket had a huge cooler with containers of gazpacho in it, the same kind of containers you get with orange juice. Everything was little more than a Euro. I guess it's a staple here. I did think the food options in the supermarket were a lot more appealing in Italy. But the men were striking. As much as Italian men are attractive, Spaniards were surprisingly and extremely good-looking, uniformly. Or maybe just the cute ones go grocery shopping on Monday nights?
I had received two restaurant recommendations from the hotel, and had found about eight others in my guidebook. But I ended up going to a place I walked by that was no frills and had a lot of locals in it, as well as a sign outside that they had vegetarian options. I almost did not order the vegetable paella because the wait for any paella is 20-30 minutes. But I am so glad I did. My first paella, and it was fantastic.
Madrid looks so different than Italy. It still feels like a distant cousin, but visually it is not at all the same. Its buildings are tall and clean-looking, polished and white and ornate, and it seems all the ones on corners are round and not angular. They look grand, as my mother would say. Rich and new, compared to Italy's colorful but dark narrow streets and buildings that have dilapidated facades (which I find beautiful). Like New York, streets in Bologna and Florence and Venice have a gritty, busy, gray feel to them. Spain felt more like DC.
Other differences: Very few places on the street where you can dodge in and grab a panini, pizza, or pastry to eat en route (or even eat there), whereas in Italy they are every block or two. No bidets in the bathrooms. And no laws against smoking inside restaurants.
My hotel is hip, or at least is trying to be. The elevator only has a blue light in it, the kind that illuminates anything white that you are wearing, and nothing else. It is not as cool as they probably thought it would be when they designed it. When you are in an elevator, you want to be able to see things more clearly and it somehow makes it harder to think clearly too. Then you get out and are all blinky because regular lights are so much brighter.
My room has a long entrance hallway with a blue light at the end of it. Turns out it is a blue plastic sliding door to the bathroom, lit from behind. The closets are the same. Inside one closet there is a cardboard storage box I think I have seen at the Container Store. It has snacks in it; their version of the minibar. The bathroom has red accents, a very high tub wall (can't be good if you are very tired in the morning or not limber), and a purple shower curtain. The sink has double faucets over a long rectangular basin. The left one sprays directly upward and backward.
I have a terrace, which was exciting. It was cold and windy out there, but I was standing among the ornate Spanish building facades. I looked up and there were cherubs sculpted above me. Across the street was a stately structure with high ceilings. On the corner, a gorgeous rounded building with an enclosed glass space that looked like a capsule.
The truly cool thing about the hotel is that poetry is etched onto every landing and over every bed. I loved having it there. Unfortunately, it was mostly in Spanish. I asked the front desk if they had translations of them and the guy said I should copy the poems down with the authors' names and I could probably find a translation somewhere. I couldn't have been the first non-Spanish-speaking guest there. I'm sure they spent time choosing the poems. A booklet with translations would be a plus. However, I was on the only floor that had an English quote on the landing, so that was a nice discovery.
I had to keep remembering to say "Hola" and "Adios" instead of "Ciao". Other than that, I could only get by with my limited Italian because no one really knew English.
I know two people who hated the food in Spain and I had prepared myself for the same because it is so meat-heavy there. I decided to go to the supermarket and get things for late night, the plane, and also breakfast, since I would be up too early to eat it elsewhere. The supermarket had a huge cooler with containers of gazpacho in it, the same kind of containers you get with orange juice. Everything was little more than a Euro. I guess it's a staple here. I did think the food options in the supermarket were a lot more appealing in Italy. But the men were striking. As much as Italian men are attractive, Spaniards were surprisingly and extremely good-looking, uniformly. Or maybe just the cute ones go grocery shopping on Monday nights?
I had received two restaurant recommendations from the hotel, and had found about eight others in my guidebook. But I ended up going to a place I walked by that was no frills and had a lot of locals in it, as well as a sign outside that they had vegetarian options. I almost did not order the vegetable paella because the wait for any paella is 20-30 minutes. But I am so glad I did. My first paella, and it was fantastic.
Monday, November 8, 2010
The magnetic pull of Bologna
Early this morning the taxi came and backed into the driveway to get my bags. He started to pull out to the street, but the gate was stuck in a half-open position, too closed to get through. The housekeeper was yelling instructions from the terrace, none of which helped. The aunt came down in her slippers and curlers and tried. One by one the neighbors all came out on their terraces, and then down to the driveway, in their bathrobes and slippers, and consulted with each other.
Normally, this would be just a delay. But it happened while needing to catch a flight to another country.
Someone was called to come in from outside. I sat inside the cab and watched.
A woman came over to my door. I did not know her. She said something to me in Italian I did not understand. She elaborated on it. It sounded like some kind of idea.
Then I started strategizing. If I missed my flight to Madrid, I might be able to get another one tomorrow, but then what about my flight to the States? Not that I would have argued with more time in Italy, but I have a very important Bat Mitzvah on Saturday that I cannot miss.
Somebody was putting major effort into turning something in a metal box on the ground by the gate. Time went by. I started strategizing again. Then it happened. One side of the gate was able to be opened enough to slip through. A cheer went up in the small crowd. The housekeeper turned and gave me the thumbs up sign.
The universe had considered keeping me here longer but decided it was better for me to stay on schedule.
Normally, this would be just a delay. But it happened while needing to catch a flight to another country.
Someone was called to come in from outside. I sat inside the cab and watched.
A woman came over to my door. I did not know her. She said something to me in Italian I did not understand. She elaborated on it. It sounded like some kind of idea.
Then I started strategizing. If I missed my flight to Madrid, I might be able to get another one tomorrow, but then what about my flight to the States? Not that I would have argued with more time in Italy, but I have a very important Bat Mitzvah on Saturday that I cannot miss.
Somebody was putting major effort into turning something in a metal box on the ground by the gate. Time went by. I started strategizing again. Then it happened. One side of the gate was able to be opened enough to slip through. A cheer went up in the small crowd. The housekeeper turned and gave me the thumbs up sign.
The universe had considered keeping me here longer but decided it was better for me to stay on schedule.
Looking for a gypsy
In Florence on Saturday, I bought a pastry while walking. I usually will buy a pastry or pizza slice or panini en route; it's cheap, good, and allows more time to wander. Occasionally I get something that isn't my cup of tea and this was one of those times. But it was large and fresh and probably to many people's likings, and I hate wasting food, so I went looking for a gypsy to give it to, especially a woman. If I give to someone on the street, it's usually a woman because life on the streets is harder for them. But of all the times I have seen them, dropped a coin in their cup, or stepped around them, I did not see any this time.
Eventually I saw a man looking through a garbage bin by the Duomo and I offered it to him, but he said no. Guess he had his mind set on something else.
When I got off the train at Bologna, a guy approached me on the platform and asked if I had 50 cents to give him for food. I have seen someone like him in New York recently, and I don't know what to make of it - young, semi-attractive, not poorly-dressed, but somehow believable by their eyes and stance and request. The guy in New York was sitting on the sidewalk and reading a book, which was unexpected. But these are hard times and the line can be thin between student loan programs or family help and suddenly not having.
I thought, well, if he indeed wants the money for food, as he specified, I have some food. So I reached into my totebag and gave him the pastry.
I watched him walk down the platform and approach someone else. All of a sudden, I realized I had not checked the paper bag before giving it to him. At night, after a long day, and without looking, I could have just as easily given him another bag in there, of some things I had purchased, things I wanted to keep.
I had two choices and went with the kookier one. Fortunately, he was walking back up the platform now. "Excuse me, do you mind if I check to see that I gave you the right bag?" Now I felt like the crazy person. He seemed neutral about it, and handed it to me. Plastic bag, check, inside paper bag, check, pastry; okay, it's the right one.
I handed it back to him and thanked him.
Eventually I saw a man looking through a garbage bin by the Duomo and I offered it to him, but he said no. Guess he had his mind set on something else.
When I got off the train at Bologna, a guy approached me on the platform and asked if I had 50 cents to give him for food. I have seen someone like him in New York recently, and I don't know what to make of it - young, semi-attractive, not poorly-dressed, but somehow believable by their eyes and stance and request. The guy in New York was sitting on the sidewalk and reading a book, which was unexpected. But these are hard times and the line can be thin between student loan programs or family help and suddenly not having.
I thought, well, if he indeed wants the money for food, as he specified, I have some food. So I reached into my totebag and gave him the pastry.
I watched him walk down the platform and approach someone else. All of a sudden, I realized I had not checked the paper bag before giving it to him. At night, after a long day, and without looking, I could have just as easily given him another bag in there, of some things I had purchased, things I wanted to keep.
I had two choices and went with the kookier one. Fortunately, he was walking back up the platform now. "Excuse me, do you mind if I check to see that I gave you the right bag?" Now I felt like the crazy person. He seemed neutral about it, and handed it to me. Plastic bag, check, inside paper bag, check, pastry; okay, it's the right one.
I handed it back to him and thanked him.
Iberia Customer Service Desk
Me: Hi, I just came in on Iberia and I am leaving tomorrow. Do you know if I can leave my bags overnight in that locked luggage area?
Iberia Guy: Are you staying in a hotel?
Me: Yes.
Guy: You can take it to your hotel.
Me: I know, but I am also wondering if I can leave it in that locked area.
Guy: Why don't you take it to your hotel?
Me, gesturing to my cart: Because it is easier to leave it here and get it tomorrow.
Guy: Are you staying at an airport hotel?
Me: No.
Guy: Why aren't you staying at an airport hotel?
Me: Because....(Did I really have to think of a reason for this?) I want to see Madrid.
Guy: You want to see Madrid, okay. Which hotel?
I tell him.
Guy: That is all the way in the center of the city! Why don't you stay closer to the airport?
Me: Umm....
Guy: Have you paid for the hotel yet?
Me: No.
Guy: Well, you should cancel it and stay at an airport hotel.
Me: I like my hotel and I want to see Madrid. Can you tell me if I can leave my bags here?
Guy: Yes, but they will charge you. You should take your bags to your hotel.
Me: That's okay with me.
(The charge was just 3.70 Euros. A great price for sparing the hassle of taking them to and from..And I had a great evening in Madrid. Short and sweet. So there.)
Iberia Guy: Are you staying in a hotel?
Me: Yes.
Guy: You can take it to your hotel.
Me: I know, but I am also wondering if I can leave it in that locked area.
Guy: Why don't you take it to your hotel?
Me, gesturing to my cart: Because it is easier to leave it here and get it tomorrow.
Guy: Are you staying at an airport hotel?
Me: No.
Guy: Why aren't you staying at an airport hotel?
Me: Because....(Did I really have to think of a reason for this?) I want to see Madrid.
Guy: You want to see Madrid, okay. Which hotel?
I tell him.
Guy: That is all the way in the center of the city! Why don't you stay closer to the airport?
Me: Umm....
Guy: Have you paid for the hotel yet?
Me: No.
Guy: Well, you should cancel it and stay at an airport hotel.
Me: I like my hotel and I want to see Madrid. Can you tell me if I can leave my bags here?
Guy: Yes, but they will charge you. You should take your bags to your hotel.
Me: That's okay with me.
(The charge was just 3.70 Euros. A great price for sparing the hassle of taking them to and from..And I had a great evening in Madrid. Short and sweet. So there.)
Keep checking back
because I will be continuing the blog; filling in some more stories, and posting pictures when I am back in the States for a while. Bologna is not over yet!!!
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Inside the train
Italians do this thing where they leave their seats, get their bags, and stand in the doorway of the train way earlier than they need to before their stop. Like 15 minutes earlier. Then you feel you have to get there early too, because what if they know something you don't know?
So I'm standing in the little vestibule, and I notice for the first time that there is a map of the bathroom on the door of the bathroom. It has a key and a symbol for everything - the sink, the hand dryer, the garbage - and it is all mapped out. It even has a "you are here" part. It was kind of funny. Then I noticed there was braille under each part. I guess it is for the visually-impaired to get their bearings before they enter it.
There are so many logical things here like that. Like the light switches you turn on when you leave your apartment or enter a building that go off a few minutes later. Italy saves a fortune on electricity this way. And the environment is thanking them.
And escalators usually just go up. It's the same in Israel. Physical effort is really involved in going up stairs, not down them, so why make an escalator just to go down? If you really need it, there is an elevator.
So I'm standing in the little vestibule, and I notice for the first time that there is a map of the bathroom on the door of the bathroom. It has a key and a symbol for everything - the sink, the hand dryer, the garbage - and it is all mapped out. It even has a "you are here" part. It was kind of funny. Then I noticed there was braille under each part. I guess it is for the visually-impaired to get their bearings before they enter it.
There are so many logical things here like that. Like the light switches you turn on when you leave your apartment or enter a building that go off a few minutes later. Italy saves a fortune on electricity this way. And the environment is thanking them.
And escalators usually just go up. It's the same in Israel. Physical effort is really involved in going up stairs, not down them, so why make an escalator just to go down? If you really need it, there is an elevator.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Don't know much geography
Helped E. with his English homework again tonight. It was bad enough last week when he had to identify the flags of other countries but now he had to identify the shapes of them. On everything else I can be of great help to him, but in this area, he knows more than me. The flags of Albania, Australia, and China? What Spain looks like compared to England? I was too busy learning about group process and creativity and underprivileged populations and how to write protest letters in my progressive grade school. We never learned geography. I keep thinking I should get one of those vinyl placements with all the states filled in.....
Towering Over Bologna
I climbed the tower here today. I'd been wanting to do it and it was sunny for part of the day, so it seemed a perfect activity for my last full weekday here.
There is only one tower available for climbing of the two famous ones that mark the town center, and it is the taller one. When you enter, it feels like you are going into a dungeon. It is dark and narrow and the walls are cold stone and everything is winding around and feels a little creaky (even though in reality, nothing creaked). Then you have to climb for a bit before you have to pay. So I guess fearful types can always change their minds and save the 3 Euros.
The tower is almost 500 steps to the top. I had a flashback to when my Mom and brother and I climbed to the top of the Statue of Liberty when we were kids. I remember the narrow winding stairs and I think they were metal and a light green patina color. These were wood, and not always well-placed. Like they were deep but they were stacked in a way where there wasn't always enough room for your whole foot because too much of one step was under (or over) the next one. Hard to explain, but the result was that your foot could get a little caught as you moved it to the next step. My first thought was that in the States, there would have been a liability waiver to sign when you paid.
I saw some children and some older people and a woman carrying a big shopping bag from a store - all categories that should be extra careful.
Also, as you neared the top, the stairs narrowed and became even more overlapping. Going up was okay, but having this kind of construction on the way down was a lot harder. You basically had to walk semi-sideways at least with one foot or you would slide a little. It actually felt more logical to do it going backward, like you would on a ladder, but for some reason I thought this and did not do it. All I can say is thank goodness the banisters were very sturdy.
At one point there was a large thin iron piece coming across one of the landings, and if you were tall and spacing out as you walked across to the next staircase, you would have been in trouble. Ditto for a similar one lying across part of another stairwell.
A man was coming down from the top as I neared it, and he said something to me in Italian. I did not understand so he repeated it but I still had no idea what he said. So I said, "Si?" and he said, "Si!" I just had to hope he had said something about the view, and not something like, "Don't go up there because there is a big hole you may fall into."
The towers were built between the 12th and 13th centuries, when there were many many of them in Bologna, probably about 180. Apparently, the more money and status your family had, the bigger you built your tower. But it is unclear why people built so many here. Over time, almost all were taken down or collapsed. There are about 20 standing now. The one I climbed is 97 meters tall (never learned the metric system, so let's just say it's very tall).
This is what Wikipedia says about how they were constructed:
The construction of the towers was quite onerous, the usage of serfs notwithstanding. To build a typical tower with a height of 60 meters would have required between three and 10 years of work.
Each tower had a square cross-section with foundations between five and ten meters deep, reinforced by poles hammered into the ground and covered with pebble and lime. The tower's base was made of big blocks of selenite stone. The remaining walls became successively thinner and lighter the higher the structure was raised, and were realised in so-called "a sacco" masonry: with a thick inner wall and a thinner outer wall, where the gap was filled with stones and mortar.
Usually, some holes were left in the outer wall as well as bigger hollows in the selenite to support scaffoldings and to allow for later coverings and constructions, generally on the basis of wood.
The view is great. Bologna is a very pretty city, and all the terracotta rooftops and very narrow streets make for pleasing patterns, a sense of the lifestyle here, and very nice images. (Again, you will see them when I upload pics back to the States in the next couple of weeks.)
I met a couple of women from CA while at the top. One of them was traveling around the world. She was doing the whole trip using Couchsurfing.com. For those of you unaware, this is a website where you can find people's couches to sleep on, for free, all over the world. There are reviews and ratings of each host, so you can choose wisely. So far she has had great experiences. And this means she is basically just paying for meals and transportation and saving a fortune. She said she was going home for the holidays and then going back. She had found a laptop on eBay that weighed under two pounds and was doing all her traveling with a knapsack that weighed about 12 or 13 pounds. She had saved up for almost 4 years to do this, and knew no other languages, which would be hard in South America, where she would be going in January.
When I exited the tower onto the street, I felt myself making the same face everyone had had whom I had seen exiting when I arrived. You sort of feel a rush, like you have been released from something and are out in the fresh air again. Even though on top it is all fresh air and the view is gorgeous. But something about being in the narrow, winding, dark, wooden, rickety, tube-like innards of the tower, and its Medieval vibe, make you feel like you survived something a tiny bit treacherous.
There is only one tower available for climbing of the two famous ones that mark the town center, and it is the taller one. When you enter, it feels like you are going into a dungeon. It is dark and narrow and the walls are cold stone and everything is winding around and feels a little creaky (even though in reality, nothing creaked). Then you have to climb for a bit before you have to pay. So I guess fearful types can always change their minds and save the 3 Euros.
The tower is almost 500 steps to the top. I had a flashback to when my Mom and brother and I climbed to the top of the Statue of Liberty when we were kids. I remember the narrow winding stairs and I think they were metal and a light green patina color. These were wood, and not always well-placed. Like they were deep but they were stacked in a way where there wasn't always enough room for your whole foot because too much of one step was under (or over) the next one. Hard to explain, but the result was that your foot could get a little caught as you moved it to the next step. My first thought was that in the States, there would have been a liability waiver to sign when you paid.
I saw some children and some older people and a woman carrying a big shopping bag from a store - all categories that should be extra careful.
Also, as you neared the top, the stairs narrowed and became even more overlapping. Going up was okay, but having this kind of construction on the way down was a lot harder. You basically had to walk semi-sideways at least with one foot or you would slide a little. It actually felt more logical to do it going backward, like you would on a ladder, but for some reason I thought this and did not do it. All I can say is thank goodness the banisters were very sturdy.
At one point there was a large thin iron piece coming across one of the landings, and if you were tall and spacing out as you walked across to the next staircase, you would have been in trouble. Ditto for a similar one lying across part of another stairwell.
A man was coming down from the top as I neared it, and he said something to me in Italian. I did not understand so he repeated it but I still had no idea what he said. So I said, "Si?" and he said, "Si!" I just had to hope he had said something about the view, and not something like, "Don't go up there because there is a big hole you may fall into."
The towers were built between the 12th and 13th centuries, when there were many many of them in Bologna, probably about 180. Apparently, the more money and status your family had, the bigger you built your tower. But it is unclear why people built so many here. Over time, almost all were taken down or collapsed. There are about 20 standing now. The one I climbed is 97 meters tall (never learned the metric system, so let's just say it's very tall).
This is what Wikipedia says about how they were constructed:
The construction of the towers was quite onerous, the usage of serfs notwithstanding. To build a typical tower with a height of 60 meters would have required between three and 10 years of work.
Each tower had a square cross-section with foundations between five and ten meters deep, reinforced by poles hammered into the ground and covered with pebble and lime. The tower's base was made of big blocks of selenite stone. The remaining walls became successively thinner and lighter the higher the structure was raised, and were realised in so-called "a sacco" masonry: with a thick inner wall and a thinner outer wall, where the gap was filled with stones and mortar.
Usually, some holes were left in the outer wall as well as bigger hollows in the selenite to support scaffoldings and to allow for later coverings and constructions, generally on the basis of wood.
The view is great. Bologna is a very pretty city, and all the terracotta rooftops and very narrow streets make for pleasing patterns, a sense of the lifestyle here, and very nice images. (Again, you will see them when I upload pics back to the States in the next couple of weeks.)
I met a couple of women from CA while at the top. One of them was traveling around the world. She was doing the whole trip using Couchsurfing.com. For those of you unaware, this is a website where you can find people's couches to sleep on, for free, all over the world. There are reviews and ratings of each host, so you can choose wisely. So far she has had great experiences. And this means she is basically just paying for meals and transportation and saving a fortune. She said she was going home for the holidays and then going back. She had found a laptop on eBay that weighed under two pounds and was doing all her traveling with a knapsack that weighed about 12 or 13 pounds. She had saved up for almost 4 years to do this, and knew no other languages, which would be hard in South America, where she would be going in January.
When I exited the tower onto the street, I felt myself making the same face everyone had had whom I had seen exiting when I arrived. You sort of feel a rush, like you have been released from something and are out in the fresh air again. Even though on top it is all fresh air and the view is gorgeous. But something about being in the narrow, winding, dark, wooden, rickety, tube-like innards of the tower, and its Medieval vibe, make you feel like you survived something a tiny bit treacherous.
Cookies for breakfast
They eat cookies for breakfast here. My first day, I came downstairs and they had left three different kinds of chocolate chip cookies out for me, plus a chocolate cake D had baked the night before. It seemed very strange and way too rich for that early. But now I know it is standard here. Then they usually have fruit for dessert at dinner. In a way, it makes more sense....
I have been buying my own yogurt and cereal, and their coffee yogurt competes well with Dannon's - actually, the coffee flavor is very strong. No wonder I have been feeling more energy since I discovered it.
They found it amusing that Americans eat a real meal at breakfast. I was listing examples like toast and jam, and waffles and pancakes, and when I got to making different kinds of eggs and omelettes, they all broke out laughing. "You won't find that in Italy," they said.
I have been buying my own yogurt and cereal, and their coffee yogurt competes well with Dannon's - actually, the coffee flavor is very strong. No wonder I have been feeling more energy since I discovered it.
They found it amusing that Americans eat a real meal at breakfast. I was listing examples like toast and jam, and waffles and pancakes, and when I got to making different kinds of eggs and omelettes, they all broke out laughing. "You won't find that in Italy," they said.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Characters and Hams
I'm learning more about Berlusconi. People here feel about him the way a lot of us felt about Bush. And there are definite similarities. But he is a real character too. D said you never know what is going to come out of his mouth next, and no one says things like he does. Today he justified all his sexual encounters with teenage hookers by saying it was better to sleep with a lot of young girls than to be gay.
The mere fact that he is in his 70s and chooses 17-year-olds.....
He also controls a lot of the media here as well as other industries. Someone I met said he is like the bionic man and keeps having parts replaced. The news called him "age-defying".
D said in his youth he was an entertainer on cruises and that seems to be consistant with his personality. It reminded me of Reagan. One time in college I went to see "Bedtime for Bonzo", in which Reagan spends most of his time interacting with a chimp. My friend next to me kept saying, "This is the president of the United States. The president of the United States!"
I taught a few people here the term "ham", meaning someone who is a real character. They always think it is funny because here it would be calling someone a prosciutto.
The mere fact that he is in his 70s and chooses 17-year-olds.....
He also controls a lot of the media here as well as other industries. Someone I met said he is like the bionic man and keeps having parts replaced. The news called him "age-defying".
D said in his youth he was an entertainer on cruises and that seems to be consistant with his personality. It reminded me of Reagan. One time in college I went to see "Bedtime for Bonzo", in which Reagan spends most of his time interacting with a chimp. My friend next to me kept saying, "This is the president of the United States. The president of the United States!"
I taught a few people here the term "ham", meaning someone who is a real character. They always think it is funny because here it would be calling someone a prosciutto.
Sunday night in Venice
I was entering the apartment in Venice on Sunday when I sensed something. I looked up and there was the cutest cat peering at me from the next flight of stairs. It had a round face with gorgeous perfectly-round amber eyes that flashed like copper, and a very shiny black coat. "Hiiiii! Where did you come from?" I said, forgetting again that animals here don't understand English. It cocked its head at me and came down a few steps, then hurried back upstairs where I think it lived.
I went inside, ate something, took a power nap, and changed clothes. When I left to go out again, there it was, but this time it had ventured down to the steps by my door.
It came by to visit one more time before I left Venice. And I realized that a black cat had visited on none other than Halloween night. Perfect.
No other Halloween creatures were around that night, except for the ghosts of ghetto-dwellers past, whose presence I was already feeling......
I went inside, ate something, took a power nap, and changed clothes. When I left to go out again, there it was, but this time it had ventured down to the steps by my door.
It came by to visit one more time before I left Venice. And I realized that a black cat had visited on none other than Halloween night. Perfect.
No other Halloween creatures were around that night, except for the ghosts of ghetto-dwellers past, whose presence I was already feeling......
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Part Three: The Weight of History
I stayed in the apartment three days and three nights. I saw some of the people who lived in the building; they were Italians and probably not Jewish either. But there was a dense vibe in the space; both in the building and in the whole ghetto. Some people don't believe in such things, but the place had a strong and compressed pull, like it hadn't been aired out from that time. Hard to explain, but it was tangible, like they were still somehow around.
Mostly I felt I was there as an insider, both from staying there and sharing the faith. I also felt like an observer to what had happened there, and as a visitor. Often I felt like I was watching it all through glass.
I went on a tour of the synagogues. I don't usually have a tolerance for those kinds of things but I wanted to this time. We learned that the word "ghetto" derived from the iron foundries located there ("ghetta") in the 14th and 15th centuries. It was a convenient area to use because it could be closed off easily from the rest of the city. There were synagogues hidden in the buildings, although everyone knew they were there. They were "signaled" to those looking from the street by having five long windows in a row on the top level, representing the five books of Moses.
Even though people were free to leave the city during the day, they had to wear special yellow (and occasional red) circles or scarves on their clothes to identify them. In the mid-1600s, there were about 4000 Jews living in a space roughly equivalent to two to three city blocks. Apartments were added either by making another story (although 6 or 7 was the city limit), or more often by lowering all the ceilings.
The ghetto existed for more than two and a half centuries, until Napoleon conquered Venice and removed all the gates. Many Jews chose to stay there and live though. I think I understand this. While I was 'living' there, I started to realize that the isolation and persecution also created a community and a sense of strength in each other. They had only other members of the community every night, and they had a common identity and rituals and ways of life. There must have also been a security in that. There probably was also a bond that came from all being equally vulnerable to the persecution, and their uncertainty about the future. Even when they were allowed to live elsewhere, they knew how they had been regarded, and I can't imagine it would be appealing to risk hostility or wariness with new neighbors, moving into their turf.
Before the War, there were about 1300 Jews living there. Two to three hundred were deported by the Nazis to the camps. Only 8 survived.
On the tour, we went to a synagogue that shared a wall with my building. We started to walk past my door, and I nudged the women next to me on the street. "This is where I am staying," I said, emphasizing the last word. "Are you KIDDING me?" they said, and the strength of their reaction was validating. "We were just talking about what it must be like to live here now and are sort of freaked out about it."
After the tour I invited them back. They kept expressing disbelief and awe and overwhelm at how it felt to be inside the place. One of them wondered how many people had lived in the apartment space, guessing the numbers had been very high. The other said it was strange and a little bothersome to her that now there were a few restaurants and stores and so many people did not realize what the area really had been in the past.
It was meaningful for both them and myself to share our feelings about being there. The whole time I stayed there, it was hard to not constantly picture what it was like to be there hundreds of years ago....who had slept in the same room I was sleeping in, who had sat around the table in the main area, why the closet there had a strange shape and what it had been used for originally. When I opened my windows, I watched tourists two floors below, pointing upward, taking pictures, looking at maps and guidebooks for what they were seeing. The tours going into the synagogue next door were walking on the same cobblestones that groups of men had walked on to go to services in the 16th century. I looked at the large well and imagined the women using it for washing, children running around. Everyone knowing everyone, their lives revolving around the small space again and again every night. The feeling every day of having to be back there at a specific time, and being closed off from the rest of the world then.
One time I walked out of the entrance and there was a woman taking a picture of it. She smiled at me and took a photo of her husband standing there next to it, both of them acting like it was super-fun. "It's kind of intense, don't you think?" I said. "What do you mean?" she said. "Well, this is the entrance to the ghetto." "I know," she said, excitedly. "Well, ghettos are where all the Jewish people had to live. This was locked at 7:00 every night; they were locked inside it." "Oh!" she said. She had not known this. She had thought it was just a cute area of the city. She seemed a little disappointed that it had a sobering history and now she had to think differently.
I kept thinking of D's mother, who had lived in hiding in Venice during the war for one and a half long years. I had asked the tour guide about that and she said people who lived in hiding often stayed on the rooftops during the day, where they could not be seen easily. She said some lived in hiding in the countryside too. The ones in the ghetto were crammed into very small spaces. His mother had been the same age as Anne Frank. She had survived, but he said that the experience dramatically shaped her life to this day.
I told D. I had stayed in the ghetto. I told him I had thought of his mother a lot while I was there, and what it must have been like for her. He said, "Every time I am there, I feel the weight of history."
Mostly I felt I was there as an insider, both from staying there and sharing the faith. I also felt like an observer to what had happened there, and as a visitor. Often I felt like I was watching it all through glass.
I went on a tour of the synagogues. I don't usually have a tolerance for those kinds of things but I wanted to this time. We learned that the word "ghetto" derived from the iron foundries located there ("ghetta") in the 14th and 15th centuries. It was a convenient area to use because it could be closed off easily from the rest of the city. There were synagogues hidden in the buildings, although everyone knew they were there. They were "signaled" to those looking from the street by having five long windows in a row on the top level, representing the five books of Moses.
Even though people were free to leave the city during the day, they had to wear special yellow (and occasional red) circles or scarves on their clothes to identify them. In the mid-1600s, there were about 4000 Jews living in a space roughly equivalent to two to three city blocks. Apartments were added either by making another story (although 6 or 7 was the city limit), or more often by lowering all the ceilings.
The ghetto existed for more than two and a half centuries, until Napoleon conquered Venice and removed all the gates. Many Jews chose to stay there and live though. I think I understand this. While I was 'living' there, I started to realize that the isolation and persecution also created a community and a sense of strength in each other. They had only other members of the community every night, and they had a common identity and rituals and ways of life. There must have also been a security in that. There probably was also a bond that came from all being equally vulnerable to the persecution, and their uncertainty about the future. Even when they were allowed to live elsewhere, they knew how they had been regarded, and I can't imagine it would be appealing to risk hostility or wariness with new neighbors, moving into their turf.
Before the War, there were about 1300 Jews living there. Two to three hundred were deported by the Nazis to the camps. Only 8 survived.
On the tour, we went to a synagogue that shared a wall with my building. We started to walk past my door, and I nudged the women next to me on the street. "This is where I am staying," I said, emphasizing the last word. "Are you KIDDING me?" they said, and the strength of their reaction was validating. "We were just talking about what it must be like to live here now and are sort of freaked out about it."
After the tour I invited them back. They kept expressing disbelief and awe and overwhelm at how it felt to be inside the place. One of them wondered how many people had lived in the apartment space, guessing the numbers had been very high. The other said it was strange and a little bothersome to her that now there were a few restaurants and stores and so many people did not realize what the area really had been in the past.
It was meaningful for both them and myself to share our feelings about being there. The whole time I stayed there, it was hard to not constantly picture what it was like to be there hundreds of years ago....who had slept in the same room I was sleeping in, who had sat around the table in the main area, why the closet there had a strange shape and what it had been used for originally. When I opened my windows, I watched tourists two floors below, pointing upward, taking pictures, looking at maps and guidebooks for what they were seeing. The tours going into the synagogue next door were walking on the same cobblestones that groups of men had walked on to go to services in the 16th century. I looked at the large well and imagined the women using it for washing, children running around. Everyone knowing everyone, their lives revolving around the small space again and again every night. The feeling every day of having to be back there at a specific time, and being closed off from the rest of the world then.
One time I walked out of the entrance and there was a woman taking a picture of it. She smiled at me and took a photo of her husband standing there next to it, both of them acting like it was super-fun. "It's kind of intense, don't you think?" I said. "What do you mean?" she said. "Well, this is the entrance to the ghetto." "I know," she said, excitedly. "Well, ghettos are where all the Jewish people had to live. This was locked at 7:00 every night; they were locked inside it." "Oh!" she said. She had not known this. She had thought it was just a cute area of the city. She seemed a little disappointed that it had a sobering history and now she had to think differently.
I kept thinking of D's mother, who had lived in hiding in Venice during the war for one and a half long years. I had asked the tour guide about that and she said people who lived in hiding often stayed on the rooftops during the day, where they could not be seen easily. She said some lived in hiding in the countryside too. The ones in the ghetto were crammed into very small spaces. His mother had been the same age as Anne Frank. She had survived, but he said that the experience dramatically shaped her life to this day.
I told D. I had stayed in the ghetto. I told him I had thought of his mother a lot while I was there, and what it must have been like for her. He said, "Every time I am there, I feel the weight of history."
Part Two: The Street with No Name
Part Two
The boat pulled up to another much-higher-than-water-level, dock-less, step-less part of the street. The boatman walked me down it, and turned into a doorway. If you could call it that. When I am back in the States and have resolved my computer/memory card/camera issue, I will post pictures, but for now, you can imagine it. It was the entrance to the ghetto. The "old" ghetto; there is a newer part but I was in the original area. It was a low square-shaped opening, with planks of wood around the borders, and no lights as you went through a tunnel-like area to the other side. This is what was locked every night at 7. I was walking through it a couple of hours later, the same entrance that people had probably rushed through, to be back in time, hundreds of years ago. Or if they were not rushing, they entered it knowing they were forced to live there, and had to be there every day from dusk to dawn, no matter what.
On the other side was a narrow street. There was a kosher restaurant and another doorway open and Chasidic people were crowded in both areas, talking to each other. That was unexpected. It was Friday night, which had not occurred to me, but also I did not know religious Jews lived in the ghetto now. Between being in the ghetto and seeing Chasids in their timeless garb, all I could think was, "What year is it?"
Down the street, it opened into a small piazza (square), with a large round well in the middle of it. These are all over Venice and were used in the old days by women to wash clothes. I could see Hebrew words on two of the buildings. The boatman went to a small door that looked like the door version of the ghetto entrance - antiquated and not very inviting. Inside, there was a narrow stairwell that we climbed. The ceiling was very low everywhere. "Does the hotel have all of these apartments?" I said, for some reason hopefully. "No," he said, "You are living with Venetians."
It was very quiet. He opened the door to a two-bedroom apartment, obviously newly-renovated. But you could tell the actual structure of it was very old, with low ceilings, no light fixtures, and a somewhat closed-in feeling, despite the multiple rooms. He rushed through it showing me things, saying he had to get back to the boat. He handed me my keys. He kept calling me "Madam".
"Wait!" I said, "What is the name of this street? So I know where I am, and how to find it." I had looked on the corners of the buildings, where street names are posted in Italy, but hadn't seen it. He paused. "I don't think it has a name," he said. "Some streets in Venice don't have names." "But how will I know how to get here, or to even know where I am staying?" "It is not very hard," he said. "Everything is close." "Okay, but..." I wasn't sure what to say further.
So there I was, in the old ghetto, on a street with no name.
The boat pulled up to another much-higher-than-water-level, dock-less, step-less part of the street. The boatman walked me down it, and turned into a doorway. If you could call it that. When I am back in the States and have resolved my computer/memory card/camera issue, I will post pictures, but for now, you can imagine it. It was the entrance to the ghetto. The "old" ghetto; there is a newer part but I was in the original area. It was a low square-shaped opening, with planks of wood around the borders, and no lights as you went through a tunnel-like area to the other side. This is what was locked every night at 7. I was walking through it a couple of hours later, the same entrance that people had probably rushed through, to be back in time, hundreds of years ago. Or if they were not rushing, they entered it knowing they were forced to live there, and had to be there every day from dusk to dawn, no matter what.
On the other side was a narrow street. There was a kosher restaurant and another doorway open and Chasidic people were crowded in both areas, talking to each other. That was unexpected. It was Friday night, which had not occurred to me, but also I did not know religious Jews lived in the ghetto now. Between being in the ghetto and seeing Chasids in their timeless garb, all I could think was, "What year is it?"
Down the street, it opened into a small piazza (square), with a large round well in the middle of it. These are all over Venice and were used in the old days by women to wash clothes. I could see Hebrew words on two of the buildings. The boatman went to a small door that looked like the door version of the ghetto entrance - antiquated and not very inviting. Inside, there was a narrow stairwell that we climbed. The ceiling was very low everywhere. "Does the hotel have all of these apartments?" I said, for some reason hopefully. "No," he said, "You are living with Venetians."
It was very quiet. He opened the door to a two-bedroom apartment, obviously newly-renovated. But you could tell the actual structure of it was very old, with low ceilings, no light fixtures, and a somewhat closed-in feeling, despite the multiple rooms. He rushed through it showing me things, saying he had to get back to the boat. He handed me my keys. He kept calling me "Madam".
"Wait!" I said, "What is the name of this street? So I know where I am, and how to find it." I had looked on the corners of the buildings, where street names are posted in Italy, but hadn't seen it. He paused. "I don't think it has a name," he said. "Some streets in Venice don't have names." "But how will I know how to get here, or to even know where I am staying?" "It is not very hard," he said. "Everything is close." "Okay, but..." I wasn't sure what to say further.
So there I was, in the old ghetto, on a street with no name.
Part One: The Apartment is Very Beautiful
The family went on vacation for a few days, so I was able to go to Venice. It's a holiday weekend here, so many people were traveling. It was very difficult to find a hotel; not only is Venice very expensive, but because of the holiday, it was a popular destination for Italians and tourists alike. It took me almost two hours on the internet to find something (there were options, if I wanted to pay $300 and up), and I booked a hotel in the area by the train station, where I had stayed my first and only time in Venice, during my first trip here. I had stayed just for a day and night, but I always remembered what a magical place it was, so I was excited.
Many hotels in Italy are small, and sometimes they use an "annex", which means you don't stay in the hotel but in an apartment nearby. I did this once in Florence and the apartment was right across the street. There are pros and cons; the pros are you can still go to the hotel for breakfast, you have a lot more space, a full kitchen, and it really feels like you are living there. So I was okay with the idea. When I booked it.
I arrived in Venice in the evening, and when you walk out of the train station there, you are thrust into the vibrancy and beauty immediately. The Grand Canal is right in front of you, and the big cathedral is across from it, and there are the arching footbridges (ponte), there is the hustle and bustle of locals and tourists, and there were lights everywhere, and boats passing in every direction....the place just sparkled.
I found the hotel with only one directional error (pretty good for me) and checked in. The guy told me that the apartment was close to the hotel, but that I would be escorted by boat to get there because it was easier than walking there. "By boat? It can't be that close if I have to take a boat," I said. "It's maybe 15 minutes, very easy, you can walk," he said, "But easier by boat. There is a man with a boat; he will take you." "It sounds far," I said. "Not far," he said, "The apartment is very beautiful. You will be in the ghetto."
It's hard to describe the feeling I had. I still can't articulate exactly what I felt, but it was a mix of a lot of things. It's hard to explain to someone who isn't Jewish, but it's like saying to a black person, "You'll be staying in the historic slave district." There are ghettos in most major cities in Italy; they have been restored, and are significant to the city. Local Italians live there, and they are frequent destinations for tourists. The first ghetto in the world was this one, in Venice.
But they are ghettos. Unlike other historic places, ghettos were not happy places. Jews were forced to live there and nowhere else. The gates locked at 7pm and everyone had to be inside. There were guards to make sure of this. Ghettos are small. Imagine being restricted to a few blocks of your neighborhood. And to only 3 or 4 different professions. Imagine not being able to go anywhere in the evening outside of those few blocks. Or being somewhere and realizing the time and having to race there, with no room for wrong turns or last-minute tasks or completion of what you were doing, if it was closing in on 7pm.
My head was spinning; I did not know what to expect. I follow him through the few streets to the Grand Canal, where there is a motorboat with three people in it. The water level is much lower than where we are standing, and there is no real dock, and it is night, and I have bags with me, and I can't see how I am going to get into this boat. "You know, maybe I will walk if it is that close," I said. "This looks......I am not a good swimmer." "It's fine, it's fine," they all said, and everyone seemed so merry, I couldn't say no. They asked me to hand over my luggage, pocketbook, and coat, and somehow, with the help of the guy's hand below, I was able to semi-jump into the boat. He put my bags behind our seat in the back part of the boat, which was a level surface with no rail that invited immediate thoughts of how easily they could slide into the water during a sharp turn. New Yorker that I am, I kept my hand on them.
But I was in Venice, in a boat on the canal, and it was night, and there were lights everywhere, and it was a great feeling.
Many hotels in Italy are small, and sometimes they use an "annex", which means you don't stay in the hotel but in an apartment nearby. I did this once in Florence and the apartment was right across the street. There are pros and cons; the pros are you can still go to the hotel for breakfast, you have a lot more space, a full kitchen, and it really feels like you are living there. So I was okay with the idea. When I booked it.
I arrived in Venice in the evening, and when you walk out of the train station there, you are thrust into the vibrancy and beauty immediately. The Grand Canal is right in front of you, and the big cathedral is across from it, and there are the arching footbridges (ponte), there is the hustle and bustle of locals and tourists, and there were lights everywhere, and boats passing in every direction....the place just sparkled.
I found the hotel with only one directional error (pretty good for me) and checked in. The guy told me that the apartment was close to the hotel, but that I would be escorted by boat to get there because it was easier than walking there. "By boat? It can't be that close if I have to take a boat," I said. "It's maybe 15 minutes, very easy, you can walk," he said, "But easier by boat. There is a man with a boat; he will take you." "It sounds far," I said. "Not far," he said, "The apartment is very beautiful. You will be in the ghetto."
It's hard to describe the feeling I had. I still can't articulate exactly what I felt, but it was a mix of a lot of things. It's hard to explain to someone who isn't Jewish, but it's like saying to a black person, "You'll be staying in the historic slave district." There are ghettos in most major cities in Italy; they have been restored, and are significant to the city. Local Italians live there, and they are frequent destinations for tourists. The first ghetto in the world was this one, in Venice.
But they are ghettos. Unlike other historic places, ghettos were not happy places. Jews were forced to live there and nowhere else. The gates locked at 7pm and everyone had to be inside. There were guards to make sure of this. Ghettos are small. Imagine being restricted to a few blocks of your neighborhood. And to only 3 or 4 different professions. Imagine not being able to go anywhere in the evening outside of those few blocks. Or being somewhere and realizing the time and having to race there, with no room for wrong turns or last-minute tasks or completion of what you were doing, if it was closing in on 7pm.
My head was spinning; I did not know what to expect. I follow him through the few streets to the Grand Canal, where there is a motorboat with three people in it. The water level is much lower than where we are standing, and there is no real dock, and it is night, and I have bags with me, and I can't see how I am going to get into this boat. "You know, maybe I will walk if it is that close," I said. "This looks......I am not a good swimmer." "It's fine, it's fine," they all said, and everyone seemed so merry, I couldn't say no. They asked me to hand over my luggage, pocketbook, and coat, and somehow, with the help of the guy's hand below, I was able to semi-jump into the boat. He put my bags behind our seat in the back part of the boat, which was a level surface with no rail that invited immediate thoughts of how easily they could slide into the water during a sharp turn. New Yorker that I am, I kept my hand on them.
But I was in Venice, in a boat on the canal, and it was night, and there were lights everywhere, and it was a great feeling.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Tourists
Just got back from three glorious but rain-soaked days in Venice. I'll write more tomorrow, after some sleep, but for now I will write this first post, as it is almost the end of the three hours till my wash is done (as you may know from earlier posts, it is that long a time commitment to do one teeny load of wash, with no dryer. I have now timed it!).
There were so many tourists in Venice, and watching them everywhere reminded me of the wonderful two-part poem by that title, from the late great poet Yehudah Amichai:
Tourists
Visits of condolence is all we get from them.
They squat at the Holocaust Memorial
They put on grave faces at the Wailing Wall
And they laugh behind heavy curtains
In their hotels.
They have their pictures taken
Together with our famous dead
At Rachel's Tomb and Herzl's Tomb
And on the top of Ammunition Hill.
They weep over our sweet boys
And lust after our tough girls
And hang up their underwear
To dry quickly
In cool, blue bathrooms.
Once I sat on the steps by a gate at David's Tower. I placed my two heavy baskets at my side. A group of tourists were standing around their guide, and I became their target marker. "You see that man with the baskets? Just right of his head there's an arch from the Roman period. Just right of his head."
"But he's moving, he's moving!"
I said to myself: Redemption will come only if their guide tells them, "You see that arch from the Roman period? It's not important, but next to it, left and down a bit, there sits a man who's bought fruit and vegetables for his family."
There were so many tourists in Venice, and watching them everywhere reminded me of the wonderful two-part poem by that title, from the late great poet Yehudah Amichai:
Tourists
Visits of condolence is all we get from them.
They squat at the Holocaust Memorial
They put on grave faces at the Wailing Wall
And they laugh behind heavy curtains
In their hotels.
They have their pictures taken
Together with our famous dead
At Rachel's Tomb and Herzl's Tomb
And on the top of Ammunition Hill.
They weep over our sweet boys
And lust after our tough girls
And hang up their underwear
To dry quickly
In cool, blue bathrooms.
Once I sat on the steps by a gate at David's Tower. I placed my two heavy baskets at my side. A group of tourists were standing around their guide, and I became their target marker. "You see that man with the baskets? Just right of his head there's an arch from the Roman period. Just right of his head."
"But he's moving, he's moving!"
I said to myself: Redemption will come only if their guide tells them, "You see that arch from the Roman period? It's not important, but next to it, left and down a bit, there sits a man who's bought fruit and vegetables for his family."
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