Grocery Shopping in Italy or... 272 Grams of Pesto is Equivalent to a Crap-ton!

So we are really enjoying our living like a local experiment – 3 weeks in Venice.  Wow.  Americans don’t take three week vacations.  I mean, you may have that much time allotted to you, but no one ever goes ‘on holiday’ like they do over here.  We work too hard, we multi-task way too much.  And oh yeah, the business would probably close down without us there – right? 

Reality check. 

So I asked for the time off.  I hoped that they would understand the importance this trip has to me – and to my surprise, they did!  But Italian Catholic guilt, which is second only to Jewish guilt, had me concerned that I not give them even a moment’s pause or cause to rethink their decision.  So I busted my ass for more than a month before leaving so that everything that I could possibly control and complete was done.  Finito.  Kaput.   Projects that were sitting on my desk gathering dust were miraculously moved to the top of the To Do list.  I asked a couple of my team mates to pinch hit for me for a few tasks, but other than that, my desk was clean, my away messages were set and I was O-U-T out!

So we get here (see previous post) and the apartment is great – for that first night.  Apparently our apartment, (we shall call it ‘the step-apartment’) was occupado the night we arrived so they put us in the Italian Palazzo equivalent of the Penthouse.  Only problem with that was that we only got to enjoy it that first night.  Two bedrooms, Murano glass chandelier, view of the canal and a damn good-sized kitchen.  And then on day two we get its red-haired step sister. 

It was nice while it lasted...

You ever been to IKEA?  Seen those tableaus they put together where they show you how you can live in 300 square feet?  Well welcome to the next three weeks.

Not that it’s bad, it’s actually pretty comfortable.  By European standards.  We've got a small living room, a decent sized bedroom and bathroom but a teensy, tiny galley style kitchen.  Maybe it’s a kitchenette?  Wait, it’s Italy so it’s probably a ‘kitchetini’ – yeah, that’s the ticket!  The refrigerator is like a dorm sized fridge.  Which is fine; we plan on cooking a lot and I don’t need to lay in supplies to feed a Biafran family of 12, but wow.  Oh and under the sink there are three (3!!) different garbage cans for your various recyclables.  Paper in one, glass and plastic in another and biodegradables (read: food and other yucky stuff) in the third. 

Garbage is a big thing here

Now I’m a horrible recycler – I honestly don’t think about it all that much.  So I've got that going against me.  But everything on this island garbage-wise has got to be floated off.  So these people take this stuff way seriously.  I now fret over the garbage.  I second guess myself over garbage.  Oh my God, I wrapped the banana peel in a paper napkin – is that bio or paper?  Oh wait, it's both.  I must separate and categorize my waste. Good Lord.  When I’m in a hotel on vacation I want to leave the towels on the floor and have my sheets changed every damn day – I do not want to have to ponder the deeper meaning of garbage.

*Massive run-on sentence alert*  So in making my garbage, we visited the market in Garibaldi which is also in our neighborhood of Castelo to gather some food to make dinner and some snacks so we aren't spending every minute in pursuit of pasta.  The thing I love about Garibaldi is that it’s a real neighborhood.  So many of the neighborhoods in Venice aren't really neighborhood-ish.  Not that you can always see anyway.  A lot of people live above stores or above restaurants, bakeries, etc.   There doesn't seem to be any difference between being zoned residential or commercial.  You just are.  Single family detached dwellings don’t really exist here.  So if you live in an apartment over a glass store, you don’t have a yard, or a stoop or a campo to hang out and meet your neighbors in.  But Castelo and Garibaldi are different.  There are more parks and green space; there are wider streets so the shopping is more centralized.  And in addition to the little green grocer markets and fish stands … there’s the barge.

The barge is a floating green grocer – every fruit and vegetable you can imagine as well as some you've probably never seen before.  Everything is sold by weight and even the crudest of markets here have all invested in pretty impressive weights and measures technology.  Like most Americans, I buy food based on the size portion I need, actual weight be damned.   I rarely know the weight of the containers, boxes or packages I regularly buy and I’ve managed to survive this long.  Personally I like to stay as far away from ANY scale as possible.  And here’s another  newsflash – I don’t know jack about the Metric system. 

Everything in Europe is measured using the Metric system.  President Jimmy Carter tried to get the U.S. to embrace this otherwise universal measuring system back in the 70’s.  It was a dismal failure and may be one of the reasons he was only a single term President. Regardless, I’m convinced that aside from a 2 liter bottle of Diet Coke, the only Americans who recognize grams, kilos, etc. are drug dealers and DEA Agents.

So I’ve got my beautiful zucchini, fresh peppers, asparagus and fragola (strawberries) and it all comes to about six Euros (around 8 bucks and change).  We head to another market to buy pasta, bread and oh look (she said rather excitedly) fresh pesto!! 

So it was about 10 Euros per kilo, I figure there are only 2 of us so 250 grams should be perfect.  Well, she gave me 272 grams which wouldn’t bother me much, but damn!  272 grams of pesto is like a vat of pesto!!  And of course I can’t tell her it’s too much – wouldn’t know how to anyway.  She’s looking at me like I’m a dumb tourist who’s holding up the line (I am).  So I duck my head and take my bucket ‘o pesto and bury it in the basket hoping Michael doesn’t ask me if there’s some reason I’m stocking up for Pestomagedden.

The good news is the stupid pesto is the best I’ve ever had.  We’ve done Pappardelle with veggies and sausage (and pesto), chicken scaloppini with fresh gnocchi (and pesto) and used it as a condiment on an antipasti platter as well.  And I still have damn pesto.  I think it freakin’ regenerates itself overnight or something.  It just won’t go away.  When the big one hits there will be three things left standing:  cockroaches, Cher and this pesto.

By the way, you’re all invited for an authentic Italian meal sometime soon.

Guess what I’m serving… 

             

   I crack myself up.

Whoever Said 'Getting There Is Half the Fun' - Lied.

Whoever said, ‘getting there is half the fun’ – Lied.

There are things about travel that you really don’t want to think about – like how you’re really going to get somewhere and how much it’s all going to cost.  Travel these days sucks and it has for about 12 or thirteen years now.  Not that it was a piece of cake before, but at least you felt like you were on your way to some grand adventure.  Now getting to where you’re going is in and of itself, the adventure.

My hubby and I have traveled before.  That’s not the problem. But for us it’s always the worst part of the vacation.  At 6’4, Michael is never really comfortable on a plane.  I realize that no one ever is, but if you’re my size, it’s at least a little better.  However, there’s nothing fun about 10+ hours squished up in a space that’s really not big enough for a Springer Spaniel, forget a regular or super-sized person.  And we always get the winners when it comes to flying.  You know the ones I mean… the snorers, the stinkers, and the 4 foot 7 female who has to recline her seat back right into the lap of my husband, two minutes after take-off. 

So this time we’re flying out of Miami, which sucks since we live about 12 seconds from the Fort Lauderdale airport, but whatever, we are heading to Italy for three weeks. This is a once in a lifetime kind of thing babycakes!   We fly through check in (thank you Lufthansa!) and then join a never ending queue for security.  I swear to God there are shorter lines at Disney World on July 4th.  And the stuff people try to get on the plane?!  This one lady was a rope length  ahead of me.  You know what I mean; no matter where we moved, she was always on the other side of the rope in front of me.  Anyway, she’s kicking her backpack forward because she is so important that she can’t stop texting for a minute, and I notice that’s she’s got a half empty water bottle sticking out of one of the outside pockets – NO, NO y NO!  She’s also got two oranges or tangerines, or something citrus-y in plain sight, oh and let’s not forget this wooden-tree object that I swear to God looks like an Australian version of a Billy-club poking out of the top.  Now I ask you, is it possible that this is her first plane ride ever?    I’m worried that I might have 3.2 ounces of shampoo in my carry on and the TSA is going to tase me for it and this chick’s got a weapon and is possibly transporting Amazonian fruit flies, but I’m the one that’s going to get strip searched.  Like Taylor Swift said, “I knew you were trouble when you walked in.”

Bitch walked right on through.

So 8 hours on an A-380 into Frankfurt, Germany, decent movies and lots of wine, but no sleep to speak of – by the way, you do not want to be a smoker passing through the airport there.  They lock you in this 10x12 glass box and make you inhale not only your smoke, but the smoke of all the other desperate Cancer-chasing goobers.  Plus you are literally on exhibit like a bunch of monkeys.  I actually felt sorry for them and as you can see from the above, I don’t feel sorry for smokers period, so that’s pretty damn bad.  

Frankfurt to Venice is really a piece of cake, one hour non-stop and you fly over the Swiss Alps low enough to take iPhone pictures.  It’s really quite cool.  Once on the ground, and the luggage is swishing its way down the belt to us.  All the pieces made it and if you’re anything like me, you basically break into the Hallelujah chorus when you realize it’s all going to be ok from here on out.

Except that we aren't there yet. 

Venice’s airport is on the mainland of Italy, Venice itself is an island in a lagoon with other smaller islands all surrounding it.  It’s still another hour plus by boat.  But first, we must schlep.  We've got about 150 lbs of luggage between the two of us, haven’t slept in almost 24 hours by this time and it’s a chilly 15 minute walk to where the boats are anchored.  Michael’s got it handled, but I cannot seem to drag my suitcase without it feeling like my shoulder is separating from my torso.  Seriously.  And I’m all over the little walkway.  This suitcase has a mind of its’ own and I am going to die from extreme shoulder pain and I’m going to take down some poor German tourist with me. 

Alilaguna ferry is another test.  When the boat arrives they throw out this 2 foot wide gang-plank for me to negotiate with my 300 lbs of luggage and by-now separated shoulder.  I couldn't keep it together on an 8 foot wide paved, on the ground not rocking over water, stretch of space but now they want me to walk the plank?  I am less than graceful under most normal circumstances.  These people really do not have a clue what they’re in for.

So the guy gives me a look, I stare him down, heft my 400 lbs of luggage strapped and dangling from my neck, shoulders and dragging behind me and go for it.  Woot.

I am badass.

An hour long ferry ride and we are finally close to our final destination.  We are trying to keep our eyes open on ride but both of us are sleep deprived and the stress is getting to us.  I can see it; I can feel it – if we can make it another 15 minutes winding through the narrow calles of Venice proper we will be home free.  But no one said anything about Aqua Alta!  The ferry bumps the quay and then we are forced to disembark into about 8” of water that’s lapping over the dock.  Whatever.  Michael is Superman and grabs all 900 lbs of luggage and leaps about 12 feet getting only a slight splash for his efforts.  I pick my way through and manage to only get wet up to mid calf.  Sigh.  Oh well, we are almost there.  Ten minutes later and everything has been dry through the route until we get to our hotel/apartment.  More water… this time there’s no getting around it.  Shoes off, pants rolled up and into the lobby that has about 4” of water in it.  Thankfully everyone is safe, we’re here and now the fun can begin.  Olga and Ali even manage to find us our own pairs of boots – just in case.

I don’t want to think about ‘just in case’…