Kimberly Menozzi and... Water Makes Rust

As one might suspect, family dinners are a huge part of my Italian life. These happen an almost-monthly basis, marking the important events on the family calendar: holidays, birthdays and the occasional "Just Because" meetings. In the last eight years, there are certain things I have come to expect and look forward to each time we meet.

A typical dinner usually goes like this:

Unless there is a storm of some kind, my husband, Alle and I walk the three or four blocks to his father, Paolo's place. I enjoy this most in autumn or winter, my favorite seasons, as the quiet and calm of our neighborhood is especially noticeable then. A walk in the cold tends to increase the appetite, after all – and it keeps the bottle of wine we bring along that much colder, too.

When we arrive at the palazzo, we call on the citofono to let him know we're there. He buzzes the door open and we take the elevator up to the top floor, where the door to Paolo's flat is already open, waiting for us to enter. The smell of whatever is cooking wafts out to us, filling the small entryway when we step inside and start to remove our coats and hang them up in the small corridor where the bedrooms are.

We go into the living/dining room, where the TV is usually on, the sound low while everyone talks or plays with Mia, the littlest member of the family. The chit-chat continues, sometimes in a mix of Italian and English. My sister-in-law, Roberta and her English husband, Andrew let us know what's new with them (even though we just saw them the night before at their place, in the flat right below our own).

A few minutes pass while Paolo and his girlfriend, Tamara, bustle about in the kitchen, one or the other of them popping out to put some sort of appetizers out on the table. Various types of bread and sliced meats frequently feature in this part of the dinner, and I allow myself a few bites only, so I won't spoil my appetite.

It isn't long, however, before we're encouraged to sit for the meal we've come to share, and that's when it happens. You see, there's a little ritual my Italian father-in-law undertakes each time we gather for a meal; at least, it happens whenever I'm there. Sometimes it's before we sit down to eat, sometimes it's after, but it always happens.

Paolo takes care to show me that he's purchased at least one or two 1.5-liter bottles of Coca-Cola (or Pepsi). One is placed on the table amongst the bottles of mineral water – both still and sparkling – and vino, the other left out on the balcony (in winter, of course) to chill along with the other, unopened bottles of wine. Then, he points out the one or two bottles of Lambrusco amabile – which he doesn't much care for, but he purchased just for me, because I once let him know I could drink it.

You see, I'm not much of a wine drinker. I never developed a taste for wine or other alcohol (aside from Bailey's Irish Cream – which tastes like candy to me), and this was something which puzzled Paolo from the start. For what it's worth, my husband isn't a big drinker, either: the occasional glass of wine with friends, a sampling of bitters with Andrew after a dinner and he's satisfied.

At one dinner – one of the first I can recall – Paolo offered me some wine. When I refused as politely as I could, my husband explained that I didn't drink it, and everything was fine. At the next dinner, Paolo offered again, and Alle explained once more that I'm not a wine drinker. Soon enough, this happened at every meal, until at last Paolo insisted that I try a particularly sweet dessert wine. I liked that one well enough (it was, I believe, a fragolino, or strawberry-infused wine).

In time, I realized he was on a quest. Every meal brought with it another bottle of wine, selected with me in mind. Whether it was dessert wine (dolce) or something simply a little less dry, Paolo brought out another glass for me to sample. If I tried it and didn't like it, that was okay: but I had to try it.

On occasion, when I tried to refuse altogether, Paolo would resort to pouring a splash into my empty water glass (the other glass would usually have some sort of cola in it). This made me laugh, as it was done playfully, and I would drink a little and then give the rest to my husband.

As I sat at one dinner drinking my water after refusing the wine yet again, Paolo shook his head with a half-grin and poured himself another glass. "Kim, Kiiim..." he said, making sure I looked his way. "L'Acqua fa la ruggine," he said, toasting me. I looked at my husband, puzzled, as everyone laughed.

"What did he say?" I asked, and my husband laughed again.

"He said, 'Water makes rust'," Alle explained, and I had to laugh, too.

Clearly, I was part of the family if my father-in-law was so willing to work so hard to protect me from rusting.

Kimberly Menozzi and... Italian Summers

The only time my life in Italy seems to come close to the usual images most people have of it is in the summer. Though I spend most summers away – my teaching work ends for the season and I usually go to the US to visit my family – I still carry the memories of the summers I've spent in Italy. One memory in particular stands out:

One a.m. on a mid-summer night. I lay sprawled atop the bed, alone. My husband was asleep in our other bedroom because his proximity in our bed seemed to increase the temperature of the room. The heat was too intense, the fan blowing on me providing precious little relief from the all-enveloping warmth. The zanzare – the mosquitoes – tormented me, buzzing past my ears whenever sleep beckoned, alighting on my too-sensitive, exposed skin until I was forced to take shelter beneath a bed sheet in spite of the heat.

Facing toward the wide-open window, desperate for some sort of breeze, I found myself distracted anew. A bright light shone in my direction in spite of the late hour, coming and going – not only flickering, but interrupted regularly enough to be noticeable. The light originated from a flat two buildings over, catty-cornered to my own. In the middle of such a restless night, it was more than enough to keep me awake. Without my glasses, I opened my eyes and squinted into the light as it came and went yet again.

With my imperfect vision, I could barely make out the shape of someone on their balcony, moving to and fro. Curious in spite of myself, I sat up and squinted harder, trying to see what they were doing. It seemed that they were doing chores – mopping floors or ironing clothes – and passing in front of the television from time to time. That seemed to explain everything.

And still, I was even more curious. I got my glasses and put them on, then turned to watch my neighbor once more. Now that I saw clearly, I spied a middle-aged woman, clad only in her bra and a gauzy slip, ironing clothes on her balcony. The light from the television would be blocked when she passed in front of it to hang the freshly-ironed clothes up on the edge of the living-room door frame. Sometimes she folded them and stacked them neatly on her sofa, always passing in front the television, always blocking the light for a brief moment as she did so.

I was both embarrassed at having seen her in such a state of undress – I am American, after all, and such things are not the norm where I'm from – and pleasantly surprised by her cleverness. Of course, she probably didn't expect that anyone would see her there, and she was just doing what she needed to do to get that unpleasant chore done.

Still, I admired her ingenuity. What better time was there to do the ironing, anyway? It was a chore I hated with a passion, because of the heat and the sweating and discomfort it brought me. Maybe it was the same for her, too? At any rate, I knew I'd probably never be able to do that. The idea might occur to me, but I doubted that I'd have the nerve to go through with it. I'm too reticent, too shy and frankly, too insecure about my physical appearance to risk being seen that way.

I made a point of lying down again, taking off my glasses and trying to sleep. The effort was futile for some time. It wasn't until she was done, the clothes ironed and the television and lights of her flat switched off, that I was able to find something close to slumber. The middle hours of the night passed, cooled slightly, and then around four-thirty a.m., the birds began to sing and the sky started to lighten.

A slight breeze blew through my flat, making the air from the oscillating fan seem a degree or two cooler as the mosquitoes ceased their fly-bys. I drifted off to sleep at last.