italy09

The woman behind the counter pauses when my friend Francesco asked the question, "do you have a local olive oil for sale in this supermarket?" She shakes her head in disgust and replies, "no, there's no good olive oil here." She then turns to her colleague, who's helping an elderly woman choose some cheese and asks "where can you find good olive oil nearby?" And, almost in unison, they exclaim an unintelligible name (later I'll find out it's Frantoio Feliziani) and they begin to rattle off complicated driving directions in unison. "Go to the roundabout, turn right, then go to the end of the street...do you need us to write that down for you?" Francesco shakes his head and says no, and I just hope he was paying attention. And off we went in the car in search of a nameless frantoio. What's a frantoio, you ask? Don't worry, you'll quickly learn (as I did) that this is the place where olive oil dreams are made.

Image: kelly.

Yes We Can

Image: kelly.

Above the Clouds

I stepped off the plane in Venice's airport and I instantly felt "at home." I've been through this airport countless times, the first as a student, where I remember sitting on a bench in baggage claim for hours waiting to rejoin Austin, as we took separate flights. That time we fumbled our way through the airport to find the bus counter just to find the right place to buy tickets to get to Piazzale Roma in Venice via a short $3 bus ride. (Side note. To this day, I have yet to take an overpriced taxi or boat ride. If you're a romantic with extra cash to spend, by all means do so. If you're cheap, unromantic or too pragmatic to take a boat, then find yourself the blue ATVO bus. It's what an Italian would do, anyways)

As I arrived this time in Venezia, the airport seemed remarkably smaller than I remembered it. I found my checked baggage in record time (it was the FIRST bag off of the plane,) headed straight to the bus ticket window to see a "Be Back Soon" sign and decided instead to head outside and hope to come across some sort of ticket machine or pay a few extra euros for a ticket on board. I was in and out of the airport in less than twenty minutes, and found myself pacing the sidewalk, running only on adrenaline, until I found the queue for the SITA bus to Padova and settled in to begin my slow Italian commute.

The crisp, fall air made me acutely aware of the fact that I was still wearing flip flops from the plane, but before I can dig through my bags for proper shoe, I'm approached by an African man who's Italian was like nothing I'd ever heard before. Maybe it the lack of sleep? Typically, I love interactions with other non-native speakers in Italian, because we're at the same disadvantage. But his Italian was so incredibly strange that I began to wonder if it was even Italian. I smiled and tried helped him decipher the bus schedule with gestures and pidgin Italian. Quickly joining us was a young Italian couple with luggage plastered with Berlin Marathon stickers and sporting New Balance sneakers. I wondered if they'd spent the weekend running a marathon or were returning home from a short weekend jaunt? A middle-aged woman dressed in her best clothes and designer sunglasses joined us and onto the bus we went when it arrived...ten minutes late.

My ticketless self hesitated for a moment as the bus driver ran from the bus, probably on his only break for the next hour. I began to worry about not having a ticket, but forced myself to get on and not worry about it. Ten agonizing minutes of wondering if I did the right thing as others with their pre-purchased tickets validated them on the bus machine. The driver quickly hops back on, starts the engine, and I quickly stop him and say "ho bisogno un biglietto" timidly. He looks at me strangely, snaps something at me I can't understand and I even more timidly ask "ma dov'e comprare?" He ignores me and I can't tell if he's leaving or helping me out. He re-emerges with a pack of tickets, a "I don't have time to deal with you, stupid tourist" face and says loudly "ONE TICKET?" I mumble si, hand over my money and try not to be ashamed of my poor attempt at interaction. With that trauma over with, I settle back in my seat and prepare myself for an un-eventful hour long ride.