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Open-air markets are the heart of Italian cooking

The market in Campo dei Fiori, which translates as "Field of Flowers."

Italians are famous for their mouth-watering cooking. This in itself can inspire almost any college student to abandon the microwave and make time for regular trips to the grocery store.

When I first moved to Rome, however, I was surprised and disappointed by the sparse selection in my downtown supermarket. There was nothing super about it. The produce section was all-in-all overripe, the poultry was nearly bought out, and even my frozen food safety zone had nothing to offer.

Tucked between the winding back streets of the city center are large piazzas, home to the charming open-air markets. These are the hot spots for locals, who spend their mornings choosing the perfect eggplant and socializing with the vendors. Here you can choose from an abundance of nearly any fruit, vegetable or meat your heart desires, an array of fresh flowers and other useful odds and ends.

My best picks for Roman markets:

Campo dei Fiori -- off Corso Vittorio Emanuele near Piazza della Cancelleria.
Mercato Testaccio -- Piazza Testaccio near the Pyramid.
Piazza San Cosimato -- off Via Trastevere and Via Fratte di Trastevere.

Posted by Kelsea at 4:16 PM | Comments (2)

Flu season is coming up, and what do the Italians do?

Flu season is coming up, and what do the Italians do?

Simple: Go to the pharmacy and buy an at-home flu shot.

I was a little taken aback as the pharmacist passed the small white box across the counter in my direction. There was no way I would find the courage or skill to stick myself with a needle. As far as I'm concerned, that's a job for trained nurses -- not for communication majors!

Apparently it's a normal way to take over-the-counter medicine here. Just rub on a little alcohol (no, the wine is used for dinner) and inject either in your upper-arm muscle or on the back of your hip.

You should repackage the needle for disposal, but no one regulates that.

When I said that I was too scared to do it myself, I was told that usually people have their grandmothers do it. I don't think my grandmother would fly over from Pennsylvania to give me a shot...

Posted by Kelsea at 6:42 PM | Comments (1)

At a bus stop, an unwelcome surprise

It was a Sunday morning around 9.

Sunday mornings are probably the quietest time of the week in Rome. You could say that all the Italians are spending their mornings at church, but most of them are recovering from Saturday night.

Most everything is closed on Sunday and the public transportation system has a reputation for being particularly dysfunctional during the weekend. Sunday mornings are dead.

I happened to be up at this hour, despite working a long shift at the bar the previous night. I was on my way to Santa Susanna, an American church (Masses held in English) near Termini train station, where I sing in the choir. I looked alright for four hours of sleep, clad in a thin wrap skirt, heeled sandals and a fitted blouse. After leaving my apartment I realized that I had forgotten taxi money, so decided to take the bus, and hoped it would arrive on time.

I was alone at the bus stop, mindlessly gazing at the closed shops and the occasional passing car. Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait too long. I saw the bus appear in the distance. I watched it trudge towards me, and when it was about one block away the most impossible thing happened:

Something grabbed my rear!!!

I stumbled forward, my arms flailing, and snapped out of my Sunday-morning stupor. I spun around to see what had bitten me and saw a middle-aged Italian man shuffling away, shamelessly calling over his shoulder, "Oh, bella!"

I was appalled. Here I was waiting for the bus and this man had the nerve to grab my bum in broad daylight. And not just pinch -- he got a whole handful!

Although my reaction was a little delayed, due to the absolute ridiculousness of the situation, I yelled back at him in the few Italian insults I had picked up from working in a bar. The man moseyed away, with the bus pulling up and swinging open its doors.

The bus driver smirked at me.

Posted by Kelsea at 3:28 PM | Comments (3)

A weekend in Genazzano and Terni

After a long week of school and work, I decided to get away from the hustle and bustle of the Eternal City and venture into the smaller towns which, though they often go unnoticed, define Italy's beauty.

Saturday night was spent in Genazzano, a small castle town built upon a hill about 50 kilometers (31 miles) outside Rome. (Check it out at www.comune.genazzano.roma.it or use Google's English translation of the site.)

On this particular night a festival celebrated street performers. Throughout the night, the usually silent streets were alive with music and dancing. Crystal-sticks were tossed about with incredible skill in front of medieval churches, bands played in the center piazza, their music carrying down the winding streets and staircases, dancing commenced outside the local pizzeria, accompanied by drummers. Despite chilly weather, everyone was in high spirits and kept warm by the pulse of the festival.

On Sunday, I ventured the hour and a half to Terni, home of the Basilica of Saint Valentine. Not only can you visit the church of the patron saint of lovers, but you can visit the saint himself! Built in 1605, the church is the home to some (but not all) of the remains of Valentine which are encased in a statue on the main altar.

The photo, though, is of a statue of St. Joseph -- and the pigeon is real.

Posted by Kelsea at 4:57 PM | Comments (3)

Coffee: An Introduction

"Tall one-percent no-whip mocha" does not translate into Italian. As I stood in the dimly lit coffee shop (or "bar," as the fading sign outside read), I was shocked to find the menu approximately 2 feet tall and written in chalk. The wrinkled man behind the counter was staring at me with a puzzled expression as he wiped his hands on his coffee-stained apron.

"Um, ok, café americano," I stuttered, desperately searching for something familiar. The man placed a china saucer on the counter in front of me. I watched as he brewed a small amount of coffee and then proceeded to fill the rest of the cup with hot water. I wasn't in Starbucks anymore.

"Can I get that to go? Porta via?" I asked as he placed the smallest cup of joe I had ever seen in front of me. The man raised his eyebrows and responded with, "Un euro."

I am no coffee expert. Born and raised in Kennebunkport, Maine, I moved to New York city at age 17 to pursue my dancing career. After one year working with a jazz dance company, I was ready to buckle down with my studies -- but never at the expense of my adventuring. I got accepted to study communications at The American University of Rome. The idea of moving to Europe and experiencing a whole new culture excited me. By August of 2004, I was sipping coffee at an outdoor table, gazing at the cobblestone and people strolling by, babbling in a tongue I could only dream of understanding.

I glanced down at my cup, pondering if I could ever understand the coffee as well.

It has been over a year now that I have been living here. Within that time I have made my cultural blunders: like wearing sneakers on a Saturday night, ordering the wrong wine with the wrong cheese, and an array of mispronunciations of famous buildings and monuments.

I do, however, feel that I may finally be getting the hang of life in Rome. Aside from university, I have a job working in a restaurant, an apartment within walking distance of all the major sites, a boyfriend who doesn't speak English, and a grasp on the real difference between a cappuccino and a cafe latte.

Posted by Kelsea at 1:50 PM | Comments (4)