How Italian Are We?

Well, of course Chrissy isn’t Italian at all (unless marriage counts).  But all of my ancestors are full-blooded Italians.  My mom’s grandparents and my dad’s parents came to the USA on a boat from the old country.

Why does that matter to me now, except when it comes to what we’re having for dinner?  Well, there is a possibility that I might be able to obtain Italian citizenship — and, more importantly, a passport that would allow us to live in Romania visa-free, thanks to the European Union.

It’s tricky.  And heavy on the paperwork.  We have to find naturalization papers for my 6 relatives (both sets of mom’s grandparents and my dad’s parents) as well as birth, marriage, and death certificates for all of them.  The big question is whether any of my Italian-born ancestors who came to America got naturalized AFTER having the children who would be my direct forebears.

Today we tried contacting some lawyers who specialize in immigration law and particularly Italian dual citizenship.   But it is Friday, so no surprise, I guess, that we couldn’t get through.  I’m thinking the trick is hiring someone who knows how to navigate all the paper research.  Most of it is on microfiche in the National Archives, probably in New York City, and we weren’t planning a trip to that area anytime soon.

With visa requirements for all five of us to live in Romania being quite complicated, lengthy, and pricey, Italian dual citizenship (if it is within reach) is definitely a worthwhile investment for our family.

It’s Been Such a Long Time

Well, I haven’t posted in a very long time, and the date that gets stamped on these things keeps staring me in the face.  So I will attempt to catch you up without boring you.

Last spring was an exciting time here in Morocco.  We finished our first full year here and were ready for a well deserved vacation to Romania.  Too bad we forgot to renew Rocco’s passport and had to delay our long awaited flight.  But the US consulate here really outdid themselves coming to our rescue – kudos to them!

Then it was off to Bucharest, where we enjoyed such space-age conveniences as malls, movies in English, Ikea, and efficient public transportation.  We didn’t drive all summer!  We stayed in a friend’s home, which is next-door to a sprawling park filled with playgrounds, bike paths, and even free bounce houses.  Also free to use in this park were several charcoal grills – just mind-boggling to those who have lived in pre-EU Eastern Europe.

Most of all, though, we were blessed with much time to enjoy with close friends.  We got to hang out with many people that we and our children had missed tremendously since leaving Romania a year ago.  We even had a chance to host a new friend who came from Casablanca to visit us.  Gianna turned 4 in July, and we had a fun party for her at one of the malls with a nice children’s play gym.   Marco was baptized at the church we attended when we lived there.  Swim lessons for the boys at the national stadium.  Long conversations with dear friends.  The world’s best babysitter.  Cinnabon. More than we can say here.

While it was great for us to be able to go back to Romania and spend the summer reconnecting with people, there was one negative.  We didn’t get to see any of you back in the U.S.  We hope to be there next summer and get to see all of the friends and family we miss so much.  Please continue to pray for us as we do for you.

“Should We Park Here?”

Sun shines into the underground cistern in El Jadida. Click on the picture for more shots from our trip.

Since moving here from Bucharest we have been comparing driving practices.  For example, in both cities, lanes are irrelevant and people are very aggressive.   They also have the same way of making left turns (see picture).  But one big difference between driving in Morocco and driving in Romania is parking – or, more specifically, tow trucks.

In Bucharest you can pretty much park anywhere.  There are a few rules but in general if your car can make it up onto the sidewalk, you can park there.  There are virtually no tow trucks in Bucharest so the worst that would happen is someone would put a boot on your car – easily rectified with a few lei (Romanian money).

So after an excursion to the Habous last week, we decided to stop downtown and find a good spot for lunch.  Chrissy remembered a little hole in the wall joint that had good shwarma and pizza down in the Marif section of town.  We drove around for a couple of minutes before a space was available.

“This looks like a good spot.”

She said, “Are you sure we should park here?  The curb is yellow.”

“Look at all the other cars parked here.  I’m sure it’s fine,” I responded confidently.

So we got the kids out and headed towards the lunch spot.  A policeman right next to us on the corner gave no indication that this was not a perfect place to park.  My confidence was reinforced.

As we headed back from lunch, Chrissy looked up and saw the car in front of us with its rear end in the air, ready to be towed away.  I ran towards the parking spot to find a void where our car used to be.  I asked the guys in the tow truck  where my car was.  They looked at me quizzically and shrugged.  French? Arabic?  they asked.  I shook my head and they yelled something in Arabic at me as they drove away with the Mercedes in tow.

Three trips back and forth across the city with a Moroccan friend later, having run the gauntlet of paying the fine ($12) and finding the car (impound fee: $15), we finally drove the car back home with an expanded, intimate knowledge of the parking and towing systems in Casablanca.

Holiday Weekend

In the back seat, all three kids strained against their seatbelts and craned their necks to get a good look at the big white tent in the parking lot of a large grocery store. “What is it?” Marco asked.

Hmmm. Should we just tell them? After all, the banner over the entrance to the tent was most unambiguous.

While we looked forward to this weekend because of Thanksgiving, Saturday is the Muslim holiday Aid el Kibir, which commemorates God’s provision of a sacrificial ram in place of Abraham’s son. The tradition here is that every family must purchase a ram, sheep, or goat and slaughter it.

So yes, the ram markets are everywhere – kind of like Christmas tree sales in the US – in parking lots and vacant fields. We have seen live sheep in luggage-rack-like cages on top of cars, on balconies, and even offered as a promotional bonus for buying a new stove from an appliance store.

Our students and friends all have an Aid el Kibir story – mostly ones that don’t make for the most appetizing dinner conversation. And ubiquitous is the advice that if we go driving around on Saturday, we should get a babysitter and leave the kids at home: The blood flows, the streets are eerily quiet, and the air is pungent with the smell of burn hair and flesh rising in the smoke of the charcoal fires that dot the fields to roast whole ram heads for the first celebratory meal.

So what do you tell the kids?

“It’s kind of like a petting zoo,” Chrissy finally answered. “Only they just have rams, nothing else.”

Under his breath, Tony added, “They call it the killing fields.”

“Shh!”

“Can we go in there?”

“Sure, we can go in to see the rams.”

Explain it to a 3-year-old

During dinner, one of the five-times-a-day calls to prayer rang out from a distant mosque. Gianna dropped her fork and gasped.

“Daddy! He’s calling the moths!”

Rocco the Snake Charmer and Other Stories from Marrakech

Since the end of Ramadan was approaching our school had scheduled a four day weekend to incorporate the Muslim holiday Aid al-Fitr.  A group of us took advantage of the break and headed up into the Atlas mountains near Marrkech to a place called au sanglier qui fume (the smoking boar).  It was an old French Legioneer stopover and a hunting lodge run by the same French family for over 60 years.

We had a great time relaxing, swimming in the icy pool, hiking in the mountains that surrounded the lodge, and spending time together in worship and fun.

On the way back to Casablanca, we stopped in the city of Marrakech to see the spectacle everyone had told us about.  We headed to the Djemaa el Fna, which is the central square and marketplace or souq.  Snake charmers, henna artists, and boys with apes all vie for your attention.  We didn’t see the place at night, but we hear it transforms into a busy open air restaurant complete with goat heads for the eating (see this article).  We roamed the square and took pictures of our boys holding snakes and smiling.  Even Chrissy got into it and reluctantly held a snake.  I think I paid the snake charmers too much for the privilege of taking the shots, but it was well worth it.  We then headed back to Casablanaca to finish off our long weekend.  Maybe next time we will experience Marrakech at night.

Here are some more pictures form our trip.

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=121927&id=635391255&l=f92e4c24ba

On their first week in a trilingual school…

Marco: “Mommy, I learned how to say something in French today! Or…uh…maybe it was Arabic.”

Rocco: “Daddy, I know a FRENCH word.” (insert perfect French accent here) “Croissant.”

Gianna (who calls her babysitter her teacher): “This is my neef!” (pointing to her nose)

A Week in the Life: Chapter 1

Here are a few pictures from our first few weeks in North Africa.  We have had quite a transition.  From beach days with the kids to learning how to buy fruit from the markets, it has been an education.  It has also been amazingly busy and school starts just around the corner.   We thank you for your prayers and we have you in ours as well.

Hope you enjoy them.  Remember to follow the links at the right to subscribe to the blog.

P.S.  There is a picture of a fellow Miamian (see if you can find it).

Destination Achieved

We have made it to North Africa!  It took 38 and 1/2 hours and a trip to the emergency room in Madrid, but we are here and settling in.  We are setting up shop in our new apartment, meeting new people and getting familiar with the local customs.  For a break from unpacking, we piled into the van we just purchased (a trip back to the future itself, in a 1994 Plymouth Grand Voyager) and braved the road down to the beach.  At first, the kids were upset that we hadn’t brought their bathing suits.  But once they set foot into the icy waves crashing hard onto the sand, they were thrilled just to squeal and run away from the water.  We even got fresh (very hot) doughnuts with a spoonful of (apricot?) jam inside, a cone of handmade potato chips, and a gigantic bunch of fresh mint, all from roadside entrepreneurs.  Tony joined some other staff-men from the school for a game of basketball when we got home, and the kids were exhausted.  All in all, a good day!  Check out the video below, which Tony made to give you a tour of our apartment:

Of Grace and Stuff

The people we have stayed with this summer are saints.

Adding five people to anyone’s household – especially when three of them are under the age of 8 – is inviting enough chaos to try anyone’s patience.  But even more amazing than the fact that five different homes welcomed us with open arms is how accommodating and helpful everyone has been.

Even at the brief stops, I have noticed how much bigger the space is when we’re gone.  Keeping five people’s clothes neatly folded and stacked (oh, and clean) has been one of my full-time jobs this summer, but no matter how organized I think I am, the clothes alone take up more space than they should.  Add to that my kids’ backpacks full of trinkets and treasures, a collection that also grows logarithmically, and our own adult collection of laptop and camera paraphernalia that snakes its way onto some previously pristine counter or tabletop.

But the real patience-tester for our hosts must be the cargo.  You see, living overseas means that we can’t just run to Target or Wal Mart when we think of something we need in October.  There are no bargains on clothes or shoes of decent quality where we have lived.  So when we do get to the US, we shop for an entire year.  We collect clothes in the kids’ upcoming sizes and for a variety of seasons.  We have our sons choose in July the themes they want for their January and April birthdays so we can pick up a few items to help tailor their celebrations.  We restock our medicine cabinet, gather books in English, and inevitably find some gadget that will help us in new and wonderful ways (this time:  Magic Jack).

I have a permanent mental list of distinctly American grocery items that I imagine I would have to force myself not to hoard if we moved back to the US.  Chocolate chips, icing in a tub, maple flavoring (yes, for making syrup), peanut butter, marshmallows, seasoning packets, Cheerios – all are things you think don’t matter much until you try raising three American children where these items don’t exist.  For a short time, we were perhaps the biggest importer of barbeque sauce in Romania.  I’m certain we were briefly the biggest importer of Oreo cookies and Cuban coffee.

So for instance, right now, my sister-in-law’s living room is clogged with bags and half-packed Rubbermaid Action Packers.  I’m thankful she also has a family room, since the two living room couches are covered.  The front door only opens about halfway because we have three suitcases plus the kids’ backpacks and a few loose bags stashed in that corner.  And the entranceway…well, please don’t look.

But my point is that no one we have stayed with has ever grumbled within our earshot about our colossal amount of stuff.  I think there is a special crown in heaven for such gracious hosts of traveling families as large as ours.  We are blessed to have such a marvelous network of friends and family.