The Markets in Italy

Ok, Lise -- you wanted another blog post!! Be careful what you wish for!

If it’s Sunday or Thursday or Tuesday or what day you will, there must be a market somewhere in Italy. For Crespano, a little village about a mile and half from Paderno, Sunday is the day. We’ve been there three Sundays in a row now, each time with increasing success in finding and buying food, clothes, and household needs. We feel a little less like foreigners, though the vendors recognize from our accents that they need to speak “proper” rather than dialectal Italian. And except for our favorite cheese vendor, who greets us with a “Ciao, Dela-ware,” the others now don’t seem to notice much difference between us and the locals. Well, at least they don’t let on that they do.

This past Sunday, I actually found a pair of jeans at the market that weren’t designed for a 5'3" Italian 15-year old, and they cost only 12€ ($17)! Abbey found a lovely wool winter coat for 30€ (about $42), and Tim bought some nice dress shirts at Kohl’s prices. Of course we stocked up on cheese and produce: mele (apples); lattuga (lettuce); pomodori (tomatoes); olive (olives!); fromaggio parmegiano e gorgonzola (no translation needed, right?). The market was bustling; perhaps because the weather was good this week – no rain.

On Saturday, we went to Bassano del Grappa, a lovely historic city about 30 minutes from Paderno. It’s on the Brenta River and features an historic wooden bridge, originally designed by Palladio, that links the two sections of the city. Saturday is Market Day in Bassano, and the vendors were enjoying the people turning out on a lovely, sunny day to find some bargains and food for the week. After some experimentation with driving in the city, finding a parking place, and learning how to work the meter, we explored the market that runs down through Via J da Ponte, one of the main streets connecting with three central squares or piazzas: Piazza Garibaldi, Piazza Liberta, and Piazza Montevechio. This day Bassano bustled with families pushing strollers and monitoring toddlers running throughout the throngs; young couples waving and shouting “Ciao” to friends; retired people greeting each other with a handshake or a kiss on each cheek; and, taking advantage of the varied goods available this day, were foreigners (Italians and non-Italians alike).

Foreigners – a different concept in Italy. Italians think of themselves first as residents of their hometown or province. Ask Italians where they come from, they’ll say “Treviso” or “Venice” or “Bassano,” not Italy. They might, if feeling particularly worldly, reply “Veneto,” “Lombardy,” or “Tuscany,” indicating the region. So, in Bassano, located in the Vincenza province of the Veneto region, we Americans were not much different than a Crespano native from the Treviso province of the Veneto. And we were the same as a Fiesole native from Tuscany – save for our ineptness in Italian!

Meandering through the markets and observing the people make for an intriguing cultural experience. The locals who come regularly have established relationships with the vendors (who travel from one market town to another throughout the week). Vendors willingly engage in lengthy conversation with a customer while prospective buyers patiently wait for their attention, often joining in the conversation before the vendors address their questions or needs. The goods themselves are an enigma: “Made in Italy” can mean “Made in Italy” by Italian workers (i.e., snap it up; it’s good) to “Made in Italy” by 3rd world workers in Italy (buy with extreme caution – Wal-Mart goods). We are learning to recognize the difference with help from our Italian friends at CIMBA: look at seams’ stitching; feel the fabric; and pay attention to craftsmanship. “Real” Italian-made products usually reveal an artisan at work. The variety of goods is amazing: clothes of all sorts, shoes, fruits, vegetables, meats, cheeses, linens, jewelry, kitchen products, plants and herbs, belts, tools. For some reason, chain saws are popular market fare – hopefully for cutting firewood!!

This Saturday, we had Emma’s friend and our neighbor, Jo-Jo, with us as her parents and older sister were involved in a different outing. The girls were surprised by a carpet vendor waving to them and yelling “Hello.” Turns out he goes to Crespano and saw both of them the last couple of Sundays there. Tim and Emma went over, and they conversed in broken Italian/English and the ever helpful hand signals. He said he was Moroccan, so we explained our connection to Hicham’s family in Tangier. He was from further south, a town I didn’t recognize by name.

By noon, Emma and Jo-Jo were “S-T-A-R-V-I-N-G,” so we fortunately discovered a welcoming café on Piazza Montevecchio, not far from the famous bridge. Finding suitable bistro/cafes here in Italy is much more a challenge for us than it was in France as many are “bars” which serve coffee, tea, wine, etc., but not much in the way of food that appeals to American 11-year olds. This place was nice with friendly, attentive service (including waitress who spoke some English). Abbey, Tim, and I had some fantastico Panini sandwiches. Emma and Jo-Jo chose some yummy bruschetta with mozzarella cheese, tomatoes, artichokes, and black olives.

After a pleasant lunch, we walked to the bridge, known as either Ponte Vecchio (like the famous one in Florence) or Ponte degli Alpina. The signs just say “a Ponte” (to the bridge)! Whatever name, the bridge is charming – a covered wooden structure spanning the Brenta River. I took some lovely shots of it and the rows of homes and businesses on the banks, all with flower boxes or landscaped greens. A just-married couple with their attendants were there taking full advantage of the bridge’s ambiance for some pictures. A highly decorated VW Bug (old one) was evidently part of the wedding party!

Walking back through the piazzas, we saw nearly deserted streets. The market was gone: vendors had packed up and left, and the streets had been cleaned. Now, however, we could see the building that had been hidden behind the rows of vendors: the old municipal building with classical pillars, faded frescoes, a statue commemorating Garibaldi who led Italian states to victory and unity in the late 1800's, a monument to the local fallen during WWI (what is known here as la Grande Guerra, the Great War).

Speaking of the Great War. Last Friday, the school sponsored a trip to Trieste, a 3-hour bus ride one way. Tim went, but Abbey stayed to catch up on school work, and Emma and I had some fun together at home. Tim will have to write a post about the experience, but I uploaded the pictures that he took. One stop along the way was to a World War I monument. Trieste, which borders Slovenia, has a number of sights, but there was little time before the bus headed back home.

This week we also had two dinners out. One was at a fellow faculty member’s house. Dominic, a Brit who now lives in Italy with his Italian wife, Lara, and their two children, invited our neighbors and us over to their house for some pizza take-away. It was a good time for kids and parents alike. Dominic and Lara built the house a few years ago in a small village about 20 minutes from Paderno. Very sleek and modern in design and functions (has air conditioning which is almost unheard of in Italy), it is a sharp contrast to the warm, hearth-like feel of a Tuscan farmhouse.

Our second dinner was at an Agriturismo. Popular throughout much of Europe, these farms have small restaurants that serve up the farmers’ produce, meats, cheeses, and, in some cases, wines. About 11 of us went – incredible drive up one of the mountains on a paved road more narrow that the dirt roads at the farm and with rather steep drops that had everyone looking down (save for Tim, who was driving at that point)! Lovely view of the valley and the Grappa range toward the north. We made a mental note to go back during the day for pictures. Mushrooms were featured – it’s the season for them. Both Emma and Jo-Jo had wild mushroom soup which they loved. Everything was tasty. Good dinner, good wine, good company. Couldn’t have asked for more.