Normale – Italian Style

By the third week, we have settled into our routine of classes. Well, somewhat of a routine anyway. In Italy, there is seldom a routine, or perhaps it’s that the American concept of that word is simply not translatable. In Under the Tuscan Sun, Frances Mayes writes that “Italians have a longer sense of time than we do.” No doubt the centuries of history that layer this country contribute to that longer sense of time. I suspect it is also an inherent understanding that an individual existence is one of many on an infinite continuum. Our clock-oriented life, too often valued by “productive” output, is completely foreign in this country which does not measure time by minutes but by moments of being.

Life is fluid here, its rhythms accommodating unpredictabilities with admirable grace. I don’t mean to suggest that existence here is completely unstructured or chaotic; it isn’t at all. School begins when the bell rings; Crespano’s market opens every Sunday morning; trains depart according to Trenitalia’s schedule; and Anna and Marta run the CIMBA office with an efficiency that is choreographed to every detail. So, there are “to-do” lists, plans, even routines of sorts. Yet when those lists, plans, routines – for whatever reason – are disrupted or must be altered, Italians shift gears as easily as one does a Lamborghini. They have a word for such instances: normale.

The computer lab printer (yes, you read that correctly – the printer, singular noun) breaks down again. Students have reports and class assignments that need to be printed for the next class. Is there panic? Angst? No. They simply shrug shoulders, save assignments to a flash drive or send via e-mail to professor, get a cappuccino (preferably with that professor), and catch up on news from home, Italian soccer, or travel plans for the upcoming travel week. Anna orders a replacement printer – delivery in one week, maybe two. Normale. [nor-mal-ay]

Large purchase at Famila, the local supermarket (mercato), and the register’s bank card reader balks at reading my card. Are there angry words exchanged? Should I panic at being in a foreign country with as yet little grasp of the language and knowing that I don’t have enough euros? No. I shrug my shoulders and say “uno momento” and head to the nearby ATM to get more cash, while the cashier chats with the next customer in line. Am I greeted with scowls of disgust and impatience upon my return? Not at all. In fact, I am invited to participate in the conversation – despite my protests of “non parlo italiano” and the fact that I catch only every 3rd word. Normale.

A truck – a BIG truck for these narrow roads – is delivering goods in Castelcucco, a small town southeast of Paderno. On these small roads, the driver struggles to park the truck off the main road near the delivery site. Traffic halts in both directions -- actually all four, as the truck is just above the roundabout; I sit in the little Punto, one car back from the roundabout and watch. The village polizia quickly emerge. Are tickets issued? Angry words exchanged? No. It is not I-95 or the turnpike; life is not so rushed that we cannot wait until a delivery truck is parked. The polizia direct the truck’s driver while the cars’ drivers chat with each other. I watch one driver pull over, park, and walk to the small café to grab some espresso and watch the intricacies of maneuvering the truck before continuing on his way. Impressive, I thought. For Italians, normale.

Normale. A handy word to describe much of life – normal or not – here in Italy. It’s their word for disrupted routine or pace, for unpredictability, for anything beyond (or even within) one’s control. It’s a word that we should adopt.