We took in our first European League soccer match last week. Palermo plays in Serie A, composed of teams from around Italy, as well as the European League, which is pretty self-explanatory. While Palmero's crowd can be likened to respectful college football fans (co-ed, appreciative of the game, pride in their team, disdain for foes), CKSA Moscow's followers are like Raiders fans: rowdy, shirtless, overweight men with an odd assortment of props that bare no relation to the team.
One merry fellow had a bright red fireman's helmet that he had taken the time to bedazzle (see above). Their section of the stadium looked like Moscow's steel mill had rewarded its loyalest (heaviest) workers with a topless Mediterranean cruise. They were confined to a steel cage, so with the exception of our eyes we were plenty safe.
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| Hips to be thrust soon. |
After going up 3-1, the Soviets began chanting, “Ciao! Ciao! Ciao!” at the Italian fans. Naturally, the host fans took umbrage. The Sicilian dialect masked much of the derogatory language that was volleyed in return, but there is something unmistakably vulgar about an older Italian man retorting, “Ciao! Ciao! Ciao!” while thrusting his hips and gesturing with both hands towards his pelvis. He was either asking the Russians to appreciate the intricacy of his button fly, or offering his procreational services.
Latest food discoveries: the local delicacy here with years of history is the spleen sandwich—panino con la milza. Going back to the earliest days of industrialization, factory workers needed something quick and hearty to eat in the middle of the day. Street vendors fry thin slices of spleen in animal fat before throwing it on a baguette with a bit of parmesan and garlic. I am imagining the texture of a Philly Cheesesteak, the flavor of pate, and the post-consumption remorse of KFC's Double Down. We are working up the courage to give it a try, but I predict that our first taste comes at the end of a long night out where burritos/hamburgers don't exist and pizza is cliché.
Another noteworthy favorite that we sampled outside the soccer stadium was panelle crocche. I am understating its culinary genius when I describe it as a tater tot sandwich, but that's essentially what it is. Instead of your soggy lunchroom tots that share the same consistency as an aged pear, these fried potatoes have a golden, crisp outer layer that protects the fluffy, almost mashed potato-y interior. Puts the hot dog to shame.
In the course of our wanderings about town last weekend, we discovered a magnificent place that is literally a hole in a wall, but it turned out to be much more than that. Drilled inconspicuously into one of the city's walls is a bar that doubles as a bookstore. There is an enormous fireplace and vaulted ceilings that rise 30-40 ft. Oddly enough, the bar features an area for kids to read while their parents drink. It is also noteworthy because it is an exception to the 85% of local businesses that pay the pizzo (protection money) to the mafia. More on the movement against the mafia soon...
Cultural appreciations:
- When greeting men: a kiss on each cheek. When greeting women: one kiss on one cheek.
- Fireworks have no discernible reason for being set off, especially from rooftops on random weekdays. And we are not talking about the safe and sane kind that are sold as a fundraiser by Girl Scouts and Little League. We're talking about the ones that can only be found, purchased, and detonated outside of the beef jerky shops on Native American Indian reservations.
- When navigating traffic, horns are honked in lieu of turn signals and brakes. If you are slowing down and I am behind you, I just honk my horn to let you known that you can't slow down anymore. If I want to move into a lane with other vehicles, I just honk my horn and go for it. There are 4 way intersections everywhere, but the ones that don't have a signal are also missing stop signs. When approaching a blind intersection, everyone just lays on the horn to let cross-traffic know that they're not planning on slowing down, let alone stopping. I was astounded that it took us 10 days to see our first accident.
- Forming lines is a bit ambiguous here. I had my cart of items on the counter at a grocery store and two women just walked right in front of me and tried to pay for their goods. The first lady's card was rejected by karmic gods, so she was brushed to the end of the line. The second lady had a tough case to plead when my stack was so far in front of hers. There was the shaking of hands and elevated volumes of speech, so I just shrugged my shoulders and smiled, “No Italiano.”
- Meredith's favorite part of our neighborhood/something I have to put up with:
