Negozi e Magazzini (shops and stores)

“Buy, buy says the sign in the shop window; Why why, says the junk in the yard”

- Paul McCartney

We’ve been in Italy for 8 weeks now, so we’ve learned a few things about shopping.
For instance, we’ve learned to adapt to the “siesta hours”, aware that most stores are open in the morning, closed in the afternoon, and then open again in the evening--although there are vast exceptions to this. The Post Office is sometimes closed on Wednesdays, but open on Saturday mornings. The grocery store is closed during siesta on Sunday only. And some of the smaller shops have a more “whimsical” schedule, so we’ve learned not to depend too much on the “posted hours”—which are really just a rough outline (similar to the bus schedules).
We’ve learned what all the various “rias” mean—pizzerias, gellatorias, librerias, pescerias, pollorias, maccelerias, pasticcerias--and enjoy coming up with our own ideas for shops we’d like to see: burritorias, hamburgerias, candyrias…
Mostly we’ve learned that shopping requires a sense of humor, because we’ve made plenty of mistakes and it’s a constant learning process
We’ve learned (after several frustrating attempts and a few lost coins) that getting a shopping cart requires a correctly inserted “deposit” (of either 50 cents, 1 Euro or 2 Euro), which is returned once the cart is correctly replaced in its proper location.
We’ve learned (after a few embarrassing situations at the grocery checkout counter), the proper procedure for buying produce: use plastic glove (no bare hands!), bag each item separately, place item on scale and enter produce code. A price sticker is then generated by pressing the final button, which is tricky because this final button varies from store to store. The price sticker is then affixed to each bag.
We’ve learned (after searching in vain) that certain food items are either rare or non-existent around here (peanut butter, maple syrup, tortillas, tortilla chips, Dijon mustard, soda water, fresh avocado, ginger, cilantro) so we’ve learned to adjust our food preferences.
We’ve learned (after spending twice as much money elsewhere) to plan our shopping around the fresh, economical weekly open-air market, which (in Carloforte) includes not only food, but also clothing, shoes, and household items.
We’ve learned (after a few uncertain stares) to display the proper fingers when ordering a particular quantity of items (thumb means “1”, thumb and first finger means “2” and so on) Incidentally, I never order “4” of anything, because my fingers can’t do “4”.
We’ve learned (after once buying what amounted to about a thimbleful of gasoline) to operate the self-service gasoline machine. And we’ve learned (after getting a hefty parking ticket) to operate that machine as well.
We’ve learned that in most stores, items are placed on the shelves according to a secret Italian organizational code to which we are not privy (alphabetical maybe?). Therefore, shopping requires an investigative spirit and a keen eye, as the jam may be found next to the plastic gloves, the dried herbs next to the cellulite remedies, or the clothes pins next to the floating toys.
We’ve learned that shampoo and lotion are at the grocery store, but razors are at the Pharmacy (a separate store). Baby food, teething biscuits and milk are also at the Pharmacy. And at the fish store, you can also pick up a bottle of locally made grappa.
We’ve learned that shopping requires patience, because time must factored in to accommodate the all-important conversazioni between shopkeeper and customer. Not wanting to be seen as the “impatient American”, and more importantly, wanting to LET GO of impatience, I smile serenely and move into my inner happy place, repeating my mantra “abbiamo tempo” (we have time) as I wait a full 10 minutes in line at the wine shop, while the owner talks and laughs with the group of customers in front of me.
So while we’ve learned a few things about shopping, we still have a long way to go…
One day shortly after we moved into our new casa, we decided it was time to buy some “essential” Sardinian supplies we’d been holding off buying. Our shopping list included, among other things, mosquito netting for the beds, candles, a sharp knife, cutting board, ice cube tray, cheese grater, vegetable peeler and some garden planters (to finally plant the cilantro seeds I brought all the way from Oregon).
At checkout, we piled our items onto the conveyor belt to scan. Everything was going along fine until the cheese grater was scanned.
“No,” said the checkout girl, shaking her head. She held the cheese grater in one hand and pointed to an area near the base of it. “No” she repeated, and promptly launched into a 30 second string of unfamiliar Italian words. “I’m sorry,” I replied in Italian, “I don’t understand. I only speak a little Italian.”
She held up the cheese grater again, ran her finger slowly along the bottom edge of it, back and forth, obviously illustrating her point, and then said in English (slowly), “Not pass code”
“Oh…okay.” I said, but really I had no idea what she was talking about. What code? The grater wasn’t a missing BAR code because I could see the sticker and it had scanned just fine. Jeff was busy bagging all our items, but then noticed that the checker placed the cheese grater off to the side of her and continued to scan the remaining items.
“What’s up with the cheese grater—aren’t we getting it?” he asked.
“I dunno” I answered, under my breath, “She said it didn’t pass some code”
“What?” he asked
Slightly louder, I repeated, “She pointed to the bottom of it and said it didn’t ‘pass code’”
“What code?” he asked
“I don’t know!” I answered.
“Some sort of cheese code…?” he asked, and we dissolved into laughter. Jeff, Jenna and I spent a few giggly moments speculating on what other codes we might encounter in Italy…was there a pillow code? A dental floss code? A comb code? But once we settled down, we realized, wait a minute, we really NEED a cheese grater.
“Excuse me” I asked her in Italian. “Is there ANOTHER cheese grater?” and she shrugged, looked doubtful and went into another 30 second string of rapid Italian, which included several phrases and hand gestures that seemed to involve leaving the store and coming back in again (or maybe we were supposed to go to a different store?). I frowned. “I need cheese grater” I said, finally.
She looked at me for a few seconds and then picked up the phone and called someone. Now we were holding up a long line of impatient Italians. “Mi dispiace” (I’m sorry), I said, giving them an apologetic shrug as if to say, “Hey, what can you do—it’s the cheese code.” We waited. Finally another employee came over and the two women talked at length, each examining the cheese grater, flipping it over, apparently discussing the factors for code violation. What exactly were they looking at? What was the problem? It was a just a cheese grater! Was it too sharp? Too dull? Was it missing proper documentii? Were there loose parts that posed a potential choking risk for children? Had there been unexplained cheese grater accidents?
Finally, the other woman left and returned several minutes later with a slightly different cheese grater. “Okay?” she asked us.
“Si, si, si, si si…” we murmured. We paid for it and left, confused but satisfied. Italian incidents like this have a delightful way of sticking with us: the “cheese code” is now our primary benchmark, as in, “Hmmm…..does this beach pass the cheese code, or doesn’t it?”

NEXT UP: Sole, spiaggia, pomeriggio… (sun, beach, afternoon)