Mattonelle

Dear Daughter,

Bring tennis shoes.  No, do not bring those cute Maryjanes.  Yes, I know this is coming from the woman who brought 50 pairs of shoes with her when she moved.  The same woman for whom the clerks in the shoe department at Nordstrom mounted a memorial plaque when she left and the shipping department at Zappo's  threw a "going away" party in her honor.  I'm telling you this for your own good.

Yes, yes, I know the travel guides tell you not to wear tennis shoes because they single you out as an American tourist, ripe for robbery, purse-snatching and other mayhem, to which I say "nonsense".  First of all, there is no way to disguise being American.  Not unless you plan to be mute the entire time you're here.  Second, there is no reason to hide being American since the Genovese as a whole, like Americans.  Third, if tennis shoes are the secret symbol of Americanism, then every Genovese under the age of 50 is actually American since everyone wears them.   There are Footlockers all over the city! And fourth, this is a very safe city.  I don't think I've ever felt so comfortable.  Are there pickpockets? Of course there are. Show me a city anywhere in the world where there aren't.  But, you don't need to be any more careful here than you would be in San Francisco.

Which brings me to the reason you should bring only tennis shoes...

They're called mattonelle, which in English translates to "big ass cobblestones that are lying in wait for people not paying attention."  They are everywhere, but especially the sidewalks.  They are uneven and sometimes wobbly.  The spaces between them are designed to catch heels and toes.  Never have I seen so many people with broken or sprained arms and legs as I see here.  In fact, literally moments after this picture was taken, a woman tripped on one and fell right in front of me.

Check out this one...

There's nothing under there, except maybe parts of ancient Ligurians who disappeared into these man-eating holes.

The best part is, when you look back to see where you tripped, you can't ever find it.  It's like there's a phantom mattonelle which pops up and attacks you when you're least expecting it.

 Looks safe enough to me!

I understand completely about about the clothes and shoes thing.  This is Italy afterall where it's all about bella figura, which loosely translates to "looking good" and which inspires women to wear fabulous Italian shoes in the most hostile of environments.  The worst fate possible is brutta figura, "looking bad" or possibly even figura di cacca which requires no translation, just a little imagination.  But, imagine yourself flying through the air in those admittedly cute shoes, then the resonating thud of body on stone and decide which of the labels above might apply.  No question in my mind! And, and, these things are hard.  I mean really hard.  Only now, 2 weeks after my most recent tumble,  is my left leg beginning to once again resemble something that one would expect to be attached to a human body.  (I considered taking of picture of my leg and including it here,  but I thought it might scare people.)

So dear daughter, forget the cute shoes.  Admittedly Italy is ranked #2 in healthcare by the World Health Organization, but I'm quite confident you don't want to experience our healthcare system firsthand.

With love,
Your sage and all-knowing Mother


p.s.  Bring yarn