Free Living in a Foreign Language by Michael Tucker Page B

on the front step to get into the lobby.
    â€œRight,” she said. “Thirteen.”
    I tiptoed downstairs to make sure the boys were properly passed out. Then we quietly closed our bedroom door and gave the bed a little trial run—just to make sure it worked properly.
    Later that afternoon, when we had finished the major unpacking, Jill and the boys helped me pile all our trash into the back of our station wagon so that on our way to the supermarket we could make our first ceremonial dump. The road into town from our house is a narrow two-way country lane, but when it reaches the church at the edge of town, it separates—one-way to the right of the church and, coming up from the other side of town, one-way against us to the left. And connecting them along the back side of the church is a twenty-yard-long gravel road—also one-way against us. That’s where the garbage cans are. So to get to them properly, we would have to drive around the church, all the way out of town, circle around to the left, drive back through town, pass the church and hang a left.
    Or, I figured, we could just turn in—against the oneway sign, quickly drop off the garbage, make a U-turn, and nobody’d be the wiser. We hadn’t seen more than two cars in town since we’d arrived.
    I pulled in, commanded the boys to open the trunk and start unloading the garbage—green for glass, blue for plastic, gray for everything else—while I kept a lookout for cars. The boys moved slowly—passive-aggressively slowly, I thought—refusing to comprehend the need for haste. And, sure enough, a car came around the church signaling to make a left and there was no room to let him by. I might have been able to move to the side a bit but the boys had left both doors open, so I smiled and shrugged helplessly at mynew neighbor, and screamed for the boys to pick up the pace.
    Then, another car pulled up behind the first one, its signal also insistently blinking. Now the road was actually tied up. I had created perhaps the only traffic jam in the history of Central Umbria. I looked in panic over my shoulder and saw Max putting one plastic bottle at a time into the slot. And Isaac was neatly folding cardboard as if he were wrapping a Mother’s Day present.
    Then a third car got in line, its blinker in tandem with the other two. And they had all turned their lights on as if in silent protest against my civic indiscretion. Finally the boys finished and leisurely got back into the car. I couldn’t go forward because of the guy in front of me, and when I backed up to make a three-point turn so as to be facing the right direction, all the cars ceremoniously passed me, staring daggers through my windshield. I sheepishly pulled in line behind them and noticed that there were four or five cars more—all with their lights on—getting in line behind me.
    â€œIt’s a funeral, honey,” offered Jill.
    â€œGreat.”
    â€œMaybe you should turn your lights on.”
    We made our way—funereally—through town, heading to the Flaminia. I tried to keep my head down and drive at the same time. When we got to the stop sign, I slipped out of line and headed south to Spoleto.
    â€œWell, at least they know we recycle,” offered Jill.
    The only reason we were going to the supermarket and not some quaint village market was that we were looking for basics: toilet paper, garbage bags, dishwashing soap, vacuumcleaner bags, lightbulbs—moving-in kind of stuff. If there had been a Costco, that’s where we would have headed. The supermarket in Spoleto is called the Coop—pronounced “kaawp”—and it’s the only American-type establishment in Spoleto. It’s big and bright and, at first glance, seems to be a replication of your standard Safeway or A&P.
    At second glance, however, some major differences emerge. In the deli department, whole prosciuttos hang from the ceiling and the