It’s been eight years. Eight years since I moved to Italy and eight years since I watched the Azzurri, the Italian national soccer team, win the 2006 World Cup.  I moved to Italy in June 2006. My destination was Rome.  But due to some housing and adjustment issues, my first stop became Tuscany, to the small jewel of a town that is Cortona. Little did I know that one month after my arrival, this idyllic and somewhat conservative (it’s perfectly preserved wall is not a coincidence) hamlet would be rocking for days.

Azzurri means blue. And like the Inuits who distinguish the many kinds of snow with different words, the Italian language has many words for blue. This is understandable in a country that is a peninsula surrounded by several seas (Tyrrhenian, Mediterranean, Ligurian, Adriatic, Ionian).  So it is no surprise that Rome has one of the deepest blue skies I have ever seen.  And therefore fitting that the name given to the Italian National Soccer Team is the Azzurri.

When I arrived in Cortona I had no feelings whatsoever about calcio, the Italian word for soccer. Not understanding the language very well, I was often confused when I heard the word – What are they saying about “calcium” ? (The word means both soccer and calcium – being a linguist I am still trying to find a connection.) But as the Azzurri advanced in the games I found it hard not to take an interest when it was all anyone ever mentioned mornings in the bar, or along the parterre park during dog walks, or at the community pool in the heat of the afternoon. Then one day as I walked through a large piazza off the main street, I saw some men setting up rows of chairs. It was early morning and they were busy working before anyone had awaken. Che succede? What’s happening? I asked. “Lo schermo. Lo schermo.” The screen. The screen.

The next day the rows were meticulously positioned facing a giant screen that was attached to the wall of the Etruscan Museum. The town was buzzing – shops closed early and everyone was waiting to enter the roped-off area and get a seat. The first few rows were reserved for the elderly. Elderly? I didn’t know one elderly person back home who would have an interest in watching a sports game. But soon both women and men in their 70s, 80s and 90s, arrived to get a seat. Parents came with children, some just infants, as well as dogs and even the town’s stray cats were in the piazza. The gelato shop while normally closed on Sunday was opened. I was lucky. My good friend had secured several seats for his family and invited me to join them. Sitting among the Cortonesi, I watched the grandma in front of me put her hands over her eyes when the French player took a penalty shot. I saw fathers hold their children on their shoulders for two hours straight. And my own eyes kept wandering from the giant screen to the majesty before me – the lighted tower, the rooftops, the deep blue sky at nightfall, and the ancient cobblestones beneath me that made it hard to steady my chair. Lots of drama and a few not-so-proud moments of controversy, and the game was over. The Azzurri had won the World Cup. And Cortona, like all of Italy that night, did not go to sleep.

In the fall I moved to my new home in Rome and calcio became the white residue that covers every inch of my Roman apartment that comes in contact with the city’s water. Rome is famous for its running waters which flow non-stop from the fountains across the city. The water is brought to the city via ancient aqueducts and has an extremely high calcium content. (My friends are quick to tell me that although a nuisance, the calcium is the reason osteoporosis is rarely seen among Roman women.  My introduction to soccer came on a Sunday afternoon when I was driving back to Rome from my gita (day trip) north. As I approached the toll both on the A-1, the major highway running the length of the country, the mass of cars stopping ahead of me hit me like a meteorite. What I failed to know was that everyone who had left the city for the day was trying to get back home in time for the start of Sunday’s game. I learned quickly.  Any Sunday trip I took would be timed to return after the start of the game (when the highway is completely deserted).

While my first apartment in Rome was lovely, unfortunately it was located on an ambulance route to a nearby hospital. What this meant was that all times of day and night, blaring sirens could be heard from my apartment on the fifth floor (much louder than those in New York). The worst of course were the ambulances passing after I had gone to bed. But humans are amazing creatures and I was surprised at what one can get used to. As my neighbor confessed when I first complained of the noise, “The sirens bothered us too when we first moved in, but now I can’t fall asleep unless I hear at least three of them.” I chuckled, and waited for that day, or rather night to come. It never did.

Later that fall I had been under the weather. I went to bed a little early anticipating the noise and factoring it into the time it would take me to fall asleep. Quiet. Silence. More quiet. I tossed and turned. Where were the sirens? The next morning I learned that there had been a soccer match the night before. Then the following Sunday afternoon during another game, the same quiet. Could there be a connection? I often joke that should one ever have a heart attack, or be in dire need of an ambulance, make sure it is not during a calico game. This is a country where calcio is king. It has been the cause for missed weddings, birthdays, and many social engagements as well as divorce. The complaints of American football widows pale in comparison.

Upon a recent return to Rome from a trip to New York, I brought several gifts to my godson and his brother. One was some drinking straws I had seen in New York. They caught my eye because they were made of light blue (celeste in Italian) and white striped paper – the colors of Lazio, one of Rome’s two soccer teams. Their father is a big Lazio fan in a city where rivalries run hard and deep. Roma is the other team. (The way I phrased that — ‘the other team’– is going to get me in trouble.) The team is called the giallo rosso (yellow and red) which are its colors. In the Yankee-Met rivalry, Roma is the Yankees while Lazio the Mets. A few times a season they play The Derby, Rome’s subway series, only there is more fuel to this match since the two teams share a stadium during the season (During the Derby games one will neither hear an ambulance nor see a taxi.) When Adriano, age seven, saw the blue and white straws he immediately burst out, “Lazio!” Then the two brothers opened their other gifts – two colorful striped polo shirts. Suddenly Filippo, age four, was silent. “What’s wrong?” asked his mother. “My shirt is red, white and yellow,” he correctly described the wide bands of color and then dropped his head, “the colors of Roma.” Quickly his dad stepped in, “But this shirt has a little horse on it. See. It’s not a Roma shirt.”

But this week there is no giallo, no rosso, no celeste.

All is Azzurro.