The Mop

So, when you move to a foreign country, you have to expect to spend a certain (significant) percentage of your time feeling stupid. Or at least that's what I keep telling myself. Anyway, it's especially true in the beginning, when you can't even seem to buy some apples without getting confused... and then things slowly get easier. You figure out that the lady at the checkout counter isn't mumbling some sort of secret incantation at you every time you do your groceries - she's just asking you if you want a plastic bag. At the most she's asking if you have more exact change.

Some things, though, continue to be unclear. For instance, why do they call grilled cheese sandwiches "toast"? And what do they call real toast? (The kind made out of bread. Bread that has been toasted.) And aside from those, additional confusing things tend to crop up on a pretty frequent basis. Today's Source of Confusion was the Mop. (Check it out - I'm getting all German over here with the capitalization of the nouns.)

On the weekends, I like to clean the apartment. This is partially because I am mildly compulsive and partially because Italy is very dusty. And not gentle little layers of soft dust that cloud themselves onto smooth surfaces, like pianos (not that I own a piano): this is serious dust that means business - huge clods that just sit under the furniture and grow. At an astounding rate. Italy must have a very high per capita volume of dust. Or maybe it's just this city specifically. Or maybe cities in general and not Italian ones in particular. Who knows? Come to think of it, it's probably not safe to generalize - in a country where the language varies practically from one street to the next, it's not like you can expect the behavior of stuff like dirt to be constant or anything.

Anyway. Frequent cleaning. My roommates moved in before I did, due to an issue with the hot water (the issue mainly being that our water heater was temporarily incapable of producing any), so all of the cleaning stuff belongs to them and was there when I arrived. It consisted of various liquid products with labels I couldn't read, two brooms, and The Mop. The Mop should perhaps be called 'The Mopping Contraption' because it is not just a mop - it comes with something that I can really only describe as a contraption. In fact, rather than explain it, I shall just show you a picture.

There you go. So, so far I have been getting by with just the broom and this mini little contraband vacuum cleaner I got and it's been more or less okay. But the roommates were away this weekend and I decided to take advantage of the opportunity (by which I mean the absence of potential witnesses) to try out the mop thing. I'm trying to increase my adventurous gal quotient, you see.

I can't figure it out, though. I mean, presumably you put water and cleaning goo in the big bucket-y part, right? And then the smaller cup-with-rectangular-holes part is probably for wringing the thing out... right? And then it keeps that water separate from the other water... which is where my understanding of the thing ends. Because, from what I understand, you dip it in the big part to get it wet (clean water), wring it out (clean water), wipe the floor (dirty mop), dip it back into the big part (now dirty water), wring it out (still clean-ish water)... so apparently you're collecting the clean-ish water in the little trapped part? Why? Or am I doing it completely wrong? See, these are the things they ought to teach you in college. It should be a part of the Italian culture class. That and how to text message your friends, because essay-writing language is all well and good until you just want to ask someone if they're up for pizza.

Anyway, Italy, in terms of the cleaning situation, there's room for improvement. I have trouble dealing with the total lack of vacuum cleaners in the average household. The bucket contraption is too difficult for idiot foreigners like me to figure out. And then mops in general? Not a fan. It's good for getting large areas of floor space wet and picking up moderate amounts of the (un-vacuumed) dust, but not for scrubbing. The reddish stain (tomato sauce?) is still on my kitchen floor. You fail, mop. I prefer my swiffer thingie with the cool spray button, eco-unfriendly though it may be. Sadly it is in New Jersey and I am here.

It's okay, though. In terms of food, you are still my number one, Italy. And in terms of atmosphere. Or at least pretty high on the charts. So I'll just shove the dust under the bed, push a chair over the stain, go out for an espresso and call it all very quaint.

(Now I have a blog that's about mops and socks. Lovely.)

The saga of the blue car

This the story of how I befriended the blue car (the school car that we use to get to off-site lessons).

The first time I went to Nearby Village to teach, another teacher drove, so my first encounter with the blue car went fairly smoothly:

“I’ll just drive this time,” she says, “and you can just pay close attention.”

“Sounds good!” I respond brightly, eyeing the clock nervously. We have 26 minutes to reach our destination, after which I have to keep three ten year olds entertained for an hour and fifteen minutes using printouts of clothes, stick figures, and the odd pet-related clipart image. I glance at the indicator lights to determine in which general direction she is going upon leaving the school (left) and then set to cutting out the clothes probably about as accurately as the average four-year-old would.

Innumerable roundabouts later, we arrive in the village and from there undertake a complex series of one-way streets to arrive at our destination, where we park across the street from where we actually want to go. Just to make everything as clear and simple as possible.

My second encounter with the blue car took place entirely within the context of a parking lot, so that was also relatively painless:

“That’s great!” enthuses Other Teacher in what I recognize to be her teaching voice. The one she uses on the five-year-olds. Fabulous. Having been around the edge of the parking lot twice and apparently impressed her with my ability to not kill anyone, I park the car (more or less in line with the parking space) and smile politely.

“Now, you just have to remember to always put it in neutral when you get in – otherwise it won’t start – and you should be fine!” Yes. Splendid.

It was the third time I lowered myself into The World’s Midgiest Blue Car that things got a little unfortunate:
All right, then, Self, I think bracingly, the gear thingie is in neutral, which means that the car can turn on. Good, good. Car turns on. Splendid. Gear into reverse. So far, so good. Here we hit our first snag. Car will not budge. Shit. Car is broken. Can I possibly have broken the car just by shifting the gear thing?

Oh. Never mind. The car is not broken. Hand brake. It is merely a question of removing the handbrake. Yes. Good. Okay. Car pings alarmingly as gear shifts into reverse again, but there’s no time to worry about that. Hopefully there is gas in it, because I don’t even know where to look to find out, and just now I’m far too busy coming up on the first roundabout to conduct any sort of investigation.

Second snag. Or first major calamity. It depends on how you look at it. Either way, the point is that the road I was meant to take is blocked off. Well, I’ll just go straight and turn right at the next roundabout. Probably I’ll eventually end up somewhere in the right direction, no?

Ten minutes later, it appears that this was not true. I execute a u-turn at the next roundabout, and am stuck in traffic for another five minutes, which I put to moderately good use perusing the detour signs lined up along the road. I say ‘moderately’ because at the next roundabout after that, I promptly take the wrong exit and go driving off in the wrong direction. Another five minutes later, I capitulate and make the first of many phone calls to the receptionist.

“Hi, are you having trouble finding it?” she answers, clearly prepared for my call. Someone must’ve told her I’m not particularly bright.

“Um, yes, well, the thing is…” I begin, wondering how to explain that I’m not yet a mile away from my starting point despite the fact that I left twenty minutes ago.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says reassuringly. I raise my eyebrows. “Remember – just turn left when you see the green supermarket.”

It takes several tries to explain that I am, in fact, still practically in view of her office desk, but once that has gotten across, she points me back in the right direction and I hang up.

Okay, then. I’ll just be twenty minutes late and they’ll just have to get over it – it’s the first time I’m driving out there, after all. I screw up my courage and squint my eyes, and dutifully follow all the signs for Nearby Village. Until, finally, I come to the fateful roundabout where Nearby Village was no longer an option. (NB I have since realized that this means you should follow the little bulls-eye looking signs that say “centro”, but I’d only been in Italy about a month at this point… and I’m not particularly quick.) '

I go around the circle twice, doubtless incurring the wrath of all my fellow travelers. I am on the third time around when I call the secretary again.

“Francesca, should I go towards Parma or Milan?”

“What? Where are you?”

Good question.

“Um… I’m not sure. (If I knew, I probably wouldn’t be calling you, now, would I?) Close, though, I think. I’m in a roundabout, you know, and –"

“No, don’t worry about it – just turn left when you see the green supermarket. Do you see it? Is it green?”

“No – no supermarkets. Rotonda. I’m in a rotonda. Parma or Milan?”

“Hm,” she murmurs contemplatively as I wedge the phone in under my chin and steer myself around the circle for the fourth time, glancing absently in the various mirrors. A car accident at the age of 22 in the countryside of northern Italy on my way to teach a lesson about farm animals was not really how I had envisioned dying. (Not that I have actually envisioned dying, but anyway.) “Well, it really depends which side of Nearby Village you’re on,” she continues, clearly still thinking. “You’re sure there’s no green supermarket?”

A full hour and a half after leaving, I arrive in the appropriate one-way street in Nearby Village. The mother of one of the children I am coming to teach has been alerted to my directional problems and hurries to meet me at the door, looking concerned and offering me a restorative cup of tea. She is a nice person.

Her daughter’s friend and classmate, a cute ten-year-old, pushes past her and looks at me with wide eyes.

“Ciao, Cri!” he greets me, “ma, ti sei persa?”

Indeed.

To be continued. (Oh, yes: there's more.)

Tales from the cold marble floor

So, when I moved here, my boss came with me to look at apartments. She brought along a somewhat misleading idea of what a "nice" apartment is (or has different priorities than I do) and thusly I ended up being convinced that this apartment, which possesses a very nice view, is old-fashioned in a vaguely quaint kind of way (vaguely because by old I mean from the '70s, not the 1700s) and is quite large (if a bit empty). So I took the room. Because I figured, 'whatever, I'll just stay in my massive bedroom and ignore the roommate, so who cares if he's kind of odd?' Yeah, bad strategy. Because sometimes you have to pee or make yourself a salad or something. So staying locked in your room is not so feasible. And the roommate was quite bizarre. As a result of this, I only stayed here for a month, and have since been living in a much nicer place. 

Still, I enjoy looking back upon the strangeness of that apartment, where the floor was always freezing and the kitchen was always gross.  

Exhibit A: (Scene: approximately ten minutes into our first conversation, the first day I moved in.) 

FLATMATE: I don't know why the girls, they talk about their boyfriends every time. It's all they talk about, every time. Why they don't have something interesting to talk about? So when I go to the club (pronounced clehb) wiz zem, I am every time very bored. So I don't like talking wiz ziz one.

Okay, he has a point. Remind me not to mention any eventual boyfriends to him. But, um... has it escaped his notice that I'm a girl? And that he's talking with me? Albeit not about anyone's boyfriend. Still... awkward.

Exhibit B: (Scene: another conversation. Background: the man teaches English to 9 year olds in a public school. See above for an example of his spoken English. He specifically called the school where I work to try to get some native speakers to come live with him to practice on.) 

ME: Hey, do you want me to correct you when you speak?

FLATMATE: Oh, yes, yes, that's would be good.

FLATMATE (LATER IN THE CONVERSATION): blah blah blah every time. blah blah balh blah every time. blah blah blah blah di blah every time.

ME: Actually, it sounds more natural to say 'all the time'.

FLATMATE: Ah, yes. blah blah blah every time.

ME: All the time.... remember?

FLATMATE: Ah, yes. blah blah blah every time.

ME: No. All the time.

Rinse and repeat.

Exhibit C: 

FLATMATE: Crrreeese (his nickname for me - he means Chris), when I came back from Florence at 7 this morning the water heater was on.

ME: Yes, I had to leave for work by 8:30, so I woke up at 6 to turn it on.

FLATMATE: You must not leave it on all night.

ME: Yes, I know. That's why I hauled my sorry ass out of bed two whole hours early in order to have lukewarm water with which to shower.

(Okay, I didn't actually say it like that, but... so tempting. Because, really? I understand the concept of saving on electricity or gas or whatever it is that heats up the water. Even though everyone else I know around here turns the thing on before they go to bed rather than having to set two alarms, two hours apart. Which is why I follow his rules. I am not retarded and I'm not a liar. If you tell me I have to wake up "a few minutes early" - this is how he put it when I moved in, but it actually takes a solid two hours - in order to have warm water, I will do it. And if I tell you I didn't leave it on all night, I didn't. So enough with the suspicious looks, you bastard. The shower situation sucks enough as it is. PS Why don't you own a bathmat?)

Exhibit D: Locks. 

One day he locked me out (by leaving the internally locking key in the lock, from the inside, so that keys in the outside wouldn't work). I have no idea how that actually works, but, wtf? What was I supposed to have done if he hadn't heard me wrestling with the lock and come to open the door, without so much as an apology? 

One day he locked me in (by locking the thing internally and then taking the keys to bed with him). I had to call his cell phone from the living room and he stumbled out looking all cranky. Again, wtf? (And I'm not a swearing kind of girl.) No one asked you to lock the damn tenant into the apartment. (Also, why don't I have a copy of this key?) 

Additionally, he locks the living room door when he leaves. What, does he think I'm going to make off with his tv or something? (I mean, do I look strong enough to lift the tv? If so, I'm flattered.) It's not that I particularly want to go into the living room. It's just the insinuation that I can't be trusted not to make a mess that bothers me. He should have a closer look at his kitchen and then sit down and think about who's messier.

Exhibit E: Upon closer inspection, the bathroom and kitchen are both kind of grotty (an adjective I picked up from my British counterparts). And I don't really feel like cleaning them. (Usually I love cleaning things. But really only when I made the mess... i.e., I know what it's made of. When it's a kind of unidentifiable, vaguely moldy/dusty-looking business... it's less inspiring.)

Yes, that was another riveting chapter of my life. But, you know, if you read "Under the Tuscan Sun", she goes on at length about how she was canning olives, or something. Or picking olives and canning fruit, maybe. I don't remember. Granted, that's more romantic (and healthy) than trying to figure out how to swindle your landlord/flatmate out of his hot water savings, but whatever. 

Straniera

"Si vede che siete straniere,"* observes the receptionist one morning as another teacher and I stand by the photocopier. I conduct a quick review of the past ten minutes in my head, trying to figure out what could have provoked this comment. It's only 10am, so I can't have committed the cardinal sin of foisting dairy (in the form of cappuccino) upon my digestive system after noon; I haven't done anything sacrilegious to any pasta recently... I'm stumped.

"Look," she continues to the other receptionist, "they're not wearing tights. Mamma mia, ragazze! Aren't you cold?"

I glance down at my feet, currently encased in brown suede ballet flats of questionable stylishness, across which fall the ends of my jeans - just slightly too wide to be fashionable this season.

This is how I know that I will never be truly Reggiana. Or Italian. Or even European. I mean, obviously - I'll always be plain old High Bridge with a (largely dormant) dash of Paris. But it's kind of funny, if you think about it, how obvious it is to others. I may show up to the opening of the cathedral and be just as excited as any Reggio native. I may complain eloquently about the rush hour traffic every tuesday when I drive out to my lesson in a nearby village. I may vaunt the qualities of erbazzone (a local specialty) to unsuspecting travellers. I may wander around the street vendors' fair on the local holiday, muttering my irritation at all the tourists who have descended upon us to partake in the quaintness. (Mulled wine and chestnuts under the portici, anyone?)

I may even become proficient in giving directions to the three or four major hotels to lost tourists. But that won't stop me from wandering around without tights under my jeans. (Really, though? Tights under jeans?) Or chewing on large chunks of bread while walking from one class to another (eating while on the go is not the done thing at all here). This inability to fit in makes things kind of awkward at times: there are morning when you just want a cup of coffee and lack the energy to give the barista a complete explanation of the various life decisions that brought you to Reggio (an often unavoidable discussion as soon as you walk into a bar and open your mouth).

On the other hand, it's not such a bad thing. For one, this gives you a bit of a buffer zone for doing strange things. I have, on occasion, ordered a cappuccino in the afternoon, and after a quick intake of breath, the lady manning the cafe served us with nothing more critical than an amused half-smile. And then there's the fact that, as a foreigner, you see everything with that first-time point of view: from the beauty of the local churches and the poetry of street signs in Italian to the array of hams in the local salumeria. Real Reggiani stride past their local basilica without even glancing up at it. They gulp down their espresso and take its precise strength and flavor for granted. At lunchtime they choose between risotto alla zucca (pumpkin) and prosciutto/arugula sandwiches without knowing that in other parts of the world, such things would be considered a treat. I walk in and am labeled almost instantly as an awkward American, but at least I enjoy (almost) every moment.

*"You can tell you're foreigners"