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"