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.)