I wrote this while I was in Paris and bored with a sinus infection and thought I would just try my hand at that informational type of writing. You know - the useful kind. I don't think I am very good at it. But for some reason I'm going to subject this blog to it anyway...
So, last september I was all like "I will bring sheets and an umbrella and socks and a fuzzy blanket and some fashionable shoes and pots and pans maybe a measuring cup and then I will learn how to cook delicious Italian food. Oh, and clothes. Probably I will bring clothes. And books, because no Borders for a year! OMG." (I never actually say OMG. It is silly internet-speak.) I thought I was being all reasonable because I had decided my pillows probably wouldn't fit.
Oh, self. You are so silly.
The pillows didn't fit, obviously, and nor did any of that stuff except the clothes and some books (got in just under the weight limit! huzzah!) and the umbrella because I carried it.
This time, I am packing with a lot more wisdom (subtle cough) under my belt (mixed metaphors. so unnattractive.) and so I can share some of my wisdom with you, should you be experiencing a situation in which you have to pack your stuff in order to move to Italy. Or France, really. Or maybe lots of places, but those are the only two I can tell you about with sort of any authority.
Also, this is more relevant if you're going somewhere for a medium length of time, like studying abroad or something. Longer than a quick week or two of vacation, but shorter than your life. If you're relocating your entire life, definitely you should find a better source than me.
1. Clothes. These are important, because it is good to be clothed. A lot of people tell you not to bring too many clothes because you will want to buy lots there. This is partially true, because they have nice clothes and it is always nice to buy nice clothes, but also only applies if you can afford to do so. If you are going to be looking for a job and have limited savings to use in the meantime, you should probably plan accordingly and bring some clothes to wear until then.
Other than that... Italians dress quite nicely. In the winter they wear a lot of black. They do not go anywhere in their sweatpants and nor should you. (Or, well, you can, but you might feel a touch awkward.) They don't tend to walk around in either sneakers or flip-flops, at least not in Reggio (except maybe the early teens crowd). Beyond that... well, I suck at fashion, so go find a better source.
Oh, except: useful information - there is a big sale after Christmas (and possibly one in July? I wasn't really paying attention) so that's good to keep in mind. Cultural difference: it is not like Macy's and stuff where things seem to be perpetually 10% off for one reason or another, or Gap and stuff where they send you a coupon by email every twenty minutes.
2. Things to put in your house. Like furniture and sheets. Yeah, good luck with that. Unless you are supernaturally talented with the packing or are planning to ship things over via some fancy transnational moving thing that I know nothing about (see relocating your whole life, why I am not knowledgeable about it), this is going to be difficult. There is a good and cheap source for such things, and it is called Ikea. You can buy a pillow for, like, two euro, and also pots and plates and bedspreads and fuzzy blankets and furniture and all kinds of random oddly-shaped things with cool Swedish names.
3. Books. Books are delightful and they are probably one of my favorite things in the world. Unfortunately, they are heavy and airline weight restrictions are getting irritatingly rigid. If the thought of being away from your library and Borders and whatever makes you, like me, hurt inside, there is still hope. There are actually an impressive number of sources of English speaking books in Italy. Here are some, listed in whatever order they're popping into my head:
- Libreria all'Arco on the Via Emilia in Reggio (there is a shelf of foreign books upstairs and towards the back in a little room on the left)
- Biblioteca Panizzi on Via Farini in Reggio (there are various foreign sections - not a particularly stellar collection in English, but worth a try)
- Feltrinelli International on Via Zamboni in Bologna (good selection, also some other languages and lots of instructional language type books, too)
- There's a Feltrinelli International in Milan, too, nearish the train station but I can't really remember where. Also in Turin. This type of bookstore has caused me to miss trains more than once.
- And another one in Perugia, near the Piazza IV Novembre.
- That bookstore that's kind of half suspended in the air in the Roma Termini train station: in the upstairs, suspended-looking part there are a lot of English books.
- The Paperback Exchange, very near the Duomo in Florence, but I can't remember the street name. Dell'Oca, maybe? Google it, though. It's a lovely bookstore where you can even sell back your books and get store credit to buy new ones. Or cheaper used ones. (I do this almost every time I go to Florence.)
In Paris:
- Gibert Jeune, Place St. Michel - this is a whole series of bookstores that each specialize in some different subject (like math, science, social sciences, etc.). You have to find the one that is labelled "langues etrangeres" or something. They're all grouped around the Place. And it's a really lovely spot, too.
- WH Smith on the Rue de Rivoli (near the end - not the end towards the Hotel de Ville and stuff, but the other end, by the Place de la Concorde). Big fancy store that also apparently sells some British candy and stuff. Splendid selection.
Actually... I think there is a whole blog devoted to bookstores in other countries. Hang on. Yes. Here you go: http://www.bookstoreguide.org/. Never mind. They have much better information than I do. In fact, I'm pretty sure this is how I found all of these originally.
4. Toiletries and stuff. If you have a favorite brand of deodorant that you are attached to, bring some. Ditto toothpaste and stuff. They have a fairly decent selection of all these type things (toothpaste, shampoo, soap, shaving gel, etc.) but if you have very strong feelings about having a particular one, then bring it. No liquid in carry-ons, though, remember.
5. Over-the-counter medicine. They do not sell this stuff in Esselunga the way they do in Wal-Mart. If you need medicine in Italy (or France) you have to go in the pharmacy and explain to the person what is wrong with you and they will give you whatever they deem appropriate. In France this usually means enough drugs to medicate a small town. They are generally very solicitious and nice. However, when I'm sick, I like to drag myself into a sweatshirt, select whatever I want from a shelf that contains every variety of Tylenol ever invented and go home having had minimal contact with actual people. If you are like me in this respect, bring along your drugs of choice. My personal stock includes Tylenol, Tylenol Cold (day), Tylenol Cold (night), Neosporin, and Halls cough drops. (Yes. I like Tylenol.) Band-aids, in case you're wondering, ARE sold at Esselunga and stuff.
6. Things that involve electricity. Be careful with this. Depending on how you plug American things into a European wall, you can make the things in question blow up (at least inside). No, seriously. The voltage is different, which means you need a converting thing. (As you can probably already tell, I am no expert in physics, and so you really should find a more reliable source for this part. Unless you are as un-informed as me, in which case you may possibly understand this version better.)
Anyway, there are two kinds of converting things: the kind that converts just the shape of the plug, and the kind that converts the actual electricity. The former is good for things like laptop chargers, because apparently they convert the voltage themselves (mine says so right on that little box with the light). The latter is good for everything else, I guess, although I really would not risk it, because, you know, blowing things up. Not so good.
(Fun fact: the converse - meaning European things with American electricity - is apparently not true. American voltage is much lower, so apparently things like cell phones just charge very slowly. This information makes a lot of sense, but my practical experience with it involves one single cell phone. Small sample size: seek other information before trying at home.)
So, that's all I can think of. I think I will go dispose of my immense pile of tissues now and possibly venture out into Paris. Because it is silly to sit here with tissues and the internet when there is Paris out there, regardless of the condition of my sinuses.
Tuesday, December 29
Sunday, November 29
Il Job
So, in honor of my new job (um, that I’ve had for three months) here is a post about that. I wrote it in Italian because a.) I’m bored and b.) that way no one can read my snarky and mean thoughts about my coworkers (whom I mostly love, but… you’ll see). Whoever has better Italian than me (so, most people, except hopefully anyone who might actually know my esteemed colleagues), do feel free to get all snarky in return and tell me how much my grammar/spelling/Italian-in-general sucks. I probably won’t get offended.
Oh, and also, I changed everyone’s names because it would be creepy if your daycare provider was all talking about your kid on the internet, right? I figure the names are different and it’s in a whole other language, so I’m good. So…
“Quindi, per oggi ti mettiamo con i bimbi da un anno a diciotto mesi. E’ una giornata piuttosto calma qua – sono solo in sette oggi.”
Entro con un gran sorriso e li guardo. Ce ne sono tre che urlano. Mamma mia.
Mezz’ora più tardi, li abbiamo dato da mangiare, sono coperta in tracce di purée di verdura e qualcosa che mi sembra banana (ma non ne sono completamente sicura), e ho già dimentacato i nomi di almeno due dei bimbi.
“Mi passi il biberon di Luca?” mi domanda l’altra ragazza.
Cavoli, ma qual’è, Luca? Doveva proprio sciegliere uno di quelli il cui nome ho dimenticato. Esito e la ragazza ci getta lo sguardo.
“Quello lì con la camicia azzurra che si sta arrampicando per salire sul tavolo. A proposito, me lo rimetti giù sulla sedia, per favore?” mi dice con calma assoluta. Vedendo il bimbo in piedi sulla sedia, il mio cuore si ferma un attimo prima di ripartire. Lo prendo, lo rimetto giù, e pesco il biberon da dov’è caduto sotto il tavolo in un lago di latte. (Spill-proof, my a**.)
“Fammi vedere quanto ne ha bevuto?” mi chiede la terza ragazza, piccola con i capelli sciolti e di un biondo sicuramente finto. Ha passato l’intero pasto descrivendo i problemi che ha con la sua manicure e comincio a sentirmi un pochino suicida. Le passo il biberon, vedendo che ci sono ancora una decina di millilitri. Non ne avrà bevuto molto. (Ogni giorno si deve scrivere quanto ha mangiato ogni bimbo per poi dirlo ai genitori.)
“Nove,” fa la ragazza. Alzo le sopraciglie.
“Davvero?” chiedo.
“Si, guarda – il latte sta lì, al nove,” e mi mostra la linea dove arriva il latte. Se potessi, alzarei ancora più alto le sopraciglie.
Ci metto dieci minuti a spiegarle che il latte che arriva al nove è ancora nel biberon, e quindi non nel stomaco del bimbo. Poi altri cinque minuti per aiutarla a fare la sostrazione (quindici meno nove). E dovrò stare otto ore al giorno con lei? Ecco, è deciso: mi voglio tagliare le vene col coltello di plastica che abbiamo usato per preparare i pezzi di carota (che sono finiti sulle ginocchie dei miei pantaloni).
Un’ora più tardi, abbiamo pulito tutto (e ce n’era da pulire, credetemi), incluso i bimbi (che guerra per pulirgli la faccia!), e sono tutti sdraiati sui materassini per dormire. Sono carinissimi, tutti addormentati, stringendo i loro animaletti di peluche, ricoperti da copertine con disegni di conigli e nuvole e chissà che altra roba. Tranne uno, un bimbo bellissimo con gli occhi scuri e le ciglia lunghissime a cui non interessa dormire per niente.
“Senti, io vado a pranzare – fallo dormire, il piccolo, e poi quando torno, ci vai tu, d’accordo?” mi fa l’altra ragazza (la bionda è sparita dopo pranzo e non mi dispiace).
“Si, certo,” dico con un tono poco certo.
“Ti aiuto, guarda,” mi dice, e solleva il bimbo per farlo sdraiare sul suo materassino, dove c’è già un cagnolino di peluche con le orecchie blu.
“Si, si, grazie,” dico. La guardo partire e poi guardo il bimbo. Lui mi sta già guardando, con gli occhi grandi apperti. Gli sorrido gentilmente.
“E adesso dormiamo un po’, no? Andiamo a nanna!”
Cinque minuti più tardi...
“Dai, forza, chiudi gli occhi...” gli passo la mano sulle spalle ancora una volta, ma non mi ricordo neanche del suo nome per supplicarlo di chiudere gli occhi. Ma come ***** si fa a fargli addormentarsi, ‘sti bimbi? L’unica cosa che mi viene in mente è di tenergli chiusi gli occhi con le dita ma secondo me non è proprio consiglatio... Gli passo la mano ancora una volta sulle spalle, accelerando il ritmo disperatamente. Comincio a sudare un po’.
“Si chiama Alessandro.” Di colpo, sento una voce che mi parla dall’altra parte del muro basso che divide questa classe da quella dei bimbi ancora più piccoli. È la loro maestra; l’ho conosciuta in fretta stamattina. “E si addormenta se gli carezzi il viso.” Ah. Già.
La ringrazio con entusiasmo e comincio ad accarezzargli la fronte. Il piccolo comincia a respirare più lentamente e due minuti più tardi dorme. In fondo in fondo, è anche carino...
“E quindi prima di venire qua vivevi in Italia?” mi domanda una delle altre maestre qualche ora più tardi, quando ci incontriamo con le altri classi nel parco. Annuisco.
“E dove in Italia?” Sto pensando se spiegargli in quale regione o se dire direttamente “il nord” per accorciare un po’ la discussione quando la ragazza parla di nuove e interrompe il mio pensiero.
“L’Italia è quel paese dove gli uomini portano le gonne, giusto?”
Ci metto un attimino a seguire il filo dei suoi pensieri per arrivarne lì. Intanto, gli risponde qualcun’altro.
“No, quello è l’Irlanda.” Non alzare le sopraciglie. Non alzare le sopraciglie! mi ripetto silenziosamente qualche volta. Devi fare amicizia con queste ragazze!
“No, secondo me, è la Scozia, no? Dove gli uomini portano le kilts?” suggerisco finalmente. Le ragazze ci pensano un attimo.
“Ah, si, può darsi...”
“È vero!” esclama una terza, “No, ragazze, l’Italia è il paese con la pizza, no? Tipo Domino’s!”* Mi guardano tutte, aspettando conferma.
“Eh... si. Più o meno.”
“Avrai mangiato della pizza buonissima lì, no?” Mi chiede la prima mentre aggiusta il capello di uno dei bimbi. Annuisco di nuovo.
“Non potresti neanche immaginare...” dico quasi sottovoce, ripensandoci. Quella pizzeria all’angolo dietro quella strada con i portici... la rucola (a proposito, perchè non si trova per niente in America, la rucola?)... sigh. Ma che ***** faccio qua, con purée dappertutto e bimbi che urlano? Due mesi fa mi mettevo i tacchi e le gonne per insegnare nelle ditte!
Intanto è già ora di tornare nell’aula per la merenda (così diversa dalla merenda dei bimbi Italiani – niente gnocco qua!). Comincio a raccogliere i nostri piccolini e dirigerli verso la porta. Sto sudando di nuovo. Cavoli, ma chi lo sapeva che ci si voleva tanto sforzo per lavorare coi bimbi?
Di colpo, si sente il rumore del tagliaerba e uno dei bimbi della mia classe si attacca alle mie gambe, urlando. Lo prendo in braccio; “ma non e’ niente, guarda,” gli dico, mostrandogli il tagliaerba col dito. Lui si afferra al mio collo e si pianta la faccia nella mia spalla. Mi scappa un piccolo sorriso e lo stringo un po’ anch’io. La sua dipendenza totale su di noi è anche un po’ commovente, alla fine, e decido che forse si può essere contenti in qualsiasi posto... anche senza rucola.
*Una catena di pizzerie decisamente mediocre nel stilo Americano.
Oh, and also, I changed everyone’s names because it would be creepy if your daycare provider was all talking about your kid on the internet, right? I figure the names are different and it’s in a whole other language, so I’m good. So…
“Quindi, per oggi ti mettiamo con i bimbi da un anno a diciotto mesi. E’ una giornata piuttosto calma qua – sono solo in sette oggi.”
Entro con un gran sorriso e li guardo. Ce ne sono tre che urlano. Mamma mia.
Mezz’ora più tardi, li abbiamo dato da mangiare, sono coperta in tracce di purée di verdura e qualcosa che mi sembra banana (ma non ne sono completamente sicura), e ho già dimentacato i nomi di almeno due dei bimbi.
“Mi passi il biberon di Luca?” mi domanda l’altra ragazza.
Cavoli, ma qual’è, Luca? Doveva proprio sciegliere uno di quelli il cui nome ho dimenticato. Esito e la ragazza ci getta lo sguardo.
“Quello lì con la camicia azzurra che si sta arrampicando per salire sul tavolo. A proposito, me lo rimetti giù sulla sedia, per favore?” mi dice con calma assoluta. Vedendo il bimbo in piedi sulla sedia, il mio cuore si ferma un attimo prima di ripartire. Lo prendo, lo rimetto giù, e pesco il biberon da dov’è caduto sotto il tavolo in un lago di latte. (Spill-proof, my a**.)
“Fammi vedere quanto ne ha bevuto?” mi chiede la terza ragazza, piccola con i capelli sciolti e di un biondo sicuramente finto. Ha passato l’intero pasto descrivendo i problemi che ha con la sua manicure e comincio a sentirmi un pochino suicida. Le passo il biberon, vedendo che ci sono ancora una decina di millilitri. Non ne avrà bevuto molto. (Ogni giorno si deve scrivere quanto ha mangiato ogni bimbo per poi dirlo ai genitori.)
“Nove,” fa la ragazza. Alzo le sopraciglie.
“Davvero?” chiedo.
“Si, guarda – il latte sta lì, al nove,” e mi mostra la linea dove arriva il latte. Se potessi, alzarei ancora più alto le sopraciglie.
Ci metto dieci minuti a spiegarle che il latte che arriva al nove è ancora nel biberon, e quindi non nel stomaco del bimbo. Poi altri cinque minuti per aiutarla a fare la sostrazione (quindici meno nove). E dovrò stare otto ore al giorno con lei? Ecco, è deciso: mi voglio tagliare le vene col coltello di plastica che abbiamo usato per preparare i pezzi di carota (che sono finiti sulle ginocchie dei miei pantaloni).
Un’ora più tardi, abbiamo pulito tutto (e ce n’era da pulire, credetemi), incluso i bimbi (che guerra per pulirgli la faccia!), e sono tutti sdraiati sui materassini per dormire. Sono carinissimi, tutti addormentati, stringendo i loro animaletti di peluche, ricoperti da copertine con disegni di conigli e nuvole e chissà che altra roba. Tranne uno, un bimbo bellissimo con gli occhi scuri e le ciglia lunghissime a cui non interessa dormire per niente.
“Senti, io vado a pranzare – fallo dormire, il piccolo, e poi quando torno, ci vai tu, d’accordo?” mi fa l’altra ragazza (la bionda è sparita dopo pranzo e non mi dispiace).
“Si, certo,” dico con un tono poco certo.
“Ti aiuto, guarda,” mi dice, e solleva il bimbo per farlo sdraiare sul suo materassino, dove c’è già un cagnolino di peluche con le orecchie blu.
“Si, si, grazie,” dico. La guardo partire e poi guardo il bimbo. Lui mi sta già guardando, con gli occhi grandi apperti. Gli sorrido gentilmente.
“E adesso dormiamo un po’, no? Andiamo a nanna!”
Cinque minuti più tardi...
“Dai, forza, chiudi gli occhi...” gli passo la mano sulle spalle ancora una volta, ma non mi ricordo neanche del suo nome per supplicarlo di chiudere gli occhi. Ma come ***** si fa a fargli addormentarsi, ‘sti bimbi? L’unica cosa che mi viene in mente è di tenergli chiusi gli occhi con le dita ma secondo me non è proprio consiglatio... Gli passo la mano ancora una volta sulle spalle, accelerando il ritmo disperatamente. Comincio a sudare un po’.
“Si chiama Alessandro.” Di colpo, sento una voce che mi parla dall’altra parte del muro basso che divide questa classe da quella dei bimbi ancora più piccoli. È la loro maestra; l’ho conosciuta in fretta stamattina. “E si addormenta se gli carezzi il viso.” Ah. Già.
La ringrazio con entusiasmo e comincio ad accarezzargli la fronte. Il piccolo comincia a respirare più lentamente e due minuti più tardi dorme. In fondo in fondo, è anche carino...
“E quindi prima di venire qua vivevi in Italia?” mi domanda una delle altre maestre qualche ora più tardi, quando ci incontriamo con le altri classi nel parco. Annuisco.
“E dove in Italia?” Sto pensando se spiegargli in quale regione o se dire direttamente “il nord” per accorciare un po’ la discussione quando la ragazza parla di nuove e interrompe il mio pensiero.
“L’Italia è quel paese dove gli uomini portano le gonne, giusto?”
Ci metto un attimino a seguire il filo dei suoi pensieri per arrivarne lì. Intanto, gli risponde qualcun’altro.
“No, quello è l’Irlanda.” Non alzare le sopraciglie. Non alzare le sopraciglie! mi ripetto silenziosamente qualche volta. Devi fare amicizia con queste ragazze!
“No, secondo me, è la Scozia, no? Dove gli uomini portano le kilts?” suggerisco finalmente. Le ragazze ci pensano un attimo.
“Ah, si, può darsi...”
“È vero!” esclama una terza, “No, ragazze, l’Italia è il paese con la pizza, no? Tipo Domino’s!”* Mi guardano tutte, aspettando conferma.
“Eh... si. Più o meno.”
“Avrai mangiato della pizza buonissima lì, no?” Mi chiede la prima mentre aggiusta il capello di uno dei bimbi. Annuisco di nuovo.
“Non potresti neanche immaginare...” dico quasi sottovoce, ripensandoci. Quella pizzeria all’angolo dietro quella strada con i portici... la rucola (a proposito, perchè non si trova per niente in America, la rucola?)... sigh. Ma che ***** faccio qua, con purée dappertutto e bimbi che urlano? Due mesi fa mi mettevo i tacchi e le gonne per insegnare nelle ditte!
Intanto è già ora di tornare nell’aula per la merenda (così diversa dalla merenda dei bimbi Italiani – niente gnocco qua!). Comincio a raccogliere i nostri piccolini e dirigerli verso la porta. Sto sudando di nuovo. Cavoli, ma chi lo sapeva che ci si voleva tanto sforzo per lavorare coi bimbi?
Di colpo, si sente il rumore del tagliaerba e uno dei bimbi della mia classe si attacca alle mie gambe, urlando. Lo prendo in braccio; “ma non e’ niente, guarda,” gli dico, mostrandogli il tagliaerba col dito. Lui si afferra al mio collo e si pianta la faccia nella mia spalla. Mi scappa un piccolo sorriso e lo stringo un po’ anch’io. La sua dipendenza totale su di noi è anche un po’ commovente, alla fine, e decido che forse si può essere contenti in qualsiasi posto... anche senza rucola.
*Una catena di pizzerie decisamente mediocre nel stilo Americano.
Saturday, November 28
I can't think of a title
I'm back! (From nowhere in particular.) Interestingly (or not so) I have almost nothing interesting to report, despite a month-long absence. High points of excitement in my life the past month include:
1. The school Halloween parade. This consisted of my esteemed colleagues and I manhandling twelve toddlers into awkward costumes, cooing over them, taking pictures of them screaming and/or merely pouting miserably (the costumes, you see), and then hauling them outside for a few circuits around the parking lot. Mine were all too young and disturbed by the proceedings to walk, so we carried them, and it turns out they're heavier than you'd think. Except one brave soul, aptly dressed as superman, who did want to walk. Specifically, he wanted to walk into oncoming traffic. Fun. (For the record, I did not let him. Yes. I am a good daycare employee.)
2. Dealing with various ills that befall children between the ages of 12 and 18 months: rashes, innumerable bumps on heads, bee stings, choking (not fun for anyone), and fevers that soar up above 104 degrees. The effect of said fevers is, oddly enough, different on everyone. My heart kind of ceases to beat while the thermometer beeps its way up past 103 and 104, and the children merely wiggle a little and glare at me reproachfully. Strange. I have a feeling being a parent is a worrisome sort of job.
3. The school's Thanksgiving Feast. Hilarity all around. You know why? Do you have acces to a toddler? If so, give him/her a pile of stuffing, some shredded corn bread (to prevent choking, see), a clump of mashed potatoes, and no utensils (because they don't know how to use them) and see what happens. Yes. I'll leave it to your imagination. But it was just as unfortunate as you'd think, and then some.
4. One solitary medical school interview. It transpired my interviewer went to the same undergrad institution as I did, and knew some of the same people in the linguistics department. We chatted amiably about linguistics. She probably ended up thinking I'd be better suited to a career in linguistics than medicine. She may have a point. In other news... public service announcement: medical schools, here's the deal: either interview me or reject me. I'm not even especially picky about which at this point. But I'm getting bored with sitting here waiting for you to make a decision. The end.
5. The leaves all fell off the trees. That was kind of depressing. Today it is sunny though windy, so that's kind of okay, but I strongly dislike the gray parts of the winter. Sigh.
6. I attended a yoga class. This was funny because at the end the instructor must have felt that she should flatter the new girl to make her come back, because she was all "well, you must exercise a lot, right? Take really good care of your body? Because it shows." And I was all, "um... well, I generally shower standing up... and that's about it." I didn't say that, though. Probably no need to discuss showering habits with random strangers, Slavic-accented yoga people or otherwise.
7. I watched a movie in Italian ("Il Giardino dei Finzi-Contini") and felt cultured as a result. Also I understood it all. Which is actually not very impressive because I've already read the book. But whatever. Culturedness. It is good.
Yeah, I think that might be about it. How pedestrian. But sometimes that's okay. In a relaxing, brain half-asleep kind of way. A good weekend to all.
1. The school Halloween parade. This consisted of my esteemed colleagues and I manhandling twelve toddlers into awkward costumes, cooing over them, taking pictures of them screaming and/or merely pouting miserably (the costumes, you see), and then hauling them outside for a few circuits around the parking lot. Mine were all too young and disturbed by the proceedings to walk, so we carried them, and it turns out they're heavier than you'd think. Except one brave soul, aptly dressed as superman, who did want to walk. Specifically, he wanted to walk into oncoming traffic. Fun. (For the record, I did not let him. Yes. I am a good daycare employee.)
2. Dealing with various ills that befall children between the ages of 12 and 18 months: rashes, innumerable bumps on heads, bee stings, choking (not fun for anyone), and fevers that soar up above 104 degrees. The effect of said fevers is, oddly enough, different on everyone. My heart kind of ceases to beat while the thermometer beeps its way up past 103 and 104, and the children merely wiggle a little and glare at me reproachfully. Strange. I have a feeling being a parent is a worrisome sort of job.
3. The school's Thanksgiving Feast. Hilarity all around. You know why? Do you have acces to a toddler? If so, give him/her a pile of stuffing, some shredded corn bread (to prevent choking, see), a clump of mashed potatoes, and no utensils (because they don't know how to use them) and see what happens. Yes. I'll leave it to your imagination. But it was just as unfortunate as you'd think, and then some.
4. One solitary medical school interview. It transpired my interviewer went to the same undergrad institution as I did, and knew some of the same people in the linguistics department. We chatted amiably about linguistics. She probably ended up thinking I'd be better suited to a career in linguistics than medicine. She may have a point. In other news... public service announcement: medical schools, here's the deal: either interview me or reject me. I'm not even especially picky about which at this point. But I'm getting bored with sitting here waiting for you to make a decision. The end.
5. The leaves all fell off the trees. That was kind of depressing. Today it is sunny though windy, so that's kind of okay, but I strongly dislike the gray parts of the winter. Sigh.
6. I attended a yoga class. This was funny because at the end the instructor must have felt that she should flatter the new girl to make her come back, because she was all "well, you must exercise a lot, right? Take really good care of your body? Because it shows." And I was all, "um... well, I generally shower standing up... and that's about it." I didn't say that, though. Probably no need to discuss showering habits with random strangers, Slavic-accented yoga people or otherwise.
7. I watched a movie in Italian ("Il Giardino dei Finzi-Contini") and felt cultured as a result. Also I understood it all. Which is actually not very impressive because I've already read the book. But whatever. Culturedness. It is good.
Yeah, I think that might be about it. How pedestrian. But sometimes that's okay. In a relaxing, brain half-asleep kind of way. A good weekend to all.
Monday, October 26
Remembering
So... I suck at blogging when I'm busy. So instead of an entry (post? whatever.) I'm going to mash up a bunch of things together so that it makes even less sense than usual. Good plan? Yes? No? Well, no one's being forced to read it, so whatever. I am grouchy because it is Sunday night and I have to get up not at but *before* the crack of dawn tomorrow and also because the world of medical education is irritating and I've just about had it with that.
Anyway. Watching the dates go by on the calendar brings back memories of this time last year (actually, more like a month ago last year, but let's not be picky). I was lazy and didn't record them at the time, so I figure I might as well write down the few bits and pieces that come back.
Walking up the Via Emilia for the first time, in the company of the other young new teacher, and the surge of feeling: eeeeeeee, I'm really in Italy. To live.
That first little supermarket on via Melato, where there were mostly fruits and vegetables and they were all so beautiful and fresh-looking. Not to mention ridiculously cheap, compared to, say, Paris. We bought tomatoes and mozzarella and bread and made sandwiches in the temporary apartment we were sharing. Buying San Benedetto water in packs of 6 and learning that the pink caps are naturale and the dark blue ones are frizzante. (Also true of the fior di spesa water that they sell in Standa. Or now it's Billa or something. The one under Oviesse, anyway.)
Drinks in piazza Fontanesi with the boss and the supervisor and the aforementioned other young new teacher, and me being all omg omg I'm socializing with people from work! Like a grown-up! In a piazza! In Italy! (Excitable much, younger Self?)
Looking for an apartment. That very first one where I stood all jet-lagged on the stairs and listened to my boss and the landlady blathering on about 'spese condominiali', wondering through the haze what that meant and why they had taught us all about Dante's effects on the vulgarization of Italian but not what 'le spese' are or what a SIM card is. The second one, where the other new teacher and I took turns calling the landlady for directions because she was a fiery Napoletana and neither of us could understand her.
The Apartment of No Hot Water and... yeah, never mind. That whole experience is best left in the past.
Signing up for library cards for la Panizzi, and having to explain that we weren't residents of Reggio; yes, we spoke English but no, we weren't both English because one of us is American; yes, we had an address, but both of us would be moving soon; no, not to the same address... and so on. The girl there was very nice and it was a whole adventure and we emerged with library cards, proud of our ability to conduct daily life business in Italian and reassured that there was a small stock of English-language books should we ever feel irrepressibly homesick.
That very first student, a woman who was moving to America to do a Master's degree and needed to use up her last two hours of lessons. "Just talk to her," they told me, "it'll be good for her to hear an American accent." Yes, well, you'd think, but actually it's not so easy. Particularly because she didn't seem to remember the name of the city she was meant to go to, or even what the university was called. This did not seem to unnerve her - in fact, I think I was more worried than she was. Actually, it's been a year now. I kind of wonder how things went...
The second student, a gregarious business guy who promptly treated me to a lecture on why Audis are the best cars. I only understood about 10% of what he was saying, and I never really was sure whether this was due to my lack of knowledge about cars or to the quality of his spoken English. In any case, he was very personable and at the end he informed me: "you are good teacher. I learn 12 new words today." Me: "oh, um, good..."
Walking all the way to Petali from the center in search of sheets (actually, I think I already wrote an entry about this) and getting sidetracked by clothes in Zara. (We will be fashionable! Classy! Italian-looking! cried the young English teachers*).
Meeting the gaggle of cousins + their friends + acquaintances of this one teacher who had family in Reggio. Enjoying the heady swirl of Reggiana dialect and Italian and aperol spritz and animated discussion about where to go for aperitivo.
Going to a movie in Italian (Vicky Cristina Barcelona) and being so happy that I could understand most of it. Being disoriented by the fact that they sometimes switched to Spanish and the difference didn't always register in my head. Also, we had just taught some slang to one of my colleagues who showed up in Reggio not knowing a word of Italian. At the end of the movie: "che c****...?" said he. We laughed a lot.
The Palio dei formaggi. You have heard of the Palio in Siena, yes? It involves horses running around in a big piazza or some such? Yeah, that's pretty much all I remembered about it at the time, too, so I was all 'wait, how could you possibly incorporate cheese into that?' Oh, but they managed. There were men jogging around the piazza del duomo with 5kg wheels of cheese on their backs. I felt like I'd been dropped into a scene from that "Tuscan sun" movie with Diane Lane. Yes, yes, I thought. Moving to Italy was indeed a good plan. Where else would I get to see a palio of cheese?
*You know what's interesting about that sentence? When you (or I, rather) write "English teachers" you can't really tell whether they are generic teachers who hail from England, or teachers of English of undefined nationality. And I can't figure out a way to make the distinction clear. Grammar, you have failed me.
Aaaand with that, back to life in America. I found a place that sells gelato. It wasn't half bad, except that even if you ask for a small they give you a tub, like the size that would cost about 4euro in Italy. I miss the little coppetta da 1,50.
Anyway. Watching the dates go by on the calendar brings back memories of this time last year (actually, more like a month ago last year, but let's not be picky). I was lazy and didn't record them at the time, so I figure I might as well write down the few bits and pieces that come back.
Walking up the Via Emilia for the first time, in the company of the other young new teacher, and the surge of feeling: eeeeeeee, I'm really in Italy. To live.
That first little supermarket on via Melato, where there were mostly fruits and vegetables and they were all so beautiful and fresh-looking. Not to mention ridiculously cheap, compared to, say, Paris. We bought tomatoes and mozzarella and bread and made sandwiches in the temporary apartment we were sharing. Buying San Benedetto water in packs of 6 and learning that the pink caps are naturale and the dark blue ones are frizzante. (Also true of the fior di spesa water that they sell in Standa. Or now it's Billa or something. The one under Oviesse, anyway.)
Drinks in piazza Fontanesi with the boss and the supervisor and the aforementioned other young new teacher, and me being all omg omg I'm socializing with people from work! Like a grown-up! In a piazza! In Italy! (Excitable much, younger Self?)
Looking for an apartment. That very first one where I stood all jet-lagged on the stairs and listened to my boss and the landlady blathering on about 'spese condominiali', wondering through the haze what that meant and why they had taught us all about Dante's effects on the vulgarization of Italian but not what 'le spese' are or what a SIM card is. The second one, where the other new teacher and I took turns calling the landlady for directions because she was a fiery Napoletana and neither of us could understand her.
The Apartment of No Hot Water and... yeah, never mind. That whole experience is best left in the past.
Signing up for library cards for la Panizzi, and having to explain that we weren't residents of Reggio; yes, we spoke English but no, we weren't both English because one of us is American; yes, we had an address, but both of us would be moving soon; no, not to the same address... and so on. The girl there was very nice and it was a whole adventure and we emerged with library cards, proud of our ability to conduct daily life business in Italian and reassured that there was a small stock of English-language books should we ever feel irrepressibly homesick.
That very first student, a woman who was moving to America to do a Master's degree and needed to use up her last two hours of lessons. "Just talk to her," they told me, "it'll be good for her to hear an American accent." Yes, well, you'd think, but actually it's not so easy. Particularly because she didn't seem to remember the name of the city she was meant to go to, or even what the university was called. This did not seem to unnerve her - in fact, I think I was more worried than she was. Actually, it's been a year now. I kind of wonder how things went...
The second student, a gregarious business guy who promptly treated me to a lecture on why Audis are the best cars. I only understood about 10% of what he was saying, and I never really was sure whether this was due to my lack of knowledge about cars or to the quality of his spoken English. In any case, he was very personable and at the end he informed me: "you are good teacher. I learn 12 new words today." Me: "oh, um, good..."
Walking all the way to Petali from the center in search of sheets (actually, I think I already wrote an entry about this) and getting sidetracked by clothes in Zara. (We will be fashionable! Classy! Italian-looking! cried the young English teachers*).
Meeting the gaggle of cousins + their friends + acquaintances of this one teacher who had family in Reggio. Enjoying the heady swirl of Reggiana dialect and Italian and aperol spritz and animated discussion about where to go for aperitivo.
Going to a movie in Italian (Vicky Cristina Barcelona) and being so happy that I could understand most of it. Being disoriented by the fact that they sometimes switched to Spanish and the difference didn't always register in my head. Also, we had just taught some slang to one of my colleagues who showed up in Reggio not knowing a word of Italian. At the end of the movie: "che c****...?" said he. We laughed a lot.
The Palio dei formaggi. You have heard of the Palio in Siena, yes? It involves horses running around in a big piazza or some such? Yeah, that's pretty much all I remembered about it at the time, too, so I was all 'wait, how could you possibly incorporate cheese into that?' Oh, but they managed. There were men jogging around the piazza del duomo with 5kg wheels of cheese on their backs. I felt like I'd been dropped into a scene from that "Tuscan sun" movie with Diane Lane. Yes, yes, I thought. Moving to Italy was indeed a good plan. Where else would I get to see a palio of cheese?
*You know what's interesting about that sentence? When you (or I, rather) write "English teachers" you can't really tell whether they are generic teachers who hail from England, or teachers of English of undefined nationality. And I can't figure out a way to make the distinction clear. Grammar, you have failed me.
Aaaand with that, back to life in America. I found a place that sells gelato. It wasn't half bad, except that even if you ask for a small they give you a tub, like the size that would cost about 4euro in Italy. I miss the little coppetta da 1,50.
Monday, October 12
Nothing much
Very productive today. Answered all of the emails that had been hanging out in my inbox, some of them since... um... mid-September. (Oops. I am a godawful email correspondent. I should just slap that onto the bottom of all my emails as a sort of disclaimer/pre-emptive apology. Anyway. Apologies all around.)
Now I am off to do my laundry and create Strategic Food Reserves for the week. This involves a lot of tupperware and significant quantities of my horrible cooking all at once, so steer clear of the kitchen, people.
Then I will be ready to start another week. Oh, my life. It is just so fascinating. Most of last week was taken up combatting the Diaper Rash of Death on one of my wee ones; who knows what this week could hold? Here's hoping something less labor-intensive because the whole diaper rash thing involved a lot of time spent wrestling this kid every time I wanted to change his diaper, and somehow... I frequently came close to losing? To a 12-month-old? Hm. Awkward, that. (For those who don't know what diaper rash is and, for whatever reason, can't figure it out for yourselves... um... inform yourselves before you procreate.)
On a tangentially related note, did you know there's such a thing as a product called "Butt Paste"? I kid you not. It is for the purpose of preventing diaper rash. Aptly named, I suppose. Can't get much more direct than that.
In other news, I am still learning German, by way of mildly irritating CDs that I play during my highly irritating commute (I'm very easily irritated), and can now introduce myself, say I'm from Dresden, count to eleven, and say I'm a lawyer. Not particularly useful, since I don't anticipate ever having to say I'm a lawyer, in any context, but whatever.
Yesterday I went to the library to get books for my bimbi and asked the children's librarian how to go about finding books on a specific topic, because it has been a long time since I looked for anything in the picture book section. In fact, I don't think this library had even been built yet, the last time I needed a picture book. "Well, what grade are you in?" she asked me, looking at me slightly askance. I am not sure how to take this. Well, because it means I look younger? Or not well because maybe I look my age but just sort of illiterate? I reigned in my narcissism, though, and did not run around the library screaming that I had a Bachelor's degree and was only teaching preschool temporarily, thank you very much.
That would be rude, unnecessary, and also innappropriate, because, having taught preschool for a full month now, I have come to realize that it is an extremely important profession and that we should somehow recruit smarter people to do it, asap. I will also now know what to look for when I have my own kids. Actually, you know where the best preschools I have ever seen are? In Reggio. Perhaps I shall just lend my kids to someone there for the duration of their pre-primary education. Or maybe we can import the Reggio approach to wherever I am living then. Or maybe I will move back to Reggio with my brats, and we'll all eat a lot of gnocco and get fat. Yes. We will bring obesity to Italy. Excellent.
Aaaanyway, I am making very little sense, per usual. And, you may have noticed, I actually have very little of import to say. This is because I now live in suburbia and spend my weeks applying goo and baby powder to small behinds and my weekends planted in a chair, reading trash from the library. (Actually, this week I'm reading a book called... hang on... "Quicksilver". By some guy. Either Neal Stephenson or Stephen Nealson. Anyway, though, if it's trash, it's quite pleasantly-written trash. And maybe it's not even trash. Who knows?) Anyway. The point is that I have pretty much nothing to say, but felt that updating ye olde blog was the last thing to do on my keeping-up-with-correspondence list, and so... now I can go do something else, guilt-free.
A good week to all.
Good lord, I'm boring even myself to death.
Now I am off to do my laundry and create Strategic Food Reserves for the week. This involves a lot of tupperware and significant quantities of my horrible cooking all at once, so steer clear of the kitchen, people.
Then I will be ready to start another week. Oh, my life. It is just so fascinating. Most of last week was taken up combatting the Diaper Rash of Death on one of my wee ones; who knows what this week could hold? Here's hoping something less labor-intensive because the whole diaper rash thing involved a lot of time spent wrestling this kid every time I wanted to change his diaper, and somehow... I frequently came close to losing? To a 12-month-old? Hm. Awkward, that. (For those who don't know what diaper rash is and, for whatever reason, can't figure it out for yourselves... um... inform yourselves before you procreate.)
On a tangentially related note, did you know there's such a thing as a product called "Butt Paste"? I kid you not. It is for the purpose of preventing diaper rash. Aptly named, I suppose. Can't get much more direct than that.
In other news, I am still learning German, by way of mildly irritating CDs that I play during my highly irritating commute (I'm very easily irritated), and can now introduce myself, say I'm from Dresden, count to eleven, and say I'm a lawyer. Not particularly useful, since I don't anticipate ever having to say I'm a lawyer, in any context, but whatever.
Yesterday I went to the library to get books for my bimbi and asked the children's librarian how to go about finding books on a specific topic, because it has been a long time since I looked for anything in the picture book section. In fact, I don't think this library had even been built yet, the last time I needed a picture book. "Well, what grade are you in?" she asked me, looking at me slightly askance. I am not sure how to take this. Well, because it means I look younger? Or not well because maybe I look my age but just sort of illiterate? I reigned in my narcissism, though, and did not run around the library screaming that I had a Bachelor's degree and was only teaching preschool temporarily, thank you very much.
That would be rude, unnecessary, and also innappropriate, because, having taught preschool for a full month now, I have come to realize that it is an extremely important profession and that we should somehow recruit smarter people to do it, asap. I will also now know what to look for when I have my own kids. Actually, you know where the best preschools I have ever seen are? In Reggio. Perhaps I shall just lend my kids to someone there for the duration of their pre-primary education. Or maybe we can import the Reggio approach to wherever I am living then. Or maybe I will move back to Reggio with my brats, and we'll all eat a lot of gnocco and get fat. Yes. We will bring obesity to Italy. Excellent.
Aaaanyway, I am making very little sense, per usual. And, you may have noticed, I actually have very little of import to say. This is because I now live in suburbia and spend my weeks applying goo and baby powder to small behinds and my weekends planted in a chair, reading trash from the library. (Actually, this week I'm reading a book called... hang on... "Quicksilver". By some guy. Either Neal Stephenson or Stephen Nealson. Anyway, though, if it's trash, it's quite pleasantly-written trash. And maybe it's not even trash. Who knows?) Anyway. The point is that I have pretty much nothing to say, but felt that updating ye olde blog was the last thing to do on my keeping-up-with-correspondence list, and so... now I can go do something else, guilt-free.
A good week to all.
Good lord, I'm boring even myself to death.
Tuesday, September 29
Mundane...
Work. Well, I have a song about a friendly pirate ship rocking on the sea (rocking on the sea, rocking on the sea) stuck in my head. I have now taught peek-a-boo to five or six kids in my class, who all seem to find it just riveting. In fact, one gets so worked up that she routinely pokes herself in the eye. Cute, though. Also there is a kid who bites. I'm kind of afraid of him, which is odd, given that he is barely 12 months old and more or less comes up to my knee. Still - bloodthirsty babies. It is creepy.
But, yeah, all things considered, work is good.
Meanwhile, I have decided to teach myself German from a book that professes to allow you to teach yourself German. So far, it is a silly book and I do not appreciate its patronizing tone. I mean, think about it: what sorts of people are likely to want to teach themselves a language? Travel-y sorts of businesspeople, maybe, and nerds. In any case, of at least reasonable intelligence. I can't really think of a situation where the sort of person who doesn't know what a verb is would also be the sort of person who would elect to teach him- or herself a language.
Ergo, teach-yourself-German book, you are silly. Stop explaining to me what verbs are, because I already know. And enough with your little language learning tips. Obviously I should group vocabulary into theme-related lists. You know what else could work? You could just present them that way and then the little side box with the cartoon exclamation point would be unnecessary. The other issue I have is with the pronunciation. Would it have killed them to learn the phonetic alphabet prior to writing the book? I'm pretty sure that in the end, it would have required a lot less effort than thinking up descriptions like "purse your lips like you just ate a lemon, and then say a long 'eeee' sound but with your lips still pursed, kind of as if you actually wanted to say 'ooo', as in 'boo!'". Um, yeah. Whatever.
Nonetheless, I shall persevere because I think my brain is slipping slowly into a coma. Although... I'm pretty sure I remember saying the same thing about teaching English after having been in college. And now my job makes teaching English look positively fascinating. Sighhh. In some ways, it is nice to have free time and be able to spend long stretches of whole hours in a row just not thinking. In other ways, sometimes I think: if I have to dig some kid's half-eaten macaroni out of the sink drain while listening to people discuss nail salons for one more minute, I will break the "Wiggles" CD over someone's head (probably my own). Could be worse, though. Next thing you know I'll be working at a gas station, inhaling gas fumes, and then my brain will *really* be in a coma.
Fun fact: when we were in grade school, they used to threaten us with "you'll end up pumping gas when you grow up!" as in, "do your homework or...". But it transpires that in almost all of the other states that are not NJ, people pump their own gas anyway. I always kind of wondered... in other states, what do grade school teachers threaten kids with? My bet is McDonald's.
Anyway, on that note... bedtime.
But, yeah, all things considered, work is good.
Meanwhile, I have decided to teach myself German from a book that professes to allow you to teach yourself German. So far, it is a silly book and I do not appreciate its patronizing tone. I mean, think about it: what sorts of people are likely to want to teach themselves a language? Travel-y sorts of businesspeople, maybe, and nerds. In any case, of at least reasonable intelligence. I can't really think of a situation where the sort of person who doesn't know what a verb is would also be the sort of person who would elect to teach him- or herself a language.
Ergo, teach-yourself-German book, you are silly. Stop explaining to me what verbs are, because I already know. And enough with your little language learning tips. Obviously I should group vocabulary into theme-related lists. You know what else could work? You could just present them that way and then the little side box with the cartoon exclamation point would be unnecessary. The other issue I have is with the pronunciation. Would it have killed them to learn the phonetic alphabet prior to writing the book? I'm pretty sure that in the end, it would have required a lot less effort than thinking up descriptions like "purse your lips like you just ate a lemon, and then say a long 'eeee' sound but with your lips still pursed, kind of as if you actually wanted to say 'ooo', as in 'boo!'". Um, yeah. Whatever.
Nonetheless, I shall persevere because I think my brain is slipping slowly into a coma. Although... I'm pretty sure I remember saying the same thing about teaching English after having been in college. And now my job makes teaching English look positively fascinating. Sighhh. In some ways, it is nice to have free time and be able to spend long stretches of whole hours in a row just not thinking. In other ways, sometimes I think: if I have to dig some kid's half-eaten macaroni out of the sink drain while listening to people discuss nail salons for one more minute, I will break the "Wiggles" CD over someone's head (probably my own). Could be worse, though. Next thing you know I'll be working at a gas station, inhaling gas fumes, and then my brain will *really* be in a coma.
Fun fact: when we were in grade school, they used to threaten us with "you'll end up pumping gas when you grow up!" as in, "do your homework or...". But it transpires that in almost all of the other states that are not NJ, people pump their own gas anyway. I always kind of wondered... in other states, what do grade school teachers threaten kids with? My bet is McDonald's.
Anyway, on that note... bedtime.
Tuesday, September 15
The working world
I have recently taken a job at Kaplan as an MCAT teacher. Because working full time wasn't enough and I was bored? Because I so missed physics and orgo and all that nonsense that I could not keep myself away for another moment? Because I want to foster the development of other evil young pre-meds? Hm... boh. 'Tis a mystery.
(Okay, fine, actually, it's not. It's so that I can put "teaching MCAT prep" on the 'activities since graduation' part of med school applications. Yeah, we pre-meds are very utilitarian. And evil. Watch out. For one, we may be teaching your Kaplan course, and it's probably not because we care.)
In any case, now I'm in their training program which is six kinds of boring and involves marking up your Teacher's Book with four different colors of highlighter. I kid you not. Each color means something different but I probably can't tell you what because it is a Top Secret Kaplan Strategy and I signed my freedom of speech away on a pdf file. Anyway. The point is that I'm preparing for my next training session and I am bored, so instead of exchanging the pink highlighter for the orange one and soldiering on, I will resurrect the time-honored tradition of procrastination and share with you my impressions on the working world. (If anyone is reading beyond this point, that is kind of sad. Did you know they publish books to occupy your time? Books by people who write well and actually have something to say. I recommend looking some of those up. Unless you're procrastinating, too. In that case, by all means...)
Firstly, on commuting. I have a random piece of advice for you. If it ever comes up as a choice, like when you are buying a house or something, I would suggest living in a place that is east of where you will work - that way you will not have the sun in your eyes when you drive. My parents did not think of this and as I am back at home living with them, mammone-style, I enjoy the sun in my eyes both ways. Probably this will contribute to blindness and wrinkling. Yay.
In the same vein, route 78 east is interesting in the mornings. It is like bumper-to-bumper traffic, but moving at 70 miles per hour. When I was learning to drive (a process that spanned from age 16 to roughly age 22), this used to freak me out and I never went on it. Post-Italy, I'm all ho-hum, eating my toast while merging from the ramp (or whatever that bit of road is called). (Side note: why is it that I never manage to eat meals sitting down at a table like normal people?) Also, I really should record the story of driving in Italy at some point - it involved a whole new level of ineptitude on my part. Perhaps this weekend...
Speaking of which: on weekends... after four years of round-the-clock, every-day-of-the-week studying/work in college and one year of you-must-be-available-14-hours-a-day indentured servitude as a teacher, I think I have acquired a job that allows me to glimpse at what the lives of "normal" people must be like. Essentially, you go to work during the week and come back and are kind of tired so you don't accomplish much at home, and then on the weekends you can do other stuff. It is interesting. I have not yet decided if I like it. In any case, it doesn't matter, because now I have acquired a second job and effectively done away with the free time. It's all like Erin Brokovich, single-mother-supporting-her-family over here, except I have no children and also I don't look like Julia Roberts. (Pity.)
On the work itself. Well, today a little guy crawled up my leg so I picked him up and he clapped and smiled and smelled like baby powder and was generally adorable. I wandered over to the other side of the room to grab a tissue to wipe his nose and caught sight of some pictures with a caption/sign reading something along the lines of "to utilize our creativity expression, we used musical instruments to express ourselves creatively", which made me cry inside. That's pretty much how my work day goes. Also, lots of children often cry and it is sad. Perhaps I will start singing that "raindrops on roses" song like in the movie with the von Trapps. This seemed to work even in the most dire of situations (e.g. thunderstorms, wicked stepmothers, Nazi invasions, etc.). Or maybe the "spoonful of sugar" one. It will be like Julie Andrews but with a crappy singing voice and minus the classy British accent and seventy billion octaves' worth of range. Or whatever it is that musician types call that sort of thing with the octaves and people's voices.
Yeah, now I'm making even less sense than I was when I started. Back to Kaplan's Oh-So-Secret test-prep strategies. (Gag me. Oh, med school. The things I do for you. Really.)
(Okay, fine, actually, it's not. It's so that I can put "teaching MCAT prep" on the 'activities since graduation' part of med school applications. Yeah, we pre-meds are very utilitarian. And evil. Watch out. For one, we may be teaching your Kaplan course, and it's probably not because we care.)
In any case, now I'm in their training program which is six kinds of boring and involves marking up your Teacher's Book with four different colors of highlighter. I kid you not. Each color means something different but I probably can't tell you what because it is a Top Secret Kaplan Strategy and I signed my freedom of speech away on a pdf file. Anyway. The point is that I'm preparing for my next training session and I am bored, so instead of exchanging the pink highlighter for the orange one and soldiering on, I will resurrect the time-honored tradition of procrastination and share with you my impressions on the working world. (If anyone is reading beyond this point, that is kind of sad. Did you know they publish books to occupy your time? Books by people who write well and actually have something to say. I recommend looking some of those up. Unless you're procrastinating, too. In that case, by all means...)
Firstly, on commuting. I have a random piece of advice for you. If it ever comes up as a choice, like when you are buying a house or something, I would suggest living in a place that is east of where you will work - that way you will not have the sun in your eyes when you drive. My parents did not think of this and as I am back at home living with them, mammone-style, I enjoy the sun in my eyes both ways. Probably this will contribute to blindness and wrinkling. Yay.
In the same vein, route 78 east is interesting in the mornings. It is like bumper-to-bumper traffic, but moving at 70 miles per hour. When I was learning to drive (a process that spanned from age 16 to roughly age 22), this used to freak me out and I never went on it. Post-Italy, I'm all ho-hum, eating my toast while merging from the ramp (or whatever that bit of road is called). (Side note: why is it that I never manage to eat meals sitting down at a table like normal people?) Also, I really should record the story of driving in Italy at some point - it involved a whole new level of ineptitude on my part. Perhaps this weekend...
Speaking of which: on weekends... after four years of round-the-clock, every-day-of-the-week studying/work in college and one year of you-must-be-available-14-hours-a-day indentured servitude as a teacher, I think I have acquired a job that allows me to glimpse at what the lives of "normal" people must be like. Essentially, you go to work during the week and come back and are kind of tired so you don't accomplish much at home, and then on the weekends you can do other stuff. It is interesting. I have not yet decided if I like it. In any case, it doesn't matter, because now I have acquired a second job and effectively done away with the free time. It's all like Erin Brokovich, single-mother-supporting-her-family over here, except I have no children and also I don't look like Julia Roberts. (Pity.)
On the work itself. Well, today a little guy crawled up my leg so I picked him up and he clapped and smiled and smelled like baby powder and was generally adorable. I wandered over to the other side of the room to grab a tissue to wipe his nose and caught sight of some pictures with a caption/sign reading something along the lines of "to utilize our creativity expression, we used musical instruments to express ourselves creatively", which made me cry inside. That's pretty much how my work day goes. Also, lots of children often cry and it is sad. Perhaps I will start singing that "raindrops on roses" song like in the movie with the von Trapps. This seemed to work even in the most dire of situations (e.g. thunderstorms, wicked stepmothers, Nazi invasions, etc.). Or maybe the "spoonful of sugar" one. It will be like Julie Andrews but with a crappy singing voice and minus the classy British accent and seventy billion octaves' worth of range. Or whatever it is that musician types call that sort of thing with the octaves and people's voices.
Yeah, now I'm making even less sense than I was when I started. Back to Kaplan's Oh-So-Secret test-prep strategies. (Gag me. Oh, med school. The things I do for you. Really.)
Saturday, September 12
Job
So, now I work in a daycare (as a result of that interview from the last post, in case anyone's keeping count). This is also why I have been all MIA since then. Anyway, having worked there for two weeks, I have: learned the names of approximately 60 children in five different age groups, identified all of the convenient sources of caffeine in the school's vicinity, absorbed about three quarts of baby saliva into my clothes, and contracted what will probably be the first of many sore throats from the wee ones.
Actually, this could be a good public service announcement: this is what a bachelor's degree from a reasonably good college will do for you these days, kids - hourly wages for a job that involves absorbing a lot of baby saliva into your clothes. So, really, you could go ahead and skip the bachelor's degree. The girl in the room across from mine has some kind of associate's degree and I'm pretty sure the one who was helping out in my room yesterday probably had trouble finishing high school.
That's mean. I'm sorry.
And I'm not even really bitter about the whole thing, to tell you (who?) the truth. I actually like this job a lot more than I thought I would. There is a lot of diaper-changing and nose-wiping and spoon-feeding and hand-washing and rocking to sleep and sometimes it is tedious and sometimes it is chaotic but when a crying kid reaches up his arms at you and puts his head down on your shoulder the moment you've picked him up... well, let's just say evolution has done quite a number on us girls and it must fulfil some kind of very gooey, mommy-type instinct.
All in all, I would say it evens out. For example, today I was with the pre-schoolers almost all day. Their usual routine seems to involve a lot of running around and chasing each other and hitting each other over the head with blocks and then whining about it. On the plus side, they can feed themselves, but they were an irritating experience overall. For the last hour, though, I got sent to the infant room and rocked a six-month-old to sleep and she wiggled around there and smelled like baby powder and was delightful in general. Also the palmar-grasp reflex is a lot of fun. (There - that's that bachelor's degree coming through for you. If your education did not encompass reflexes in early infant development, google it. There should be some funny videos out there, because in theory babies can support their entire bodyweight just hanging onto something.)
The only trouble is that on occasion, I feel slightly over-educated and non-fitting-in. Most of the time I don't mind it. It's fine. We're changing diapers and feeding kids; knowing what the palmar grasp reflex is and why it develops is not really necessary. Every once in a while, though, when I am tired and cranky and a lot of kids are crying, I get annoyed. For example, the other day I received the following memo in my "cubby" (what am I, five?): "all teacher's must submit self-bios so that we can proofread them before parent's night". Now. Is that not even the slightest bit poetic in its irony? If you have no idea what I am talking about, read the next paragraph. If the part of you that understands English is already hurting a little bit, skip to the one after (or, alternatively, go do something productive with your time).
The memo made me a little annoyed at first: they dare to suggest that they're going to proofread what *I* write when *that* is how *they* write? But then I just laughed. I could have forgiven the misplaced apostrophe in "parent's". Okay, so it sounds like there is only one parent coming and to me it's a little grating, but... I get that the apostrophe at the very end of the word can be disconcerting to some (should be "parents'"). What really kills me is the "teacher's" as plural. Especially when "self-bios" doesn't seem to give them any trouble. Proofread, mon oeuil. Yes, I am often a snob. But you have to admit that here they were really asking for it.
Anyway. I have fallen in love with my regular kids and look forward to seeing them every day and will probably be happy working here if I manage not to smack any of my colleagues and/or superiors over the head with a container of wet-wipes for their egregious abuse of the English language and/or child development theory. Speaking of that last... I will leave you with a conversation that I witnessed yesterday with the toddlers.
How NOT to teach a foreign language:
Teacher: So, did you like that book about the dinosaur at bedtime?
Kids: Yeah!
Teacher: Hey, does anyone know how to say "bed" in Spanish?
Kids: *blank stares*
Teacher: It's "cama"! Can you say "cama"?
Kids (dutifully): Cama.
Teacher: Good job! Now you know how to say bed in Spanish!
Child: What's Spanish?
Actually, this could be a good public service announcement: this is what a bachelor's degree from a reasonably good college will do for you these days, kids - hourly wages for a job that involves absorbing a lot of baby saliva into your clothes. So, really, you could go ahead and skip the bachelor's degree. The girl in the room across from mine has some kind of associate's degree and I'm pretty sure the one who was helping out in my room yesterday probably had trouble finishing high school.
That's mean. I'm sorry.
And I'm not even really bitter about the whole thing, to tell you (who?) the truth. I actually like this job a lot more than I thought I would. There is a lot of diaper-changing and nose-wiping and spoon-feeding and hand-washing and rocking to sleep and sometimes it is tedious and sometimes it is chaotic but when a crying kid reaches up his arms at you and puts his head down on your shoulder the moment you've picked him up... well, let's just say evolution has done quite a number on us girls and it must fulfil some kind of very gooey, mommy-type instinct.
All in all, I would say it evens out. For example, today I was with the pre-schoolers almost all day. Their usual routine seems to involve a lot of running around and chasing each other and hitting each other over the head with blocks and then whining about it. On the plus side, they can feed themselves, but they were an irritating experience overall. For the last hour, though, I got sent to the infant room and rocked a six-month-old to sleep and she wiggled around there and smelled like baby powder and was delightful in general. Also the palmar-grasp reflex is a lot of fun. (There - that's that bachelor's degree coming through for you. If your education did not encompass reflexes in early infant development, google it. There should be some funny videos out there, because in theory babies can support their entire bodyweight just hanging onto something.)
The only trouble is that on occasion, I feel slightly over-educated and non-fitting-in. Most of the time I don't mind it. It's fine. We're changing diapers and feeding kids; knowing what the palmar grasp reflex is and why it develops is not really necessary. Every once in a while, though, when I am tired and cranky and a lot of kids are crying, I get annoyed. For example, the other day I received the following memo in my "cubby" (what am I, five?): "all teacher's must submit self-bios so that we can proofread them before parent's night". Now. Is that not even the slightest bit poetic in its irony? If you have no idea what I am talking about, read the next paragraph. If the part of you that understands English is already hurting a little bit, skip to the one after (or, alternatively, go do something productive with your time).
The memo made me a little annoyed at first: they dare to suggest that they're going to proofread what *I* write when *that* is how *they* write? But then I just laughed. I could have forgiven the misplaced apostrophe in "parent's". Okay, so it sounds like there is only one parent coming and to me it's a little grating, but... I get that the apostrophe at the very end of the word can be disconcerting to some (should be "parents'"). What really kills me is the "teacher's" as plural. Especially when "self-bios" doesn't seem to give them any trouble. Proofread, mon oeuil. Yes, I am often a snob. But you have to admit that here they were really asking for it.
Anyway. I have fallen in love with my regular kids and look forward to seeing them every day and will probably be happy working here if I manage not to smack any of my colleagues and/or superiors over the head with a container of wet-wipes for their egregious abuse of the English language and/or child development theory. Speaking of that last... I will leave you with a conversation that I witnessed yesterday with the toddlers.
How NOT to teach a foreign language:
Teacher: So, did you like that book about the dinosaur at bedtime?
Kids: Yeah!
Teacher: Hey, does anyone know how to say "bed" in Spanish?
Kids: *blank stares*
Teacher: It's "cama"! Can you say "cama"?
Kids (dutifully): Cama.
Teacher: Good job! Now you know how to say bed in Spanish!
Child: What's Spanish?
Monday, September 7
Interview
My interview clothes and I have a history together. I wore them to two research conferences as an undergrad. And also on the day I defended my thesis. Perhaps this is why they remind me of research, even though I've worn them to other job interviews more recently - most notably the one that got me my last job (*cough* position of indentured servitude). Anyway, after a year of lying dormant in Italy, Evil Competitive Pre-med Self is the one who stalks up the steps to the latest interview (confidence courtesy of said interview clothes) - without even tripping! huzzah! - with half-formed thoughts of methodology and p-values swimming vaguely in her brain.
I greet the lady at the door with a confident smile and a firm handshake. I take the seat she offers me and sit with my back as straight as it goes; while she leaves the room to get something, I skim idly through my resume and try to remember my stock responses for interview questions. There's the two-sentence research summary... the chronological volunteer-work history... Oh, look, and that time I was a supervisor at that other thing... better mention that. Leadership or whatever.
"So, what's your previous experience with children?" she asks upon her return.
I start with the most recent (indentured servitude) and then start to summarize the research thing, "... focusing on early cognitive development..." I'm fairly sure I lost her somewhere around the word cognitive, though, so I trail off slightly and then wrap it all up with a bright, "and some babysitting in high school!" She perks up. There we go.
"That's great," she says kind of vaguely, apparently still re-grouping, "uh-huh, so... " you can see she's thinking. It looks kind of painful. This is why when I interview people, I always think up the questions in advance. Or used to, anyway. When I interviewed people. Back when I had a real job. She breaks through my little daydream with her next question: "... do you know how to change diapers?"
She opens her eyes wide and looks at me expectantly. I must confess, I am somewhat taken aback. Does she really get that many people applying to work in a daycare who don't know how to change diapers? For that matter, there is nothing particularly complex about changing a diaper. I am pretty sure that most reasonably intelligent people would be able to figure it out if suddenly placed in a situation that urgently required them to do so.
"Uh... yes. Of course," I can't help adding.
"Great!" she enthuses, before beginning to shuffle through some paperwork.
I like kids. Really, I do. But sometimes, I miss some things about before - when I was a student and I had other jobs. Mostly, I miss having a job where people were impressed when you did something like, say, figure out a new way to analyze the data on SPSS (not that that happened to me very frequently) or churned out 10 pages in half as many hours (that did). People when being impressed when you confirm your ability to properly operate the sticky tabs on a diaper is just not the same.
I greet the lady at the door with a confident smile and a firm handshake. I take the seat she offers me and sit with my back as straight as it goes; while she leaves the room to get something, I skim idly through my resume and try to remember my stock responses for interview questions. There's the two-sentence research summary... the chronological volunteer-work history... Oh, look, and that time I was a supervisor at that other thing... better mention that. Leadership or whatever.
"So, what's your previous experience with children?" she asks upon her return.
I start with the most recent (indentured servitude) and then start to summarize the research thing, "... focusing on early cognitive development..." I'm fairly sure I lost her somewhere around the word cognitive, though, so I trail off slightly and then wrap it all up with a bright, "and some babysitting in high school!" She perks up. There we go.
"That's great," she says kind of vaguely, apparently still re-grouping, "uh-huh, so... " you can see she's thinking. It looks kind of painful. This is why when I interview people, I always think up the questions in advance. Or used to, anyway. When I interviewed people. Back when I had a real job. She breaks through my little daydream with her next question: "... do you know how to change diapers?"
She opens her eyes wide and looks at me expectantly. I must confess, I am somewhat taken aback. Does she really get that many people applying to work in a daycare who don't know how to change diapers? For that matter, there is nothing particularly complex about changing a diaper. I am pretty sure that most reasonably intelligent people would be able to figure it out if suddenly placed in a situation that urgently required them to do so.
"Uh... yes. Of course," I can't help adding.
"Great!" she enthuses, before beginning to shuffle through some paperwork.
I like kids. Really, I do. But sometimes, I miss some things about before - when I was a student and I had other jobs. Mostly, I miss having a job where people were impressed when you did something like, say, figure out a new way to analyze the data on SPSS (not that that happened to me very frequently) or churned out 10 pages in half as many hours (that did). People when being impressed when you confirm your ability to properly operate the sticky tabs on a diaper is just not the same.
Tuesday, September 1
You know what I really miss about Italy?
And it's not the food. Don't get me wrong - the lack of pizza/rucola/parmiggiano/crudo/etc. here is all kinds of tragic. But what I really miss right now is being a madrelingua inglese. It gives you access to your own little job market, one that you share only with the other expats (and even then - only expats that have the proper certification). Here negli Stati Uniti most of us speak English, and so that does not compel people to hire me, and this leads to an unfortunate state of affairs known as unemployment.
When you're in college, people tell you 'take classes that appeal to you! follow your interests!' and it's all very rosy. And depending on which college you go to, you can take some pretty cool stuff. For example, at my particular Prestigious Institution of Higher Learning you could take a language called Khmer (where do they even speak that?), a class called "Mystical Mushrooms and Magical Molds" (or something along those lines), spider biology, game theory, intro to wines (also intro to beers, but only if you passed intro to wines), and a whole slew of phys ed classes ranging from 'intro to swedish massage' to fencing and whatever you call it when people shoot guns. The thing is, though, that it doesn't always turn out to be very useful (for example, unless you go into entomology as a field, how many times in your life is knowing the circadian rhythm of a spider actually going to be of use?).
Which is fine. It's fine to have a lot of random useless knowledge. The problem is that it is also kind of good to have some practical, actually-applicable-to-something kind of knowledge, too. My father, in particular, feels very strongly about this.
"Well, it's because you have a useless degree," he informs me. We are conversing about my current (lack of) job options. "If you had learned something useful like, say, how to build a bridge, you wouldn't be in this situation."
I consider this. I am not really a bridge-building type of person.
"Or welding," he adds.
Welding? What, like with metal and fire and stuff?
"Yes, welding," he insists, even though I haven't spoken, "That's the problem these days: they don't teach you useful stuff like welding anymore."
Indeed. Well, I think it is safe to say that unless another world war breaks out and I am forced to take over from the menfolk because they have all joined the Navy, and work in a factory like Rosie the Riveter or whatever, I would probably never have considered a line of work that involved welding, anyway. And even in the World War III scenario, I probably would have volunteered for other, less fire-related jobs. Like growing turnips, or knitting socks. Darning socks. Whatever it is that one does with socks.
I must have raised my eyebrows or something because: "well, what have you learned how to do?" he challenges me. I think for a moment. Good question.
"Well, I can converse passably well in three foreign languages..." (okay, admittedly, I already knew one, so that's not very impressive and he knows it), "... and I know how to create transgenic mice... and how to calculate how much oxygen it would take to burn a certain amount of carbon... and I know Freud's opinion on a whole variety of topics... and the elements of a successful vaccine campaign..." in my head I am running through all of the myriad classes I crammed into my schedule as an undergrad, looking for something that he would think was useful (ability to comment on the significance of the Dance of the Seven Veils in "Salome"? no. extensive knowledge of the issue of maternal mortality in developing countries? meh. probably not. ability to tell you all about cognitive development and spatial relations? definitely no). I am getting a bit desperate, so I go for the next thing that comes to mind, "... also I can read medieval Catalan pretty well... even though I don't actually speak Catalan." Pfft. Nice work there, Self.
It's his turn to raise his eyebrows. He thinks for a moment.
"Maybe you should work for the CIA. You know, with the languages and stuff."
I reflect upon this. Yes. It would be kind of like in a Dan Brown book. Or like Indiana Jones, except not with the snakes and stuff. Or... something. Yeah, come to think of it... probably it would not be much like that at all.
And that's the trouble with my degree. I think it is because we are just a little too theoretical, over at [Prestigious Institute of Higher Learning]. It's not that our degrees are in completely useless subjects (I, for one, did not take a single one of the classes I mentioned in that second paragraph there). It's just that we learn the theoretical stuff that, in theory, does relate to something useful... but we don't learn the connection to said useful stuff.
For example, I can tell you all about what a PCR analysis tells you and what the different components are and everything, but can I actually physically run one? No. I know all about how the brain encodes language and how language can affect your cognitive development in other areas, but had I ever once designed a language curriculum prior to teaching this year? Nope. I can even tell you exactly what your kidneys are doing on a cellular - even molecular - level, but would I know what to do if they weren't doing it properly? Still no. So that's what's missing.
In the meantime, if no one hires me this week, perhaps I will go learn how to weld things. I'm sure it is a useful life skill. Failing that, I will use my medieval Catalan philology skills and my rudimentary knowledge of Reggiana dialect (yay Arzan!) to become a spy.
When you're in college, people tell you 'take classes that appeal to you! follow your interests!' and it's all very rosy. And depending on which college you go to, you can take some pretty cool stuff. For example, at my particular Prestigious Institution of Higher Learning you could take a language called Khmer (where do they even speak that?), a class called "Mystical Mushrooms and Magical Molds" (or something along those lines), spider biology, game theory, intro to wines (also intro to beers, but only if you passed intro to wines), and a whole slew of phys ed classes ranging from 'intro to swedish massage' to fencing and whatever you call it when people shoot guns. The thing is, though, that it doesn't always turn out to be very useful (for example, unless you go into entomology as a field, how many times in your life is knowing the circadian rhythm of a spider actually going to be of use?).
Which is fine. It's fine to have a lot of random useless knowledge. The problem is that it is also kind of good to have some practical, actually-applicable-to-something kind of knowledge, too. My father, in particular, feels very strongly about this.
"Well, it's because you have a useless degree," he informs me. We are conversing about my current (lack of) job options. "If you had learned something useful like, say, how to build a bridge, you wouldn't be in this situation."
I consider this. I am not really a bridge-building type of person.
"Or welding," he adds.
Welding? What, like with metal and fire and stuff?
"Yes, welding," he insists, even though I haven't spoken, "That's the problem these days: they don't teach you useful stuff like welding anymore."
Indeed. Well, I think it is safe to say that unless another world war breaks out and I am forced to take over from the menfolk because they have all joined the Navy, and work in a factory like Rosie the Riveter or whatever, I would probably never have considered a line of work that involved welding, anyway. And even in the World War III scenario, I probably would have volunteered for other, less fire-related jobs. Like growing turnips, or knitting socks. Darning socks. Whatever it is that one does with socks.
I must have raised my eyebrows or something because: "well, what have you learned how to do?" he challenges me. I think for a moment. Good question.
"Well, I can converse passably well in three foreign languages..." (okay, admittedly, I already knew one, so that's not very impressive and he knows it), "... and I know how to create transgenic mice... and how to calculate how much oxygen it would take to burn a certain amount of carbon... and I know Freud's opinion on a whole variety of topics... and the elements of a successful vaccine campaign..." in my head I am running through all of the myriad classes I crammed into my schedule as an undergrad, looking for something that he would think was useful (ability to comment on the significance of the Dance of the Seven Veils in "Salome"? no. extensive knowledge of the issue of maternal mortality in developing countries? meh. probably not. ability to tell you all about cognitive development and spatial relations? definitely no). I am getting a bit desperate, so I go for the next thing that comes to mind, "... also I can read medieval Catalan pretty well... even though I don't actually speak Catalan." Pfft. Nice work there, Self.
It's his turn to raise his eyebrows. He thinks for a moment.
"Maybe you should work for the CIA. You know, with the languages and stuff."
I reflect upon this. Yes. It would be kind of like in a Dan Brown book. Or like Indiana Jones, except not with the snakes and stuff. Or... something. Yeah, come to think of it... probably it would not be much like that at all.
And that's the trouble with my degree. I think it is because we are just a little too theoretical, over at [Prestigious Institute of Higher Learning]. It's not that our degrees are in completely useless subjects (I, for one, did not take a single one of the classes I mentioned in that second paragraph there). It's just that we learn the theoretical stuff that, in theory, does relate to something useful... but we don't learn the connection to said useful stuff.
For example, I can tell you all about what a PCR analysis tells you and what the different components are and everything, but can I actually physically run one? No. I know all about how the brain encodes language and how language can affect your cognitive development in other areas, but had I ever once designed a language curriculum prior to teaching this year? Nope. I can even tell you exactly what your kidneys are doing on a cellular - even molecular - level, but would I know what to do if they weren't doing it properly? Still no. So that's what's missing.
In the meantime, if no one hires me this week, perhaps I will go learn how to weld things. I'm sure it is a useful life skill. Failing that, I will use my medieval Catalan philology skills and my rudimentary knowledge of Reggiana dialect (yay Arzan!) to become a spy.
Sunday, August 30
That other time with the sciopero*
Speaking of public transportation... this one actually occurred about a week after the Viareggio episode (circa mid-July), so you'd think I'd have learned my lesson, but evidently not. I am really not very bright. Anyway, it was too much fun (and character building) to allow it to be forgotten, so...
It was when we realized that we only had a few more weekends all together in Italy that we decided to embark on some marathon daytrips for the purpose of sightseeing and becoming cultured. So one fine Saturday, guidebooks in hand, we decided to do Pisa and Lucca. I accompanied the Boys (from work) despite the fact that every time they go somewhere, it turns into an Adventure. They figured that my staid presence would prevent any calamities from befalling us, but no. It did not.
The Campo dei Miracoli in Pisa is impressive. And the tower is indeed very wonky, as advertised. Also, people (including us) probably should stop for a bit longer in Pisa and investigate the rest of it, because I think that it's actually quite nice and rather underrated. In any case, the day is very sunny and hot and we are tired, but, being energetic and enthusiastic young English teachers, we grab some sandwiches (bresaola and rucola and scaglie di grana - protein! vegetables! yay!) and hop onto the train to Lucca. Lucca is charming as well. It boasts medieval walls all the way around it which are kind of fun, some very nice piazze, impressive churches, and an old arena that was later turned into a piazza (google this if you are so inclined - it is interesting).
The one thing about which Lucca should not boast is its train station. It does not contain those ticket-y machines that enable you to buy tickets at any time of day or night without even interacting with other human beings and also give you all the possible combinations of trains to get to your destination. Instead, they have the crappy ticket machines (the ones that say rete regionale on them) which are nice if you already know what time your train is leaving at and only want to take the regionale trains. They don't tell you the schedule or where to transfer. This means that you often have to actually talk to the ticket people to get your ticket, which is fine, except that they close at 8pm.
Despite this, we are in a reasonably good mood as we walk into the train station at 9:30 - just in time for the 9:42 train to Florence which we had previously looked up online, just like responsible adults.
"Hey, what does 'sopp' mean?" asks one of my travelling companions after a moment of orienting ourselves and concluding that there is no convenient way to procure tickets.
"Sopp?" I glance at the partenze. The trains are indeed all being marked sopp, one by one. Including ours. Crap.
Sopp, for those not in the know, stands for soppresso, which is an unfortuante state of affairs. It means cancelled, so if it ever says that next to your train, it is bad. Ritardo, incidentally, means late and is also kind of unfortunate, but generally less so. I explain this to my colleagues. Also to some German tourists who spontaneously join the conversation. They are not so pleased. "Where should we go?" they ask plaintively. I shrug. Damned if I know. (And also I speak no German. Note to self: learn how to apologize in German in case it ever comes up again.) Anyway, though, I decide to go investigate.
Sciopero del personale! declares a sign on the ticket window, from 9pm today until 9pm tomorrow. Refer to personnel for more information. I translate this for the colleagues, and also the Germans, who are now following us around. I assume the sign means non-striking personnel, and we resolve to go find some, because, essentially, we need to know if any trains will get us home tonight, or if we should begin making alternative plans (buses, hostels, park benches, etc.).
It seems the non-striking personnel have all taken refuge behind a door that says "vietato, no entry, etc." Yes, well. It's getting dark and we want to go home. I knock and step in, hoping the whole I'm-a-girl-in-a-dress thing will be helpful.
It is the room where they make 'allontanarsi dalla linea gialla' announcements!! I love those announcements, and now I have seen their source. Yay. The man turns around and looks at me expectantly, and I am forced to return to the problem at hand. I apologize for disturbing him and ask him about the possibility of trains.
"Beh, forse partira' quello delle 10:50," he says noncommitally when I ask if there will be any trains to Florence.
"Ma puo' darsi che non venga?" I take a moment to congratulate myself on having used both puo' darsi (I've been working on this one) and the present subjunctive in the same sentence in what might just be a correct combination. He shrugs.
"Si, puo' darsi." So helpful. (Travel tip: If you are stuck in a train station because the trains aren't running, aim for trains that travel a long distance before your stop. This is because they will already have left, and the people will - in theory - know this, and be able to tell you. The ones that only travel 20 minutes altogether could leave at any time and you will have no forewarning. Actually... this is common sense, but I am dumb, so it seemed like a revelation at the time...)
We decide to investigate alternative options, and, an hour later, we have gathered the following information: the last bus for Florence left at 6:15pm (from Piazzale Verdi, in case you're ever in the same situation), there are no hostels in Lucca that anyone knows of, there are some very nice benches in sheltered spots on top of the aforementioned medieval walls, and there are also bats flying around above said benches, which decrease their appeal ever so slightly. There is also a concert by some famous guy (I've forgotten who it was because I have no knowledge of actual current culture) and even a group of people wandering about in medieval costume and playing drums and horns and such. This is all very nice, but we trudge back to the train station anyway, because it is getting chilly and we have already been walking around since 8 this morning.
The train is going to Florence! Yay! We board and fall promptly asleep. No one asks for tickets, which is nice, because we don't have them.
Santa Maria Novella is, in case you were ever wondering, very quiet at midnight during a strike (less so when there is not a strike). There are some parked trains, and some people milling around. The departures board is full of trains that are soppressi. It is at this point that we realize that it is going to be a long-ish night, because the next possible train is the regionale at 7:45, or the intercity at 8:29. We are undeterred (because we are young and enthusiastic, you know) and so we decide to wander about Florence in search of a restorative drink.
The Duomo looks as nice circa 1am as it usually does. Someone is playing the violin under the arcades of the Uffizi and we stop there and listen and it is one of the nicest performances I have ever heard. We have a drink in an "American Bar" but they kick us out around 3am, and it is cold. We reflect that this is maybe what being homeless is like: it seems that it more or less boils down to finding hot air vents to stand over and public bathrooms that are open at night.
We wander around a bit more until the boys spot a McDonalds. I have not been in a McDonalds since America, almost a year ago, but I can report to you now that the smell is just as unappealing as in America, and it is particularly nauseating at 4am. However, the warmth is nice and the bathroom is reasonably clean (this is good for you - people in general - to know, actually, should you ever find yourselves homeless in Florence in the dead of night: the McDonalds opposite Firenze SMN is apparently open 24/7 and you can use the bathrooms for free).
A fight breaks out in the McDonalds, and we watch this vaguely until one of the colleagues becomes concerned for my delicate female sensibilities, so we leave. In the train station, there are rats on the rails, sort of like the Paris metro at night. (So much for delicate.) We decide that the best thing to do would be to crawl onto an open train and sleep there until the morning, but there is some debate over which kind of train to choose. The eurostars are all locked, which is unfortunate. The intercity notte might be the next best choice but the intercity is not my favorite because it is always filthy and there is no ventilation in those little compartments (yes, okay, so, kind of delicate after all). There are two kinds of regionale: the nicer new ones, and the old ones, so we spend some time finding one of the newer ones. We close all of the doors and windows (in case rats can fly? boh.) and curl up. It is cold and stiff and not very comfortable, but whatever. We doze.
Circa seven am, announcements come back on, thus awakening us with the sound of more trains being soppresso'd. A creepy guy comes and stands in our train and apparently watches us sleep (I open one eye to check - like a pirate or something). This is creepy and I debate kicking one of my (big strong male) colleagues to wake him up and demand that he defend my honor and whatever. Eventually the creepy guy departs, but he leaves the door open, which means the rats could get in. I am finished sleeping.
Eventually, it transpires that the 8:29 intercity did leave Napoli this morning (see what I mean about the long distance trains?) and will indeed arrive on schedule and can even take us directly to Reggio. Huzzah! We do not feel obligated to buy tickets, and we get on it and sit in those little seats in the corridor and bend over and hang sadly with our heads on our knees. We are perhaps a smidge tired of sitting up by now. We get busted for not having tickets and are somewhat disgruntled. Unfortunately, my I've-been-mostly-awake-for-over-24-hours Italian does not extend to explaining that I just spent the night in one of their (possibly rat infested) train cars because they did not deign to run the trains last night. The boys gesture feebly. We pay for our tickets.
In Reggio, the boys and I part ways, and I trudge up the via Emilia, feeling all kinds of yucky and disheveled. The Reggiani are just emerging from the 10am church service at San Giorgio (or San Pietro? boh. the one down there near the train station) and are looking all spiffy and glamorous, per usual. I elect to take the back streets. I am not in the mood to run into any students.
The shower + food that is not McDonalds + bed combination has never felt so good.
*sciopero = strike
It was when we realized that we only had a few more weekends all together in Italy that we decided to embark on some marathon daytrips for the purpose of sightseeing and becoming cultured. So one fine Saturday, guidebooks in hand, we decided to do Pisa and Lucca. I accompanied the Boys (from work) despite the fact that every time they go somewhere, it turns into an Adventure. They figured that my staid presence would prevent any calamities from befalling us, but no. It did not.
The Campo dei Miracoli in Pisa is impressive. And the tower is indeed very wonky, as advertised. Also, people (including us) probably should stop for a bit longer in Pisa and investigate the rest of it, because I think that it's actually quite nice and rather underrated. In any case, the day is very sunny and hot and we are tired, but, being energetic and enthusiastic young English teachers, we grab some sandwiches (bresaola and rucola and scaglie di grana - protein! vegetables! yay!) and hop onto the train to Lucca. Lucca is charming as well. It boasts medieval walls all the way around it which are kind of fun, some very nice piazze, impressive churches, and an old arena that was later turned into a piazza (google this if you are so inclined - it is interesting).
The one thing about which Lucca should not boast is its train station. It does not contain those ticket-y machines that enable you to buy tickets at any time of day or night without even interacting with other human beings and also give you all the possible combinations of trains to get to your destination. Instead, they have the crappy ticket machines (the ones that say rete regionale on them) which are nice if you already know what time your train is leaving at and only want to take the regionale trains. They don't tell you the schedule or where to transfer. This means that you often have to actually talk to the ticket people to get your ticket, which is fine, except that they close at 8pm.
Despite this, we are in a reasonably good mood as we walk into the train station at 9:30 - just in time for the 9:42 train to Florence which we had previously looked up online, just like responsible adults.
"Hey, what does 'sopp' mean?" asks one of my travelling companions after a moment of orienting ourselves and concluding that there is no convenient way to procure tickets.
"Sopp?" I glance at the partenze. The trains are indeed all being marked sopp, one by one. Including ours. Crap.
Sopp, for those not in the know, stands for soppresso, which is an unfortuante state of affairs. It means cancelled, so if it ever says that next to your train, it is bad. Ritardo, incidentally, means late and is also kind of unfortunate, but generally less so. I explain this to my colleagues. Also to some German tourists who spontaneously join the conversation. They are not so pleased. "Where should we go?" they ask plaintively. I shrug. Damned if I know. (And also I speak no German. Note to self: learn how to apologize in German in case it ever comes up again.) Anyway, though, I decide to go investigate.
Sciopero del personale! declares a sign on the ticket window, from 9pm today until 9pm tomorrow. Refer to personnel for more information. I translate this for the colleagues, and also the Germans, who are now following us around. I assume the sign means non-striking personnel, and we resolve to go find some, because, essentially, we need to know if any trains will get us home tonight, or if we should begin making alternative plans (buses, hostels, park benches, etc.).
It seems the non-striking personnel have all taken refuge behind a door that says "vietato, no entry, etc." Yes, well. It's getting dark and we want to go home. I knock and step in, hoping the whole I'm-a-girl-in-a-dress thing will be helpful.
It is the room where they make 'allontanarsi dalla linea gialla' announcements!! I love those announcements, and now I have seen their source. Yay. The man turns around and looks at me expectantly, and I am forced to return to the problem at hand. I apologize for disturbing him and ask him about the possibility of trains.
"Beh, forse partira' quello delle 10:50," he says noncommitally when I ask if there will be any trains to Florence.
"Ma puo' darsi che non venga?" I take a moment to congratulate myself on having used both puo' darsi (I've been working on this one) and the present subjunctive in the same sentence in what might just be a correct combination. He shrugs.
"Si, puo' darsi." So helpful. (Travel tip: If you are stuck in a train station because the trains aren't running, aim for trains that travel a long distance before your stop. This is because they will already have left, and the people will - in theory - know this, and be able to tell you. The ones that only travel 20 minutes altogether could leave at any time and you will have no forewarning. Actually... this is common sense, but I am dumb, so it seemed like a revelation at the time...)
We decide to investigate alternative options, and, an hour later, we have gathered the following information: the last bus for Florence left at 6:15pm (from Piazzale Verdi, in case you're ever in the same situation), there are no hostels in Lucca that anyone knows of, there are some very nice benches in sheltered spots on top of the aforementioned medieval walls, and there are also bats flying around above said benches, which decrease their appeal ever so slightly. There is also a concert by some famous guy (I've forgotten who it was because I have no knowledge of actual current culture) and even a group of people wandering about in medieval costume and playing drums and horns and such. This is all very nice, but we trudge back to the train station anyway, because it is getting chilly and we have already been walking around since 8 this morning.
The train is going to Florence! Yay! We board and fall promptly asleep. No one asks for tickets, which is nice, because we don't have them.
Santa Maria Novella is, in case you were ever wondering, very quiet at midnight during a strike (less so when there is not a strike). There are some parked trains, and some people milling around. The departures board is full of trains that are soppressi. It is at this point that we realize that it is going to be a long-ish night, because the next possible train is the regionale at 7:45, or the intercity at 8:29. We are undeterred (because we are young and enthusiastic, you know) and so we decide to wander about Florence in search of a restorative drink.
The Duomo looks as nice circa 1am as it usually does. Someone is playing the violin under the arcades of the Uffizi and we stop there and listen and it is one of the nicest performances I have ever heard. We have a drink in an "American Bar" but they kick us out around 3am, and it is cold. We reflect that this is maybe what being homeless is like: it seems that it more or less boils down to finding hot air vents to stand over and public bathrooms that are open at night.
We wander around a bit more until the boys spot a McDonalds. I have not been in a McDonalds since America, almost a year ago, but I can report to you now that the smell is just as unappealing as in America, and it is particularly nauseating at 4am. However, the warmth is nice and the bathroom is reasonably clean (this is good for you - people in general - to know, actually, should you ever find yourselves homeless in Florence in the dead of night: the McDonalds opposite Firenze SMN is apparently open 24/7 and you can use the bathrooms for free).
A fight breaks out in the McDonalds, and we watch this vaguely until one of the colleagues becomes concerned for my delicate female sensibilities, so we leave. In the train station, there are rats on the rails, sort of like the Paris metro at night. (So much for delicate.) We decide that the best thing to do would be to crawl onto an open train and sleep there until the morning, but there is some debate over which kind of train to choose. The eurostars are all locked, which is unfortunate. The intercity notte might be the next best choice but the intercity is not my favorite because it is always filthy and there is no ventilation in those little compartments (yes, okay, so, kind of delicate after all). There are two kinds of regionale: the nicer new ones, and the old ones, so we spend some time finding one of the newer ones. We close all of the doors and windows (in case rats can fly? boh.) and curl up. It is cold and stiff and not very comfortable, but whatever. We doze.
Circa seven am, announcements come back on, thus awakening us with the sound of more trains being soppresso'd. A creepy guy comes and stands in our train and apparently watches us sleep (I open one eye to check - like a pirate or something). This is creepy and I debate kicking one of my (big strong male) colleagues to wake him up and demand that he defend my honor and whatever. Eventually the creepy guy departs, but he leaves the door open, which means the rats could get in. I am finished sleeping.
Eventually, it transpires that the 8:29 intercity did leave Napoli this morning (see what I mean about the long distance trains?) and will indeed arrive on schedule and can even take us directly to Reggio. Huzzah! We do not feel obligated to buy tickets, and we get on it and sit in those little seats in the corridor and bend over and hang sadly with our heads on our knees. We are perhaps a smidge tired of sitting up by now. We get busted for not having tickets and are somewhat disgruntled. Unfortunately, my I've-been-mostly-awake-for-over-24-hours Italian does not extend to explaining that I just spent the night in one of their (possibly rat infested) train cars because they did not deign to run the trains last night. The boys gesture feebly. We pay for our tickets.
In Reggio, the boys and I part ways, and I trudge up the via Emilia, feeling all kinds of yucky and disheveled. The Reggiani are just emerging from the 10am church service at San Giorgio (or San Pietro? boh. the one down there near the train station) and are looking all spiffy and glamorous, per usual. I elect to take the back streets. I am not in the mood to run into any students.
The shower + food that is not McDonalds + bed combination has never felt so good.
*sciopero = strike
Friday, August 28
America on the bus
I miss trenitalia. Even if the regionale was a bit sporco and the intercity faceva schifo, it was cheap and it enabled me to get to all kinds of places quickly. The NJ transit trains are expensive and I don't even know where they stop, so I took the bus back from NYC instead.
First of all, the port authority on 42nd street is dead creepy. Don't go there if you can help it. It makes the area around the train station in Reggio look positively charming.
Nonetheless, I plant myself in line for the bus back to Bridgewater and try not to touch anything. The Asian woman in front of me turns around.
"These kids are saving a place in line for someone," she says, gesturing at three (Spanish-speaking) children standing in front of her.
I nod politely, failing to see how that affects me.
"Personally, I don't think it's fair," she continues in an irate tone of voice. Oh, great. One of these. She is just getting started, though. "I mean, it's nice enough that we let them into the country to begin with, and then they have to go breaking the rules. I have to wait in line, so why shouldn't she?" she wraps it up by thrusting her chin in the direction of a woman seated on a bench near the line. The woman is visibly pregnant. At a guess, I'd say eight months.
Clearly, the lady in front of me is an idiot. And, anyway, hasn't she heard? America is a melting pot. Or, actually, I think it's supposed to be a tossed salad or something, these days. It was a melting pot when I was a kid, though.
Eventually, we board the bus. I huddle into the seat against the cold. Probably I will have hypothermia by the time we get there - my toes are already numb by the time we reach the Lincoln tunnel. I start listening to the conversation of the guy behind me to distract myself, but this turns out to be a mistake because he is obviously a college student, his girlfriend (to whom he is presumably talking) seems to possess about as much intelligence as a teaspoon, and, after a brief anecdote about how he woke up on someone's couch in a puddle of vomit this weekend (lovely, and definitely the kind of story I would tell my girlfriend, if I were a man), their conversation is centered around some drama involving the room the girlfriend is renting this year. It seems that she was promised one room, but she hasn't signed the lease yet, and now they are trying to put her into another room instead. The boyfriend is urging her to call the landlord to check that she is getting the room she wants, but for some reason she does not agree with this solution.
"But, baby, you're getting over stressed about it. All you have to do, baby, is call the guy. Here. Baby, get a pen. Write this down..." he begins to dictate a potential conversation with the landlord. I don't fully understand why this is necessary (it is not a complex situation) but whatever. Forty-five minutes later, though, they are still on the same topic of conversation, he appears to be arguing himself in circles, the girl is apparently crying, and I am beginning to be annoyed. They both need to get some perspective. There are people starving in China. Or somewhere.
He gets off at Scotch Plains, approximately three seconds before I was planning to turn around, grab the phone and yell "for the love of god, "baby", get a grip and call your damn landlord before I smack your boyfriend here.' I am torn: on one hand, it is bliss not to be party to their inane conversation anymore, but on the other hand, I am (very vaguely) curious about whether or not she would have eventually grown a spine and called the landlord, script in hand. There's another one who's going to do well with real life.
I revel in the silence for approximately three seconds before the Latino kids from before start shrieking joyfully. I love kids. And I love the melting soup/garden salad/whatever food-related image we use for diversity now. And clearly pregnant people are tired and have lots on their mind. But also it would be nice if they taught their children that there are times and places in which it is inappropriate to shriek. Public buses circa 11pm are one of them.
A alcohol-smelling guy gets on in Parsippany. I note that places in America have weird names. (Think about it. Parsippany. I cannot figure out the origin of that.) I wiggle my toes experimentally. They're not blue yet, so that's nice. Next time I will bring socks. Or suck it up and deal with driving in Manhattan. Maybe. I am not a very good driver.
At the next stop, two guys in ridiculously baggy clothes get off (good to know that fad is still going strong). One is listening to his i-pod, ear thingies lodged deep within his ear. I can make out the actual words of the rap song to which he is listening, which is not a good sign for his continued ability to hear properly. I idly picture the little sensory cells in his ear canal and wince.
Eventually, it occurs to me that I am as snobby as the Asian woman from the line. I would say that at least I don't go around voicing my condescension, but here I am. And I even had to look up how to spell 'condescension'. Sigh...
First of all, the port authority on 42nd street is dead creepy. Don't go there if you can help it. It makes the area around the train station in Reggio look positively charming.
Nonetheless, I plant myself in line for the bus back to Bridgewater and try not to touch anything. The Asian woman in front of me turns around.
"These kids are saving a place in line for someone," she says, gesturing at three (Spanish-speaking) children standing in front of her.
I nod politely, failing to see how that affects me.
"Personally, I don't think it's fair," she continues in an irate tone of voice. Oh, great. One of these. She is just getting started, though. "I mean, it's nice enough that we let them into the country to begin with, and then they have to go breaking the rules. I have to wait in line, so why shouldn't she?" she wraps it up by thrusting her chin in the direction of a woman seated on a bench near the line. The woman is visibly pregnant. At a guess, I'd say eight months.
Clearly, the lady in front of me is an idiot. And, anyway, hasn't she heard? America is a melting pot. Or, actually, I think it's supposed to be a tossed salad or something, these days. It was a melting pot when I was a kid, though.
Eventually, we board the bus. I huddle into the seat against the cold. Probably I will have hypothermia by the time we get there - my toes are already numb by the time we reach the Lincoln tunnel. I start listening to the conversation of the guy behind me to distract myself, but this turns out to be a mistake because he is obviously a college student, his girlfriend (to whom he is presumably talking) seems to possess about as much intelligence as a teaspoon, and, after a brief anecdote about how he woke up on someone's couch in a puddle of vomit this weekend (lovely, and definitely the kind of story I would tell my girlfriend, if I were a man), their conversation is centered around some drama involving the room the girlfriend is renting this year. It seems that she was promised one room, but she hasn't signed the lease yet, and now they are trying to put her into another room instead. The boyfriend is urging her to call the landlord to check that she is getting the room she wants, but for some reason she does not agree with this solution.
"But, baby, you're getting over stressed about it. All you have to do, baby, is call the guy. Here. Baby, get a pen. Write this down..." he begins to dictate a potential conversation with the landlord. I don't fully understand why this is necessary (it is not a complex situation) but whatever. Forty-five minutes later, though, they are still on the same topic of conversation, he appears to be arguing himself in circles, the girl is apparently crying, and I am beginning to be annoyed. They both need to get some perspective. There are people starving in China. Or somewhere.
He gets off at Scotch Plains, approximately three seconds before I was planning to turn around, grab the phone and yell "for the love of god, "baby", get a grip and call your damn landlord before I smack your boyfriend here.' I am torn: on one hand, it is bliss not to be party to their inane conversation anymore, but on the other hand, I am (very vaguely) curious about whether or not she would have eventually grown a spine and called the landlord, script in hand. There's another one who's going to do well with real life.
I revel in the silence for approximately three seconds before the Latino kids from before start shrieking joyfully. I love kids. And I love the melting soup/garden salad/whatever food-related image we use for diversity now. And clearly pregnant people are tired and have lots on their mind. But also it would be nice if they taught their children that there are times and places in which it is inappropriate to shriek. Public buses circa 11pm are one of them.
A alcohol-smelling guy gets on in Parsippany. I note that places in America have weird names. (Think about it. Parsippany. I cannot figure out the origin of that.) I wiggle my toes experimentally. They're not blue yet, so that's nice. Next time I will bring socks. Or suck it up and deal with driving in Manhattan. Maybe. I am not a very good driver.
At the next stop, two guys in ridiculously baggy clothes get off (good to know that fad is still going strong). One is listening to his i-pod, ear thingies lodged deep within his ear. I can make out the actual words of the rap song to which he is listening, which is not a good sign for his continued ability to hear properly. I idly picture the little sensory cells in his ear canal and wince.
Eventually, it occurs to me that I am as snobby as the Asian woman from the line. I would say that at least I don't go around voicing my condescension, but here I am. And I even had to look up how to spell 'condescension'. Sigh...
Thursday, August 27
The supermarket is depressing
I remember a time, probably in high school, when I used to study a lot and not do much else, so my only hope of getting out of the house was often a trip to the supermarket with my mother. The benefits of this were twofold: a.) I could read a book (for fun!) on the way there, and b.) I had a say in what food we bought. It was all very fun. Post-Italy, it's a little different.
The parking lot of Shop Rite has not changed a bit. They still cannot spell (what was wrong with calling it Shop Right? it's kind of a stupid name either way, and was the one additional letter so costly?) and the parking lot is full of Americans in various states of obesity and unfortunate wardrobe choices. Welcome home, Self. I personally am a horrible dresser, so I really shouldn't criticize, but still. Some things were just not meant to be worn out of the house, even in America. I myself have sort of adjusted halfway to being back: I am wearing flip-flops, but with a dress that is not a nightgown and is therefore too much for Shop Rite.
We walk into the vestibule and gusts of frigid air billow out at us every time the door closes. My exposed limbs are sad, and I run back to my mother's car and return armed with a heavy sweater that you'd think would be appropriate for October.
There are a lot of types of apples in America. That's nice. Also the blueberries are significantly cheaper. The tomatoes are guaranteed not to be as good and that is sad. We buy some anyway. Perhaps I will attempt to make sauce again. Goodness only knows how that will go, but it can't be any worse than Chef Boyardee and whatever other crap is stored by the gallon in the sauce and condiments aisle.
Speaking of which, other things that are gross: "French" dressing. It is not French, and, in my opinion, not fit to be put on salad. Ditto "Italian" dressing. Ditto anything that comes out of a spray-paint-type can. And speaking of that, spray-on cheese (excuse me: cheez) and spray-on whipped cream. I roll faster through that aisle.
Ooh, the Italian food section! This contains parmesan that was made in Wisconsin, exorbitantly priced sausage, some apparently genuine (but expensive) grana padano, and some pancetta a cubetti. This is a nice surprise, and will be helpful for making either carbonara or amatriciana - it's hard to tell which, because it does not tell you whether the pancetta is dolce or smoked. I pass by the French section quickly, noting that it is in a similar state of affairs (and has been for years): Brie from Wisconsin and still no creme fraiche. I do not understand how there can be such a wide variety of products in the dairy/egg section (liquid eggs? what, because you can't beat them yourself? really?) and yet it has never occurred to anyone to import some creme fraiche. Or make it in Wisconsin.
Vats of artificial-looking vegetable oil, cereal boxes into which you could probably fit a small child if you needed to, similarly sized bags of chips (crisps!), and garishly colored "fruit snacks" follow. I emerge from the supermarket with rye bread, grapes (no seeds!!), some mediocre-looking tomatoes, and a jar of mild salsa. My mother raises her eyebrows as I deposit it into the trunk and help her with whatever she bought.
"Salsa?" she asks.
"Yeah. I like salsa. It's refreshing," I explain.
"But don't you need chips or something to put it on?"
"Oh," I say. "Yeah, I guess. I forgot about that." I am evidently still slightly disoriented. Maybe it's the fuso orario. Or something.
In any case, my toes are just thawing again in the warm humidity of NJ in August, and I have no intention of venturing back into the nuclear winter just for a bag of chips.
"We'll make tacos or something this weekend," my mother says in a consoling tone of voice. "We'll buy the boys a pizza or something," she adds as we drive past the local pizza place. (My brother and father do not like tacos.)
The smell of goopy cheese drifts in through the open windows and I glance at all of the people with their huge pizza boxes emerging from the pizza place and getting into their huge cars.
Sigh.
The parking lot of Shop Rite has not changed a bit. They still cannot spell (what was wrong with calling it Shop Right? it's kind of a stupid name either way, and was the one additional letter so costly?) and the parking lot is full of Americans in various states of obesity and unfortunate wardrobe choices. Welcome home, Self. I personally am a horrible dresser, so I really shouldn't criticize, but still. Some things were just not meant to be worn out of the house, even in America. I myself have sort of adjusted halfway to being back: I am wearing flip-flops, but with a dress that is not a nightgown and is therefore too much for Shop Rite.
We walk into the vestibule and gusts of frigid air billow out at us every time the door closes. My exposed limbs are sad, and I run back to my mother's car and return armed with a heavy sweater that you'd think would be appropriate for October.
There are a lot of types of apples in America. That's nice. Also the blueberries are significantly cheaper. The tomatoes are guaranteed not to be as good and that is sad. We buy some anyway. Perhaps I will attempt to make sauce again. Goodness only knows how that will go, but it can't be any worse than Chef Boyardee and whatever other crap is stored by the gallon in the sauce and condiments aisle.
Speaking of which, other things that are gross: "French" dressing. It is not French, and, in my opinion, not fit to be put on salad. Ditto "Italian" dressing. Ditto anything that comes out of a spray-paint-type can. And speaking of that, spray-on cheese (excuse me: cheez) and spray-on whipped cream. I roll faster through that aisle.
Ooh, the Italian food section! This contains parmesan that was made in Wisconsin, exorbitantly priced sausage, some apparently genuine (but expensive) grana padano, and some pancetta a cubetti. This is a nice surprise, and will be helpful for making either carbonara or amatriciana - it's hard to tell which, because it does not tell you whether the pancetta is dolce or smoked. I pass by the French section quickly, noting that it is in a similar state of affairs (and has been for years): Brie from Wisconsin and still no creme fraiche. I do not understand how there can be such a wide variety of products in the dairy/egg section (liquid eggs? what, because you can't beat them yourself? really?) and yet it has never occurred to anyone to import some creme fraiche. Or make it in Wisconsin.
Vats of artificial-looking vegetable oil, cereal boxes into which you could probably fit a small child if you needed to, similarly sized bags of chips (crisps!), and garishly colored "fruit snacks" follow. I emerge from the supermarket with rye bread, grapes (no seeds!!), some mediocre-looking tomatoes, and a jar of mild salsa. My mother raises her eyebrows as I deposit it into the trunk and help her with whatever she bought.
"Salsa?" she asks.
"Yeah. I like salsa. It's refreshing," I explain.
"But don't you need chips or something to put it on?"
"Oh," I say. "Yeah, I guess. I forgot about that." I am evidently still slightly disoriented. Maybe it's the fuso orario. Or something.
In any case, my toes are just thawing again in the warm humidity of NJ in August, and I have no intention of venturing back into the nuclear winter just for a bag of chips.
"We'll make tacos or something this weekend," my mother says in a consoling tone of voice. "We'll buy the boys a pizza or something," she adds as we drive past the local pizza place. (My brother and father do not like tacos.)
The smell of goopy cheese drifts in through the open windows and I glance at all of the people with their huge pizza boxes emerging from the pizza place and getting into their huge cars.
Sigh.
Wednesday, August 26
Ciao, America : /
Things that I did not miss about suburbia:
1. Suburbia.
2. Suburbia. Yesterday I woke up and applied to some jobs. Then I did some laundry. Then I ate lunch (read searched the kitchen for something appealing, did not find it, and finally ended up chewing morosely on some stale bread). After that, I wondered what to do with myself. I considered my options: the library. Walking down to the river. Grocery shopping. The library... oh, wait. Yeah, that's pretty much it.
3. American food. This could be the start of an excellent new weight loss program.
4. The rabid air conditioning. Everyone ever who has come from Europe to the States has commented on this, so I won't but... seriously. What the hell? And here I thought there was an energy crisis...
5. The New Jersey accent. Ditto for Queens, Brooklyn and Long Island. Also Boston, but we don't have much of that around here. Sorry guys, but we just do not sound good. I vote we all have a nice soft Yorkshire accent surgically implanted instead. At least that would be entertaining...
6. Telemarketers. Perhaps this is just a product of not having had a fisso in Italy, but... or, actually, wait, no. We did have one. And it rang precisely once a day: when Roomie-on-the-left's mother called. E basta. Here it is 2pm and I have so far fielded six calls, only one of them actually useful.
Okay, probably that's enough with the beating up on the homeland. I'm sure it's doing its best. To console it...
Things that are nice to see again (dare I say that I actually missed something about America?):
1. The library and it's endless supply of easy-to-read books.
2. Similarly, Borders.
3. Hearing the wind in the trees outside my bedroom window. (The crickets, less so.)
4. A very limited number of food products which, thus far, include rye bread, seedless grapes, iced green tea, and cheddar cheese.
Anyway... ciao, America. I'm back.
1. Suburbia.
2. Suburbia. Yesterday I woke up and applied to some jobs. Then I did some laundry. Then I ate lunch (read searched the kitchen for something appealing, did not find it, and finally ended up chewing morosely on some stale bread). After that, I wondered what to do with myself. I considered my options: the library. Walking down to the river. Grocery shopping. The library... oh, wait. Yeah, that's pretty much it.
3. American food. This could be the start of an excellent new weight loss program.
4. The rabid air conditioning. Everyone ever who has come from Europe to the States has commented on this, so I won't but... seriously. What the hell? And here I thought there was an energy crisis...
5. The New Jersey accent. Ditto for Queens, Brooklyn and Long Island. Also Boston, but we don't have much of that around here. Sorry guys, but we just do not sound good. I vote we all have a nice soft Yorkshire accent surgically implanted instead. At least that would be entertaining...
6. Telemarketers. Perhaps this is just a product of not having had a fisso in Italy, but... or, actually, wait, no. We did have one. And it rang precisely once a day: when Roomie-on-the-left's mother called. E basta. Here it is 2pm and I have so far fielded six calls, only one of them actually useful.
Okay, probably that's enough with the beating up on the homeland. I'm sure it's doing its best. To console it...
Things that are nice to see again (dare I say that I actually missed something about America?):
1. The library and it's endless supply of easy-to-read books.
2. Similarly, Borders.
3. Hearing the wind in the trees outside my bedroom window. (The crickets, less so.)
4. A very limited number of food products which, thus far, include rye bread, seedless grapes, iced green tea, and cheddar cheese.
Anyway... ciao, America. I'm back.
Thursday, August 20
That time with the sheets
While we're on the topic of grammar and other types of information with very little practical use...
"Sheets?" says my boss upon overhearing my conversation with another teacher. We've been in Italy for a week or two and have now moved out of the temporary apartment (into Creepy Guy Apartment, in my case) and are discussing our lack of basic housewares. I have been sleeping on a (starchy) mattress protector and under a (thin) towel. The mattress cover is itchy and the towel is not a very good blanket.
"You can buy those at Zara Home," she continues. "At Petali. It's just up the road a bit, like five minutes by car."
Which conveniently overlooks the fact that neither of us possesses a car and she has already informed us that taking the school cars out for fun is verboten.
We trudge to Petali on the side of the road. The sun is kind of hot. Italian men seem to feel that it's okay to beep their horns at us as they go by. (We elect to feel amused rather than degraded.)
We enter Zara Home and laugh. Our boss is a hilarious woman. She sends us on a "five minute drive" on foot to a place where they sell things that we cannot really afford on the puny salary she pays us. We do not have a Zara Home type salary. It's more of a Wal-mart salary. Ikea on a good day. We trudge back.
"Maybe at Meridiana," recommends someone else, helpfully pointing out where that is on a map. Did you know they have a large-ish road named for JFK just outside of Reggio? And on it, there is the Meridiana shopping center, in which there is a large-ish supermarket which contains sheets in a number of basic colors.
The next day I trudge out to there on foot, as I don't yet understand the bus system. It is not a particularly pleasant walk, but whatever. Also it is kind of long. But whatever. There are sheets.
"Lenzuole!" I read proudly to myself, very pleased that I have managed to remember what this means. (Also the picture on the front is a good clue.) Having been in Italy for a week, I have decided to strike out on my own, minus my little dictionary, so any vocabulary I use will have to come from my own head. The dictionary was Italian-French, anyway, which lead to mild confusion at times. Still, though, it was reassuring.
I assiduously read several different packages of sheets. Some say "1 piazza" and some say "2 piazze". I am stumped. I translate the labels into French (leftover habit from the dictionary, I guess) but "piazza" is tricky. Because it could either mean "place" or it could mean "piece", just because they kind of sound the same. In scenario A, this would mean that "2 piazze" means a bigger bed, for two people. If it means "piece", then "1 piazza" contains one sheet and you have to buy them separately, whereas "2 piazze" means you have both in that package. I ponder this for a while.
Probably the logical thing to do would be to go ask someone, using my dictionary-less, somewhat rusty Italian. My Italian at that point is still more suited to writing commentary on intertextuality in Dante than to actually conversing with real people in this century, though, and so I stare at the sheets some more.
Being fresh from a semester's worth of advanced hisorical romance linguistics, it occurs to me to trace the Italian words back up to their Latin roots and then down again to modern French. It would be just like an exercise from class! Or so I tell myself. In reality, I almost always screwed those exercises up because they work much better if you actually know Latin. But whatever, I think to myself.
And that is how I found myself scribbling notes about palatalization on the back of a receipt in the middle of an Iper-Sigma.
"Hai bisogno?" says a guy in an Iper-Sigma uniform at one point.
I look up from my receipt, trying very hard to remember why "piece" has a palatalized /pj/ like Italian tends to do and "place" has a regular French /pl/.
"No, no, grazie... " I mumble vaguely at him, probably kind of staring into space. (Another moment of spectacular grace and poise for me.)
Shortly thereafter, I conclude that applying medieval language development patterns to the purchase of modern day bedlinens does not work particularly well. Especially when you can't remember the patterns to begin with. I go for math instead: there are measurements in centimeters on the back. This turns out not to be a good move because I suck at math.
I start by converting to inches, which requires me to divide by 2.54, which is already far beyond my mathematical capabilities. Eventually, I remember that I do have a decent idea what a meter is, and that I therefore don't really need convert to inches. I try to picture in my head the length of the sheet and then the length of a bed, until it occurs to me that the length is not really up for debate. So I find the width measurement (which takes a while because I am retarded) and picture that instead. I picture the width of a double bed... and the width of a single bed... and already it is too many pictures. I am not a visual person. I give up.
Logic, I decide, is the answer. There is no other information on these sheets, ergo "piazza" must refer to the size, because they have to mention the size somewhere. I buy some "1 piazza" sheets in a relatively innocuous shade of blue. I trudge home under the hot September sun. They fit.
It is so pleasant to own sheets that I am able to overlook the fact that I still don't have a pillow, which kind of makes my neck stiff, which makes me think I have meningitis every morning and run, all panicked, to the dictionary, to look that up in Italian (meningite... there's one where the Latin would've worked out just fine).
It's funny the odd kinds of things you end up having trouble with when you move to another country. People are always warning you about the "culture shock" and stuff like that, but really it's other stuff that's trickier.
"Sheets?" says my boss upon overhearing my conversation with another teacher. We've been in Italy for a week or two and have now moved out of the temporary apartment (into Creepy Guy Apartment, in my case) and are discussing our lack of basic housewares. I have been sleeping on a (starchy) mattress protector and under a (thin) towel. The mattress cover is itchy and the towel is not a very good blanket.
"You can buy those at Zara Home," she continues. "At Petali. It's just up the road a bit, like five minutes by car."
Which conveniently overlooks the fact that neither of us possesses a car and she has already informed us that taking the school cars out for fun is verboten.
We trudge to Petali on the side of the road. The sun is kind of hot. Italian men seem to feel that it's okay to beep their horns at us as they go by. (We elect to feel amused rather than degraded.)
We enter Zara Home and laugh. Our boss is a hilarious woman. She sends us on a "five minute drive" on foot to a place where they sell things that we cannot really afford on the puny salary she pays us. We do not have a Zara Home type salary. It's more of a Wal-mart salary. Ikea on a good day. We trudge back.
"Maybe at Meridiana," recommends someone else, helpfully pointing out where that is on a map. Did you know they have a large-ish road named for JFK just outside of Reggio? And on it, there is the Meridiana shopping center, in which there is a large-ish supermarket which contains sheets in a number of basic colors.
The next day I trudge out to there on foot, as I don't yet understand the bus system. It is not a particularly pleasant walk, but whatever. Also it is kind of long. But whatever. There are sheets.
"Lenzuole!" I read proudly to myself, very pleased that I have managed to remember what this means. (Also the picture on the front is a good clue.) Having been in Italy for a week, I have decided to strike out on my own, minus my little dictionary, so any vocabulary I use will have to come from my own head. The dictionary was Italian-French, anyway, which lead to mild confusion at times. Still, though, it was reassuring.
I assiduously read several different packages of sheets. Some say "1 piazza" and some say "2 piazze". I am stumped. I translate the labels into French (leftover habit from the dictionary, I guess) but "piazza" is tricky. Because it could either mean "place" or it could mean "piece", just because they kind of sound the same. In scenario A, this would mean that "2 piazze" means a bigger bed, for two people. If it means "piece", then "1 piazza" contains one sheet and you have to buy them separately, whereas "2 piazze" means you have both in that package. I ponder this for a while.
Probably the logical thing to do would be to go ask someone, using my dictionary-less, somewhat rusty Italian. My Italian at that point is still more suited to writing commentary on intertextuality in Dante than to actually conversing with real people in this century, though, and so I stare at the sheets some more.
Being fresh from a semester's worth of advanced hisorical romance linguistics, it occurs to me to trace the Italian words back up to their Latin roots and then down again to modern French. It would be just like an exercise from class! Or so I tell myself. In reality, I almost always screwed those exercises up because they work much better if you actually know Latin. But whatever, I think to myself.
And that is how I found myself scribbling notes about palatalization on the back of a receipt in the middle of an Iper-Sigma.
"Hai bisogno?" says a guy in an Iper-Sigma uniform at one point.
I look up from my receipt, trying very hard to remember why "piece" has a palatalized /pj/ like Italian tends to do and "place" has a regular French /pl/.
"No, no, grazie... " I mumble vaguely at him, probably kind of staring into space. (Another moment of spectacular grace and poise for me.)
Shortly thereafter, I conclude that applying medieval language development patterns to the purchase of modern day bedlinens does not work particularly well. Especially when you can't remember the patterns to begin with. I go for math instead: there are measurements in centimeters on the back. This turns out not to be a good move because I suck at math.
I start by converting to inches, which requires me to divide by 2.54, which is already far beyond my mathematical capabilities. Eventually, I remember that I do have a decent idea what a meter is, and that I therefore don't really need convert to inches. I try to picture in my head the length of the sheet and then the length of a bed, until it occurs to me that the length is not really up for debate. So I find the width measurement (which takes a while because I am retarded) and picture that instead. I picture the width of a double bed... and the width of a single bed... and already it is too many pictures. I am not a visual person. I give up.
Logic, I decide, is the answer. There is no other information on these sheets, ergo "piazza" must refer to the size, because they have to mention the size somewhere. I buy some "1 piazza" sheets in a relatively innocuous shade of blue. I trudge home under the hot September sun. They fit.
It is so pleasant to own sheets that I am able to overlook the fact that I still don't have a pillow, which kind of makes my neck stiff, which makes me think I have meningitis every morning and run, all panicked, to the dictionary, to look that up in Italian (meningite... there's one where the Latin would've worked out just fine).
It's funny the odd kinds of things you end up having trouble with when you move to another country. People are always warning you about the "culture shock" and stuff like that, but really it's other stuff that's trickier.
Monday, August 17
Grammar
If I get into medical school, the first thing I am going to do when I get there is march into the admissions office and ask to see the person who writes the content for their website. Then I will inform him or her that every single time they write "please respond in X characters or less" it makes something in my tummy get all twisty. I mean, presumably the person who writes the supplemental applications is educated, no? Perhaps he or she is even an MD. Or a PhD. So why is it that they don't know about grammar? This is not a difficult concept, people: less is for things that can't be counted (e.g. sugar, coffee, sand) and for things that can be counted (e.g. chairs, bananas, grains of sugar, cups of coffee, not to mention words and characters) you use FEWER.
Rant provoked by the fact that I caved in and filled out the Newark application today. I bet you I will get in there and only there. If this happens, I may defect from the land of useful careers and go off to study linguistics and become an ivory tower type person who teaches a ridiculously boring and abstruse (yeah, see, check out my mad ivory tower vocabulary skills) class every second Tuesday and spends the rest of her time poring over medieval manuscripts in search of wayward diacritical marks.
Okay, admittedly, I don't 100% remember what diacritical marks are. They are either accents or some sort of punctuation. Hm... now I am curious. Perhaps I really was better suited to ivory tower life. You can even do fun experiments with little kids... which sounds a lot more sinister than it actually was...
Anyway. Yesterday I walked from here in the Kremlin-Bicetre all the way up Rue Monge and then past Beaubourg to the Marais and then to Place de la Republique, back down Rue Lafayette and back home via the opera, the Tuileries, the Pont des Arts and St. Michel. I really hope that was a lot of miles because now my legs are sore, and it would be sad indeed if my legs got sore after, like, 3 miles or something.
Now I am off to go pose for my grandmother, who feels the need to resurrect her drawing skills and use them on me, doubtless while telling me about all the children who have had something calamitous befall them in the past twenty-four hours. Pity that I did not inherit any of the artistic skills. Then I could be a tortured starving artist in a garret in Montmartre or the Latin Quarter or something and that would be funny.
P.S. Yeah, I looked it up. Diacritical marks are accents, also known as ancillary glyphs. Hee. Also, it is apparently 5-6 kilometers from here to that part of Paris. Hm. Even counting the walk back... still kind of wimpy. Sigh.
Rant provoked by the fact that I caved in and filled out the Newark application today. I bet you I will get in there and only there. If this happens, I may defect from the land of useful careers and go off to study linguistics and become an ivory tower type person who teaches a ridiculously boring and abstruse (yeah, see, check out my mad ivory tower vocabulary skills) class every second Tuesday and spends the rest of her time poring over medieval manuscripts in search of wayward diacritical marks.
Okay, admittedly, I don't 100% remember what diacritical marks are. They are either accents or some sort of punctuation. Hm... now I am curious. Perhaps I really was better suited to ivory tower life. You can even do fun experiments with little kids... which sounds a lot more sinister than it actually was...
Anyway. Yesterday I walked from here in the Kremlin-Bicetre all the way up Rue Monge and then past Beaubourg to the Marais and then to Place de la Republique, back down Rue Lafayette and back home via the opera, the Tuileries, the Pont des Arts and St. Michel. I really hope that was a lot of miles because now my legs are sore, and it would be sad indeed if my legs got sore after, like, 3 miles or something.
Now I am off to go pose for my grandmother, who feels the need to resurrect her drawing skills and use them on me, doubtless while telling me about all the children who have had something calamitous befall them in the past twenty-four hours. Pity that I did not inherit any of the artistic skills. Then I could be a tortured starving artist in a garret in Montmartre or the Latin Quarter or something and that would be funny.
P.S. Yeah, I looked it up. Diacritical marks are accents, also known as ancillary glyphs. Hee. Also, it is apparently 5-6 kilometers from here to that part of Paris. Hm. Even counting the walk back... still kind of wimpy. Sigh.
Saturday, August 15
That one time with the mattress
In honor of spending time with beloved family members... the story of the time I helped my grandmother buy a mattress. Like most traumatic experiences, it is a little bit seared into my memory.
"It's very important for your health, you know - how moelleux (soft) the mattress is. If it's too soft, you will sink in and your backbone will not be properly aligned while you sleep, but if it's too firm, you will get sore. For example, my back gets sore. And my pelvis. Especially since I had your mother!" my grandmother wraps up her lecture on mattress firmness with a fun fact as we step out of the elevator onto the home furnishings floor.
I nod and sigh (I've already been with her all morning and I'm nearing the end of my patience) and let my eyes drift slowly out of focus as she flips her cane upside down and uses the handle to prod the nearest mattress.
"Too soft!" she proclaims loudly. A pregnant woman nearby makes the mistake of looking up.
"Yes, too soft," repeats my grandmother authoritatively, "especially for you, Miss. Now, when you have your baby, do you plan to let it sleep in the bed with you? Because, you know, children can suffocate very easily. Can you imagine? Especially when you're very tired, you could easily just roll over and... if the mattress is too soft... I tell my granddaughter this all the time - she has two small children, you know - but she doesn't listen. I just hope... little Pierre..." she trails off mournfully, although it should be noted that little Pierre is, to the best of my knowledge, still in perfectly good health. The young woman pulls out a cell phone and turns away. I don't blame her.
However, I happen to know my grandmother's stance on pregnant women and cell phones, so I attempt to distract her by asking her opinion of another mattress (too firm). In vain. She snags the nearest sales assistant, a guy who doesn't look much older than me. I bring my eyes into focus just long enough to size him up. He looks far too nice. He's no match for her.
"Young man!" she begins emphatically. "Now, I know it's none of my business (no kidding), but, perhaps, being a member of the staff, it would be more appropriate for you to tell her..."
He raises his eyebrows, clearly perplexed.
"Well, someone should explain to that young woman that it's not a good idea to use a cell phone while she's pregnant - the radiation, you know: it could damage the fetus. I saw a program on tv..."
I cut her off, suggesting that perhaps the young man doesn't need to know what she saw on tv, given that his job is just to sell mattresses.
"Nonsense!" she interrupts, thumping her cane emphatically on the floor. "My granddaughter here thinks a lot of what I say is ridiculous, but she's too young! She doesn't know. I've been through the war, you know. And anyway," she turns to me, "the young man does need to know about this program. It was a very good program, very informative. For example, monsieur here should really not keep his cell phone in his pocket: the radiation is much too close to his... well, you know... let's just say it's better for his fertility if he doesn't keep his cell phone in his pocket. I hope I'm not being too indiscreet..." she smiles conspiratorially at the young man.
"No, no, of course not," he murmurs as he starts to back away, his cheeks bright pink. I try not to laugh as he mumbles something about his colleague being more qualified...
Moments later, a no-nonsense, infallibly polite Parisienne has seated us in front of her desk and seems prepared to field any and all questions and comments about mattresses, cell phones, pregnancy, and whatever else might come up. I figure she will be unlikely to need my help and crack open the paperback I've been carrying around for just such an occasion. The woman pauses in her list of mattress-varieties to give me a reproachful Look: you crude foreigner. How can you even think of reading when you're having such a nice outing with your charming grandmother. Young people these days!
Yes, well. Filial piety is all well and good in theory, but she hasn't even been speaking to my grandmother for five minutes yet.
I look up about twenty pages later. "... because of my pelvis, you see. Children, you know. You know that before I had my daughter, my pelvis was in perfectly good shape and I was studying fine arts. I did sculpture, and painting, and ink drawings, you know. But then my husband got me pregnant and he wouldn't let me continue school, and now when it rains, my bones..."
I smile to myself and go back to my book.
Another few pages later, I am wrenched back out of my book by a sharp jab to the ribs.
"Because my granddaughter here refuses to have a hip x-ray done, right?" I nod automatically and glance up at the saleslady as my grandmother cackles merrily. The saleslady's eyes are looking a bit glazed, and her mouth is hanging slightly open as she continues to nod occasionally.
"Have you had an x-ray done, Madame?" asks my grandmother solicitously, peering under the desk at the poor woman's legs. "Also you should get a blood test to get your sugar checked. Now, I'm lucky, because even though I have a lot of cholesterol, it's mostly good cholesterol. My son, on the other hand, has very high blood sugar. Practically diabetic. So we told him to eat less sugar, but lately he looks positively scrawny... I think his wife is probably starving him. I never really trusted that woman anyway..."
The saleslady doesn't react except to nod vaguely, so my grandmother thumps her cane for emphasis. I repress a snort of laughter and go back to the book.
The next time I look up, another good twenty pages later, my grandmother is spiritedly recounting the story of the time during the war when she biked from Paris to Lyonne alone with only a sack of oranges which she planned to either eat or use to clout any bothersome Germans. Perhaps it's time to intervene. Anyway, the saleslady is staring at me imploringly. Sure, I want to say, *now* you want my help.
But I am getting hungry and eventually the store will be closing, so I hustle my grandmother through several mattress-related choices. We only spend about five minutes on each issue, so that's good, anyway. For example: white or cream? I don't really see how it can possibly matter, given that mattresses are generally covered with sheets and things, but whatever. I am past caring.
My grandmother is still advising the woman not to give personal information or, indeed, any significant kind of information over the phone, because you never know who could be listening, as we get back on the elevator. I breath a sigh of relief. But no. We are not done. "I just need to stop in the Fnac (a bookstore like Borders or the Feltrinelli) and..." I tune her out, trying to locate my sanity and drag it out of wherever it is hiding.
We step out of the elevator in the basement and she grabs the sleeve of the nearest available salesperson. Jean-Pierre, his tag reads. Poor Jean-Pierre.
"I saw this great program on tv the other day," my grandmother begins. Great. "On channel five," she clarifies, "about African music."
The sales guy nods expectantly.
"Did you see it?" she asks conversationally.
"Um..." he says, and finally: "well, I don't watch tv much..."
"Ah, beh, vous avez tort," she informs him, "channel five does a lot of great programs. I saw one about Thailand the other day that-"
"The CD," I remind her, through gritted teeth.
"Yes, I'd like to buy the CD of the singer I saw on tv. I don't remember his name, exactly, but I drew a sketch of him..." she roots through her purse and finally pulls out a used envelope on the back of which, effectivement, she has sketched a rather vague portrait of what is evidently a singer. Another sales guy has joined the first and they look at the envelope together.
"Ah, oui, beh, vous dessinez bien, dites-donc, Madame," comments one (you draw really well). Bad move, buddy. Insert entire monologue on les Beaux Arts (prestigious fine arts school) and how she met her husband there, and wrapping up with my mother and the pelvis. Both sales guys look back and forth from me to her in disbelief. I am just about to wander off and throw myself under a bus when she shoves the envelope into my hands, to facilitate illustrative gesturing. I turn it over.
"Is this the guy's name?" I ask, pointing to a scribbled, African-looking name in the corner.
"Ah, mais oui! Voila! My granddaughter's very smart, you know!" crows my grandmother, "but you can't have her, because she lives far away. In America. Except for a while she lived in Italy, but..." Now I really want to throw myself under a bus. Nonetheless, the two guys flash me grateful smiles and turn around to investigate on the computer, in the shelves... anywhere that lets them laugh out of our sight.
"Okay, and which album will you be wanting? He has nine," announces one upon returning. My grandmother looks at him as if he were daft. I absently take a sip from my bottle of Vittel. This should be funny.
"Well, the one I saw on tv, of course."
I try to choke discreetly. My grandmother thwacks me enthusiastically on the back with a shopping bag, and I narrowly miss falling over the clerks' desk. Sadly, I am still conscious. However, the slightly older clerk returns and apparently decides to take the situation in hand.
"When did you see the program?"
"On February 5th. I remember because it was the day before I called my niece to tell her about-"
"Well then it was probably this album," he says confidently, thrusting one (probably at random) at her.
"Oh? How do you know?"
"Because of the internet," I interrupt. I give the guy a Look. Bringing up the internet is a risky move, because on one hand, she doesn't understand it at all, so you can use it to explain all kinds of things, but on the other hand, she still firmly believes that it sucks young children in and causes them to be kidnapped, murdered and dumped in creeks, and that it is thus Evil. In any case, the guy appears to have caught on.
"Oui, voila, c'est ca (yes, right, that's it). I researched it on the internet." My grandmother is more or less pacified, and this guy and I are clearly a great team. I should probably marry him.
She spends the entirety of the way home harranguing me about the evils of the internet and all of the stories she's seen on the news about children getting murdered/kidnapped/raped/stabbed/abandoned by their parents/eaten by dogs/impaled on wrought-iron fences "comme le fils de Romy Schneider" (I wish I were making it up, but I'm pretty sure she actually remembers every single unfortunate incident involving children, all the way back to Romy Schneider's son, who, apparently, died as a result of an injury obtained while climbing over a fence.) Meanwhile, I spend the bus-ride home thinking that someone should write a book about her. (My grandmother, I mean. Probably someone has already written a book about Romy Schneider.)
PS. It should be noted that I do love my grandmother. And I know she's great. But sometimes you have to laugh in order to stave off the urge to slit your wrists with a ballpoint pen in the department store bathroom.
"It's very important for your health, you know - how moelleux (soft) the mattress is. If it's too soft, you will sink in and your backbone will not be properly aligned while you sleep, but if it's too firm, you will get sore. For example, my back gets sore. And my pelvis. Especially since I had your mother!" my grandmother wraps up her lecture on mattress firmness with a fun fact as we step out of the elevator onto the home furnishings floor.
I nod and sigh (I've already been with her all morning and I'm nearing the end of my patience) and let my eyes drift slowly out of focus as she flips her cane upside down and uses the handle to prod the nearest mattress.
"Too soft!" she proclaims loudly. A pregnant woman nearby makes the mistake of looking up.
"Yes, too soft," repeats my grandmother authoritatively, "especially for you, Miss. Now, when you have your baby, do you plan to let it sleep in the bed with you? Because, you know, children can suffocate very easily. Can you imagine? Especially when you're very tired, you could easily just roll over and... if the mattress is too soft... I tell my granddaughter this all the time - she has two small children, you know - but she doesn't listen. I just hope... little Pierre..." she trails off mournfully, although it should be noted that little Pierre is, to the best of my knowledge, still in perfectly good health. The young woman pulls out a cell phone and turns away. I don't blame her.
However, I happen to know my grandmother's stance on pregnant women and cell phones, so I attempt to distract her by asking her opinion of another mattress (too firm). In vain. She snags the nearest sales assistant, a guy who doesn't look much older than me. I bring my eyes into focus just long enough to size him up. He looks far too nice. He's no match for her.
"Young man!" she begins emphatically. "Now, I know it's none of my business (no kidding), but, perhaps, being a member of the staff, it would be more appropriate for you to tell her..."
He raises his eyebrows, clearly perplexed.
"Well, someone should explain to that young woman that it's not a good idea to use a cell phone while she's pregnant - the radiation, you know: it could damage the fetus. I saw a program on tv..."
I cut her off, suggesting that perhaps the young man doesn't need to know what she saw on tv, given that his job is just to sell mattresses.
"Nonsense!" she interrupts, thumping her cane emphatically on the floor. "My granddaughter here thinks a lot of what I say is ridiculous, but she's too young! She doesn't know. I've been through the war, you know. And anyway," she turns to me, "the young man does need to know about this program. It was a very good program, very informative. For example, monsieur here should really not keep his cell phone in his pocket: the radiation is much too close to his... well, you know... let's just say it's better for his fertility if he doesn't keep his cell phone in his pocket. I hope I'm not being too indiscreet..." she smiles conspiratorially at the young man.
"No, no, of course not," he murmurs as he starts to back away, his cheeks bright pink. I try not to laugh as he mumbles something about his colleague being more qualified...
Moments later, a no-nonsense, infallibly polite Parisienne has seated us in front of her desk and seems prepared to field any and all questions and comments about mattresses, cell phones, pregnancy, and whatever else might come up. I figure she will be unlikely to need my help and crack open the paperback I've been carrying around for just such an occasion. The woman pauses in her list of mattress-varieties to give me a reproachful Look: you crude foreigner. How can you even think of reading when you're having such a nice outing with your charming grandmother. Young people these days!
Yes, well. Filial piety is all well and good in theory, but she hasn't even been speaking to my grandmother for five minutes yet.
I look up about twenty pages later. "... because of my pelvis, you see. Children, you know. You know that before I had my daughter, my pelvis was in perfectly good shape and I was studying fine arts. I did sculpture, and painting, and ink drawings, you know. But then my husband got me pregnant and he wouldn't let me continue school, and now when it rains, my bones..."
I smile to myself and go back to my book.
Another few pages later, I am wrenched back out of my book by a sharp jab to the ribs.
"Because my granddaughter here refuses to have a hip x-ray done, right?" I nod automatically and glance up at the saleslady as my grandmother cackles merrily. The saleslady's eyes are looking a bit glazed, and her mouth is hanging slightly open as she continues to nod occasionally.
"Have you had an x-ray done, Madame?" asks my grandmother solicitously, peering under the desk at the poor woman's legs. "Also you should get a blood test to get your sugar checked. Now, I'm lucky, because even though I have a lot of cholesterol, it's mostly good cholesterol. My son, on the other hand, has very high blood sugar. Practically diabetic. So we told him to eat less sugar, but lately he looks positively scrawny... I think his wife is probably starving him. I never really trusted that woman anyway..."
The saleslady doesn't react except to nod vaguely, so my grandmother thumps her cane for emphasis. I repress a snort of laughter and go back to the book.
The next time I look up, another good twenty pages later, my grandmother is spiritedly recounting the story of the time during the war when she biked from Paris to Lyonne alone with only a sack of oranges which she planned to either eat or use to clout any bothersome Germans. Perhaps it's time to intervene. Anyway, the saleslady is staring at me imploringly. Sure, I want to say, *now* you want my help.
But I am getting hungry and eventually the store will be closing, so I hustle my grandmother through several mattress-related choices. We only spend about five minutes on each issue, so that's good, anyway. For example: white or cream? I don't really see how it can possibly matter, given that mattresses are generally covered with sheets and things, but whatever. I am past caring.
My grandmother is still advising the woman not to give personal information or, indeed, any significant kind of information over the phone, because you never know who could be listening, as we get back on the elevator. I breath a sigh of relief. But no. We are not done. "I just need to stop in the Fnac (a bookstore like Borders or the Feltrinelli) and..." I tune her out, trying to locate my sanity and drag it out of wherever it is hiding.
We step out of the elevator in the basement and she grabs the sleeve of the nearest available salesperson. Jean-Pierre, his tag reads. Poor Jean-Pierre.
"I saw this great program on tv the other day," my grandmother begins. Great. "On channel five," she clarifies, "about African music."
The sales guy nods expectantly.
"Did you see it?" she asks conversationally.
"Um..." he says, and finally: "well, I don't watch tv much..."
"Ah, beh, vous avez tort," she informs him, "channel five does a lot of great programs. I saw one about Thailand the other day that-"
"The CD," I remind her, through gritted teeth.
"Yes, I'd like to buy the CD of the singer I saw on tv. I don't remember his name, exactly, but I drew a sketch of him..." she roots through her purse and finally pulls out a used envelope on the back of which, effectivement, she has sketched a rather vague portrait of what is evidently a singer. Another sales guy has joined the first and they look at the envelope together.
"Ah, oui, beh, vous dessinez bien, dites-donc, Madame," comments one (you draw really well). Bad move, buddy. Insert entire monologue on les Beaux Arts (prestigious fine arts school) and how she met her husband there, and wrapping up with my mother and the pelvis. Both sales guys look back and forth from me to her in disbelief. I am just about to wander off and throw myself under a bus when she shoves the envelope into my hands, to facilitate illustrative gesturing. I turn it over.
"Is this the guy's name?" I ask, pointing to a scribbled, African-looking name in the corner.
"Ah, mais oui! Voila! My granddaughter's very smart, you know!" crows my grandmother, "but you can't have her, because she lives far away. In America. Except for a while she lived in Italy, but..." Now I really want to throw myself under a bus. Nonetheless, the two guys flash me grateful smiles and turn around to investigate on the computer, in the shelves... anywhere that lets them laugh out of our sight.
"Okay, and which album will you be wanting? He has nine," announces one upon returning. My grandmother looks at him as if he were daft. I absently take a sip from my bottle of Vittel. This should be funny.
"Well, the one I saw on tv, of course."
I try to choke discreetly. My grandmother thwacks me enthusiastically on the back with a shopping bag, and I narrowly miss falling over the clerks' desk. Sadly, I am still conscious. However, the slightly older clerk returns and apparently decides to take the situation in hand.
"When did you see the program?"
"On February 5th. I remember because it was the day before I called my niece to tell her about-"
"Well then it was probably this album," he says confidently, thrusting one (probably at random) at her.
"Oh? How do you know?"
"Because of the internet," I interrupt. I give the guy a Look. Bringing up the internet is a risky move, because on one hand, she doesn't understand it at all, so you can use it to explain all kinds of things, but on the other hand, she still firmly believes that it sucks young children in and causes them to be kidnapped, murdered and dumped in creeks, and that it is thus Evil. In any case, the guy appears to have caught on.
"Oui, voila, c'est ca (yes, right, that's it). I researched it on the internet." My grandmother is more or less pacified, and this guy and I are clearly a great team. I should probably marry him.
She spends the entirety of the way home harranguing me about the evils of the internet and all of the stories she's seen on the news about children getting murdered/kidnapped/raped/stabbed/abandoned by their parents/eaten by dogs/impaled on wrought-iron fences "comme le fils de Romy Schneider" (I wish I were making it up, but I'm pretty sure she actually remembers every single unfortunate incident involving children, all the way back to Romy Schneider's son, who, apparently, died as a result of an injury obtained while climbing over a fence.) Meanwhile, I spend the bus-ride home thinking that someone should write a book about her. (My grandmother, I mean. Probably someone has already written a book about Romy Schneider.)
PS. It should be noted that I do love my grandmother. And I know she's great. But sometimes you have to laugh in order to stave off the urge to slit your wrists with a ballpoint pen in the department store bathroom.
Thursday, August 13
In Paris: stuff that they've changed
They re-painted the front of the boulangerie (purple and black? really?).
The people who run the charcuterie are retiring after 23 years. 23 years! This means that, although I can't remember it, they have been open and feeding us for as long as I have been alive. What are we supposed to eat around here if they leave?
They did something to the locks in the building doors and now they make odd repetitive clicky sounds when I punch the code in. It makes me jump, every time.
They had the whole inside of the post office re-done. Now it is shiny and white and all ergonomic-looking. I say 'looking' because it actually does not seem to be any more efficient or any more comfortable than before. Instead of all that nonsense, they should have invested in air conditioning. Or even just a decent ventilation system.
The crepe guy that used to stand outside the shopping center in the Place d'Italie is *gone*. And some North African guy has taken his place and now apparently sells crepes and falafel. From the same stand. I have nothing against North Africans. Or falafel, for that matter, but it's a bit disconcerting all the same.
Also, they changed the supermarket in the basement of the shopping center from a Champion to a Carrefour and re-arranged the interior to make it, if possible, even more confusing than it used to be. Now, not only can you not find what you're looking for, but you also can't necessarily find the exit. Awkward.
Someone moved the sink in our kitchen. Presumably to make room for that weird stove. It is still disorienting, and also I'm still scared of the stove. I bumped into it yesterday and it beeped in a warning tone of voice (yeah, probably I just imagined the tone of voice) and made flashing red numbers.
On the bright side, my cousin has informed me that we young people can go to the cinema for 3.90 all summer. Now I must just find someone to drag there with me, and then I can be all caught up on contemporary culture.
Also, my hand is no longer puffy. Now it's just vaguely purple and sad. I figure as long as it doesn't turn black and fall off, it's probably fine.
Anyway. Perhaps if the sun comes out I will go read in the Tuileries. I had found a very nice bench there the last time I was here, although I don't really remember where it was, now. Whatever.
The people who run the charcuterie are retiring after 23 years. 23 years! This means that, although I can't remember it, they have been open and feeding us for as long as I have been alive. What are we supposed to eat around here if they leave?
They did something to the locks in the building doors and now they make odd repetitive clicky sounds when I punch the code in. It makes me jump, every time.
They had the whole inside of the post office re-done. Now it is shiny and white and all ergonomic-looking. I say 'looking' because it actually does not seem to be any more efficient or any more comfortable than before. Instead of all that nonsense, they should have invested in air conditioning. Or even just a decent ventilation system.
The crepe guy that used to stand outside the shopping center in the Place d'Italie is *gone*. And some North African guy has taken his place and now apparently sells crepes and falafel. From the same stand. I have nothing against North Africans. Or falafel, for that matter, but it's a bit disconcerting all the same.
Also, they changed the supermarket in the basement of the shopping center from a Champion to a Carrefour and re-arranged the interior to make it, if possible, even more confusing than it used to be. Now, not only can you not find what you're looking for, but you also can't necessarily find the exit. Awkward.
Someone moved the sink in our kitchen. Presumably to make room for that weird stove. It is still disorienting, and also I'm still scared of the stove. I bumped into it yesterday and it beeped in a warning tone of voice (yeah, probably I just imagined the tone of voice) and made flashing red numbers.
On the bright side, my cousin has informed me that we young people can go to the cinema for 3.90 all summer. Now I must just find someone to drag there with me, and then I can be all caught up on contemporary culture.
Also, my hand is no longer puffy. Now it's just vaguely purple and sad. I figure as long as it doesn't turn black and fall off, it's probably fine.
Anyway. Perhaps if the sun comes out I will go read in the Tuileries. I had found a very nice bench there the last time I was here, although I don't really remember where it was, now. Whatever.
Wednesday, August 12
Things that I miss
People speaking Italian. (Still.) French is not bad to listen to either, but I'm dreading walking into immigration in Newark. That lady who stands in the middle and screeches 'immigrants to the left! citizens and permanent residents to the right!' makes me want to stab pencils into my eardrums.
The piazze, the via Emilia, via Calderini, and via Andreoli... and a bunch of others... even if the cobblestones were definitely trying to kill me.
The big blocks of Parmigiano Reggiano in the supermarket. I didn't actually buy any very often, but it was nice that it was there. Here there is only pre-grated grana padano. I checked.
Sitting on the steps of the duomo to work on applications. Doing them here in the kitchen is not quite the same. Especially because my mother seems to have put in this weird stove that cooks by induction (or something) since I was last here. I am scared that it will either blow up the apartment or emit radiation and rearrange my DNA. (And now we know why I almost failed physics.)
Reading in those weird orange chairs in front of the theater and watching little kids play in the fountain.
Caffe macchiato. Although seeing that in writing makes me remember that starbucks has something called that. I may possibly throw up if I hear someone order one. Perhaps I just won't go in starbucks when I get home.
The 'Reggio Emilia' sign in the train station. I really enjoy whatever font that is, with the bubbly-dotted 'i's.
Libreria all'Arco. Enough said.
Rucola. Particularly on my pizza.
Opening my shutters every morning to see the vescovado and people cycling past down below. And looking at San Prospero's campanile every night before closing them again.
On the bright side... finished applications yesterday. Oh, except Newark. But do I really want to go to Newark? No. I would likely get shot in Newark. Or so depressed that I would shoot myself. So... pretty much finished applications. Which is nice because I'm all kinds of bored with them. Medicine, you are kind of silly, you know that? You make it such a pain in the arse to get there that, having almost arrived, I kind of almost don't want it anymore... which could turn out to be a good thing, because I've already had one rejection. 17 more like that and the 'should I be a doctor' dilemma won't be a problem anymore...
The piazze, the via Emilia, via Calderini, and via Andreoli... and a bunch of others... even if the cobblestones were definitely trying to kill me.
The big blocks of Parmigiano Reggiano in the supermarket. I didn't actually buy any very often, but it was nice that it was there. Here there is only pre-grated grana padano. I checked.
Sitting on the steps of the duomo to work on applications. Doing them here in the kitchen is not quite the same. Especially because my mother seems to have put in this weird stove that cooks by induction (or something) since I was last here. I am scared that it will either blow up the apartment or emit radiation and rearrange my DNA. (And now we know why I almost failed physics.)
Reading in those weird orange chairs in front of the theater and watching little kids play in the fountain.
Caffe macchiato. Although seeing that in writing makes me remember that starbucks has something called that. I may possibly throw up if I hear someone order one. Perhaps I just won't go in starbucks when I get home.
The 'Reggio Emilia' sign in the train station. I really enjoy whatever font that is, with the bubbly-dotted 'i's.
Libreria all'Arco. Enough said.
Rucola. Particularly on my pizza.
Opening my shutters every morning to see the vescovado and people cycling past down below. And looking at San Prospero's campanile every night before closing them again.
On the bright side... finished applications yesterday. Oh, except Newark. But do I really want to go to Newark? No. I would likely get shot in Newark. Or so depressed that I would shoot myself. So... pretty much finished applications. Which is nice because I'm all kinds of bored with them. Medicine, you are kind of silly, you know that? You make it such a pain in the arse to get there that, having almost arrived, I kind of almost don't want it anymore... which could turn out to be a good thing, because I've already had one rejection. 17 more like that and the 'should I be a doctor' dilemma won't be a problem anymore...
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