I'm a little worried that my roommate may be dead. Her boyfriend left a couple of hours ago at the crack of dawn, and he left the door to her bedroom open a crack, so I know for a fact that she is still lying in bed. But it's past the time that she's supposed to be at work, usually, and I've just noisily hacked up half my lung tissue along with the yuck that is making it tricky to breathe clearly, so... you'd think she'd have got up and done something. Like brushed her teeth and made her usual morning espresso and whatever else. Unless she's got a day off and she's lying there thinking "omg I'm going to get up and KILL that stupid american if she coughs one more time". I feel a bit bad about that, but I can't really help it. I briefly contemplated going downstairs to get my coughing done outside, but I'm not dressed yet. Ah, well.
Anyway, I really hope she's not dead. Or paralyzed. Or paralyzingly depressed. Or anything else calamitous that would cause her to remain in bed against her will. Hopefully she is just a really deep sleeper and is having some kind of really delightful dream with fuzzy bunnies and ice cream and such and then she will wake up and fill the house with the smell of coffee. I'll just sit here and try to keep my airway open as quietly as possible.
I don't have any classes until 2 today, so I probably should do something useful this morning... like cook Strategic Food Reserves... or do the laundry... or go buy a loaf of bread... but instead I'm sitting here in bed bemoaning the fact that I don't have anything breakfast-y to eat. I may just eat some chocolate instead... I am an eminently useless individual.
My kids (students, I mean, not offspring) keep telling me that "High School Musical" is their favorite film, so I watched it on youtube last night. Well, to use the term "watch" a bit loosely - I was actually also reading my email and checking on my bank account and stuff at the same time because good lord is that one boring movie. I truly don't get it. I mean, for someone under the age of, say, eight or nine... okay. Fine. You probably don't need such a complex plotline to keep yourself entertained. But beyond that... I sat there the whole time waiting for the part where you're like "aha! here's the plot! here's the main problem! I wonder what's going to happen!" but then all of a sudden the movie ended. If there was a climax, I missed it.
Anyway. Oh, hey, there are stirrings next door. The roommate is not dead. Yay.
Tuesday, February 24
Saturday, February 21
Foiled!
My plans to create delicious and healthy Strategic Food Reserves have been foiled! A fellow language school employee has chiamato-ed me and I will be going out for aperitivo after all. In a cool and trendy bar where I will, like I mentioned before, look stupider and uglier than all of the Reggiane. They are all Italian and immaculately dressed, coiffed and made up, whereas I look like death as a result of my sweatshop-like work schedule and do not really own appropriate trendy-aperitivo-attire.
I do have some excellent jeans for this situation: they are perhaps dark enough to blend in with the night and therefore make at least my lower half look smaller than it actually is. If only I had a shirt that made me look glamourous (all the non-Americans at work are robbing me of my sense of self and making me insert Us in weird places... I am in no hurry to reclaim my own culture, though - they all have cooler accents than I do anyway) and sexy, I would be set. I do not think I own such a shirt, though. I am still wearing my stuffy and lame collared-shirt-and-sweater ensemble from teaching this morning... perhaps I could go in that and play the 'I work extremely hard and am therefore above all this "dressing well" nonsense' card. I think I'm looking a bit too wrinkled (as a result of having sat around being a lazy and worthless human being all day) for that to work, though. Sigh...
So all in all, I have exchanged being productive and improving my culinary skillz (that's me being hip and cool... but at the same time exceedingly lame, by the way, in case you didn't catch it) and creating hopefully non-poisonous comestibles for looking retarded and foreign and probably being conversationally pointless in a trendy and cool bar where all the trendy and cool people with look at me and think "she is not trendy and cool at all. What the hell is she doing here?" Except they will think it in Italian, which will make them cooler and me, therefore, relatively that much less cool. On the other hand, the foiling of my kitchen plans mean that I am fairly unlike to blow up the apartment building with the gas stove this evening, which is always a plus, right?
Aaand I'm making less and less sense. Off to ransack my wardrobe in hopes that something glamourous (fancy-looking British 'u'!) and magically transforming will have done that spontaneous generation thing, like the maggots in Pasteur's (or someone similar's) experiment.
I do have some excellent jeans for this situation: they are perhaps dark enough to blend in with the night and therefore make at least my lower half look smaller than it actually is. If only I had a shirt that made me look glamourous (all the non-Americans at work are robbing me of my sense of self and making me insert Us in weird places... I am in no hurry to reclaim my own culture, though - they all have cooler accents than I do anyway) and sexy, I would be set. I do not think I own such a shirt, though. I am still wearing my stuffy and lame collared-shirt-and-sweater ensemble from teaching this morning... perhaps I could go in that and play the 'I work extremely hard and am therefore above all this "dressing well" nonsense' card. I think I'm looking a bit too wrinkled (as a result of having sat around being a lazy and worthless human being all day) for that to work, though. Sigh...
So all in all, I have exchanged being productive and improving my culinary skillz (that's me being hip and cool... but at the same time exceedingly lame, by the way, in case you didn't catch it) and creating hopefully non-poisonous comestibles for looking retarded and foreign and probably being conversationally pointless in a trendy and cool bar where all the trendy and cool people with look at me and think "she is not trendy and cool at all. What the hell is she doing here?" Except they will think it in Italian, which will make them cooler and me, therefore, relatively that much less cool. On the other hand, the foiling of my kitchen plans mean that I am fairly unlike to blow up the apartment building with the gas stove this evening, which is always a plus, right?
Aaand I'm making less and less sense. Off to ransack my wardrobe in hopes that something glamourous (fancy-looking British 'u'!) and magically transforming will have done that spontaneous generation thing, like the maggots in Pasteur's (or someone similar's) experiment.
Random
There is a car from one of the rival language schools parked under my window. I know it is them because they have the British (English? UK-ian?) flag printed in big on the top of it. This is dramatic, but not very subtle, in my opinion. Perhaps they have come to assassinate me. That would be sad. Or perhaps they heard of my reknowned (haha! ha!) teaching skillz and have come to headhunt me. That would be flattering. I think it is unlikely, though.
I have a sort of permanent non-cold. It is just sick-ifying enough to make my nose run, but not enough to garner sympathy or warrant staying in bed for prolonged periods of time. An inconvenient middle ground. Though probably better than actually being sick.
On the way up the stairs from my thirty-minute shopping excursion/evening passegiata I heard a crinkly-scratchy kind of noise coming from my handbag and thought it might perhaps be a large spider or small rodent. This was an unpleasant thought. It turned out just to be the plastic bag containing my purchases, though. I was happy about that discovery.
My purchases include some tupperware. This is because I have a Plan for tonight. Rather boringly, it does not involve aperitivo in a cool and trendy bar where I will look stupider and uglier than the Reggiane, but rather the creation of some Strategic Food Reserves. The way I envision the results of the Plan involve bringing delicious and nutritious meals to work to microwave them, rather than surviving on merendine and loaves of bread from the Conad across the street. 'But wait!' you may be thinking, 'I thought she said she didn't know how to cook.' Well, yes. That is true. If you never hear from me again, it will probably be because I blew myself up with the gas stove, or burnt off all my fingers in a freak oven accident.
(I don't know who it is I think I'm talking to, here, since I suspect my readership is of the small-to-nonexistent variety... perhaps it's better that way: no one will be left with a gaping void in their lives if any of the above calamities occur.)
If I survive, I'll let you know how it goes.
I have a sort of permanent non-cold. It is just sick-ifying enough to make my nose run, but not enough to garner sympathy or warrant staying in bed for prolonged periods of time. An inconvenient middle ground. Though probably better than actually being sick.
On the way up the stairs from my thirty-minute shopping excursion/evening passegiata I heard a crinkly-scratchy kind of noise coming from my handbag and thought it might perhaps be a large spider or small rodent. This was an unpleasant thought. It turned out just to be the plastic bag containing my purchases, though. I was happy about that discovery.
My purchases include some tupperware. This is because I have a Plan for tonight. Rather boringly, it does not involve aperitivo in a cool and trendy bar where I will look stupider and uglier than the Reggiane, but rather the creation of some Strategic Food Reserves. The way I envision the results of the Plan involve bringing delicious and nutritious meals to work to microwave them, rather than surviving on merendine and loaves of bread from the Conad across the street. 'But wait!' you may be thinking, 'I thought she said she didn't know how to cook.' Well, yes. That is true. If you never hear from me again, it will probably be because I blew myself up with the gas stove, or burnt off all my fingers in a freak oven accident.
(I don't know who it is I think I'm talking to, here, since I suspect my readership is of the small-to-nonexistent variety... perhaps it's better that way: no one will be left with a gaping void in their lives if any of the above calamities occur.)
If I survive, I'll let you know how it goes.
Thursday, February 19
Cappelletti
"Cappelletti," decides the six-year-old I'm babysitting after a contemplative pause.
I wonder for the nth time what possessed me to answer in the affirmative when I was asked if I would mind just 'picking her up from school and feeding her lunch before you begin the lesson'. Still, here I am in their kitchen and I can't exactly tell a six-year-old that she will have to starve for the afternoon just because I am a bit frightened of her stove. For one, it would completely shatter her trust in adults.
And anyway, it's not so hopeless, is it? I happen to know that cappelletti are smallish and roundish, because I saw a picture on a poster in a bus stop. I vaguely recall having read the "cappelletti in brodo" on a menu somewhere, which presumably means that they should be served in broth. Or cooked in broth. Or something similar. And I have a more or less concrete idea that broth can be made by dissolving a little cube of brown dust in the water. Splendid.
Armed with this information, I turn back to the freezer while my little student looks on expectantly. Towards the top, there seems to be quite a variety of liquor, ranging from things I recognize (limoncello - because it is bright yellow, you see) to things I don't (brownish, amberish, darkish, clear, etc.). This is probably good to keep in mind in case the cooking for the boss' daughter doesn't go entirely as planned. On the shelves below that, there are many paper bags.
I open one experimentally, but it contains squarish ones that are probably tortelli. This bit of knowledge boosts my confidence: I am cultured and knowledgeable! I can (more or less) recognize tortelli! I smile and resume my search. It transpires that there are no fewer than three bags containing smallish roundish stuffed-looking pasta. I sigh. Their contents all look completely identical to me. Come to think of it, perhaps they are. Perhaps the only difference is that some of them are already expired and if I choose to serve her those, I will poison her and be fired (and possibly put to death). Little Student raises her eyebrows at me. She is far too clever for her own good, and, what's worse, I think she knows it. Also, she is adorable, which doesn't help.
"How about these?" I say conversationally, holding out one of the bags. The little frozen round things rattle interestingly.
"Those are tortellini," she informs me, rather witheringly, switching from midwest American (courtesy of her mother) to her lucky little native speaker's accent for the last word.
Indeed. There's nothing for it. This will be like that time I helped her with her reading homework and had to get out a dictionary to figure out what arrampicatore meant. ('Climber', in case you're curious. It was in reference to squirrels, I think.)
"Well, then which ones do you want?" I am a coward and try to make it seem like it is a personal choice on her part, rather than my pasta-related ignorance, that is causing difficulty here. Like I said, though, she is a bright kid. She points to one of the bags.
"These are the cappelletti," she says confidently, before scampering off to play with her Disney princess dolls, some of which, it appears, speak Italian, while others speak English. I reflect that she would make an interesting case study, and attempt to console myself with the intellectual quality of this thought while I turn on the stove and stab at the cube of broth-making stuff with a fork so that it will dissolve more quickly.
I inspect the bags of frozen pasta again while I wait for the water to boil but I still don't see much of a difference. Perhaps the cappelletti are slightly more orange. And maybe ever so slightly smaller. But other than that they look exactly the same. Upon later reflection, it occurs to me that perhaps the shape is slightly different. Or the spacing of the wavy bits on the edges. But probably you have to be born Emiliana to see it.
While I am ruefully contemplating this, my little charge scampers back into the kitchen with an important look on her face.
"You have to put the brown square into the water," she informs me sagely, "that makes the brodo. Otherwise it's just water."
I reflect that it's lucky for my self-esteem that I'm tall enough to reach the stove and she isn't. Otherwise I would feel profoundly useless.
P.S. Cappelletti is rather tricky to spell: three sets of doppie! But this makes it fun to say.
I wonder for the nth time what possessed me to answer in the affirmative when I was asked if I would mind just 'picking her up from school and feeding her lunch before you begin the lesson'. Still, here I am in their kitchen and I can't exactly tell a six-year-old that she will have to starve for the afternoon just because I am a bit frightened of her stove. For one, it would completely shatter her trust in adults.
And anyway, it's not so hopeless, is it? I happen to know that cappelletti are smallish and roundish, because I saw a picture on a poster in a bus stop. I vaguely recall having read the "cappelletti in brodo" on a menu somewhere, which presumably means that they should be served in broth. Or cooked in broth. Or something similar. And I have a more or less concrete idea that broth can be made by dissolving a little cube of brown dust in the water. Splendid.
Armed with this information, I turn back to the freezer while my little student looks on expectantly. Towards the top, there seems to be quite a variety of liquor, ranging from things I recognize (limoncello - because it is bright yellow, you see) to things I don't (brownish, amberish, darkish, clear, etc.). This is probably good to keep in mind in case the cooking for the boss' daughter doesn't go entirely as planned. On the shelves below that, there are many paper bags.
I open one experimentally, but it contains squarish ones that are probably tortelli. This bit of knowledge boosts my confidence: I am cultured and knowledgeable! I can (more or less) recognize tortelli! I smile and resume my search. It transpires that there are no fewer than three bags containing smallish roundish stuffed-looking pasta. I sigh. Their contents all look completely identical to me. Come to think of it, perhaps they are. Perhaps the only difference is that some of them are already expired and if I choose to serve her those, I will poison her and be fired (and possibly put to death). Little Student raises her eyebrows at me. She is far too clever for her own good, and, what's worse, I think she knows it. Also, she is adorable, which doesn't help.
"How about these?" I say conversationally, holding out one of the bags. The little frozen round things rattle interestingly.
"Those are tortellini," she informs me, rather witheringly, switching from midwest American (courtesy of her mother) to her lucky little native speaker's accent for the last word.
Indeed. There's nothing for it. This will be like that time I helped her with her reading homework and had to get out a dictionary to figure out what arrampicatore meant. ('Climber', in case you're curious. It was in reference to squirrels, I think.)
"Well, then which ones do you want?" I am a coward and try to make it seem like it is a personal choice on her part, rather than my pasta-related ignorance, that is causing difficulty here. Like I said, though, she is a bright kid. She points to one of the bags.
"These are the cappelletti," she says confidently, before scampering off to play with her Disney princess dolls, some of which, it appears, speak Italian, while others speak English. I reflect that she would make an interesting case study, and attempt to console myself with the intellectual quality of this thought while I turn on the stove and stab at the cube of broth-making stuff with a fork so that it will dissolve more quickly.
I inspect the bags of frozen pasta again while I wait for the water to boil but I still don't see much of a difference. Perhaps the cappelletti are slightly more orange. And maybe ever so slightly smaller. But other than that they look exactly the same. Upon later reflection, it occurs to me that perhaps the shape is slightly different. Or the spacing of the wavy bits on the edges. But probably you have to be born Emiliana to see it.
While I am ruefully contemplating this, my little charge scampers back into the kitchen with an important look on her face.
"You have to put the brown square into the water," she informs me sagely, "that makes the brodo. Otherwise it's just water."
I reflect that it's lucky for my self-esteem that I'm tall enough to reach the stove and she isn't. Otherwise I would feel profoundly useless.
P.S. Cappelletti is rather tricky to spell: three sets of doppie! But this makes it fun to say.
Wednesday, February 18
San Remo, etc.
I think San Remo is going on. Well, actually, I know it's going on, because someone mentioned it yesterday. I think my flatmate is watching it because there is the sound of a strident female voice making its way through the wall we share. And now clapping.
I'm not 100% sure what San Remo is about, though. As nearly as I can tell, it's some sort of music contest. I once heard it mentioned in relation to a song about a man who wished he was a pigeon. I think. I didn't 100% understand that song, either, though it did have a fairly pleasant tune and the man made some interestingly authentic pigeon-y sounds (if that was really him making them... if it wasn't, I shall be disappointed and lose whatever respect I previously had for him).
In other news, I had some food that was great, the other day. (Which makes it not really news, I suppose.) We went to this excellent restaurant in the sketchy part of town, and they made delicious regional things. I finally had tortelli di zucca (pumpkin), which people have been telling me to try since forever (or September, rather) but which I hadn't got around to before. Tiramisu for dessert, which is possibly a bit cliche' (check it out, I'm almost Italian - all putting my accents in as apostrophes) but this was the most delicious tiramisu I've ever had because they're wasn't too much alcohol in it. And we had lambrusco. Which some people seem not to like it (e.g. certain froggish family members who appear to think their froggish wine is superior) but I think it's quite pleasant.
And the day after that we had gelato not once, but twice. And it was excellent both times. I am full just thinking about it. I will miss your food a LOT, Italy, when I leave.
I'm not 100% sure what San Remo is about, though. As nearly as I can tell, it's some sort of music contest. I once heard it mentioned in relation to a song about a man who wished he was a pigeon. I think. I didn't 100% understand that song, either, though it did have a fairly pleasant tune and the man made some interestingly authentic pigeon-y sounds (if that was really him making them... if it wasn't, I shall be disappointed and lose whatever respect I previously had for him).
In other news, I had some food that was great, the other day. (Which makes it not really news, I suppose.) We went to this excellent restaurant in the sketchy part of town, and they made delicious regional things. I finally had tortelli di zucca (pumpkin), which people have been telling me to try since forever (or September, rather) but which I hadn't got around to before. Tiramisu for dessert, which is possibly a bit cliche' (check it out, I'm almost Italian - all putting my accents in as apostrophes) but this was the most delicious tiramisu I've ever had because they're wasn't too much alcohol in it. And we had lambrusco. Which some people seem not to like it (e.g. certain froggish family members who appear to think their froggish wine is superior) but I think it's quite pleasant.
And the day after that we had gelato not once, but twice. And it was excellent both times. I am full just thinking about it. I will miss your food a LOT, Italy, when I leave.
Tuesday, February 17
Hot and cold
"Do you know this song?" asked the kids in my Tuesday evening group last week. They played some catchy pop thing that, effettivamente, I vaguely recalled having heard on the radio at some point or other.
"Sure, yeah," I replied, not wanting to seem ignorant about my own culture. I quickly listened for one of the repeated lines ("you're hot, then you're cold") and made a mental note to Google it later.
"Can we do it next week?" they asked enthusiastically. Three sets of ten-year-old eyes looked pleadingly up at me.
"Um... sure," said I, hoping that this would magically turn me into the hip, cool teacher. (Now that I think of it, this is probably similar to when you're a child and you agree to do whatever the cool kids ask of you in hopes that it will move them to accept you. Hm...)
It transpires that the song in question was "Hot 'n' cold" by Katy Perry. I don't understand why she spells her name like that. Anyway, though, it is not 100% appropriate, but a promise is a promise. (And, of course, I really want to be the cool teacher.) And it has some good opposites in it. So I figured we'd focus on the refrain and not pay attention to the rest and life would be good.
I hadn't counted on the fact that certain words are just easier to say than others, though. And once kids say a bad word, it's almost worse if you point it out to them and tell them not to say it. And that's why, after a few run-throughs during which we were assiduously learning the opposites in the refrain, I found myself listening to three Italian ten-year-olds belting out:
"You rrreeimumblesss like a BITCH. Rahwohnoo."
Oh, dear.
"Sure, yeah," I replied, not wanting to seem ignorant about my own culture. I quickly listened for one of the repeated lines ("you're hot, then you're cold") and made a mental note to Google it later.
"Can we do it next week?" they asked enthusiastically. Three sets of ten-year-old eyes looked pleadingly up at me.
"Um... sure," said I, hoping that this would magically turn me into the hip, cool teacher. (Now that I think of it, this is probably similar to when you're a child and you agree to do whatever the cool kids ask of you in hopes that it will move them to accept you. Hm...)
It transpires that the song in question was "Hot 'n' cold" by Katy Perry. I don't understand why she spells her name like that. Anyway, though, it is not 100% appropriate, but a promise is a promise. (And, of course, I really want to be the cool teacher.) And it has some good opposites in it. So I figured we'd focus on the refrain and not pay attention to the rest and life would be good.
I hadn't counted on the fact that certain words are just easier to say than others, though. And once kids say a bad word, it's almost worse if you point it out to them and tell them not to say it. And that's why, after a few run-throughs during which we were assiduously learning the opposites in the refrain, I found myself listening to three Italian ten-year-olds belting out:
"You rrreeimumblesss like a BITCH. Rahwohnoo."
Oh, dear.
Monday, February 16
The Wet Hair Look
Am feeling mildly ill this morning. This is mysterious, because I was feeling a bit yuck on Friday afternoon, and then felt fine all weekend, and now that it's Monday morning... perhaps I'm allergic to my job. Wouldn't surprise me.
Anyway, my sore-ish throat did not deter me from breaking the cardinal rule of The Rules According to People's Grandmothers by emerging from my apartment with wet hair. It's just not that cold (+4 degrees, C) and I really didn't feel like brushing it and blow-drying it and brushing it again just in order to run down the street to the local Standa (supermarket chain) for a few necessities. So I scraped it back into a reasonable looking bun and was on my way.
And proceeded to enjoy all of the trying-to-be-subtle-but-just-not-quite-succeeding looks I got. This was very similar to when it was late October and I was still wearing ballet flats with no stockings while everyone else had gotten out their parkas and gloves.
We all know that the Reggiani are very image-conscious. You don't go out with wet hair, you don't wander about wearing jeans and sneakers (trainers)... in fact, ideally, you don't go out at all unless you and your hair have been manipulated into advanced stages of perfection by one or more professionals.
And it's not that I mind, really. I'm not one of those Americans who strides down the street in my blindingly white sneakers, humming the Star Spangled Banner and thinking to myself that I'm American and I know my rights and I'll wear what I damn well want and just you try looking at me funny! I love Italy, and they clearly have better fashion sense than I do anyway, so I'm more than happy to do a bit of mild conforming. What I wonder, though, is exactly why some things are so shocking. Is it because they honestly think you're likely to contract the plague and die if the top of your head gets a bit chilled? Or is it just simply Not the Done Thing? If I could work up the courage and the linguistic confidence, I'd ask someone. For now... boh.
I'll go dry my hair now.
Anyway, my sore-ish throat did not deter me from breaking the cardinal rule of The Rules According to People's Grandmothers by emerging from my apartment with wet hair. It's just not that cold (+4 degrees, C) and I really didn't feel like brushing it and blow-drying it and brushing it again just in order to run down the street to the local Standa (supermarket chain) for a few necessities. So I scraped it back into a reasonable looking bun and was on my way.
And proceeded to enjoy all of the trying-to-be-subtle-but-just-not-quite-succeeding looks I got. This was very similar to when it was late October and I was still wearing ballet flats with no stockings while everyone else had gotten out their parkas and gloves.
We all know that the Reggiani are very image-conscious. You don't go out with wet hair, you don't wander about wearing jeans and sneakers (trainers)... in fact, ideally, you don't go out at all unless you and your hair have been manipulated into advanced stages of perfection by one or more professionals.
And it's not that I mind, really. I'm not one of those Americans who strides down the street in my blindingly white sneakers, humming the Star Spangled Banner and thinking to myself that I'm American and I know my rights and I'll wear what I damn well want and just you try looking at me funny! I love Italy, and they clearly have better fashion sense than I do anyway, so I'm more than happy to do a bit of mild conforming. What I wonder, though, is exactly why some things are so shocking. Is it because they honestly think you're likely to contract the plague and die if the top of your head gets a bit chilled? Or is it just simply Not the Done Thing? If I could work up the courage and the linguistic confidence, I'd ask someone. For now... boh.
I'll go dry my hair now.
Sunday, February 15
Nothing much
My flatmate (oh, I sound so British) and her boyfriend are chatting in dialect while watching Friends in Italian. This makes for a very disorienting experience (for me).
However, I hope this keeps them occupied for the next twenty minutes or so, because I'm cooking my dinner and generally prefer not to have witnesses, just in case something goes horribly wrong. (I'm boiling rice, at the moment, so it's hard to imagine what this might be, but you just never know.)
Today, during an unprecedented spurt of domesticity that coincided quite handily with a morning's worth of free time, I did some ironing. It must have been contagious because the flatmate got up from her breakfast and diligently began to mop the floor. Not wanting to be outdone, I washed the windows. I am happy to report that I did not burn my fingers or char any of my bedlinens during this morning of domestic productivity. Unfortunately, the bedlinens involved do not look significantly smoother than before. And the windows look a bit streak-y, despite my best efforts, which involved standing precariously on a chair in the kitchen and inhaling copious amounts of window spray.
I would bake my no-fail yogurt cake to restore my confidence in my (largely nonexistant) home-making abilities, but it has recently come to my attention (approximately twenty minutes ago) that I do not possess a measuring cup here in Italy. Ah, well.
The flatmate is emerging from her bedroom, which makes me feel the need to go do something industrious in the kitchen. Perhaps I will cut up a pear. Pears, like most fruit, are good for your digestive tract (and mine). And, more importantly, not much can go wrong in the chopping up of a pear, even if you are me, so this will provide a distraction so that my rice can get on with its business without attracting unwelcome attention.
However, I hope this keeps them occupied for the next twenty minutes or so, because I'm cooking my dinner and generally prefer not to have witnesses, just in case something goes horribly wrong. (I'm boiling rice, at the moment, so it's hard to imagine what this might be, but you just never know.)
Today, during an unprecedented spurt of domesticity that coincided quite handily with a morning's worth of free time, I did some ironing. It must have been contagious because the flatmate got up from her breakfast and diligently began to mop the floor. Not wanting to be outdone, I washed the windows. I am happy to report that I did not burn my fingers or char any of my bedlinens during this morning of domestic productivity. Unfortunately, the bedlinens involved do not look significantly smoother than before. And the windows look a bit streak-y, despite my best efforts, which involved standing precariously on a chair in the kitchen and inhaling copious amounts of window spray.
I would bake my no-fail yogurt cake to restore my confidence in my (largely nonexistant) home-making abilities, but it has recently come to my attention (approximately twenty minutes ago) that I do not possess a measuring cup here in Italy. Ah, well.
The flatmate is emerging from her bedroom, which makes me feel the need to go do something industrious in the kitchen. Perhaps I will cut up a pear. Pears, like most fruit, are good for your digestive tract (and mine). And, more importantly, not much can go wrong in the chopping up of a pear, even if you are me, so this will provide a distraction so that my rice can get on with its business without attracting unwelcome attention.
Saturday, February 14
Gli 'obby
You know what would be cool? If I still knew how to play the piano. That would imply that I had continued to play it during all this time since I've stopped (I think it's about seven or eight years by now), so I'd probably be pretty decent at it and could use it to impress people at parties. Parties that had pianos. And parties where I was mysteriously outgoing and not my usual must-turn-red-as-a-beet-because-more-than-one-person-is-looking-at-me-at-the-same-time self.
Also it would be cool if I still did ballet. I might be thinner and more graceful if that were the case. A mere five years since that ended (four, if you count that one semester in college), so there's still hope there.
Latin. It would be cool if I spoke Latin, too. Or read it, rather - I suppose there's not much call for actually speaking Latin, per se (ahahaha), these days. (That was actually unintentional but it looked so lame that I decided to leave it in). Anyway. I would feel really distinguished and educated if I could decline some Latin nouns. Or verbs. Or whatever it is one actually declines. (Nouns, right? And conjugate verbs? Or perhaps not... I actually have no clue.)
I actually have a lot of free time these days, which I generally spend grocery shopping (bear in mind that I'm in Italy, which makes that statement marginally - but very marginally - less pathetic), wandering around, and staring into space in the teachers' room. I probably should use it to learn Latin. Or something similarly useless. Or even something useful. Generally, though, when confronted with free time, I tend to get really lazy and not actually do anything with it. So perhaps I was made for a free-time-less lifestyle after all... medicine, here I come. (Kidding, kidding. Still no decision made on that front.)
Also it would be cool if I still did ballet. I might be thinner and more graceful if that were the case. A mere five years since that ended (four, if you count that one semester in college), so there's still hope there.
Latin. It would be cool if I spoke Latin, too. Or read it, rather - I suppose there's not much call for actually speaking Latin, per se (ahahaha), these days. (That was actually unintentional but it looked so lame that I decided to leave it in). Anyway. I would feel really distinguished and educated if I could decline some Latin nouns. Or verbs. Or whatever it is one actually declines. (Nouns, right? And conjugate verbs? Or perhaps not... I actually have no clue.)
I actually have a lot of free time these days, which I generally spend grocery shopping (bear in mind that I'm in Italy, which makes that statement marginally - but very marginally - less pathetic), wandering around, and staring into space in the teachers' room. I probably should use it to learn Latin. Or something similarly useless. Or even something useful. Generally, though, when confronted with free time, I tend to get really lazy and not actually do anything with it. So perhaps I was made for a free-time-less lifestyle after all... medicine, here I come. (Kidding, kidding. Still no decision made on that front.)
Wednesday, February 4
Again with the trains
I had a fairly satisfying experience on the train today.
So I was riding the regionale after dark by myself, which made it necessary to search out a position near the least sketchy looking person or group of people possible. I found a business looking type guy wearing a really unfortunate sweater and chattering self-importantly on the phone and figured he would do. I sat down with my little bag of chips (I rarely eat chips, but for some reason I felt like chips). (Additional parenthetical comment: if any Brits should happen to wander over here, by chips I mean crisps. See, with all the teaching of the english, I am now aware of issues like this one.)
"What flavor are those?" he paused his phone conversation to ask.
"Um... nothing. I don't know. Salt," I responded eloquently. He went back to his phone conversation. I frowned at my chips (crisps) and wondered whether he wanted me to offer him one. Meanwhile, the moment in which that would have been appropriate passed.
Also meanwhile, he continued to chatter away in that I'm-so-popular-I-can't-pause-my-social-life-to-take-the-train kind of way and I was feeling left out, so I called my grandmother. (Oh, the social life. How it scintillates!) This turned out to have been a strategically valid move, though, because this is the French grandmother so I got to exhibit my language skillz.
"So, where are you from?" he asked when I hung up. This was satisfying in and of itself because he was prompted to ask it after he heard me speaking another language rather than immediately after my first syllable in Italian. A significant improvement on other conversations I've had.
"America."
To his credit, he didn't bat an eye.
"Che bello. And are you studying here?"
"Teaching English."
"Che bello! Quite the polyglot, aren't you?"
What, did you miss it? That was the satisfying part. (Yeah, no, it doesn't take much. I'm aware, but thanks for pointing it out.) It occurred to me, though: perhaps this is how people meet other people while on public transportation. You know, like in movies where people meet the really hot guy on the plane and then they have some drama and eventually get married and have babies? Yeah. It's a pity his sweater was so unfortunate. I mean, compared to the native Reggiani, I'm fairly non-judgemental about clothes, but it was argyle and in various shades of orange, brown and puke. Still, though, I can't deny that I was vainly pleased when he called out a casual "ciao!" as he rode past me on his bike. (This is after we got off of the train, by the way. In case you were trying to picture that in your head and it wasn't quite working out.)
So I was riding the regionale after dark by myself, which made it necessary to search out a position near the least sketchy looking person or group of people possible. I found a business looking type guy wearing a really unfortunate sweater and chattering self-importantly on the phone and figured he would do. I sat down with my little bag of chips (I rarely eat chips, but for some reason I felt like chips). (Additional parenthetical comment: if any Brits should happen to wander over here, by chips I mean crisps. See, with all the teaching of the english, I am now aware of issues like this one.)
"What flavor are those?" he paused his phone conversation to ask.
"Um... nothing. I don't know. Salt," I responded eloquently. He went back to his phone conversation. I frowned at my chips (crisps) and wondered whether he wanted me to offer him one. Meanwhile, the moment in which that would have been appropriate passed.
Also meanwhile, he continued to chatter away in that I'm-so-popular-I-can't-pause-my-social-life-to-take-the-train kind of way and I was feeling left out, so I called my grandmother. (Oh, the social life. How it scintillates!) This turned out to have been a strategically valid move, though, because this is the French grandmother so I got to exhibit my language skillz.
"So, where are you from?" he asked when I hung up. This was satisfying in and of itself because he was prompted to ask it after he heard me speaking another language rather than immediately after my first syllable in Italian. A significant improvement on other conversations I've had.
"America."
To his credit, he didn't bat an eye.
"Che bello. And are you studying here?"
"Teaching English."
"Che bello! Quite the polyglot, aren't you?"
What, did you miss it? That was the satisfying part. (Yeah, no, it doesn't take much. I'm aware, but thanks for pointing it out.) It occurred to me, though: perhaps this is how people meet other people while on public transportation. You know, like in movies where people meet the really hot guy on the plane and then they have some drama and eventually get married and have babies? Yeah. It's a pity his sweater was so unfortunate. I mean, compared to the native Reggiani, I'm fairly non-judgemental about clothes, but it was argyle and in various shades of orange, brown and puke. Still, though, I can't deny that I was vainly pleased when he called out a casual "ciao!" as he rode past me on his bike. (This is after we got off of the train, by the way. In case you were trying to picture that in your head and it wasn't quite working out.)
Sunday, February 1
The thing with the train station
The thing with the train station is that I love it. In fact, I love the trains in general. Before Italy, I think I'd taken precisely one train in my life: the TGV in France to get from Paris to Nice. I don't remember any of it, but I'm told I threw up afterwards. Lovely.
Here, though, I love the trains. I love the departures board - I love looking up and seeing Milano C.le, Bologna C.le, Napoli C.le. Or Salerno, Pescara, Venezia. The places I've only ever heard of on the departures board, like Sassuolo and Guastalla (where are they? does anyone go there?). And the familiar ends of the regionale line, Piacenza and Ancona. I love the self-service machines: defiantly pushing the "Italiano" button and briskly skipping the screen where it warns you about pickpockets (I'm no tourist - I already know what that screen says and don't need to read it again). I love the shiny new regionale to Bologna at 10:46, and I love the feeling of importance that the Eurostar lends to a trip. I love the big schedule, and even more, I love knowing how to read it. I love the announcements and the set phrases and rhythms ("il treno proveniente da ...", "arrivera con dieci minuti di ritardo. Ci scusiamo per il disagio," "Ferma a Modena, Castelfranco Emilia... Forli, Cesena... Falconara Marittima...", "e' vietato attraversare i binari; allontanarsi dalla linea gialla.") In fact, that last is my very favorite and somehow embodies the whole train thing for me. Possibly because it's all I understood the first time I was on the train. Also, there's something completely irresistable about that series of double Ls.
The first time I took the regionale from Bologna to Reggio for an interview (for the job I currently have, actually), I was nervous. It was hot, and I didn't know that the train was going to stop in Modena and Castelfranco before getting to Reggio, and I was scared of being late. On the way back, I was elated. The interview was a success and I was in a train in Italy all by myself!
Then I went to Rome on the Eurostar, by myself again, and felt all grown up and special. Also sleepy, because it was the ass crack of dawn. On the way back it was great, though: I passed through Perugia (where some guy tried to pick my pocket, but I squeaked at him, and apparently that was sufficient to scare him off) and got all proficient with the self service machines, and road the train that goes along the coast on the way to meet my family in Rimini, and it was great.
And now that I live here, the train is part of what makes everything worthwhile. Because on a Saturday morning, you and your colleagues can stroll over to the train station and, after consulting the departures board and someone's lonely planet guide, you can end up in Verona. Mantova. Pistoia, Florence, Ferrara, Modena, Parma. And for minimal cost, too.
I think that's why I feel a little bubble of glee every time I hear that authoritative and reassuring, beautifully cadenced "allontanarsi dalla linea gialla."
Here, though, I love the trains. I love the departures board - I love looking up and seeing Milano C.le, Bologna C.le, Napoli C.le. Or Salerno, Pescara, Venezia. The places I've only ever heard of on the departures board, like Sassuolo and Guastalla (where are they? does anyone go there?). And the familiar ends of the regionale line, Piacenza and Ancona. I love the self-service machines: defiantly pushing the "Italiano" button and briskly skipping the screen where it warns you about pickpockets (I'm no tourist - I already know what that screen says and don't need to read it again). I love the shiny new regionale to Bologna at 10:46, and I love the feeling of importance that the Eurostar lends to a trip. I love the big schedule, and even more, I love knowing how to read it. I love the announcements and the set phrases and rhythms ("il treno proveniente da ...", "arrivera con dieci minuti di ritardo. Ci scusiamo per il disagio," "Ferma a Modena, Castelfranco Emilia... Forli, Cesena... Falconara Marittima...", "e' vietato attraversare i binari; allontanarsi dalla linea gialla.") In fact, that last is my very favorite and somehow embodies the whole train thing for me. Possibly because it's all I understood the first time I was on the train. Also, there's something completely irresistable about that series of double Ls.
The first time I took the regionale from Bologna to Reggio for an interview (for the job I currently have, actually), I was nervous. It was hot, and I didn't know that the train was going to stop in Modena and Castelfranco before getting to Reggio, and I was scared of being late. On the way back, I was elated. The interview was a success and I was in a train in Italy all by myself!
Then I went to Rome on the Eurostar, by myself again, and felt all grown up and special. Also sleepy, because it was the ass crack of dawn. On the way back it was great, though: I passed through Perugia (where some guy tried to pick my pocket, but I squeaked at him, and apparently that was sufficient to scare him off) and got all proficient with the self service machines, and road the train that goes along the coast on the way to meet my family in Rimini, and it was great.
And now that I live here, the train is part of what makes everything worthwhile. Because on a Saturday morning, you and your colleagues can stroll over to the train station and, after consulting the departures board and someone's lonely planet guide, you can end up in Verona. Mantova. Pistoia, Florence, Ferrara, Modena, Parma. And for minimal cost, too.
I think that's why I feel a little bubble of glee every time I hear that authoritative and reassuring, beautifully cadenced "allontanarsi dalla linea gialla."
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