The smell of rain on the cobblestones in the middle of the night.
I'm writing up the world's LONGEST EVER summer homework/review packet for the students in one of my beginner groups (because language does not appear to be their strong point, and I feel bad that I wasn't able to help them more). That's why I'm awake at 2:25am, despite no longer being a college student.
I'm listening to Spanish guitar music on iTunes radio (which is quite handy dandy) when I hear the rain. It starts and stops very quickly here. I turn off the lights (to dissuade the psycho zanzare) and open my window and inhale.
The night sky is purpley dark and San Prospero's weird octagonal campanile is lit up against it, even in the middle of the night. The smell is perfect.
And hopefully unforgettable, because I plan to look back upon it fondly when I leave.
Friday, June 26
Friday, June 19
Tondo
I really love the insalatori (salad) tomatoes here. The tondo (which means round) ones and the oblungo (which is self-explanatory) ones. I haven't tried those weird lumpy mutant-looking ones yet, but I'll let you know.
Did I ever mention that I finally got my hair cut? About two months after I originally meant to, but still. It went fairly well, even though I kind of rushed the girl. I stopped in between classes and I was like "yeah, I want it about 3-5 centimeters shorter, not really layered (scalati); do whatever you want but I need you to be done in an hour because I have to go back to work". She was remarkably understanding and didn't butcher my hair. I think I will go back there before I leave and go completely crazy, i.e. tell her that she can do really whatever she wants (including scalati if she sees fit) as long as it's still long enough to put up. (Because otherwise there is just no escape when it gets hot, and that is no good.)
Speaking of hot... ye gods, Reggio! Who knew it could get so warm here? Well, actually, it was this warm when I came here to interview which was... will have been exactly a year ago in a few days. Now they're interviewing people for next year. Aw. Cyclical.
I actually don't hugely mind the heat except for one thing: I have no screens in my window. Which means that if I leave the window open, especially at night, weird stuff comes inside and EATS me. I'm pretty sure I have circa 20 bug bites on me right now and those suckers are itchy! I particularly hate the ones on my upper thighs because you really can't scratch those without looking strange. Boo.
At least this week I have shutters. Last week they had taken them away to paint them, and after a few days, I got kind of lax about the undressing thing... and now I kind of am hoping that none of the people who work in the vescovado across the street saw me. Because somehow it seems inappropriate to be flashing the vescovado staff. I'm actually not too clear on what the people inside there do, but I know it has something to do with bishops, and it's also attached to the Duomo, so... yeah.
Anyway. Off to check out the weather predictions for tomorrow to see if I can take a train trip to somewhere interesting, and then maybe get some erbazzone for lunch. And maybe get some information about the local swimming pool, which would be useful to work off the calories of the erbazzone.
Did I ever mention that I finally got my hair cut? About two months after I originally meant to, but still. It went fairly well, even though I kind of rushed the girl. I stopped in between classes and I was like "yeah, I want it about 3-5 centimeters shorter, not really layered (scalati); do whatever you want but I need you to be done in an hour because I have to go back to work". She was remarkably understanding and didn't butcher my hair. I think I will go back there before I leave and go completely crazy, i.e. tell her that she can do really whatever she wants (including scalati if she sees fit) as long as it's still long enough to put up. (Because otherwise there is just no escape when it gets hot, and that is no good.)
Speaking of hot... ye gods, Reggio! Who knew it could get so warm here? Well, actually, it was this warm when I came here to interview which was... will have been exactly a year ago in a few days. Now they're interviewing people for next year. Aw. Cyclical.
I actually don't hugely mind the heat except for one thing: I have no screens in my window. Which means that if I leave the window open, especially at night, weird stuff comes inside and EATS me. I'm pretty sure I have circa 20 bug bites on me right now and those suckers are itchy! I particularly hate the ones on my upper thighs because you really can't scratch those without looking strange. Boo.
At least this week I have shutters. Last week they had taken them away to paint them, and after a few days, I got kind of lax about the undressing thing... and now I kind of am hoping that none of the people who work in the vescovado across the street saw me. Because somehow it seems inappropriate to be flashing the vescovado staff. I'm actually not too clear on what the people inside there do, but I know it has something to do with bishops, and it's also attached to the Duomo, so... yeah.
Anyway. Off to check out the weather predictions for tomorrow to see if I can take a train trip to somewhere interesting, and then maybe get some erbazzone for lunch. And maybe get some information about the local swimming pool, which would be useful to work off the calories of the erbazzone.
Saturday, June 13
The pancakes
I glance around the teacher's room, my eyes flicking over the bookshelves with an undercurrent of franticness (is that even a word?). It's the week before Carnavale and I have a lesson in forty minutes' time. And it takes twenty-five to drive there. I flick through one of the children's books on impulse - sometimes there are activities in the back for specific holidays. A page on "pancake day" (evidently a British phenomenon) opens up and it occurs to me that that would go well with the recipe-making/imperatives lesson we concocted a few weeks ago and bingo! That's how lesson plans are made. (Er... in our school, anyway.)
"Siiii, le pancake!" one of the three ten-year-olds screeches as we begin the lesson. She launches into a detailed account of the time she and her family went to New York and ate le pancake. It's pretty cute. The cuteness of Italian kids is one of the reasons for which I sometimes enjoy my job.
"Ma, le facciamo, le pancake?" queries the little boy after laboriously copying out the recipe into the little "recipe books" I crafted in the thirty seconds before getting into the car (yes! creativity!). This is a popular plan.
"Dai, si, le facciamo la settimana prossima!" the third kid expresses her support for this idea. The first one's mother chooses that moment to come in and see how the lesson is going (it takes place in her kitchen) and is quick to inform me that it is 100% okay for us to make pancakes - absolutely no problem and please let her know what she needs to buy.
Sigh. The parental enthusiasm. Sometimes it is heart-warming. And sometimes not. I think quickly.
"You know what? Let's make pancakes during the last English lesson, okay?" We're not allowed to speak Italian to the students and it takes me the better part of ten minutes to illustrate this concept so that everyone has understood. The mother thinks it's a cute idea, and the children are more or less mollified (although they proceed to ask me at the beginning of each of the next ten lessons if today is the day we facciamo the pancakes). I breathe a sigh of relief. Two and a half months seems like a long time. Probably I can learn how to make pancakes in two and a half months, right? I put it out of my mind.
"Allora, mi fai sapere se devo comprare qualcosa, eh?" the mother offers kindly at the end of the second to last English lesson. (You let me know if I need to buy anything.) I stare at her blankly.
"Per le pancake," she clarifies.
"Ah, si, si, no, ci penso io," I say. The mention of the pancakes puts me off-balance and I don't have the energy to explain myself in English. And I can't tell her what to buy because I have no idea what goes into pancakes.
"E mi fai sapere se devo accendere il forno o... non so, dimmi tu," she continues. (Let me know if I need to heat up the oven or... I don't know, you tell me.)
I glance pensively up at the ceiling as if the answers might be written up there. Does one make pancakes in the oven? I'm leaning towards 'no', but it's difficult to be sure. I try valiantly to bring up an image of my mother making pancakes when I was little. I'm about 90% sure it took place on the stovetop. I explain this to the mother.
"Ah, si? Davvero? Maddai!" she expresses her surprise. Her disbelief is not reassuring. I make a mental note to either google this issue or consult with some of my more savvy colleagues.
On the big day, the children await me eagerly in the kitchen and reprise their expressions of delight from the first time I brought it up: "siiii, le pancake!" (If nothing else, I love how they pronounce 'pancake'.)
Two hours later, we have produced an impressive stack of pancakes (and by pancakes, it turns out, I mean British pancakes, which I would actually call crepes). The children are satisfied (and full of sugar), no one has yet been sick, and also no one's fingers have been burnt, despite a few close calls.
The mother informs me that the pancakes are delicious, but different from the ones in New York. I restrain myself from telling her she should be grateful that I managed not to burn down her kitchen or damage the children.
"Siiii, le pancake!" one of the three ten-year-olds screeches as we begin the lesson. She launches into a detailed account of the time she and her family went to New York and ate le pancake. It's pretty cute. The cuteness of Italian kids is one of the reasons for which I sometimes enjoy my job.
"Ma, le facciamo, le pancake?" queries the little boy after laboriously copying out the recipe into the little "recipe books" I crafted in the thirty seconds before getting into the car (yes! creativity!). This is a popular plan.
"Dai, si, le facciamo la settimana prossima!" the third kid expresses her support for this idea. The first one's mother chooses that moment to come in and see how the lesson is going (it takes place in her kitchen) and is quick to inform me that it is 100% okay for us to make pancakes - absolutely no problem and please let her know what she needs to buy.
Sigh. The parental enthusiasm. Sometimes it is heart-warming. And sometimes not. I think quickly.
"You know what? Let's make pancakes during the last English lesson, okay?" We're not allowed to speak Italian to the students and it takes me the better part of ten minutes to illustrate this concept so that everyone has understood. The mother thinks it's a cute idea, and the children are more or less mollified (although they proceed to ask me at the beginning of each of the next ten lessons if today is the day we facciamo the pancakes). I breathe a sigh of relief. Two and a half months seems like a long time. Probably I can learn how to make pancakes in two and a half months, right? I put it out of my mind.
"Allora, mi fai sapere se devo comprare qualcosa, eh?" the mother offers kindly at the end of the second to last English lesson. (You let me know if I need to buy anything.) I stare at her blankly.
"Per le pancake," she clarifies.
"Ah, si, si, no, ci penso io," I say. The mention of the pancakes puts me off-balance and I don't have the energy to explain myself in English. And I can't tell her what to buy because I have no idea what goes into pancakes.
"E mi fai sapere se devo accendere il forno o... non so, dimmi tu," she continues. (Let me know if I need to heat up the oven or... I don't know, you tell me.)
I glance pensively up at the ceiling as if the answers might be written up there. Does one make pancakes in the oven? I'm leaning towards 'no', but it's difficult to be sure. I try valiantly to bring up an image of my mother making pancakes when I was little. I'm about 90% sure it took place on the stovetop. I explain this to the mother.
"Ah, si? Davvero? Maddai!" she expresses her surprise. Her disbelief is not reassuring. I make a mental note to either google this issue or consult with some of my more savvy colleagues.
On the big day, the children await me eagerly in the kitchen and reprise their expressions of delight from the first time I brought it up: "siiii, le pancake!" (If nothing else, I love how they pronounce 'pancake'.)
Two hours later, we have produced an impressive stack of pancakes (and by pancakes, it turns out, I mean British pancakes, which I would actually call crepes). The children are satisfied (and full of sugar), no one has yet been sick, and also no one's fingers have been burnt, despite a few close calls.
The mother informs me that the pancakes are delicious, but different from the ones in New York. I restrain myself from telling her she should be grateful that I managed not to burn down her kitchen or damage the children.
Thursday, June 11
Sick
So... I'm applying to medical school in America. That means one year's worth of applying, four years' worth of school... and another three, minimum, of residency. It's a lot of years. And work. And money. And time spent being poor and tired. But, um... also fulfilled, hopefully.
I really like Italy, though. It kills me that I have to leave in a bit over a month. I'm already plotting how to come back. It's going to be difficult, though, what with the medicine thing. But careers. And stuff. You know? It's important.
So I just submitted the AMCAS. Then I couldn't breathe for a second. Then I sat down and ate a lot of bread. Now I feel faintly ill. Hopefully it was the bread.
Sigh.
I really like Italy, though. It kills me that I have to leave in a bit over a month. I'm already plotting how to come back. It's going to be difficult, though, what with the medicine thing. But careers. And stuff. You know? It's important.
So I just submitted the AMCAS. Then I couldn't breathe for a second. Then I sat down and ate a lot of bread. Now I feel faintly ill. Hopefully it was the bread.
Sigh.
Saturday, June 6
Culture shock
"Io ci ripenserei a questa qua," the young man tells me, pointing to number four, by which I have put a little question mark.
I am taking the CILS test (Certificato dell'Italiano come Lingua Straniera) at an obscure education center near the Reggio train station, and the proctors, as far as I can tell, are wandering around the room to chat about people's answers.
I glance up at him, unsure. Is he teasing? Being funny? He's been standing over me for the past two minutes, reading over my shoulder and generally making me nervous. He's very cute and his shirt is unbuttoned to halfway down his chest - judging solely by his appearance, he seems like the kind of guy that would tease. He throws me a friendly grin and continues:
"Le altre vanno bene, pero'." He indicates the other two where I had put question marks, intending to go back and ponder them some more if I had time. Just as he says this, I hear his fellow proctor (also male, cute, and half-unbuttoned) informing the person behind me that "dalle" is spelled with two Ls. "Ricordati: le preposizioni articolate..."
I limit the visible evidence of the exam-taking-habits short circuit that this produces in my brain to a quick raise of the eyebrows and mumble "grazie".
The two proctors proceed to stand at the front of the classroom and debate the answers to the grammar section in loud whispers before going around and distributing more hints. During the written section, he all but offers to proofread my work.
We are so not in Kansas anymore.
Or, um, anywhere else in the US - it's not like I've ever even been to Kansas. But, anyway... yeah. Mild shock. In America they throw you out of the testing center for so much as looking up to check the time if you have the misfortune to accidently slide your eyes past anywhere that could conceivably be construed as someone else's paper. (Not that I have personal experience - after a lifetime of standardized testing in the US, you pretty much perfect the "eyes closed, glance at clock, eyes closed, back to paper" routine). But still. The strictness with testing in the US. It is intense. I couldn't even have tissues with me when I took the MCAT. God only knows what they figured I could have done to cheat with tissues, but... anyway. Back to Italy.
First I laughed a bit on the inside. Then I felt a bit guilty. Then I remembered how my high school students kept breaking out in conversation during the final exam I gave them (!) and it's not really so shocking. That's just how it's done, I guess.
In any case, provided that the people who distribute i voti are satisfied with my 2-3 minute rambling monologue on plastic surgery (don't ask; I was feeling more than a little flustered), I should have a C1 level certification in Italian sometime in the next year. Yay.
I am taking the CILS test (Certificato dell'Italiano come Lingua Straniera) at an obscure education center near the Reggio train station, and the proctors, as far as I can tell, are wandering around the room to chat about people's answers.
I glance up at him, unsure. Is he teasing? Being funny? He's been standing over me for the past two minutes, reading over my shoulder and generally making me nervous. He's very cute and his shirt is unbuttoned to halfway down his chest - judging solely by his appearance, he seems like the kind of guy that would tease. He throws me a friendly grin and continues:
"Le altre vanno bene, pero'." He indicates the other two where I had put question marks, intending to go back and ponder them some more if I had time. Just as he says this, I hear his fellow proctor (also male, cute, and half-unbuttoned) informing the person behind me that "dalle" is spelled with two Ls. "Ricordati: le preposizioni articolate..."
I limit the visible evidence of the exam-taking-habits short circuit that this produces in my brain to a quick raise of the eyebrows and mumble "grazie".
The two proctors proceed to stand at the front of the classroom and debate the answers to the grammar section in loud whispers before going around and distributing more hints. During the written section, he all but offers to proofread my work.
We are so not in Kansas anymore.
Or, um, anywhere else in the US - it's not like I've ever even been to Kansas. But, anyway... yeah. Mild shock. In America they throw you out of the testing center for so much as looking up to check the time if you have the misfortune to accidently slide your eyes past anywhere that could conceivably be construed as someone else's paper. (Not that I have personal experience - after a lifetime of standardized testing in the US, you pretty much perfect the "eyes closed, glance at clock, eyes closed, back to paper" routine). But still. The strictness with testing in the US. It is intense. I couldn't even have tissues with me when I took the MCAT. God only knows what they figured I could have done to cheat with tissues, but... anyway. Back to Italy.
First I laughed a bit on the inside. Then I felt a bit guilty. Then I remembered how my high school students kept breaking out in conversation during the final exam I gave them (!) and it's not really so shocking. That's just how it's done, I guess.
In any case, provided that the people who distribute i voti are satisfied with my 2-3 minute rambling monologue on plastic surgery (don't ask; I was feeling more than a little flustered), I should have a C1 level certification in Italian sometime in the next year. Yay.
Monday, June 1
Progress
Things that I would write on my students' progress reports if I could:
Sometimes spontaneously breaks into song in English (e.g. rendition of "Edelweiss" last Thursday), which is adorable. Otherwise an insufferable brat. Stop spoiling her, please. (Age 8)
Great kid with an infectious laugh, routinely have to suppress the urge to ruffle his hair. Totally crap pronunciation that I have been unable to fix. Sorry. (Age 10)
Psychosis not mitigated by cute smile. What the hell are you feeding her? (Age 3)
Creepy bastard who routinely stares down my shirt, no matter how high I button it. Would probably see more improvements in his English-speaking abilities if we blindfolded him. (Adult. Obviously.)
Great sense of humor. Needs to stop copying off her classmates, though - she'd probably have been kicked out of an American school by now. Also, should consider trying to quit smoking. (Age 17.)
Wonderful, amazing, warm, funny, and egaging person. Decent English skills. But, seriously, can we just go ahead and be friends in real life? (Adult.)
But instead I have to restrain myself and think of creative ways in which to attempt to convey what I mean. Creative ways involving words like "spirited" (#3), "opinionated" (#1), "strong student, a pleasure to have in class" (#6), "should try to work more independently" (#5)... etc.
Sigh.
Sometimes spontaneously breaks into song in English (e.g. rendition of "Edelweiss" last Thursday), which is adorable. Otherwise an insufferable brat. Stop spoiling her, please. (Age 8)
Great kid with an infectious laugh, routinely have to suppress the urge to ruffle his hair. Totally crap pronunciation that I have been unable to fix. Sorry. (Age 10)
Psychosis not mitigated by cute smile. What the hell are you feeding her? (Age 3)
Creepy bastard who routinely stares down my shirt, no matter how high I button it. Would probably see more improvements in his English-speaking abilities if we blindfolded him. (Adult. Obviously.)
Great sense of humor. Needs to stop copying off her classmates, though - she'd probably have been kicked out of an American school by now. Also, should consider trying to quit smoking. (Age 17.)
Wonderful, amazing, warm, funny, and egaging person. Decent English skills. But, seriously, can we just go ahead and be friends in real life? (Adult.)
But instead I have to restrain myself and think of creative ways in which to attempt to convey what I mean. Creative ways involving words like "spirited" (#3), "opinionated" (#1), "strong student, a pleasure to have in class" (#6), "should try to work more independently" (#5)... etc.
Sigh.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
