Anzi, not the bimbi, but the ragazzi. The high school kids. I'm just wondering, because, having finally figured out the Italian school system (I think... more or less), I was under the impression that they went to school from 8ish to 1ish. So why is it that no matter what time of day I walk through town, they are there, hanging out, in the cafes and the piazze, all good-naturedly jostling each other and stuff?
Like, just now, I stopped back in town between lessons to grab some food and do some domestic stuff and they are all crowded into Melli in the piazza, demanding pezzi di pizza and wondering why the line is so long. (Because there are twelve million of your little school buddies here, genius.) But it's, like, 9:30. How come they're not in school, doing something productive?
Actually, I have an idea about this. Every time an Italian sees me typing (without looking! mamma mia!), they are all shocked and amazed. But really it is not a very difficult skill to acquire. I vaguely remember being taught how to type when I was ten-ish. At school. And then when I was 13ish they started demanding that assignments be typed. And ten years of practice later... here we are, and I can type this and look out of the window at the same time. So I suggest that the ragazzi put down their slices of pizza, get their little arses off the benches around the fountain, and go learn to type. Then they won't be quite so shocked when they see someone else doing it, and I won't have to read their scrawl-y cramped looking essays on lined paper torn out of a notebook. Win-win.
Um, aside from that... it is a *beautiful* day here today with sun and a lovely breeze and a near-ideal temperature, and the market is out and the people are out (I'm still confused as to why none of them are at work or in school, but whatever) and it's delightful. I love this time of year here.
Friday, April 30
Wednesday, April 28
Zanzariere
The mosquitos are back, sneaky little suckers. First mosquito of the year and I've got seven bites on one leg.
So. much. fun.
I'd kind of forgotten about them since last year. And does our house have any zanzariere (window screens)? Magari!
In other news, apparently Inter and Barcelona are playing an important game now. I am confused about who I am meant to support: I promised a student that I'd root for Milan, but they are not playing. So do you root for Inter because Italy bands together for such occasions, or is the rivalry between Milan and Inter strong enough that you actually just go ahead and root for a whole other country? I feel that this is plausible, because the other day I brought up soccer with a class of four year olds, and they actually came to blows over it. (Te sei Juventino? Ma che schifo! yelled one little Interista before whacking his compatriot on the shoulder.) So apparently the inter-team within-Italy rivalry is quite... engaging.
There is a whole group of Italians in my kitchen, though, and they are getting quite agitated, whatever it is that's going on, and also someone is shouting at the top of their lungs in the piazza...
Huh.
So. much. fun.
I'd kind of forgotten about them since last year. And does our house have any zanzariere (window screens)? Magari!
In other news, apparently Inter and Barcelona are playing an important game now. I am confused about who I am meant to support: I promised a student that I'd root for Milan, but they are not playing. So do you root for Inter because Italy bands together for such occasions, or is the rivalry between Milan and Inter strong enough that you actually just go ahead and root for a whole other country? I feel that this is plausible, because the other day I brought up soccer with a class of four year olds, and they actually came to blows over it. (Te sei Juventino? Ma che schifo! yelled one little Interista before whacking his compatriot on the shoulder.) So apparently the inter-team within-Italy rivalry is quite... engaging.
There is a whole group of Italians in my kitchen, though, and they are getting quite agitated, whatever it is that's going on, and also someone is shouting at the top of their lungs in the piazza...
Huh.
Monday, April 26
Of gnocco fritto and the red flag
"Want to come with us to the festa?" my housemate kindly offers on the morning of the 25th of April. The 25th of April is Liberation Day here - as far as I can tell, it is the day that Italy was liberated from Germany during WWII. This is a very important point here in Emilia, because the tradition of revering the partigiani seems quite strong here.
"Sure, thanks," I say. Why not?
"Apparently that's where all of Reggio goes on the 25th," her boyfriend informs me on the way there.
When we arrive, though, we become aware that it is not really all of Reggio, per se. Rather, it is all of a certain subset of Reggio people. It is not the ones who saunter around in their designer clothes and perfectly straightened hair. It is not the ones who dress their children in Lacoste with Prada sneakers. It is the ones who have Che Guevara tattoos and let their children play soccer in the mud (where they shriek with laughter).
They are selling a sort of Fair Trade coke-like drink that I've never seen before along with the beer and the coffee. They are also selling t-shirts, the slogans on which are complicated enough that I only figure out a few of them before we move on. There is a man with a priest's collar shouting political-sounding things from a stage at the front of the crowd. I don't understand enough of what he says to follow his line of thought, so I let the words float by my head and look around at the people instead.
A man with dreadlocks that reach halfway down his back walks by, balancing three beers between his two hands. A smallish little boy weaves his way between people's legs until his father catches up with him to throw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and give him a stern lecture about getting lost in the crowd. We walk past people proudly wearing Che Guevara t-shirts and flying the red hammer-and-sickle flag above their heads, and I vaguely wonder how such an open display of very-left-leaning political philosophy would do in the States. I'm not very knowledgeable about the whole politics thing, but I get the feeling that it might not be taken so well. It clearly doesn't mean the same thing here, though, because no one seems perturbed in the least.
It's very sunny out, and we find some space at a picnic table half in the shade. We drink some beer and wonder how long it would actually take to wait in the line for gnocco fritto. Someone is brave and decides to give it a try. He comes back bearing salumi, meat that is grigliata (like little sausages and stuff), and bread. The gnocco was apparently finito. Music is playing now, and we let it wash over us with the sun and the sound of people chatting and laughing and children shoving each other around in the space between some tables that has apparently been converted into a makeshift soccer field. The table next to us strikes up a stirring rendition of a canzone poplare - from what I can gather, this seems to be a type of song that everyone knows the words to but whose origins are kind of unknown. "Boh, non te lo saprei dire," my housemate says when I ask her who it is by. I like it, though... do we have anything similar in America?
Later we go to Parma, which is far more alive than Reggio usually is, and eat some gelato. We enjoy the sheer number of people who are milling around, and the lingering warmth after sunset. There is a big palco for a concert in Piazza Garibaldi. The mayor reminds us all of the solemnity of the day, and introduces an ex-partigiano (or maybe you never really cease being a partigiano), who reminds us not to forget how lucky we are to live in freedom, even though we can't possibly understand what freedom really is because we've never had to do without it. (He has a point, there.) The concert is lovely - listening to music with a lot of people in a piazza in Italy when it's still warm after sundown and there aren't any mosquitoes yet... there's really nothing you could possibly complain about.
"Sure, thanks," I say. Why not?
"Apparently that's where all of Reggio goes on the 25th," her boyfriend informs me on the way there.
When we arrive, though, we become aware that it is not really all of Reggio, per se. Rather, it is all of a certain subset of Reggio people. It is not the ones who saunter around in their designer clothes and perfectly straightened hair. It is not the ones who dress their children in Lacoste with Prada sneakers. It is the ones who have Che Guevara tattoos and let their children play soccer in the mud (where they shriek with laughter).
They are selling a sort of Fair Trade coke-like drink that I've never seen before along with the beer and the coffee. They are also selling t-shirts, the slogans on which are complicated enough that I only figure out a few of them before we move on. There is a man with a priest's collar shouting political-sounding things from a stage at the front of the crowd. I don't understand enough of what he says to follow his line of thought, so I let the words float by my head and look around at the people instead.
A man with dreadlocks that reach halfway down his back walks by, balancing three beers between his two hands. A smallish little boy weaves his way between people's legs until his father catches up with him to throw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and give him a stern lecture about getting lost in the crowd. We walk past people proudly wearing Che Guevara t-shirts and flying the red hammer-and-sickle flag above their heads, and I vaguely wonder how such an open display of very-left-leaning political philosophy would do in the States. I'm not very knowledgeable about the whole politics thing, but I get the feeling that it might not be taken so well. It clearly doesn't mean the same thing here, though, because no one seems perturbed in the least.
It's very sunny out, and we find some space at a picnic table half in the shade. We drink some beer and wonder how long it would actually take to wait in the line for gnocco fritto. Someone is brave and decides to give it a try. He comes back bearing salumi, meat that is grigliata (like little sausages and stuff), and bread. The gnocco was apparently finito. Music is playing now, and we let it wash over us with the sun and the sound of people chatting and laughing and children shoving each other around in the space between some tables that has apparently been converted into a makeshift soccer field. The table next to us strikes up a stirring rendition of a canzone poplare - from what I can gather, this seems to be a type of song that everyone knows the words to but whose origins are kind of unknown. "Boh, non te lo saprei dire," my housemate says when I ask her who it is by. I like it, though... do we have anything similar in America?
Later we go to Parma, which is far more alive than Reggio usually is, and eat some gelato. We enjoy the sheer number of people who are milling around, and the lingering warmth after sunset. There is a big palco for a concert in Piazza Garibaldi. The mayor reminds us all of the solemnity of the day, and introduces an ex-partigiano (or maybe you never really cease being a partigiano), who reminds us not to forget how lucky we are to live in freedom, even though we can't possibly understand what freedom really is because we've never had to do without it. (He has a point, there.) The concert is lovely - listening to music with a lot of people in a piazza in Italy when it's still warm after sundown and there aren't any mosquitoes yet... there's really nothing you could possibly complain about.
Saturday, April 17
Grana padano
"No, ma, probably in America your 'parmesan', it's not veramente Parmigiano Reggiano - D.O.P." he says this last rather emphatically.
Our Wednesday morning English lesson is winding down, the whirring sound of insects beyond the screens contributes a sense of summer lethargy to the lesson, and we have slipped onto the subject of food (as you do) and one of my students is explaining to me why American food is defective. (This is a common theme if you're talking to Italians about food.)
"No, its probably grana padano," he explains, making a face. I nod, pretending I understand why this is such an important point. He continues, his facial expression clearly conveying his distaste, "grana padano, it's not such good quality," he tells me. "Don't buy it."
"Infatti," adds another student, "it's strange because when you tell someone to go buy cheese, just generally, you say 'vai a prendere la grana', but really you mean Parmigiano Reggiano. No one would ever just buy grana padano."
"Yes," they all agree. "Don't buy grana padano. Only Parmigiano Reggiano. It's better."
I accept this and we move on to adverbs of frequency, using the framework of how often we eat various types of food. (Should you ever be in the situation of teaching English - or any language, really - to adults in Italy, food is pretty much a sure bet as a conversation point. You can make the longest of lessons go by in two seconds if you just start them talking about food.)
In the ensuing months (this was actually last May), every time I pass grana padano in the supermarket, I remember what's-his-name from that group last year, and I do not buy it. Until one day there happens to be a very appealing chunk of it on sale in Standa (Billa, whatever) and I am hungry and I say (to myself, silently), 'hey, what the heck, it has a D.O.P. as well,' and buy it.
And now it's awkward because the other day I grated it onto some bizarre rice and tomato mixture that I had concocted (don't ask - we've already established that I am crap at cooking, right?) and... anyway... the point is, Ithink I might possibly like it better than Parmigiano Reggiano, D.O.P.
Clearly I have the palate of an uncultured peon. Sigh. So now when I go to the supermarket, I have to sneakily grab my grana padano and hide it under a head of lettuce or something. Although apparently I don't feel the need to capitalize 'grana padano', even though it's clearly got its own D.O.P, too. I'm too lazy to go back and fix it now, though, so... tough luck. Anyway... yeah, there's no moral to that story or anything. Back to your normally scheduled activities.
Our Wednesday morning English lesson is winding down, the whirring sound of insects beyond the screens contributes a sense of summer lethargy to the lesson, and we have slipped onto the subject of food (as you do) and one of my students is explaining to me why American food is defective. (This is a common theme if you're talking to Italians about food.)
"No, its probably grana padano," he explains, making a face. I nod, pretending I understand why this is such an important point. He continues, his facial expression clearly conveying his distaste, "grana padano, it's not such good quality," he tells me. "Don't buy it."
"Infatti," adds another student, "it's strange because when you tell someone to go buy cheese, just generally, you say 'vai a prendere la grana', but really you mean Parmigiano Reggiano. No one would ever just buy grana padano."
"Yes," they all agree. "Don't buy grana padano. Only Parmigiano Reggiano. It's better."
I accept this and we move on to adverbs of frequency, using the framework of how often we eat various types of food. (Should you ever be in the situation of teaching English - or any language, really - to adults in Italy, food is pretty much a sure bet as a conversation point. You can make the longest of lessons go by in two seconds if you just start them talking about food.)
In the ensuing months (this was actually last May), every time I pass grana padano in the supermarket, I remember what's-his-name from that group last year, and I do not buy it. Until one day there happens to be a very appealing chunk of it on sale in Standa (Billa, whatever) and I am hungry and I say (to myself, silently), 'hey, what the heck, it has a D.O.P. as well,' and buy it.
And now it's awkward because the other day I grated it onto some bizarre rice and tomato mixture that I had concocted (don't ask - we've already established that I am crap at cooking, right?) and... anyway... the point is, Ithink I might possibly like it better than Parmigiano Reggiano, D.O.P.
Clearly I have the palate of an uncultured peon. Sigh. So now when I go to the supermarket, I have to sneakily grab my grana padano and hide it under a head of lettuce or something. Although apparently I don't feel the need to capitalize 'grana padano', even though it's clearly got its own D.O.P, too. I'm too lazy to go back and fix it now, though, so... tough luck. Anyway... yeah, there's no moral to that story or anything. Back to your normally scheduled activities.
Saturday, April 3
Boh
"Ma sei tornata, alla fine?" the cashier asks me. I am sorting through my change, cursing once again the fact that I still have not removed the quarters from my purse, so it takes me a second to look up at her. It is indeed the one I chatted with a few days before leaving last year.
"Ah, si," I respond, smiling.
We chat for a moment. I feel all neighborhood-y. You know, like when the cashiers know you and stuff.
"E poi a settembre, che fai?" she asks.
"Boh... non sono sicura... maybe I'll go home and go back to school," I explain, not particularly clearly.
"Brava," she encourages.
Boh. If I were really brava, maybe I'd know what to do with my life by now...
"Ah, si," I respond, smiling.
We chat for a moment. I feel all neighborhood-y. You know, like when the cashiers know you and stuff.
"E poi a settembre, che fai?" she asks.
"Boh... non sono sicura... maybe I'll go home and go back to school," I explain, not particularly clearly.
"Brava," she encourages.
Boh. If I were really brava, maybe I'd know what to do with my life by now...
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