Thursday, June 24
Strange
And then we stood in the piazza, holding glasses of prosecco and laughing (hysterically, might I add) at the jokes (in English!) of our students - the top managers of the UFLFT - as the sun set, inching its way down the facade of San Prospero, and the mosquitoes came out in full force to nibble on our pale foreign skin, and aperitivo went on around us: a group of men in suits and young foreign women.
Monday, June 21
That one time with the lock and the firemen
This was actually one fine afternoon in mid-May...
"Be careful with the lock," warns my roommate on her way out the door. I look up from where I am assiduously translating some stuff at my desk. "It's been a bit sticky lately and I think it's worse today."
I nod, wish her a good afternoon, and go back to my translating. It is only two hours later, when I try to leave the apartment to go to my 5 o'clock lesson that I discover I have actually been trapped in the apartment the whole time. I try the lock a few more times, turning the key this way and that. No dice.
This is unfortunate, because it really would be better if I could go to work. I call my housemate.
"Housemate," I say, "I am stuck. I can't open the door."
Next I call the secretary of our school.
"This is sort of odd," I tell her, "but... I am stuck in my house. I think the lock is broken."
"Cosa?" she asks incredulously.
I explain again. There is some noise in the background, and I can faintly hear my colleagues asking what is going on.
"You should call the vigili del fuoco so some sexy firemen will come over!!!" shouts one of them.
Pah. Who calls the firemen to get out of their own house? I think to myself.
Oh, but, self. You are so silly.
Meanwhile, my housemate arrives. She is unable to open the door from the outside either. So we decide to call the landlord.
Per usual, the landlord is useless. "You could call... you know... someone," he suggests vaguely. "The fabbro or something." (The fabbro, as near as I can tell, appears to be some sort of hardware-store-owning type of person.) "Probably that will be expensive, though," he adds helpfully.
We call the Vigili del Fuoco. "They're very nice," says my housemate, "they kept asking me if you were okay or if they should send an ambulance!" It could be worse, I suppose. I am not in need of an ambulance, but merely sitting here in my kitchen translating stuff, communicating to my housemate through our kitchen window and the outside hallway window, which face each other across a small courtyard. She gets out her laptop as well, and we companionably get some work done while we wait for the vigili.
Her phone rings.
"Si, si, sta bene," she says into it after a moment. "No, but even if you need to be a bit late because of the accident, she's fine. A parte che she's stuck inside the apartment, she's fine."
"There's been an accident," she explains to me after hanging up, "and they want to know if you'll be okay if they go help out there first."
I nod. Yep, still fine and making decent progress with the translation. I call the school again and ask them to cancel my later lesson as well. My colleagues seem to find the situation quite hilarious, and laugh helpfully from the other end of the phone, except one who offers to come break down the door and/or arrange some sort of bucket/winch system for getting food up to me. I politely decline, for now.
My housemate is on the phone again, assuring the firemen that I'm still fine. "No, ma si, si sono sicura: sta bene!" Apparently they feel it their duty to call and check on us occasionally.
They arrive. I come to the window that faces the street so that they can see which windows are ours. Two (fairly attractive, it must be admitted) firemen are standing looking up at the building. The slightly shorter one turns to his buddy.
"Ah, ma sta bene la ragazza!" he comments. The other shrugs his shoulders. I am unable to muster the Italian necessary to say 'we've been telling you that for hours now!' I hope he will not be cross because I am in good health after all. He may have a point - it would have been far more dramatic if I had fainted oh-so-delicately in the hallway from all the stress and everything.
Twenty minutes later, they have sistemato'd their ladders and the first of them has one leg over the windowsill.
"Permesso," he says politely (Italians say 'permesso' when they enter each other's apartments).
"Er... prego," I manage. "La posso aiutare?" I ask, proud of myself for getting my formal pronouns all lined up in my brain.
"No, no, I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself," he says. Aw. So gallant. (The housemate and I are a little awestruck by fact that big strong firemen are actively climbing into our apartment via ladders and the kitchen window.)
Another hour later, they have taken off the back panel of the door and fiddled around with its insides a bit. They try to explain to me what's wrong with the lock, and I understand approximately 3% of what they say (most of that consists of nouns that I picked up while putting together IKEA furniture: vite = screw; cacciavite = screwdriver).
"So, that way, if it breaks again, you'll know how to fix it," the fireman concludes his discourse about screwdrivers and bolts and god-knows-what-else. He pauses. "Or you can always just call us again! Se fosse una vecchietta, non lo direi," he says, displaying impeccable use of the third conditional and winking at the same time (definitely more than my brain could coordinate at the same time).
I saunter down the stairs of my apartment and walk to work, thinking that now I can check another thing off my "fun things that can happen to you in a foreign country" list. Right up there with serving as the (Italian!) emergency phone chain for one's place of work and learning how to pump gas (ahem).
"Oh, ma allora?" the boss' husband greets me when I arrive at school to do some planning for the next day. Everyone is quite amused by the story (I think it's mostly the image of the fireman astride my kitchen windowsill, asking for permission to enter, really.)
Perhaps I should get stuck in my apartment more often, if only for the entertainment value...
------
In other news, why the hell is someone having a concert in the piazza at 10:30 on a Monday night? I want to sleeeeep.
"Be careful with the lock," warns my roommate on her way out the door. I look up from where I am assiduously translating some stuff at my desk. "It's been a bit sticky lately and I think it's worse today."
I nod, wish her a good afternoon, and go back to my translating. It is only two hours later, when I try to leave the apartment to go to my 5 o'clock lesson that I discover I have actually been trapped in the apartment the whole time. I try the lock a few more times, turning the key this way and that. No dice.
This is unfortunate, because it really would be better if I could go to work. I call my housemate.
"Housemate," I say, "I am stuck. I can't open the door."
Next I call the secretary of our school.
"This is sort of odd," I tell her, "but... I am stuck in my house. I think the lock is broken."
"Cosa?" she asks incredulously.
I explain again. There is some noise in the background, and I can faintly hear my colleagues asking what is going on.
"You should call the vigili del fuoco so some sexy firemen will come over!!!" shouts one of them.
Pah. Who calls the firemen to get out of their own house? I think to myself.
Oh, but, self. You are so silly.
Meanwhile, my housemate arrives. She is unable to open the door from the outside either. So we decide to call the landlord.
Per usual, the landlord is useless. "You could call... you know... someone," he suggests vaguely. "The fabbro or something." (The fabbro, as near as I can tell, appears to be some sort of hardware-store-owning type of person.) "Probably that will be expensive, though," he adds helpfully.
We call the Vigili del Fuoco. "They're very nice," says my housemate, "they kept asking me if you were okay or if they should send an ambulance!" It could be worse, I suppose. I am not in need of an ambulance, but merely sitting here in my kitchen translating stuff, communicating to my housemate through our kitchen window and the outside hallway window, which face each other across a small courtyard. She gets out her laptop as well, and we companionably get some work done while we wait for the vigili.
Her phone rings.
"Si, si, sta bene," she says into it after a moment. "No, but even if you need to be a bit late because of the accident, she's fine. A parte che she's stuck inside the apartment, she's fine."
"There's been an accident," she explains to me after hanging up, "and they want to know if you'll be okay if they go help out there first."
I nod. Yep, still fine and making decent progress with the translation. I call the school again and ask them to cancel my later lesson as well. My colleagues seem to find the situation quite hilarious, and laugh helpfully from the other end of the phone, except one who offers to come break down the door and/or arrange some sort of bucket/winch system for getting food up to me. I politely decline, for now.
My housemate is on the phone again, assuring the firemen that I'm still fine. "No, ma si, si sono sicura: sta bene!" Apparently they feel it their duty to call and check on us occasionally.
They arrive. I come to the window that faces the street so that they can see which windows are ours. Two (fairly attractive, it must be admitted) firemen are standing looking up at the building. The slightly shorter one turns to his buddy.
"Ah, ma sta bene la ragazza!" he comments. The other shrugs his shoulders. I am unable to muster the Italian necessary to say 'we've been telling you that for hours now!' I hope he will not be cross because I am in good health after all. He may have a point - it would have been far more dramatic if I had fainted oh-so-delicately in the hallway from all the stress and everything.
Twenty minutes later, they have sistemato'd their ladders and the first of them has one leg over the windowsill.
"Permesso," he says politely (Italians say 'permesso' when they enter each other's apartments).
"Er... prego," I manage. "La posso aiutare?" I ask, proud of myself for getting my formal pronouns all lined up in my brain.
"No, no, I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself," he says. Aw. So gallant. (The housemate and I are a little awestruck by fact that big strong firemen are actively climbing into our apartment via ladders and the kitchen window.)
Another hour later, they have taken off the back panel of the door and fiddled around with its insides a bit. They try to explain to me what's wrong with the lock, and I understand approximately 3% of what they say (most of that consists of nouns that I picked up while putting together IKEA furniture: vite = screw; cacciavite = screwdriver).
"So, that way, if it breaks again, you'll know how to fix it," the fireman concludes his discourse about screwdrivers and bolts and god-knows-what-else. He pauses. "Or you can always just call us again! Se fosse una vecchietta, non lo direi," he says, displaying impeccable use of the third conditional and winking at the same time (definitely more than my brain could coordinate at the same time).
I saunter down the stairs of my apartment and walk to work, thinking that now I can check another thing off my "fun things that can happen to you in a foreign country" list. Right up there with serving as the (Italian!) emergency phone chain for one's place of work and learning how to pump gas (ahem).
"Oh, ma allora?" the boss' husband greets me when I arrive at school to do some planning for the next day. Everyone is quite amused by the story (I think it's mostly the image of the fireman astride my kitchen windowsill, asking for permission to enter, really.)
Perhaps I should get stuck in my apartment more often, if only for the entertainment value...
------
In other news, why the hell is someone having a concert in the piazza at 10:30 on a Monday night? I want to sleeeeep.
Sunday, June 20
Buttons
You know what's interesting and kind of satisfying? By virtue of teaching English at the Uber-Fancy Local Fashion Thing, I now know more about buttons than the lady at Bloomingdales.
When I went for my first med school interview in November and went looking for a new suit, there was this lady in Bloomingdales who lectured me extensively about suits and jackets and cut and wearability and the life of the suit, etc. "This one is single breasted and this other one is double-breasted, so it's a little more official looking," she lectured me knowledgeably, presenting me with a suit with one single button in the middle and a suit with two rows of two buttons, respectively. "And this one is triple breasted." (A single row of three buttons.)
I had never heard of a triple-breasted suit, but she sort of bullied me into believing her and I couldn't really tell from the other two anyway, whether "breasted" refers to the number of buttons per row or the number of rows. I was not a fan of the single row look anyway, so I went for the other kind that was definitely double breasted. And escaped Bloomingdales and planned not to go back for a long time.
"This is a good suit," she proclaimed upon my leaving, "although the other one would have had better wearability in the long run. Then you could buy other pieces for it so you could mix and match for when you have a job and you have to wear a suit every day." She paused and I didn't contradict her. "Although... you said you're going to a medical school interview aren't you? So I guess you won't really have a job for a while anyway..."
Yeah, thanks, lady. Rub that right in there.
Anyway. The point is, teaching for the UFLFT, we frequently have to answer questions about what very specific things are called in English (like, there are ten billion different types of pockets that you differentiate depending on the angle, the seam, whether they are part of the front panel or not, etc.) and you know what? I was right. Breasted refers to how many rows there are, and, as far as I know, there is no such thing as triple breasted.
Take that, Bloomingdales lady.
When I went for my first med school interview in November and went looking for a new suit, there was this lady in Bloomingdales who lectured me extensively about suits and jackets and cut and wearability and the life of the suit, etc. "This one is single breasted and this other one is double-breasted, so it's a little more official looking," she lectured me knowledgeably, presenting me with a suit with one single button in the middle and a suit with two rows of two buttons, respectively. "And this one is triple breasted." (A single row of three buttons.)
I had never heard of a triple-breasted suit, but she sort of bullied me into believing her and I couldn't really tell from the other two anyway, whether "breasted" refers to the number of buttons per row or the number of rows. I was not a fan of the single row look anyway, so I went for the other kind that was definitely double breasted. And escaped Bloomingdales and planned not to go back for a long time.
"This is a good suit," she proclaimed upon my leaving, "although the other one would have had better wearability in the long run. Then you could buy other pieces for it so you could mix and match for when you have a job and you have to wear a suit every day." She paused and I didn't contradict her. "Although... you said you're going to a medical school interview aren't you? So I guess you won't really have a job for a while anyway..."
Yeah, thanks, lady. Rub that right in there.
Anyway. The point is, teaching for the UFLFT, we frequently have to answer questions about what very specific things are called in English (like, there are ten billion different types of pockets that you differentiate depending on the angle, the seam, whether they are part of the front panel or not, etc.) and you know what? I was right. Breasted refers to how many rows there are, and, as far as I know, there is no such thing as triple breasted.
Take that, Bloomingdales lady.
Wednesday, June 16
Next year
"See you on August 2nd!" says the voice at the other end of the phone, all sing-song-y for all that it belongs to the Dean of Admissions.
"Yes, great!" I manage to enunciate weakly. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit, now what? The calendar in my head flips rapidly through the weeks between now and August 2nd. There are not many: five weeks teaching here, and then August 2nd is only two weeks after that. My brain recommences with the repetitive chanting of expletives as I picture myself landing in America, driving down to Philedelphia - wait, no, first stopping at home to dig all of my old college furniture out of the basement - donning a white coat and a stethescope and being marched on stage to be proclaimed an MS1. (1st year medical student, in student-speak).
I've been planning my escape (in the form of a deferral request) in a sort of abstract way for weeks - discussing medically-related opportunities with my boss and things like that. But suddenly it's all very real and very relevant and not at all abstract. I wander downstairs, absently photocopy something (which later turns out to have been from the wrong book) and set about chopping up something else on a papercutter.
"You okay?" says one of my awesome coworkers.
"Yeah." I narrowly miss chopping off the end of my pinky finger with the paper cutter. "I got into med school, though."
We celebrate with pizza and birra (in moderation, though, ragazzi) and gelato, which is fun, but doesn't change the fact that August 2nd does not loom in the distance or anything poetic like that. It looms right over my shoulder.
Anyway, slightly less than a week later, I've finally got my act together and have sent in a two page email explaining my reasons for wanting a deferral, and am lying on bed during a rare afternoon break, attempting to read a book, but really watching my inbox out of the corner of my eye, waiting for it to refresh. And refresh again.
It does, eventually. "We can defer your acceptance..."
I smile. I walk to work under the sun, not minding the heat or the trickle of sweat down my back that usually really irritates me. I smile at Conad, at the industrial yuck that is the area where our school is. I smile at the evil painters who are currently painting our school (more on that later). I smile at my student, who probably wonders what's wrong with me.
Now it's "notte rosa", which apparently means that people are entitled to play music in Piazza Prampolini until all hours (surely they'll stop at midnight, though? on a Wednesday?), but even that doesn't make me grumpy, because I have another whole year here. Yay!
(Yeesh, so maudlin. Grow a pair, Self.)
"Yes, great!" I manage to enunciate weakly. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit, now what? The calendar in my head flips rapidly through the weeks between now and August 2nd. There are not many: five weeks teaching here, and then August 2nd is only two weeks after that. My brain recommences with the repetitive chanting of expletives as I picture myself landing in America, driving down to Philedelphia - wait, no, first stopping at home to dig all of my old college furniture out of the basement - donning a white coat and a stethescope and being marched on stage to be proclaimed an MS1. (1st year medical student, in student-speak).
I've been planning my escape (in the form of a deferral request) in a sort of abstract way for weeks - discussing medically-related opportunities with my boss and things like that. But suddenly it's all very real and very relevant and not at all abstract. I wander downstairs, absently photocopy something (which later turns out to have been from the wrong book) and set about chopping up something else on a papercutter.
"You okay?" says one of my awesome coworkers.
"Yeah." I narrowly miss chopping off the end of my pinky finger with the paper cutter. "I got into med school, though."
We celebrate with pizza and birra (in moderation, though, ragazzi) and gelato, which is fun, but doesn't change the fact that August 2nd does not loom in the distance or anything poetic like that. It looms right over my shoulder.
Anyway, slightly less than a week later, I've finally got my act together and have sent in a two page email explaining my reasons for wanting a deferral, and am lying on bed during a rare afternoon break, attempting to read a book, but really watching my inbox out of the corner of my eye, waiting for it to refresh. And refresh again.
It does, eventually. "We can defer your acceptance..."
I smile. I walk to work under the sun, not minding the heat or the trickle of sweat down my back that usually really irritates me. I smile at Conad, at the industrial yuck that is the area where our school is. I smile at the evil painters who are currently painting our school (more on that later). I smile at my student, who probably wonders what's wrong with me.
Now it's "notte rosa", which apparently means that people are entitled to play music in Piazza Prampolini until all hours (surely they'll stop at midnight, though? on a Wednesday?), but even that doesn't make me grumpy, because I have another whole year here. Yay!
(Yeesh, so maudlin. Grow a pair, Self.)
Saturday, June 12
Random boring stuff
I worked almost 40 hours this week. I am like a machine. Yay. (Full time for ESL is generally considered to be 25, I think. Because of the prep time that you don't actually count, see. So working 25 hours is more like working 35 or 40, really. Depending on how efficient you are.) Anyway. Whatever. It is good, though, to have a week like that every once in a while - where you just put your back into it every day and charge around like a madwoman (or madman, as the case may be) and walk your exhausted self back into town on Friday evening and feel just ever so slightly impressed with yourself.
Managed to squeeze in pizza and K2 (one of the two best gelaterie in Reggio, in my opinion) on Thursday night, and it was one of those evenings that reminds me why I love living here. Good food and good company, being seated out on the street where it's just cooled off to a pleasant temperature by the time you sit down around 10pm, wandering around the piazze with your gelato at midnight... priceless.
Okay, so, waking up at 5:30 the next morning was not quite as delightful, but whatever. It's over now and I've just hauled myself out of bed (for second time today) after a post-early-morning-babysitting nap, and am now ready to venture forth into the ridiculous heat once more. On the menu: shopping for work-appropriate and Reggio-appropriate summer clothes, and checking out the photo exhibits that've been going on for a month but that I somehow have yet to go see. Oh, and Notte Bianca tonight, and all the craziness that that entails. If you live in the center of Reggio and were planning on sleeping at any point tonight, forget it.
Managed to squeeze in pizza and K2 (one of the two best gelaterie in Reggio, in my opinion) on Thursday night, and it was one of those evenings that reminds me why I love living here. Good food and good company, being seated out on the street where it's just cooled off to a pleasant temperature by the time you sit down around 10pm, wandering around the piazze with your gelato at midnight... priceless.
Okay, so, waking up at 5:30 the next morning was not quite as delightful, but whatever. It's over now and I've just hauled myself out of bed (for second time today) after a post-early-morning-babysitting nap, and am now ready to venture forth into the ridiculous heat once more. On the menu: shopping for work-appropriate and Reggio-appropriate summer clothes, and checking out the photo exhibits that've been going on for a month but that I somehow have yet to go see. Oh, and Notte Bianca tonight, and all the craziness that that entails. If you live in the center of Reggio and were planning on sleeping at any point tonight, forget it.
Wednesday, June 9
Today...
So I got into medical school today. That was another moment of conversational brilliance on my part.
Admissions person: I have some good news! We have a spot for you!
Me: Really?
Admissions person: Really.
Me: Oh! Um... great. Thanks. I really appreciate it.
I *appreciate* it? Really? A spot in medical school? Yeah, clearly "appreciate" was the word to go for. I'm pretty sure some people actually start crying on the phone, etc. Not me, though. I appreciate things. Awesome.
Then I remembered to buy water at the supermarket before coming home. And then the parking lot was super full because of whatever's going on in town today and cars are all oddly parked in places where no parking spots exist, but I found a spot anyway. Clearly it's my lucky day.
Meanwhile, they're blasting the macarena in that cafe a bit down the Via Emilia from here, and apparently they're going to continue all night because it's the Notte Rosa. It seems I am never meant to sleep again. Which is sad because between translating and looking after the boss' offspring the past two nights and also the heat, I could really do with some sleep before my 8am class tomorrow and the rest of the day that will follow, which will apparently last until 8:30pm. Fun! It does not seem meant to be, though. Sorry in advance, Mr. 8am student (not to mention the poor soul that will get me at the other end, at 7:30). Neither of you is going to get the functional brain version of me because now it's 11pm and they're playing the YMCA.
Anyway, though. It's odd to think that today I stood on the roof of the school where I teach, gazing out at the Calatrava bridges and the mountains in the fuzzy distance, and talking on the phone to the dean of admissions about the housing form and orientation starting in August. Life confuses me right now. But perhaps I will allow myself a moment of celebratory craziness. Here it is: I'm innnnnnn!!!
Admissions person: I have some good news! We have a spot for you!
Me: Really?
Admissions person: Really.
Me: Oh! Um... great. Thanks. I really appreciate it.
I *appreciate* it? Really? A spot in medical school? Yeah, clearly "appreciate" was the word to go for. I'm pretty sure some people actually start crying on the phone, etc. Not me, though. I appreciate things. Awesome.
Then I remembered to buy water at the supermarket before coming home. And then the parking lot was super full because of whatever's going on in town today and cars are all oddly parked in places where no parking spots exist, but I found a spot anyway. Clearly it's my lucky day.
Meanwhile, they're blasting the macarena in that cafe a bit down the Via Emilia from here, and apparently they're going to continue all night because it's the Notte Rosa. It seems I am never meant to sleep again. Which is sad because between translating and looking after the boss' offspring the past two nights and also the heat, I could really do with some sleep before my 8am class tomorrow and the rest of the day that will follow, which will apparently last until 8:30pm. Fun! It does not seem meant to be, though. Sorry in advance, Mr. 8am student (not to mention the poor soul that will get me at the other end, at 7:30). Neither of you is going to get the functional brain version of me because now it's 11pm and they're playing the YMCA.
Anyway, though. It's odd to think that today I stood on the roof of the school where I teach, gazing out at the Calatrava bridges and the mountains in the fuzzy distance, and talking on the phone to the dean of admissions about the housing form and orientation starting in August. Life confuses me right now. But perhaps I will allow myself a moment of celebratory craziness. Here it is: I'm innnnnnn!!!
Tuesday, June 8
Some days...
Some days, you can bust out the imperfect subjunctive (the one with fosse and avesse and all that) without even thinking about it and people are all "yeesh, where did you even learn that?" and you are all proud of yourself and feel that your efforts in learning Italian are paying off.
And then there are all the other days where it does not feel like that at all. And then there are those really special days when you go from using cadesse in one sentence (possibly even correctly) to having to describe 'lightening' as "quando nel cielo c'e' l'elettricita'" (when there's electricity in the sky) because you can't remember the word for lightening. (What's really disturbing about that is that then the other person said it and I was all "oh, yeah, someone else used that very word yesterday and I totally understood what they meant then" and now, not twenty minutes later, I can't remember it. Again.)
And moments after that syntactical gem, I managed to use "calore" when I meant to say "caldo". And I'm pretty sure they're not the same thing at all. And the conversation in question was with my boss' husband. Clearly me speaking Italian was not meant to be tonight. Here's hoping that the fact that it was 11:30pm after a full day of work (starting at 8am, evviva!) and the fact that it was probably kind of obvious that I meant the weather and not something else and the fact that I was holding a book by Italo Calvino in my hand (and might thus had been primed for some archaic, possibly inappropriate use of random words) excuses me somewhat from the ridiculousness of that mix-up.
Plus, also? In Spanish caldo is calor. So. Really not that far-fetched. Except that this is Reggio Emilia, not Spain. But whatever.
After another heroically lengthy day (8:30 to 6:30 with only one ten-minute break today! I am woman of iron! not - I was whimpering by the end), it's time for sleeping!
And then there are all the other days where it does not feel like that at all. And then there are those really special days when you go from using cadesse in one sentence (possibly even correctly) to having to describe 'lightening' as "quando nel cielo c'e' l'elettricita'" (when there's electricity in the sky) because you can't remember the word for lightening. (What's really disturbing about that is that then the other person said it and I was all "oh, yeah, someone else used that very word yesterday and I totally understood what they meant then" and now, not twenty minutes later, I can't remember it. Again.)
And moments after that syntactical gem, I managed to use "calore" when I meant to say "caldo". And I'm pretty sure they're not the same thing at all. And the conversation in question was with my boss' husband. Clearly me speaking Italian was not meant to be tonight. Here's hoping that the fact that it was 11:30pm after a full day of work (starting at 8am, evviva!) and the fact that it was probably kind of obvious that I meant the weather and not something else and the fact that I was holding a book by Italo Calvino in my hand (and might thus had been primed for some archaic, possibly inappropriate use of random words) excuses me somewhat from the ridiculousness of that mix-up.
Plus, also? In Spanish caldo is calor. So. Really not that far-fetched. Except that this is Reggio Emilia, not Spain. But whatever.
After another heroically lengthy day (8:30 to 6:30 with only one ten-minute break today! I am woman of iron! not - I was whimpering by the end), it's time for sleeping!
Huzzah
I feel the need to record the fact that I finally sent two emails that I've been meaning to send for positively ages (um, since mid-March? really? what?) and also did this other really productive thing. Namely, that medical research manuscript I got sent to correct this afternoon circa 1pm? Yeah, totally zipped right through that sucker and just sent it back, not twelve hours later.
Yes! Efficiency! So good!
Also, long meeting with The Boss about Next Year. Eeep. More on Next Year some other time.
Thus turning what was going to be an eleven hour workday (what? only eleven? so lazy! what is this, vacation?) into a... seventeen hour workday? Hm. Okay. That's maybe a little bit sad. I did have that one two-ish hour break between 6:30 and 8:30 during which I wrote those two emails and did my grocery shopping (yield: a melon, some crackers, and some chocolate. No wonder I'm always fat in Italy. It's not even because of all the good Italian food. It's just because I'm too tired and lazy to shop and/or cook).
Anyway, off to bed because yay for working the 8am to 8:30pm shift tomorrow!!! I should probably just forego the sleeping and just start caffeinating now... yeah, or not. Time for sleep. I'm pretty excited.
Yes! Efficiency! So good!
Also, long meeting with The Boss about Next Year. Eeep. More on Next Year some other time.
Thus turning what was going to be an eleven hour workday (what? only eleven? so lazy! what is this, vacation?) into a... seventeen hour workday? Hm. Okay. That's maybe a little bit sad. I did have that one two-ish hour break between 6:30 and 8:30 during which I wrote those two emails and did my grocery shopping (yield: a melon, some crackers, and some chocolate. No wonder I'm always fat in Italy. It's not even because of all the good Italian food. It's just because I'm too tired and lazy to shop and/or cook).
Anyway, off to bed because yay for working the 8am to 8:30pm shift tomorrow!!! I should probably just forego the sleeping and just start caffeinating now... yeah, or not. Time for sleep. I'm pretty excited.
Thursday, June 3
Académie française
Did you know that also in French you can say 'ciao!' to mean goodbye? 'Salut is more common, and functions like 'ciao' does in Italian (you can use it for either hello or good'bye) but 'ciao' works as well.
I discovered while teaching French the other day that the preferred spelling is apparently "tchao", though. That's how it's spelled in the book I'm teaching from. My student stared at it for a solid minute before going, "wait... what's that?" and then I had to explain about the Académie Française - this group of people who are in charge of preserving the French language and ensuring that it is not sullied by any foreign words - and how sometimes they are a bit extreme.
For example, everyone in the world says "envoye-moi un mail" to mean email. But the correct word presenting in my business french book? "Courriel". It actually took me a good month to figure out that this was a blend between the words "courrier" (mail) and electronic. So, in effect, it is exactly the same thing as email, but reversed and in French.
A bit silly, if you ask me.
P.S. My search for tights continues. I found some in Oviesse that were a color called naturale the other day - sounds promising, no? But they didn't have them in my size. Still... there is hope.
I discovered while teaching French the other day that the preferred spelling is apparently "tchao", though. That's how it's spelled in the book I'm teaching from. My student stared at it for a solid minute before going, "wait... what's that?" and then I had to explain about the Académie Française - this group of people who are in charge of preserving the French language and ensuring that it is not sullied by any foreign words - and how sometimes they are a bit extreme.
For example, everyone in the world says "envoye-moi un mail" to mean email. But the correct word presenting in my business french book? "Courriel". It actually took me a good month to figure out that this was a blend between the words "courrier" (mail) and electronic. So, in effect, it is exactly the same thing as email, but reversed and in French.
A bit silly, if you ask me.
P.S. My search for tights continues. I found some in Oviesse that were a color called naturale the other day - sounds promising, no? But they didn't have them in my size. Still... there is hope.
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