"Right, so, I'm off," I say, extracting what is meant to be my boarding pass from the World's Slowest Printer, of which we are proud owners here at Local Language School.
My colleague looks up from the computer (World's Most Finicky Laptop) and glances pointedly at the clock. It is 8:30pm and I have just returned from my lesson in Nearby Village.
"What, to America?"
"Yeah." I glance at the papers in my hand. Impossible to print boarding pass, they read. Super. Whatever. Will worry about that later.
"Well... good luck with that," he offers.
"Thanks!"
I rattle my little wheel-y carry-on down the Via Emilia, trying to remember if I've brought both passports. Sometimes having two passports is nice, because it allows you to choose the quickest lines. At other times it is even nicer because it allows you to not be deported. This is, I think, one of those latter type situations and so I kind of really hope that I do have them.
I jump onto the 9:47 train to Bologna, suddenly feeling all 7 of those teaching hours in my knees. (Sore knees? Really? What am I, seventy?) I am happy to note that it is not the train that stops in every station ever, meaning that we will whiz past Samoggia and Anzola and whatever else. Ciao ciao, Samoggia.
"Could I possibly print something?" I ask the clerk of the cheap-ass hotel at which I am spending the night in order to be at the airport at 5am tomorrow morning.
"Certo, vieni pure," the man ushers me behind the reception desk and explains that I can use the computer as soon as his colleague is done. I look over at said colleague, a man with graying hair who seems to be engaged in a struggle to log into his facebook page. I am nice and do not laugh. After his fourth attempt, I wonder whether I should offer to help. Before I can, he opens up notepad and begins to bang out a message. Ten minutes later, he has a nice, solid three lines. He re-opens facebook. It still does not let him log in.
"Cazzo!" he mutters. I don't remember how to say caps lock in Italian, or I would suggest checking that. He prints his message and shoves it in his pocket. Interesting.
His co-worker pokes her head around the partition with the lobby.
"Tutto okay, Mario?" she spots me. "Ma, c'è una fanciulla qua, Mario - watch your mouth." (There's a little girl here.) Mario mumbles something in my direction and leaves. I am not sure how to take the "little girl" comment. I elect to go with "flattered".
I sleep for about five minutes and find myself once again in the parking lot.
"15 euro," the hotel employee tells me, standing in front of a van with "navetta gratuita" written in big green letters on the side. It is too early in the morning to appreciate the irony (or take issue).
In the plane, they have plastic cups and you pull a tab and pour hot water in and coffee happens. Amazing.
In the second plane, there is a vegetarian curry option for the meal. Hands down the best airplane meal ever, and I don't even feel sick afterwards.
I attend my medical school interview in the middle of a late-February blizzard, and we are snowed in the day after. I consume some Thai food and some Mexican food. (Italy, the one thing you are missing: food from other countries. You should try it some time. Really. Much like Italian food, it's delicious.)
"You came all the way back from Italy for an interview?" says my interviewer, a kindly old-ish lady with whom I chat amiably about books (I recommend Se una notte d'inverno un viaggatore to her - and I recommend it to you, too - and she recommends The spirit catches you and you fall down to me). Yes I did, and you damn well better accept me after all that, I think to myself.
Whenever I'm away from home for a while and then go back, I forget how quiet it is, sleeping in my bed in my parents' house out in the middle of nowhere. It's good to be home, I think blurrily just before falling asleep.
I fly back to Italy two days later, passing through Paris's biggest windstorm in decades. ("I think we'll just skip Paris and go right on ahead to Brussels because I don't think we can land safely here," says the pilot at one point. Minutes later, "actually, you know what? I'm going to give it a try." The most precarious landing I have ever experienced ensues. I am actually frightened on a plane for the first time in years... possibly ever. The teenaged boy next to me has his iPod on and idly drums his fingers on the armrest.)
After twenty hours of straight travelling, I plop myself back into my bed in Reggio and gaze blearily at the light squeezing in through the slats in the shutters. Every once in a while you can hear a motorino go up the Via Emilia, or a group of people pass by on their way to San Prospero below. Familiar sounds, ormai.
It's good to be home, my brain mumbles silently to itself.
See why things are confusing?
Showing posts with label America. Show all posts
Showing posts with label America. Show all posts
Sunday, February 28
Sunday, January 3
Italian Food in America. Verdict: Risky
At best.
"So, how are you tonight? Aside from being freezing cold and wet, probably. It's snowing pretty hard out there, huh?" the young waiter soliloquizes* by way of introducing himself. If you are a stray Italian who has wandered onto this site and wonders why this is: it is because in America, tips aren't automatically included in the bill. You have to remember to leave them at the end of the meal, of your own volition. This is irritating and requires you to calculate percentages and stuff like that. It also causes the waiters to share far more of their personal lives and/or opinions on such things as the weather than you probably care about. You guys definitely have the better system. (Beppe Severgnini has a hilarious chapter about this in one of his hilarious books; I believe it is called "Un Italiano in America". Or "Ciao, America" for the English version. And I am not being sarcastic. He really is hilarious.)
In any case, though, I wish I could just stop the guy mid-paragraph: 'relax. We're going to tip you. You don't have to befriend us. Now just shut up and let us read the menu in peace.' I mean, if we'd wanted to sit around being hungry while someone blathered on unintelligently about nothing, we could've just stayed home and turned on the tv.
"... and a great cheese tortellini in creamy alfredo sauce." He is evidently giving the specials. "I had it myself during my break," he enthuses. Fun fact.
And probably a bad decision on his part. Alfredo sauce, apart from being kind of gross, is probably like guaranteed heart failure. Particularly when poured over cheese tortellini.
Also, minus fifty points for mentioning Alfredo sauce at all. Apart from being kind of gross (I feel the need to reiterate this) it is sort of like "french dressing" (and "Italian dressing", for that matter) in that it has absolutely nothing to do with the country from which it purportedly hails. I can guarantee that if you stick a bottle of "french dressing" in front of a French person, they will laugh at you until they taste it, after which they will possibly clock you over the head with the bottle. I was explaining this point to a mixed group of Italians and Americans once, and mentioned "alfredo sauce" as a comparable example of this phenomenon; one of the Italians launched into such a rant I almost started to worry he was going to give himself a stroke.
So, Italian restaurants in America: don't serve alfredo sauce, because it will cause you to lose all of your credibility. Or do, because most of America seems to like it. Whatever.
Anyway, one "main course" later (it was actually primi if you want to get picky: risotto that was tasty but not really risotto and some very chewy gnocchi in an oddly tasteless sauce), the dessert menu yielded the following: cheesecake (okay...), fudge brownie (I think we lost our Italian theme), apple pie (ditto), profiteroles (these are actually French, but whatever), tiramisu (oh, wait, here we go), and a rather linguistically-challenged "torta de nona". Interestingly enough, that last did not seem to be in any way related to torta della nonna, though I can only assume that's what they were going for.
We chose the profiteroles, which were a crime against French cooking, but on the bright side, no one will ever know because they will think the whole thing was Italian. Sorry, Italy.
Anyway, conclusion: Italian food, generally speaking, is a lot better in Italy. And note that I say "generally speaking". This is because some of the best Italian food I have ever had was actually in America, in the town where I went to college, in the restaurant owned, interestingly enough, by the professor who taught Italian II.
So, actually, I guess that means that the real conclusion is that you have to try it to know for sure... but it's kind of at your own risk, so good luck with that.
*Soliloquizes looks very bizarre written down, but Merriam-Webster online confirms that 'to soliloquize' is indeed a verb. ... It's probably a little pretentious that I feel the need to put footnotes in my blog. Oh, well.
"So, how are you tonight? Aside from being freezing cold and wet, probably. It's snowing pretty hard out there, huh?" the young waiter soliloquizes* by way of introducing himself. If you are a stray Italian who has wandered onto this site and wonders why this is: it is because in America, tips aren't automatically included in the bill. You have to remember to leave them at the end of the meal, of your own volition. This is irritating and requires you to calculate percentages and stuff like that. It also causes the waiters to share far more of their personal lives and/or opinions on such things as the weather than you probably care about. You guys definitely have the better system. (Beppe Severgnini has a hilarious chapter about this in one of his hilarious books; I believe it is called "Un Italiano in America". Or "Ciao, America" for the English version. And I am not being sarcastic. He really is hilarious.)
In any case, though, I wish I could just stop the guy mid-paragraph: 'relax. We're going to tip you. You don't have to befriend us. Now just shut up and let us read the menu in peace.' I mean, if we'd wanted to sit around being hungry while someone blathered on unintelligently about nothing, we could've just stayed home and turned on the tv.
"... and a great cheese tortellini in creamy alfredo sauce." He is evidently giving the specials. "I had it myself during my break," he enthuses. Fun fact.
And probably a bad decision on his part. Alfredo sauce, apart from being kind of gross, is probably like guaranteed heart failure. Particularly when poured over cheese tortellini.
Also, minus fifty points for mentioning Alfredo sauce at all. Apart from being kind of gross (I feel the need to reiterate this) it is sort of like "french dressing" (and "Italian dressing", for that matter) in that it has absolutely nothing to do with the country from which it purportedly hails. I can guarantee that if you stick a bottle of "french dressing" in front of a French person, they will laugh at you until they taste it, after which they will possibly clock you over the head with the bottle. I was explaining this point to a mixed group of Italians and Americans once, and mentioned "alfredo sauce" as a comparable example of this phenomenon; one of the Italians launched into such a rant I almost started to worry he was going to give himself a stroke.
So, Italian restaurants in America: don't serve alfredo sauce, because it will cause you to lose all of your credibility. Or do, because most of America seems to like it. Whatever.
Anyway, one "main course" later (it was actually primi if you want to get picky: risotto that was tasty but not really risotto and some very chewy gnocchi in an oddly tasteless sauce), the dessert menu yielded the following: cheesecake (okay...), fudge brownie (I think we lost our Italian theme), apple pie (ditto), profiteroles (these are actually French, but whatever), tiramisu (oh, wait, here we go), and a rather linguistically-challenged "torta de nona". Interestingly enough, that last did not seem to be in any way related to torta della nonna, though I can only assume that's what they were going for.
We chose the profiteroles, which were a crime against French cooking, but on the bright side, no one will ever know because they will think the whole thing was Italian. Sorry, Italy.
Anyway, conclusion: Italian food, generally speaking, is a lot better in Italy. And note that I say "generally speaking". This is because some of the best Italian food I have ever had was actually in America, in the town where I went to college, in the restaurant owned, interestingly enough, by the professor who taught Italian II.
So, actually, I guess that means that the real conclusion is that you have to try it to know for sure... but it's kind of at your own risk, so good luck with that.
*Soliloquizes looks very bizarre written down, but Merriam-Webster online confirms that 'to soliloquize' is indeed a verb. ... It's probably a little pretentious that I feel the need to put footnotes in my blog. Oh, well.
Saturday, January 2
New Year
A very happy 2010 to all!
I'm back! (Not from the dead. Although I did catch the Cold of Death, probably from my piccolini at the daycare, but I'm over it and so I forgive them.) Anyway. Um...
December in brief:
12/3 - Make final decision to move back to Reggio. Give notice at daycare. An interesting mix of sadness and awkwardness ensues. Promise to return for visits in the summer.
12/12 - Experience Italian food in America. Will possibly share thoughts on this in the near future. (And by "near" I probably mean "sometime before 2011".)
12/19 - Try new Indian restaurant in Morristown. Is delicious, and markedly better than previous week's restaurant experience.
12/20 - Bake Christmas cookies!!! (Um, yes, because clearly this was important for everyone to know.)
12/23 - Holiday parties at daycare. This involves a.) decorating our room with decorations that are both festive and evenly spread among the various holidays but also religion-free (this is harder than you'd think) as well as made by the children (baby sweatshop!), b.) coordinating a lot of easily chewable nut-free food, and c.) coralling my children into some sort of circle so that we can perform our "holiday songs". Yes, perform. The one-year-olds. They actually did remarkably well, my little geniuses. Am proud mommy! (Lest anyone be confused: I am kidding. These are the daycare children. I don't have any that are actually mine.) Anyway...
12/24 - Finish Christmas shopping circa 3pm. (Also vital information.) To ponder: why do I feel like this is actually an improvement on previous years? New year's resolution: research methods to combat procrastination.
12/25 - Christmas!! In case you weren't aware.
12/26 - Pack life into two suitcases for the third time in a year and a half. (Probably should consider being a little more stationary at some point in the near future.) Finish up some last minute travel arrangements.
12/27 - Make way to Newark to depart for the motherland (France). Renew my (largely unfounded) dislike for Newark airport.
12/28 - Arrive in motherland. Eat bread. Yum. Curl up in bed with Cold of Death.
Which pretty much brings us to the present.
I'm back! (Not from the dead. Although I did catch the Cold of Death, probably from my piccolini at the daycare, but I'm over it and so I forgive them.) Anyway. Um...
December in brief:
12/3 - Make final decision to move back to Reggio. Give notice at daycare. An interesting mix of sadness and awkwardness ensues. Promise to return for visits in the summer.
12/12 - Experience Italian food in America. Will possibly share thoughts on this in the near future. (And by "near" I probably mean "sometime before 2011".)
12/19 - Try new Indian restaurant in Morristown. Is delicious, and markedly better than previous week's restaurant experience.
12/20 - Bake Christmas cookies!!! (Um, yes, because clearly this was important for everyone to know.)
12/23 - Holiday parties at daycare. This involves a.) decorating our room with decorations that are both festive and evenly spread among the various holidays but also religion-free (this is harder than you'd think) as well as made by the children (baby sweatshop!), b.) coordinating a lot of easily chewable nut-free food, and c.) coralling my children into some sort of circle so that we can perform our "holiday songs". Yes, perform. The one-year-olds. They actually did remarkably well, my little geniuses. Am proud mommy! (Lest anyone be confused: I am kidding. These are the daycare children. I don't have any that are actually mine.) Anyway...
12/24 - Finish Christmas shopping circa 3pm. (Also vital information.) To ponder: why do I feel like this is actually an improvement on previous years? New year's resolution: research methods to combat procrastination.
12/25 - Christmas!! In case you weren't aware.
12/26 - Pack life into two suitcases for the third time in a year and a half. (Probably should consider being a little more stationary at some point in the near future.) Finish up some last minute travel arrangements.
12/27 - Make way to Newark to depart for the motherland (France). Renew my (largely unfounded) dislike for Newark airport.
12/28 - Arrive in motherland. Eat bread. Yum. Curl up in bed with Cold of Death.
Which pretty much brings us to the present.
Tuesday, December 29
Moving to Italy: What to pack
I wrote this while I was in Paris and bored with a sinus infection and thought I would just try my hand at that informational type of writing. You know - the useful kind. I don't think I am very good at it. But for some reason I'm going to subject this blog to it anyway...
So, last september I was all like "I will bring sheets and an umbrella and socks and a fuzzy blanket and some fashionable shoes and pots and pans maybe a measuring cup and then I will learn how to cook delicious Italian food. Oh, and clothes. Probably I will bring clothes. And books, because no Borders for a year! OMG." (I never actually say OMG. It is silly internet-speak.) I thought I was being all reasonable because I had decided my pillows probably wouldn't fit.
Oh, self. You are so silly.
The pillows didn't fit, obviously, and nor did any of that stuff except the clothes and some books (got in just under the weight limit! huzzah!) and the umbrella because I carried it.
This time, I am packing with a lot more wisdom (subtle cough) under my belt (mixed metaphors. so unnattractive.) and so I can share some of my wisdom with you, should you be experiencing a situation in which you have to pack your stuff in order to move to Italy. Or France, really. Or maybe lots of places, but those are the only two I can tell you about with sort of any authority.
Also, this is more relevant if you're going somewhere for a medium length of time, like studying abroad or something. Longer than a quick week or two of vacation, but shorter than your life. If you're relocating your entire life, definitely you should find a better source than me.
1. Clothes. These are important, because it is good to be clothed. A lot of people tell you not to bring too many clothes because you will want to buy lots there. This is partially true, because they have nice clothes and it is always nice to buy nice clothes, but also only applies if you can afford to do so. If you are going to be looking for a job and have limited savings to use in the meantime, you should probably plan accordingly and bring some clothes to wear until then.
Other than that... Italians dress quite nicely. In the winter they wear a lot of black. They do not go anywhere in their sweatpants and nor should you. (Or, well, you can, but you might feel a touch awkward.) They don't tend to walk around in either sneakers or flip-flops, at least not in Reggio (except maybe the early teens crowd). Beyond that... well, I suck at fashion, so go find a better source.
Oh, except: useful information - there is a big sale after Christmas (and possibly one in July? I wasn't really paying attention) so that's good to keep in mind. Cultural difference: it is not like Macy's and stuff where things seem to be perpetually 10% off for one reason or another, or Gap and stuff where they send you a coupon by email every twenty minutes.
2. Things to put in your house. Like furniture and sheets. Yeah, good luck with that. Unless you are supernaturally talented with the packing or are planning to ship things over via some fancy transnational moving thing that I know nothing about (see relocating your whole life, why I am not knowledgeable about it), this is going to be difficult. There is a good and cheap source for such things, and it is called Ikea. You can buy a pillow for, like, two euro, and also pots and plates and bedspreads and fuzzy blankets and furniture and all kinds of random oddly-shaped things with cool Swedish names.
3. Books. Books are delightful and they are probably one of my favorite things in the world. Unfortunately, they are heavy and airline weight restrictions are getting irritatingly rigid. If the thought of being away from your library and Borders and whatever makes you, like me, hurt inside, there is still hope. There are actually an impressive number of sources of English speaking books in Italy. Here are some, listed in whatever order they're popping into my head:
- Libreria all'Arco on the Via Emilia in Reggio (there is a shelf of foreign books upstairs and towards the back in a little room on the left)
- Biblioteca Panizzi on Via Farini in Reggio (there are various foreign sections - not a particularly stellar collection in English, but worth a try)
- Feltrinelli International on Via Zamboni in Bologna (good selection, also some other languages and lots of instructional language type books, too)
- There's a Feltrinelli International in Milan, too, nearish the train station but I can't really remember where. Also in Turin. This type of bookstore has caused me to miss trains more than once.
- And another one in Perugia, near the Piazza IV Novembre.
- That bookstore that's kind of half suspended in the air in the Roma Termini train station: in the upstairs, suspended-looking part there are a lot of English books.
- The Paperback Exchange, very near the Duomo in Florence, but I can't remember the street name. Dell'Oca, maybe? Google it, though. It's a lovely bookstore where you can even sell back your books and get store credit to buy new ones. Or cheaper used ones. (I do this almost every time I go to Florence.)
In Paris:
- Gibert Jeune, Place St. Michel - this is a whole series of bookstores that each specialize in some different subject (like math, science, social sciences, etc.). You have to find the one that is labelled "langues etrangeres" or something. They're all grouped around the Place. And it's a really lovely spot, too.
- WH Smith on the Rue de Rivoli (near the end - not the end towards the Hotel de Ville and stuff, but the other end, by the Place de la Concorde). Big fancy store that also apparently sells some British candy and stuff. Splendid selection.
Actually... I think there is a whole blog devoted to bookstores in other countries. Hang on. Yes. Here you go: http://www.bookstoreguide.org/. Never mind. They have much better information than I do. In fact, I'm pretty sure this is how I found all of these originally.
4. Toiletries and stuff. If you have a favorite brand of deodorant that you are attached to, bring some. Ditto toothpaste and stuff. They have a fairly decent selection of all these type things (toothpaste, shampoo, soap, shaving gel, etc.) but if you have very strong feelings about having a particular one, then bring it. No liquid in carry-ons, though, remember.
5. Over-the-counter medicine. They do not sell this stuff in Esselunga the way they do in Wal-Mart. If you need medicine in Italy (or France) you have to go in the pharmacy and explain to the person what is wrong with you and they will give you whatever they deem appropriate. In France this usually means enough drugs to medicate a small town. They are generally very solicitious and nice. However, when I'm sick, I like to drag myself into a sweatshirt, select whatever I want from a shelf that contains every variety of Tylenol ever invented and go home having had minimal contact with actual people. If you are like me in this respect, bring along your drugs of choice. My personal stock includes Tylenol, Tylenol Cold (day), Tylenol Cold (night), Neosporin, and Halls cough drops. (Yes. I like Tylenol.) Band-aids, in case you're wondering, ARE sold at Esselunga and stuff.
6. Things that involve electricity. Be careful with this. Depending on how you plug American things into a European wall, you can make the things in question blow up (at least inside). No, seriously. The voltage is different, which means you need a converting thing. (As you can probably already tell, I am no expert in physics, and so you really should find a more reliable source for this part. Unless you are as un-informed as me, in which case you may possibly understand this version better.)
Anyway, there are two kinds of converting things: the kind that converts just the shape of the plug, and the kind that converts the actual electricity. The former is good for things like laptop chargers, because apparently they convert the voltage themselves (mine says so right on that little box with the light). The latter is good for everything else, I guess, although I really would not risk it, because, you know, blowing things up. Not so good.
(Fun fact: the converse - meaning European things with American electricity - is apparently not true. American voltage is much lower, so apparently things like cell phones just charge very slowly. This information makes a lot of sense, but my practical experience with it involves one single cell phone. Small sample size: seek other information before trying at home.)
So, that's all I can think of. I think I will go dispose of my immense pile of tissues now and possibly venture out into Paris. Because it is silly to sit here with tissues and the internet when there is Paris out there, regardless of the condition of my sinuses.
So, last september I was all like "I will bring sheets and an umbrella and socks and a fuzzy blanket and some fashionable shoes and pots and pans maybe a measuring cup and then I will learn how to cook delicious Italian food. Oh, and clothes. Probably I will bring clothes. And books, because no Borders for a year! OMG." (I never actually say OMG. It is silly internet-speak.) I thought I was being all reasonable because I had decided my pillows probably wouldn't fit.
Oh, self. You are so silly.
The pillows didn't fit, obviously, and nor did any of that stuff except the clothes and some books (got in just under the weight limit! huzzah!) and the umbrella because I carried it.
This time, I am packing with a lot more wisdom (subtle cough) under my belt (mixed metaphors. so unnattractive.) and so I can share some of my wisdom with you, should you be experiencing a situation in which you have to pack your stuff in order to move to Italy. Or France, really. Or maybe lots of places, but those are the only two I can tell you about with sort of any authority.
Also, this is more relevant if you're going somewhere for a medium length of time, like studying abroad or something. Longer than a quick week or two of vacation, but shorter than your life. If you're relocating your entire life, definitely you should find a better source than me.
1. Clothes. These are important, because it is good to be clothed. A lot of people tell you not to bring too many clothes because you will want to buy lots there. This is partially true, because they have nice clothes and it is always nice to buy nice clothes, but also only applies if you can afford to do so. If you are going to be looking for a job and have limited savings to use in the meantime, you should probably plan accordingly and bring some clothes to wear until then.
Other than that... Italians dress quite nicely. In the winter they wear a lot of black. They do not go anywhere in their sweatpants and nor should you. (Or, well, you can, but you might feel a touch awkward.) They don't tend to walk around in either sneakers or flip-flops, at least not in Reggio (except maybe the early teens crowd). Beyond that... well, I suck at fashion, so go find a better source.
Oh, except: useful information - there is a big sale after Christmas (and possibly one in July? I wasn't really paying attention) so that's good to keep in mind. Cultural difference: it is not like Macy's and stuff where things seem to be perpetually 10% off for one reason or another, or Gap and stuff where they send you a coupon by email every twenty minutes.
2. Things to put in your house. Like furniture and sheets. Yeah, good luck with that. Unless you are supernaturally talented with the packing or are planning to ship things over via some fancy transnational moving thing that I know nothing about (see relocating your whole life, why I am not knowledgeable about it), this is going to be difficult. There is a good and cheap source for such things, and it is called Ikea. You can buy a pillow for, like, two euro, and also pots and plates and bedspreads and fuzzy blankets and furniture and all kinds of random oddly-shaped things with cool Swedish names.
3. Books. Books are delightful and they are probably one of my favorite things in the world. Unfortunately, they are heavy and airline weight restrictions are getting irritatingly rigid. If the thought of being away from your library and Borders and whatever makes you, like me, hurt inside, there is still hope. There are actually an impressive number of sources of English speaking books in Italy. Here are some, listed in whatever order they're popping into my head:
- Libreria all'Arco on the Via Emilia in Reggio (there is a shelf of foreign books upstairs and towards the back in a little room on the left)
- Biblioteca Panizzi on Via Farini in Reggio (there are various foreign sections - not a particularly stellar collection in English, but worth a try)
- Feltrinelli International on Via Zamboni in Bologna (good selection, also some other languages and lots of instructional language type books, too)
- There's a Feltrinelli International in Milan, too, nearish the train station but I can't really remember where. Also in Turin. This type of bookstore has caused me to miss trains more than once.
- And another one in Perugia, near the Piazza IV Novembre.
- That bookstore that's kind of half suspended in the air in the Roma Termini train station: in the upstairs, suspended-looking part there are a lot of English books.
- The Paperback Exchange, very near the Duomo in Florence, but I can't remember the street name. Dell'Oca, maybe? Google it, though. It's a lovely bookstore where you can even sell back your books and get store credit to buy new ones. Or cheaper used ones. (I do this almost every time I go to Florence.)
In Paris:
- Gibert Jeune, Place St. Michel - this is a whole series of bookstores that each specialize in some different subject (like math, science, social sciences, etc.). You have to find the one that is labelled "langues etrangeres" or something. They're all grouped around the Place. And it's a really lovely spot, too.
- WH Smith on the Rue de Rivoli (near the end - not the end towards the Hotel de Ville and stuff, but the other end, by the Place de la Concorde). Big fancy store that also apparently sells some British candy and stuff. Splendid selection.
Actually... I think there is a whole blog devoted to bookstores in other countries. Hang on. Yes. Here you go: http://www.bookstoreguide.org/. Never mind. They have much better information than I do. In fact, I'm pretty sure this is how I found all of these originally.
4. Toiletries and stuff. If you have a favorite brand of deodorant that you are attached to, bring some. Ditto toothpaste and stuff. They have a fairly decent selection of all these type things (toothpaste, shampoo, soap, shaving gel, etc.) but if you have very strong feelings about having a particular one, then bring it. No liquid in carry-ons, though, remember.
5. Over-the-counter medicine. They do not sell this stuff in Esselunga the way they do in Wal-Mart. If you need medicine in Italy (or France) you have to go in the pharmacy and explain to the person what is wrong with you and they will give you whatever they deem appropriate. In France this usually means enough drugs to medicate a small town. They are generally very solicitious and nice. However, when I'm sick, I like to drag myself into a sweatshirt, select whatever I want from a shelf that contains every variety of Tylenol ever invented and go home having had minimal contact with actual people. If you are like me in this respect, bring along your drugs of choice. My personal stock includes Tylenol, Tylenol Cold (day), Tylenol Cold (night), Neosporin, and Halls cough drops. (Yes. I like Tylenol.) Band-aids, in case you're wondering, ARE sold at Esselunga and stuff.
6. Things that involve electricity. Be careful with this. Depending on how you plug American things into a European wall, you can make the things in question blow up (at least inside). No, seriously. The voltage is different, which means you need a converting thing. (As you can probably already tell, I am no expert in physics, and so you really should find a more reliable source for this part. Unless you are as un-informed as me, in which case you may possibly understand this version better.)
Anyway, there are two kinds of converting things: the kind that converts just the shape of the plug, and the kind that converts the actual electricity. The former is good for things like laptop chargers, because apparently they convert the voltage themselves (mine says so right on that little box with the light). The latter is good for everything else, I guess, although I really would not risk it, because, you know, blowing things up. Not so good.
(Fun fact: the converse - meaning European things with American electricity - is apparently not true. American voltage is much lower, so apparently things like cell phones just charge very slowly. This information makes a lot of sense, but my practical experience with it involves one single cell phone. Small sample size: seek other information before trying at home.)
So, that's all I can think of. I think I will go dispose of my immense pile of tissues now and possibly venture out into Paris. Because it is silly to sit here with tissues and the internet when there is Paris out there, regardless of the condition of my sinuses.
Sunday, November 29
Il Job
So, in honor of my new job (um, that I’ve had for three months) here is a post about that. I wrote it in Italian because a.) I’m bored and b.) that way no one can read my snarky and mean thoughts about my coworkers (whom I mostly love, but… you’ll see). Whoever has better Italian than me (so, most people, except hopefully anyone who might actually know my esteemed colleagues), do feel free to get all snarky in return and tell me how much my grammar/spelling/Italian-in-general sucks. I probably won’t get offended.
Oh, and also, I changed everyone’s names because it would be creepy if your daycare provider was all talking about your kid on the internet, right? I figure the names are different and it’s in a whole other language, so I’m good. So…
“Quindi, per oggi ti mettiamo con i bimbi da un anno a diciotto mesi. E’ una giornata piuttosto calma qua – sono solo in sette oggi.”
Entro con un gran sorriso e li guardo. Ce ne sono tre che urlano. Mamma mia.
Mezz’ora più tardi, li abbiamo dato da mangiare, sono coperta in tracce di purée di verdura e qualcosa che mi sembra banana (ma non ne sono completamente sicura), e ho già dimentacato i nomi di almeno due dei bimbi.
“Mi passi il biberon di Luca?” mi domanda l’altra ragazza.
Cavoli, ma qual’è, Luca? Doveva proprio sciegliere uno di quelli il cui nome ho dimenticato. Esito e la ragazza ci getta lo sguardo.
“Quello lì con la camicia azzurra che si sta arrampicando per salire sul tavolo. A proposito, me lo rimetti giù sulla sedia, per favore?” mi dice con calma assoluta. Vedendo il bimbo in piedi sulla sedia, il mio cuore si ferma un attimo prima di ripartire. Lo prendo, lo rimetto giù, e pesco il biberon da dov’è caduto sotto il tavolo in un lago di latte. (Spill-proof, my a**.)
“Fammi vedere quanto ne ha bevuto?” mi chiede la terza ragazza, piccola con i capelli sciolti e di un biondo sicuramente finto. Ha passato l’intero pasto descrivendo i problemi che ha con la sua manicure e comincio a sentirmi un pochino suicida. Le passo il biberon, vedendo che ci sono ancora una decina di millilitri. Non ne avrà bevuto molto. (Ogni giorno si deve scrivere quanto ha mangiato ogni bimbo per poi dirlo ai genitori.)
“Nove,” fa la ragazza. Alzo le sopraciglie.
“Davvero?” chiedo.
“Si, guarda – il latte sta lì, al nove,” e mi mostra la linea dove arriva il latte. Se potessi, alzarei ancora più alto le sopraciglie.
Ci metto dieci minuti a spiegarle che il latte che arriva al nove è ancora nel biberon, e quindi non nel stomaco del bimbo. Poi altri cinque minuti per aiutarla a fare la sostrazione (quindici meno nove). E dovrò stare otto ore al giorno con lei? Ecco, è deciso: mi voglio tagliare le vene col coltello di plastica che abbiamo usato per preparare i pezzi di carota (che sono finiti sulle ginocchie dei miei pantaloni).
Un’ora più tardi, abbiamo pulito tutto (e ce n’era da pulire, credetemi), incluso i bimbi (che guerra per pulirgli la faccia!), e sono tutti sdraiati sui materassini per dormire. Sono carinissimi, tutti addormentati, stringendo i loro animaletti di peluche, ricoperti da copertine con disegni di conigli e nuvole e chissà che altra roba. Tranne uno, un bimbo bellissimo con gli occhi scuri e le ciglia lunghissime a cui non interessa dormire per niente.
“Senti, io vado a pranzare – fallo dormire, il piccolo, e poi quando torno, ci vai tu, d’accordo?” mi fa l’altra ragazza (la bionda è sparita dopo pranzo e non mi dispiace).
“Si, certo,” dico con un tono poco certo.
“Ti aiuto, guarda,” mi dice, e solleva il bimbo per farlo sdraiare sul suo materassino, dove c’è già un cagnolino di peluche con le orecchie blu.
“Si, si, grazie,” dico. La guardo partire e poi guardo il bimbo. Lui mi sta già guardando, con gli occhi grandi apperti. Gli sorrido gentilmente.
“E adesso dormiamo un po’, no? Andiamo a nanna!”
Cinque minuti più tardi...
“Dai, forza, chiudi gli occhi...” gli passo la mano sulle spalle ancora una volta, ma non mi ricordo neanche del suo nome per supplicarlo di chiudere gli occhi. Ma come ***** si fa a fargli addormentarsi, ‘sti bimbi? L’unica cosa che mi viene in mente è di tenergli chiusi gli occhi con le dita ma secondo me non è proprio consiglatio... Gli passo la mano ancora una volta sulle spalle, accelerando il ritmo disperatamente. Comincio a sudare un po’.
“Si chiama Alessandro.” Di colpo, sento una voce che mi parla dall’altra parte del muro basso che divide questa classe da quella dei bimbi ancora più piccoli. È la loro maestra; l’ho conosciuta in fretta stamattina. “E si addormenta se gli carezzi il viso.” Ah. Già.
La ringrazio con entusiasmo e comincio ad accarezzargli la fronte. Il piccolo comincia a respirare più lentamente e due minuti più tardi dorme. In fondo in fondo, è anche carino...
“E quindi prima di venire qua vivevi in Italia?” mi domanda una delle altre maestre qualche ora più tardi, quando ci incontriamo con le altri classi nel parco. Annuisco.
“E dove in Italia?” Sto pensando se spiegargli in quale regione o se dire direttamente “il nord” per accorciare un po’ la discussione quando la ragazza parla di nuove e interrompe il mio pensiero.
“L’Italia è quel paese dove gli uomini portano le gonne, giusto?”
Ci metto un attimino a seguire il filo dei suoi pensieri per arrivarne lì. Intanto, gli risponde qualcun’altro.
“No, quello è l’Irlanda.” Non alzare le sopraciglie. Non alzare le sopraciglie! mi ripetto silenziosamente qualche volta. Devi fare amicizia con queste ragazze!
“No, secondo me, è la Scozia, no? Dove gli uomini portano le kilts?” suggerisco finalmente. Le ragazze ci pensano un attimo.
“Ah, si, può darsi...”
“È vero!” esclama una terza, “No, ragazze, l’Italia è il paese con la pizza, no? Tipo Domino’s!”* Mi guardano tutte, aspettando conferma.
“Eh... si. Più o meno.”
“Avrai mangiato della pizza buonissima lì, no?” Mi chiede la prima mentre aggiusta il capello di uno dei bimbi. Annuisco di nuovo.
“Non potresti neanche immaginare...” dico quasi sottovoce, ripensandoci. Quella pizzeria all’angolo dietro quella strada con i portici... la rucola (a proposito, perchè non si trova per niente in America, la rucola?)... sigh. Ma che ***** faccio qua, con purée dappertutto e bimbi che urlano? Due mesi fa mi mettevo i tacchi e le gonne per insegnare nelle ditte!
Intanto è già ora di tornare nell’aula per la merenda (così diversa dalla merenda dei bimbi Italiani – niente gnocco qua!). Comincio a raccogliere i nostri piccolini e dirigerli verso la porta. Sto sudando di nuovo. Cavoli, ma chi lo sapeva che ci si voleva tanto sforzo per lavorare coi bimbi?
Di colpo, si sente il rumore del tagliaerba e uno dei bimbi della mia classe si attacca alle mie gambe, urlando. Lo prendo in braccio; “ma non e’ niente, guarda,” gli dico, mostrandogli il tagliaerba col dito. Lui si afferra al mio collo e si pianta la faccia nella mia spalla. Mi scappa un piccolo sorriso e lo stringo un po’ anch’io. La sua dipendenza totale su di noi è anche un po’ commovente, alla fine, e decido che forse si può essere contenti in qualsiasi posto... anche senza rucola.
*Una catena di pizzerie decisamente mediocre nel stilo Americano.
Oh, and also, I changed everyone’s names because it would be creepy if your daycare provider was all talking about your kid on the internet, right? I figure the names are different and it’s in a whole other language, so I’m good. So…
“Quindi, per oggi ti mettiamo con i bimbi da un anno a diciotto mesi. E’ una giornata piuttosto calma qua – sono solo in sette oggi.”
Entro con un gran sorriso e li guardo. Ce ne sono tre che urlano. Mamma mia.
Mezz’ora più tardi, li abbiamo dato da mangiare, sono coperta in tracce di purée di verdura e qualcosa che mi sembra banana (ma non ne sono completamente sicura), e ho già dimentacato i nomi di almeno due dei bimbi.
“Mi passi il biberon di Luca?” mi domanda l’altra ragazza.
Cavoli, ma qual’è, Luca? Doveva proprio sciegliere uno di quelli il cui nome ho dimenticato. Esito e la ragazza ci getta lo sguardo.
“Quello lì con la camicia azzurra che si sta arrampicando per salire sul tavolo. A proposito, me lo rimetti giù sulla sedia, per favore?” mi dice con calma assoluta. Vedendo il bimbo in piedi sulla sedia, il mio cuore si ferma un attimo prima di ripartire. Lo prendo, lo rimetto giù, e pesco il biberon da dov’è caduto sotto il tavolo in un lago di latte. (Spill-proof, my a**.)
“Fammi vedere quanto ne ha bevuto?” mi chiede la terza ragazza, piccola con i capelli sciolti e di un biondo sicuramente finto. Ha passato l’intero pasto descrivendo i problemi che ha con la sua manicure e comincio a sentirmi un pochino suicida. Le passo il biberon, vedendo che ci sono ancora una decina di millilitri. Non ne avrà bevuto molto. (Ogni giorno si deve scrivere quanto ha mangiato ogni bimbo per poi dirlo ai genitori.)
“Nove,” fa la ragazza. Alzo le sopraciglie.
“Davvero?” chiedo.
“Si, guarda – il latte sta lì, al nove,” e mi mostra la linea dove arriva il latte. Se potessi, alzarei ancora più alto le sopraciglie.
Ci metto dieci minuti a spiegarle che il latte che arriva al nove è ancora nel biberon, e quindi non nel stomaco del bimbo. Poi altri cinque minuti per aiutarla a fare la sostrazione (quindici meno nove). E dovrò stare otto ore al giorno con lei? Ecco, è deciso: mi voglio tagliare le vene col coltello di plastica che abbiamo usato per preparare i pezzi di carota (che sono finiti sulle ginocchie dei miei pantaloni).
Un’ora più tardi, abbiamo pulito tutto (e ce n’era da pulire, credetemi), incluso i bimbi (che guerra per pulirgli la faccia!), e sono tutti sdraiati sui materassini per dormire. Sono carinissimi, tutti addormentati, stringendo i loro animaletti di peluche, ricoperti da copertine con disegni di conigli e nuvole e chissà che altra roba. Tranne uno, un bimbo bellissimo con gli occhi scuri e le ciglia lunghissime a cui non interessa dormire per niente.
“Senti, io vado a pranzare – fallo dormire, il piccolo, e poi quando torno, ci vai tu, d’accordo?” mi fa l’altra ragazza (la bionda è sparita dopo pranzo e non mi dispiace).
“Si, certo,” dico con un tono poco certo.
“Ti aiuto, guarda,” mi dice, e solleva il bimbo per farlo sdraiare sul suo materassino, dove c’è già un cagnolino di peluche con le orecchie blu.
“Si, si, grazie,” dico. La guardo partire e poi guardo il bimbo. Lui mi sta già guardando, con gli occhi grandi apperti. Gli sorrido gentilmente.
“E adesso dormiamo un po’, no? Andiamo a nanna!”
Cinque minuti più tardi...
“Dai, forza, chiudi gli occhi...” gli passo la mano sulle spalle ancora una volta, ma non mi ricordo neanche del suo nome per supplicarlo di chiudere gli occhi. Ma come ***** si fa a fargli addormentarsi, ‘sti bimbi? L’unica cosa che mi viene in mente è di tenergli chiusi gli occhi con le dita ma secondo me non è proprio consiglatio... Gli passo la mano ancora una volta sulle spalle, accelerando il ritmo disperatamente. Comincio a sudare un po’.
“Si chiama Alessandro.” Di colpo, sento una voce che mi parla dall’altra parte del muro basso che divide questa classe da quella dei bimbi ancora più piccoli. È la loro maestra; l’ho conosciuta in fretta stamattina. “E si addormenta se gli carezzi il viso.” Ah. Già.
La ringrazio con entusiasmo e comincio ad accarezzargli la fronte. Il piccolo comincia a respirare più lentamente e due minuti più tardi dorme. In fondo in fondo, è anche carino...
“E quindi prima di venire qua vivevi in Italia?” mi domanda una delle altre maestre qualche ora più tardi, quando ci incontriamo con le altri classi nel parco. Annuisco.
“E dove in Italia?” Sto pensando se spiegargli in quale regione o se dire direttamente “il nord” per accorciare un po’ la discussione quando la ragazza parla di nuove e interrompe il mio pensiero.
“L’Italia è quel paese dove gli uomini portano le gonne, giusto?”
Ci metto un attimino a seguire il filo dei suoi pensieri per arrivarne lì. Intanto, gli risponde qualcun’altro.
“No, quello è l’Irlanda.” Non alzare le sopraciglie. Non alzare le sopraciglie! mi ripetto silenziosamente qualche volta. Devi fare amicizia con queste ragazze!
“No, secondo me, è la Scozia, no? Dove gli uomini portano le kilts?” suggerisco finalmente. Le ragazze ci pensano un attimo.
“Ah, si, può darsi...”
“È vero!” esclama una terza, “No, ragazze, l’Italia è il paese con la pizza, no? Tipo Domino’s!”* Mi guardano tutte, aspettando conferma.
“Eh... si. Più o meno.”
“Avrai mangiato della pizza buonissima lì, no?” Mi chiede la prima mentre aggiusta il capello di uno dei bimbi. Annuisco di nuovo.
“Non potresti neanche immaginare...” dico quasi sottovoce, ripensandoci. Quella pizzeria all’angolo dietro quella strada con i portici... la rucola (a proposito, perchè non si trova per niente in America, la rucola?)... sigh. Ma che ***** faccio qua, con purée dappertutto e bimbi che urlano? Due mesi fa mi mettevo i tacchi e le gonne per insegnare nelle ditte!
Intanto è già ora di tornare nell’aula per la merenda (così diversa dalla merenda dei bimbi Italiani – niente gnocco qua!). Comincio a raccogliere i nostri piccolini e dirigerli verso la porta. Sto sudando di nuovo. Cavoli, ma chi lo sapeva che ci si voleva tanto sforzo per lavorare coi bimbi?
Di colpo, si sente il rumore del tagliaerba e uno dei bimbi della mia classe si attacca alle mie gambe, urlando. Lo prendo in braccio; “ma non e’ niente, guarda,” gli dico, mostrandogli il tagliaerba col dito. Lui si afferra al mio collo e si pianta la faccia nella mia spalla. Mi scappa un piccolo sorriso e lo stringo un po’ anch’io. La sua dipendenza totale su di noi è anche un po’ commovente, alla fine, e decido che forse si può essere contenti in qualsiasi posto... anche senza rucola.
*Una catena di pizzerie decisamente mediocre nel stilo Americano.
Saturday, November 28
I can't think of a title
I'm back! (From nowhere in particular.) Interestingly (or not so) I have almost nothing interesting to report, despite a month-long absence. High points of excitement in my life the past month include:
1. The school Halloween parade. This consisted of my esteemed colleagues and I manhandling twelve toddlers into awkward costumes, cooing over them, taking pictures of them screaming and/or merely pouting miserably (the costumes, you see), and then hauling them outside for a few circuits around the parking lot. Mine were all too young and disturbed by the proceedings to walk, so we carried them, and it turns out they're heavier than you'd think. Except one brave soul, aptly dressed as superman, who did want to walk. Specifically, he wanted to walk into oncoming traffic. Fun. (For the record, I did not let him. Yes. I am a good daycare employee.)
2. Dealing with various ills that befall children between the ages of 12 and 18 months: rashes, innumerable bumps on heads, bee stings, choking (not fun for anyone), and fevers that soar up above 104 degrees. The effect of said fevers is, oddly enough, different on everyone. My heart kind of ceases to beat while the thermometer beeps its way up past 103 and 104, and the children merely wiggle a little and glare at me reproachfully. Strange. I have a feeling being a parent is a worrisome sort of job.
3. The school's Thanksgiving Feast. Hilarity all around. You know why? Do you have acces to a toddler? If so, give him/her a pile of stuffing, some shredded corn bread (to prevent choking, see), a clump of mashed potatoes, and no utensils (because they don't know how to use them) and see what happens. Yes. I'll leave it to your imagination. But it was just as unfortunate as you'd think, and then some.
4. One solitary medical school interview. It transpired my interviewer went to the same undergrad institution as I did, and knew some of the same people in the linguistics department. We chatted amiably about linguistics. She probably ended up thinking I'd be better suited to a career in linguistics than medicine. She may have a point. In other news... public service announcement: medical schools, here's the deal: either interview me or reject me. I'm not even especially picky about which at this point. But I'm getting bored with sitting here waiting for you to make a decision. The end.
5. The leaves all fell off the trees. That was kind of depressing. Today it is sunny though windy, so that's kind of okay, but I strongly dislike the gray parts of the winter. Sigh.
6. I attended a yoga class. This was funny because at the end the instructor must have felt that she should flatter the new girl to make her come back, because she was all "well, you must exercise a lot, right? Take really good care of your body? Because it shows." And I was all, "um... well, I generally shower standing up... and that's about it." I didn't say that, though. Probably no need to discuss showering habits with random strangers, Slavic-accented yoga people or otherwise.
7. I watched a movie in Italian ("Il Giardino dei Finzi-Contini") and felt cultured as a result. Also I understood it all. Which is actually not very impressive because I've already read the book. But whatever. Culturedness. It is good.
Yeah, I think that might be about it. How pedestrian. But sometimes that's okay. In a relaxing, brain half-asleep kind of way. A good weekend to all.
1. The school Halloween parade. This consisted of my esteemed colleagues and I manhandling twelve toddlers into awkward costumes, cooing over them, taking pictures of them screaming and/or merely pouting miserably (the costumes, you see), and then hauling them outside for a few circuits around the parking lot. Mine were all too young and disturbed by the proceedings to walk, so we carried them, and it turns out they're heavier than you'd think. Except one brave soul, aptly dressed as superman, who did want to walk. Specifically, he wanted to walk into oncoming traffic. Fun. (For the record, I did not let him. Yes. I am a good daycare employee.)
2. Dealing with various ills that befall children between the ages of 12 and 18 months: rashes, innumerable bumps on heads, bee stings, choking (not fun for anyone), and fevers that soar up above 104 degrees. The effect of said fevers is, oddly enough, different on everyone. My heart kind of ceases to beat while the thermometer beeps its way up past 103 and 104, and the children merely wiggle a little and glare at me reproachfully. Strange. I have a feeling being a parent is a worrisome sort of job.
3. The school's Thanksgiving Feast. Hilarity all around. You know why? Do you have acces to a toddler? If so, give him/her a pile of stuffing, some shredded corn bread (to prevent choking, see), a clump of mashed potatoes, and no utensils (because they don't know how to use them) and see what happens. Yes. I'll leave it to your imagination. But it was just as unfortunate as you'd think, and then some.
4. One solitary medical school interview. It transpired my interviewer went to the same undergrad institution as I did, and knew some of the same people in the linguistics department. We chatted amiably about linguistics. She probably ended up thinking I'd be better suited to a career in linguistics than medicine. She may have a point. In other news... public service announcement: medical schools, here's the deal: either interview me or reject me. I'm not even especially picky about which at this point. But I'm getting bored with sitting here waiting for you to make a decision. The end.
5. The leaves all fell off the trees. That was kind of depressing. Today it is sunny though windy, so that's kind of okay, but I strongly dislike the gray parts of the winter. Sigh.
6. I attended a yoga class. This was funny because at the end the instructor must have felt that she should flatter the new girl to make her come back, because she was all "well, you must exercise a lot, right? Take really good care of your body? Because it shows." And I was all, "um... well, I generally shower standing up... and that's about it." I didn't say that, though. Probably no need to discuss showering habits with random strangers, Slavic-accented yoga people or otherwise.
7. I watched a movie in Italian ("Il Giardino dei Finzi-Contini") and felt cultured as a result. Also I understood it all. Which is actually not very impressive because I've already read the book. But whatever. Culturedness. It is good.
Yeah, I think that might be about it. How pedestrian. But sometimes that's okay. In a relaxing, brain half-asleep kind of way. A good weekend to all.
Monday, October 12
Nothing much
Very productive today. Answered all of the emails that had been hanging out in my inbox, some of them since... um... mid-September. (Oops. I am a godawful email correspondent. I should just slap that onto the bottom of all my emails as a sort of disclaimer/pre-emptive apology. Anyway. Apologies all around.)
Now I am off to do my laundry and create Strategic Food Reserves for the week. This involves a lot of tupperware and significant quantities of my horrible cooking all at once, so steer clear of the kitchen, people.
Then I will be ready to start another week. Oh, my life. It is just so fascinating. Most of last week was taken up combatting the Diaper Rash of Death on one of my wee ones; who knows what this week could hold? Here's hoping something less labor-intensive because the whole diaper rash thing involved a lot of time spent wrestling this kid every time I wanted to change his diaper, and somehow... I frequently came close to losing? To a 12-month-old? Hm. Awkward, that. (For those who don't know what diaper rash is and, for whatever reason, can't figure it out for yourselves... um... inform yourselves before you procreate.)
On a tangentially related note, did you know there's such a thing as a product called "Butt Paste"? I kid you not. It is for the purpose of preventing diaper rash. Aptly named, I suppose. Can't get much more direct than that.
In other news, I am still learning German, by way of mildly irritating CDs that I play during my highly irritating commute (I'm very easily irritated), and can now introduce myself, say I'm from Dresden, count to eleven, and say I'm a lawyer. Not particularly useful, since I don't anticipate ever having to say I'm a lawyer, in any context, but whatever.
Yesterday I went to the library to get books for my bimbi and asked the children's librarian how to go about finding books on a specific topic, because it has been a long time since I looked for anything in the picture book section. In fact, I don't think this library had even been built yet, the last time I needed a picture book. "Well, what grade are you in?" she asked me, looking at me slightly askance. I am not sure how to take this. Well, because it means I look younger? Or not well because maybe I look my age but just sort of illiterate? I reigned in my narcissism, though, and did not run around the library screaming that I had a Bachelor's degree and was only teaching preschool temporarily, thank you very much.
That would be rude, unnecessary, and also innappropriate, because, having taught preschool for a full month now, I have come to realize that it is an extremely important profession and that we should somehow recruit smarter people to do it, asap. I will also now know what to look for when I have my own kids. Actually, you know where the best preschools I have ever seen are? In Reggio. Perhaps I shall just lend my kids to someone there for the duration of their pre-primary education. Or maybe we can import the Reggio approach to wherever I am living then. Or maybe I will move back to Reggio with my brats, and we'll all eat a lot of gnocco and get fat. Yes. We will bring obesity to Italy. Excellent.
Aaaanyway, I am making very little sense, per usual. And, you may have noticed, I actually have very little of import to say. This is because I now live in suburbia and spend my weeks applying goo and baby powder to small behinds and my weekends planted in a chair, reading trash from the library. (Actually, this week I'm reading a book called... hang on... "Quicksilver". By some guy. Either Neal Stephenson or Stephen Nealson. Anyway, though, if it's trash, it's quite pleasantly-written trash. And maybe it's not even trash. Who knows?) Anyway. The point is that I have pretty much nothing to say, but felt that updating ye olde blog was the last thing to do on my keeping-up-with-correspondence list, and so... now I can go do something else, guilt-free.
A good week to all.
Good lord, I'm boring even myself to death.
Now I am off to do my laundry and create Strategic Food Reserves for the week. This involves a lot of tupperware and significant quantities of my horrible cooking all at once, so steer clear of the kitchen, people.
Then I will be ready to start another week. Oh, my life. It is just so fascinating. Most of last week was taken up combatting the Diaper Rash of Death on one of my wee ones; who knows what this week could hold? Here's hoping something less labor-intensive because the whole diaper rash thing involved a lot of time spent wrestling this kid every time I wanted to change his diaper, and somehow... I frequently came close to losing? To a 12-month-old? Hm. Awkward, that. (For those who don't know what diaper rash is and, for whatever reason, can't figure it out for yourselves... um... inform yourselves before you procreate.)
On a tangentially related note, did you know there's such a thing as a product called "Butt Paste"? I kid you not. It is for the purpose of preventing diaper rash. Aptly named, I suppose. Can't get much more direct than that.
In other news, I am still learning German, by way of mildly irritating CDs that I play during my highly irritating commute (I'm very easily irritated), and can now introduce myself, say I'm from Dresden, count to eleven, and say I'm a lawyer. Not particularly useful, since I don't anticipate ever having to say I'm a lawyer, in any context, but whatever.
Yesterday I went to the library to get books for my bimbi and asked the children's librarian how to go about finding books on a specific topic, because it has been a long time since I looked for anything in the picture book section. In fact, I don't think this library had even been built yet, the last time I needed a picture book. "Well, what grade are you in?" she asked me, looking at me slightly askance. I am not sure how to take this. Well, because it means I look younger? Or not well because maybe I look my age but just sort of illiterate? I reigned in my narcissism, though, and did not run around the library screaming that I had a Bachelor's degree and was only teaching preschool temporarily, thank you very much.
That would be rude, unnecessary, and also innappropriate, because, having taught preschool for a full month now, I have come to realize that it is an extremely important profession and that we should somehow recruit smarter people to do it, asap. I will also now know what to look for when I have my own kids. Actually, you know where the best preschools I have ever seen are? In Reggio. Perhaps I shall just lend my kids to someone there for the duration of their pre-primary education. Or maybe we can import the Reggio approach to wherever I am living then. Or maybe I will move back to Reggio with my brats, and we'll all eat a lot of gnocco and get fat. Yes. We will bring obesity to Italy. Excellent.
Aaaanyway, I am making very little sense, per usual. And, you may have noticed, I actually have very little of import to say. This is because I now live in suburbia and spend my weeks applying goo and baby powder to small behinds and my weekends planted in a chair, reading trash from the library. (Actually, this week I'm reading a book called... hang on... "Quicksilver". By some guy. Either Neal Stephenson or Stephen Nealson. Anyway, though, if it's trash, it's quite pleasantly-written trash. And maybe it's not even trash. Who knows?) Anyway. The point is that I have pretty much nothing to say, but felt that updating ye olde blog was the last thing to do on my keeping-up-with-correspondence list, and so... now I can go do something else, guilt-free.
A good week to all.
Good lord, I'm boring even myself to death.
Tuesday, September 29
Mundane...
Work. Well, I have a song about a friendly pirate ship rocking on the sea (rocking on the sea, rocking on the sea) stuck in my head. I have now taught peek-a-boo to five or six kids in my class, who all seem to find it just riveting. In fact, one gets so worked up that she routinely pokes herself in the eye. Cute, though. Also there is a kid who bites. I'm kind of afraid of him, which is odd, given that he is barely 12 months old and more or less comes up to my knee. Still - bloodthirsty babies. It is creepy.
But, yeah, all things considered, work is good.
Meanwhile, I have decided to teach myself German from a book that professes to allow you to teach yourself German. So far, it is a silly book and I do not appreciate its patronizing tone. I mean, think about it: what sorts of people are likely to want to teach themselves a language? Travel-y sorts of businesspeople, maybe, and nerds. In any case, of at least reasonable intelligence. I can't really think of a situation where the sort of person who doesn't know what a verb is would also be the sort of person who would elect to teach him- or herself a language.
Ergo, teach-yourself-German book, you are silly. Stop explaining to me what verbs are, because I already know. And enough with your little language learning tips. Obviously I should group vocabulary into theme-related lists. You know what else could work? You could just present them that way and then the little side box with the cartoon exclamation point would be unnecessary. The other issue I have is with the pronunciation. Would it have killed them to learn the phonetic alphabet prior to writing the book? I'm pretty sure that in the end, it would have required a lot less effort than thinking up descriptions like "purse your lips like you just ate a lemon, and then say a long 'eeee' sound but with your lips still pursed, kind of as if you actually wanted to say 'ooo', as in 'boo!'". Um, yeah. Whatever.
Nonetheless, I shall persevere because I think my brain is slipping slowly into a coma. Although... I'm pretty sure I remember saying the same thing about teaching English after having been in college. And now my job makes teaching English look positively fascinating. Sighhh. In some ways, it is nice to have free time and be able to spend long stretches of whole hours in a row just not thinking. In other ways, sometimes I think: if I have to dig some kid's half-eaten macaroni out of the sink drain while listening to people discuss nail salons for one more minute, I will break the "Wiggles" CD over someone's head (probably my own). Could be worse, though. Next thing you know I'll be working at a gas station, inhaling gas fumes, and then my brain will *really* be in a coma.
Fun fact: when we were in grade school, they used to threaten us with "you'll end up pumping gas when you grow up!" as in, "do your homework or...". But it transpires that in almost all of the other states that are not NJ, people pump their own gas anyway. I always kind of wondered... in other states, what do grade school teachers threaten kids with? My bet is McDonald's.
Anyway, on that note... bedtime.
But, yeah, all things considered, work is good.
Meanwhile, I have decided to teach myself German from a book that professes to allow you to teach yourself German. So far, it is a silly book and I do not appreciate its patronizing tone. I mean, think about it: what sorts of people are likely to want to teach themselves a language? Travel-y sorts of businesspeople, maybe, and nerds. In any case, of at least reasonable intelligence. I can't really think of a situation where the sort of person who doesn't know what a verb is would also be the sort of person who would elect to teach him- or herself a language.
Ergo, teach-yourself-German book, you are silly. Stop explaining to me what verbs are, because I already know. And enough with your little language learning tips. Obviously I should group vocabulary into theme-related lists. You know what else could work? You could just present them that way and then the little side box with the cartoon exclamation point would be unnecessary. The other issue I have is with the pronunciation. Would it have killed them to learn the phonetic alphabet prior to writing the book? I'm pretty sure that in the end, it would have required a lot less effort than thinking up descriptions like "purse your lips like you just ate a lemon, and then say a long 'eeee' sound but with your lips still pursed, kind of as if you actually wanted to say 'ooo', as in 'boo!'". Um, yeah. Whatever.
Nonetheless, I shall persevere because I think my brain is slipping slowly into a coma. Although... I'm pretty sure I remember saying the same thing about teaching English after having been in college. And now my job makes teaching English look positively fascinating. Sighhh. In some ways, it is nice to have free time and be able to spend long stretches of whole hours in a row just not thinking. In other ways, sometimes I think: if I have to dig some kid's half-eaten macaroni out of the sink drain while listening to people discuss nail salons for one more minute, I will break the "Wiggles" CD over someone's head (probably my own). Could be worse, though. Next thing you know I'll be working at a gas station, inhaling gas fumes, and then my brain will *really* be in a coma.
Fun fact: when we were in grade school, they used to threaten us with "you'll end up pumping gas when you grow up!" as in, "do your homework or...". But it transpires that in almost all of the other states that are not NJ, people pump their own gas anyway. I always kind of wondered... in other states, what do grade school teachers threaten kids with? My bet is McDonald's.
Anyway, on that note... bedtime.
Tuesday, September 15
The working world
I have recently taken a job at Kaplan as an MCAT teacher. Because working full time wasn't enough and I was bored? Because I so missed physics and orgo and all that nonsense that I could not keep myself away for another moment? Because I want to foster the development of other evil young pre-meds? Hm... boh. 'Tis a mystery.
(Okay, fine, actually, it's not. It's so that I can put "teaching MCAT prep" on the 'activities since graduation' part of med school applications. Yeah, we pre-meds are very utilitarian. And evil. Watch out. For one, we may be teaching your Kaplan course, and it's probably not because we care.)
In any case, now I'm in their training program which is six kinds of boring and involves marking up your Teacher's Book with four different colors of highlighter. I kid you not. Each color means something different but I probably can't tell you what because it is a Top Secret Kaplan Strategy and I signed my freedom of speech away on a pdf file. Anyway. The point is that I'm preparing for my next training session and I am bored, so instead of exchanging the pink highlighter for the orange one and soldiering on, I will resurrect the time-honored tradition of procrastination and share with you my impressions on the working world. (If anyone is reading beyond this point, that is kind of sad. Did you know they publish books to occupy your time? Books by people who write well and actually have something to say. I recommend looking some of those up. Unless you're procrastinating, too. In that case, by all means...)
Firstly, on commuting. I have a random piece of advice for you. If it ever comes up as a choice, like when you are buying a house or something, I would suggest living in a place that is east of where you will work - that way you will not have the sun in your eyes when you drive. My parents did not think of this and as I am back at home living with them, mammone-style, I enjoy the sun in my eyes both ways. Probably this will contribute to blindness and wrinkling. Yay.
In the same vein, route 78 east is interesting in the mornings. It is like bumper-to-bumper traffic, but moving at 70 miles per hour. When I was learning to drive (a process that spanned from age 16 to roughly age 22), this used to freak me out and I never went on it. Post-Italy, I'm all ho-hum, eating my toast while merging from the ramp (or whatever that bit of road is called). (Side note: why is it that I never manage to eat meals sitting down at a table like normal people?) Also, I really should record the story of driving in Italy at some point - it involved a whole new level of ineptitude on my part. Perhaps this weekend...
Speaking of which: on weekends... after four years of round-the-clock, every-day-of-the-week studying/work in college and one year of you-must-be-available-14-hours-a-day indentured servitude as a teacher, I think I have acquired a job that allows me to glimpse at what the lives of "normal" people must be like. Essentially, you go to work during the week and come back and are kind of tired so you don't accomplish much at home, and then on the weekends you can do other stuff. It is interesting. I have not yet decided if I like it. In any case, it doesn't matter, because now I have acquired a second job and effectively done away with the free time. It's all like Erin Brokovich, single-mother-supporting-her-family over here, except I have no children and also I don't look like Julia Roberts. (Pity.)
On the work itself. Well, today a little guy crawled up my leg so I picked him up and he clapped and smiled and smelled like baby powder and was generally adorable. I wandered over to the other side of the room to grab a tissue to wipe his nose and caught sight of some pictures with a caption/sign reading something along the lines of "to utilize our creativity expression, we used musical instruments to express ourselves creatively", which made me cry inside. That's pretty much how my work day goes. Also, lots of children often cry and it is sad. Perhaps I will start singing that "raindrops on roses" song like in the movie with the von Trapps. This seemed to work even in the most dire of situations (e.g. thunderstorms, wicked stepmothers, Nazi invasions, etc.). Or maybe the "spoonful of sugar" one. It will be like Julie Andrews but with a crappy singing voice and minus the classy British accent and seventy billion octaves' worth of range. Or whatever it is that musician types call that sort of thing with the octaves and people's voices.
Yeah, now I'm making even less sense than I was when I started. Back to Kaplan's Oh-So-Secret test-prep strategies. (Gag me. Oh, med school. The things I do for you. Really.)
(Okay, fine, actually, it's not. It's so that I can put "teaching MCAT prep" on the 'activities since graduation' part of med school applications. Yeah, we pre-meds are very utilitarian. And evil. Watch out. For one, we may be teaching your Kaplan course, and it's probably not because we care.)
In any case, now I'm in their training program which is six kinds of boring and involves marking up your Teacher's Book with four different colors of highlighter. I kid you not. Each color means something different but I probably can't tell you what because it is a Top Secret Kaplan Strategy and I signed my freedom of speech away on a pdf file. Anyway. The point is that I'm preparing for my next training session and I am bored, so instead of exchanging the pink highlighter for the orange one and soldiering on, I will resurrect the time-honored tradition of procrastination and share with you my impressions on the working world. (If anyone is reading beyond this point, that is kind of sad. Did you know they publish books to occupy your time? Books by people who write well and actually have something to say. I recommend looking some of those up. Unless you're procrastinating, too. In that case, by all means...)
Firstly, on commuting. I have a random piece of advice for you. If it ever comes up as a choice, like when you are buying a house or something, I would suggest living in a place that is east of where you will work - that way you will not have the sun in your eyes when you drive. My parents did not think of this and as I am back at home living with them, mammone-style, I enjoy the sun in my eyes both ways. Probably this will contribute to blindness and wrinkling. Yay.
In the same vein, route 78 east is interesting in the mornings. It is like bumper-to-bumper traffic, but moving at 70 miles per hour. When I was learning to drive (a process that spanned from age 16 to roughly age 22), this used to freak me out and I never went on it. Post-Italy, I'm all ho-hum, eating my toast while merging from the ramp (or whatever that bit of road is called). (Side note: why is it that I never manage to eat meals sitting down at a table like normal people?) Also, I really should record the story of driving in Italy at some point - it involved a whole new level of ineptitude on my part. Perhaps this weekend...
Speaking of which: on weekends... after four years of round-the-clock, every-day-of-the-week studying/work in college and one year of you-must-be-available-14-hours-a-day indentured servitude as a teacher, I think I have acquired a job that allows me to glimpse at what the lives of "normal" people must be like. Essentially, you go to work during the week and come back and are kind of tired so you don't accomplish much at home, and then on the weekends you can do other stuff. It is interesting. I have not yet decided if I like it. In any case, it doesn't matter, because now I have acquired a second job and effectively done away with the free time. It's all like Erin Brokovich, single-mother-supporting-her-family over here, except I have no children and also I don't look like Julia Roberts. (Pity.)
On the work itself. Well, today a little guy crawled up my leg so I picked him up and he clapped and smiled and smelled like baby powder and was generally adorable. I wandered over to the other side of the room to grab a tissue to wipe his nose and caught sight of some pictures with a caption/sign reading something along the lines of "to utilize our creativity expression, we used musical instruments to express ourselves creatively", which made me cry inside. That's pretty much how my work day goes. Also, lots of children often cry and it is sad. Perhaps I will start singing that "raindrops on roses" song like in the movie with the von Trapps. This seemed to work even in the most dire of situations (e.g. thunderstorms, wicked stepmothers, Nazi invasions, etc.). Or maybe the "spoonful of sugar" one. It will be like Julie Andrews but with a crappy singing voice and minus the classy British accent and seventy billion octaves' worth of range. Or whatever it is that musician types call that sort of thing with the octaves and people's voices.
Yeah, now I'm making even less sense than I was when I started. Back to Kaplan's Oh-So-Secret test-prep strategies. (Gag me. Oh, med school. The things I do for you. Really.)
Saturday, September 12
Job
So, now I work in a daycare (as a result of that interview from the last post, in case anyone's keeping count). This is also why I have been all MIA since then. Anyway, having worked there for two weeks, I have: learned the names of approximately 60 children in five different age groups, identified all of the convenient sources of caffeine in the school's vicinity, absorbed about three quarts of baby saliva into my clothes, and contracted what will probably be the first of many sore throats from the wee ones.
Actually, this could be a good public service announcement: this is what a bachelor's degree from a reasonably good college will do for you these days, kids - hourly wages for a job that involves absorbing a lot of baby saliva into your clothes. So, really, you could go ahead and skip the bachelor's degree. The girl in the room across from mine has some kind of associate's degree and I'm pretty sure the one who was helping out in my room yesterday probably had trouble finishing high school.
That's mean. I'm sorry.
And I'm not even really bitter about the whole thing, to tell you (who?) the truth. I actually like this job a lot more than I thought I would. There is a lot of diaper-changing and nose-wiping and spoon-feeding and hand-washing and rocking to sleep and sometimes it is tedious and sometimes it is chaotic but when a crying kid reaches up his arms at you and puts his head down on your shoulder the moment you've picked him up... well, let's just say evolution has done quite a number on us girls and it must fulfil some kind of very gooey, mommy-type instinct.
All in all, I would say it evens out. For example, today I was with the pre-schoolers almost all day. Their usual routine seems to involve a lot of running around and chasing each other and hitting each other over the head with blocks and then whining about it. On the plus side, they can feed themselves, but they were an irritating experience overall. For the last hour, though, I got sent to the infant room and rocked a six-month-old to sleep and she wiggled around there and smelled like baby powder and was delightful in general. Also the palmar-grasp reflex is a lot of fun. (There - that's that bachelor's degree coming through for you. If your education did not encompass reflexes in early infant development, google it. There should be some funny videos out there, because in theory babies can support their entire bodyweight just hanging onto something.)
The only trouble is that on occasion, I feel slightly over-educated and non-fitting-in. Most of the time I don't mind it. It's fine. We're changing diapers and feeding kids; knowing what the palmar grasp reflex is and why it develops is not really necessary. Every once in a while, though, when I am tired and cranky and a lot of kids are crying, I get annoyed. For example, the other day I received the following memo in my "cubby" (what am I, five?): "all teacher's must submit self-bios so that we can proofread them before parent's night". Now. Is that not even the slightest bit poetic in its irony? If you have no idea what I am talking about, read the next paragraph. If the part of you that understands English is already hurting a little bit, skip to the one after (or, alternatively, go do something productive with your time).
The memo made me a little annoyed at first: they dare to suggest that they're going to proofread what *I* write when *that* is how *they* write? But then I just laughed. I could have forgiven the misplaced apostrophe in "parent's". Okay, so it sounds like there is only one parent coming and to me it's a little grating, but... I get that the apostrophe at the very end of the word can be disconcerting to some (should be "parents'"). What really kills me is the "teacher's" as plural. Especially when "self-bios" doesn't seem to give them any trouble. Proofread, mon oeuil. Yes, I am often a snob. But you have to admit that here they were really asking for it.
Anyway. I have fallen in love with my regular kids and look forward to seeing them every day and will probably be happy working here if I manage not to smack any of my colleagues and/or superiors over the head with a container of wet-wipes for their egregious abuse of the English language and/or child development theory. Speaking of that last... I will leave you with a conversation that I witnessed yesterday with the toddlers.
How NOT to teach a foreign language:
Teacher: So, did you like that book about the dinosaur at bedtime?
Kids: Yeah!
Teacher: Hey, does anyone know how to say "bed" in Spanish?
Kids: *blank stares*
Teacher: It's "cama"! Can you say "cama"?
Kids (dutifully): Cama.
Teacher: Good job! Now you know how to say bed in Spanish!
Child: What's Spanish?
Actually, this could be a good public service announcement: this is what a bachelor's degree from a reasonably good college will do for you these days, kids - hourly wages for a job that involves absorbing a lot of baby saliva into your clothes. So, really, you could go ahead and skip the bachelor's degree. The girl in the room across from mine has some kind of associate's degree and I'm pretty sure the one who was helping out in my room yesterday probably had trouble finishing high school.
That's mean. I'm sorry.
And I'm not even really bitter about the whole thing, to tell you (who?) the truth. I actually like this job a lot more than I thought I would. There is a lot of diaper-changing and nose-wiping and spoon-feeding and hand-washing and rocking to sleep and sometimes it is tedious and sometimes it is chaotic but when a crying kid reaches up his arms at you and puts his head down on your shoulder the moment you've picked him up... well, let's just say evolution has done quite a number on us girls and it must fulfil some kind of very gooey, mommy-type instinct.
All in all, I would say it evens out. For example, today I was with the pre-schoolers almost all day. Their usual routine seems to involve a lot of running around and chasing each other and hitting each other over the head with blocks and then whining about it. On the plus side, they can feed themselves, but they were an irritating experience overall. For the last hour, though, I got sent to the infant room and rocked a six-month-old to sleep and she wiggled around there and smelled like baby powder and was delightful in general. Also the palmar-grasp reflex is a lot of fun. (There - that's that bachelor's degree coming through for you. If your education did not encompass reflexes in early infant development, google it. There should be some funny videos out there, because in theory babies can support their entire bodyweight just hanging onto something.)
The only trouble is that on occasion, I feel slightly over-educated and non-fitting-in. Most of the time I don't mind it. It's fine. We're changing diapers and feeding kids; knowing what the palmar grasp reflex is and why it develops is not really necessary. Every once in a while, though, when I am tired and cranky and a lot of kids are crying, I get annoyed. For example, the other day I received the following memo in my "cubby" (what am I, five?): "all teacher's must submit self-bios so that we can proofread them before parent's night". Now. Is that not even the slightest bit poetic in its irony? If you have no idea what I am talking about, read the next paragraph. If the part of you that understands English is already hurting a little bit, skip to the one after (or, alternatively, go do something productive with your time).
The memo made me a little annoyed at first: they dare to suggest that they're going to proofread what *I* write when *that* is how *they* write? But then I just laughed. I could have forgiven the misplaced apostrophe in "parent's". Okay, so it sounds like there is only one parent coming and to me it's a little grating, but... I get that the apostrophe at the very end of the word can be disconcerting to some (should be "parents'"). What really kills me is the "teacher's" as plural. Especially when "self-bios" doesn't seem to give them any trouble. Proofread, mon oeuil. Yes, I am often a snob. But you have to admit that here they were really asking for it.
Anyway. I have fallen in love with my regular kids and look forward to seeing them every day and will probably be happy working here if I manage not to smack any of my colleagues and/or superiors over the head with a container of wet-wipes for their egregious abuse of the English language and/or child development theory. Speaking of that last... I will leave you with a conversation that I witnessed yesterday with the toddlers.
How NOT to teach a foreign language:
Teacher: So, did you like that book about the dinosaur at bedtime?
Kids: Yeah!
Teacher: Hey, does anyone know how to say "bed" in Spanish?
Kids: *blank stares*
Teacher: It's "cama"! Can you say "cama"?
Kids (dutifully): Cama.
Teacher: Good job! Now you know how to say bed in Spanish!
Child: What's Spanish?
Monday, September 7
Interview
My interview clothes and I have a history together. I wore them to two research conferences as an undergrad. And also on the day I defended my thesis. Perhaps this is why they remind me of research, even though I've worn them to other job interviews more recently - most notably the one that got me my last job (*cough* position of indentured servitude). Anyway, after a year of lying dormant in Italy, Evil Competitive Pre-med Self is the one who stalks up the steps to the latest interview (confidence courtesy of said interview clothes) - without even tripping! huzzah! - with half-formed thoughts of methodology and p-values swimming vaguely in her brain.
I greet the lady at the door with a confident smile and a firm handshake. I take the seat she offers me and sit with my back as straight as it goes; while she leaves the room to get something, I skim idly through my resume and try to remember my stock responses for interview questions. There's the two-sentence research summary... the chronological volunteer-work history... Oh, look, and that time I was a supervisor at that other thing... better mention that. Leadership or whatever.
"So, what's your previous experience with children?" she asks upon her return.
I start with the most recent (indentured servitude) and then start to summarize the research thing, "... focusing on early cognitive development..." I'm fairly sure I lost her somewhere around the word cognitive, though, so I trail off slightly and then wrap it all up with a bright, "and some babysitting in high school!" She perks up. There we go.
"That's great," she says kind of vaguely, apparently still re-grouping, "uh-huh, so... " you can see she's thinking. It looks kind of painful. This is why when I interview people, I always think up the questions in advance. Or used to, anyway. When I interviewed people. Back when I had a real job. She breaks through my little daydream with her next question: "... do you know how to change diapers?"
She opens her eyes wide and looks at me expectantly. I must confess, I am somewhat taken aback. Does she really get that many people applying to work in a daycare who don't know how to change diapers? For that matter, there is nothing particularly complex about changing a diaper. I am pretty sure that most reasonably intelligent people would be able to figure it out if suddenly placed in a situation that urgently required them to do so.
"Uh... yes. Of course," I can't help adding.
"Great!" she enthuses, before beginning to shuffle through some paperwork.
I like kids. Really, I do. But sometimes, I miss some things about before - when I was a student and I had other jobs. Mostly, I miss having a job where people were impressed when you did something like, say, figure out a new way to analyze the data on SPSS (not that that happened to me very frequently) or churned out 10 pages in half as many hours (that did). People when being impressed when you confirm your ability to properly operate the sticky tabs on a diaper is just not the same.
I greet the lady at the door with a confident smile and a firm handshake. I take the seat she offers me and sit with my back as straight as it goes; while she leaves the room to get something, I skim idly through my resume and try to remember my stock responses for interview questions. There's the two-sentence research summary... the chronological volunteer-work history... Oh, look, and that time I was a supervisor at that other thing... better mention that. Leadership or whatever.
"So, what's your previous experience with children?" she asks upon her return.
I start with the most recent (indentured servitude) and then start to summarize the research thing, "... focusing on early cognitive development..." I'm fairly sure I lost her somewhere around the word cognitive, though, so I trail off slightly and then wrap it all up with a bright, "and some babysitting in high school!" She perks up. There we go.
"That's great," she says kind of vaguely, apparently still re-grouping, "uh-huh, so... " you can see she's thinking. It looks kind of painful. This is why when I interview people, I always think up the questions in advance. Or used to, anyway. When I interviewed people. Back when I had a real job. She breaks through my little daydream with her next question: "... do you know how to change diapers?"
She opens her eyes wide and looks at me expectantly. I must confess, I am somewhat taken aback. Does she really get that many people applying to work in a daycare who don't know how to change diapers? For that matter, there is nothing particularly complex about changing a diaper. I am pretty sure that most reasonably intelligent people would be able to figure it out if suddenly placed in a situation that urgently required them to do so.
"Uh... yes. Of course," I can't help adding.
"Great!" she enthuses, before beginning to shuffle through some paperwork.
I like kids. Really, I do. But sometimes, I miss some things about before - when I was a student and I had other jobs. Mostly, I miss having a job where people were impressed when you did something like, say, figure out a new way to analyze the data on SPSS (not that that happened to me very frequently) or churned out 10 pages in half as many hours (that did). People when being impressed when you confirm your ability to properly operate the sticky tabs on a diaper is just not the same.
Tuesday, September 1
You know what I really miss about Italy?
And it's not the food. Don't get me wrong - the lack of pizza/rucola/parmiggiano/crudo/etc. here is all kinds of tragic. But what I really miss right now is being a madrelingua inglese. It gives you access to your own little job market, one that you share only with the other expats (and even then - only expats that have the proper certification). Here negli Stati Uniti most of us speak English, and so that does not compel people to hire me, and this leads to an unfortunate state of affairs known as unemployment.
When you're in college, people tell you 'take classes that appeal to you! follow your interests!' and it's all very rosy. And depending on which college you go to, you can take some pretty cool stuff. For example, at my particular Prestigious Institution of Higher Learning you could take a language called Khmer (where do they even speak that?), a class called "Mystical Mushrooms and Magical Molds" (or something along those lines), spider biology, game theory, intro to wines (also intro to beers, but only if you passed intro to wines), and a whole slew of phys ed classes ranging from 'intro to swedish massage' to fencing and whatever you call it when people shoot guns. The thing is, though, that it doesn't always turn out to be very useful (for example, unless you go into entomology as a field, how many times in your life is knowing the circadian rhythm of a spider actually going to be of use?).
Which is fine. It's fine to have a lot of random useless knowledge. The problem is that it is also kind of good to have some practical, actually-applicable-to-something kind of knowledge, too. My father, in particular, feels very strongly about this.
"Well, it's because you have a useless degree," he informs me. We are conversing about my current (lack of) job options. "If you had learned something useful like, say, how to build a bridge, you wouldn't be in this situation."
I consider this. I am not really a bridge-building type of person.
"Or welding," he adds.
Welding? What, like with metal and fire and stuff?
"Yes, welding," he insists, even though I haven't spoken, "That's the problem these days: they don't teach you useful stuff like welding anymore."
Indeed. Well, I think it is safe to say that unless another world war breaks out and I am forced to take over from the menfolk because they have all joined the Navy, and work in a factory like Rosie the Riveter or whatever, I would probably never have considered a line of work that involved welding, anyway. And even in the World War III scenario, I probably would have volunteered for other, less fire-related jobs. Like growing turnips, or knitting socks. Darning socks. Whatever it is that one does with socks.
I must have raised my eyebrows or something because: "well, what have you learned how to do?" he challenges me. I think for a moment. Good question.
"Well, I can converse passably well in three foreign languages..." (okay, admittedly, I already knew one, so that's not very impressive and he knows it), "... and I know how to create transgenic mice... and how to calculate how much oxygen it would take to burn a certain amount of carbon... and I know Freud's opinion on a whole variety of topics... and the elements of a successful vaccine campaign..." in my head I am running through all of the myriad classes I crammed into my schedule as an undergrad, looking for something that he would think was useful (ability to comment on the significance of the Dance of the Seven Veils in "Salome"? no. extensive knowledge of the issue of maternal mortality in developing countries? meh. probably not. ability to tell you all about cognitive development and spatial relations? definitely no). I am getting a bit desperate, so I go for the next thing that comes to mind, "... also I can read medieval Catalan pretty well... even though I don't actually speak Catalan." Pfft. Nice work there, Self.
It's his turn to raise his eyebrows. He thinks for a moment.
"Maybe you should work for the CIA. You know, with the languages and stuff."
I reflect upon this. Yes. It would be kind of like in a Dan Brown book. Or like Indiana Jones, except not with the snakes and stuff. Or... something. Yeah, come to think of it... probably it would not be much like that at all.
And that's the trouble with my degree. I think it is because we are just a little too theoretical, over at [Prestigious Institute of Higher Learning]. It's not that our degrees are in completely useless subjects (I, for one, did not take a single one of the classes I mentioned in that second paragraph there). It's just that we learn the theoretical stuff that, in theory, does relate to something useful... but we don't learn the connection to said useful stuff.
For example, I can tell you all about what a PCR analysis tells you and what the different components are and everything, but can I actually physically run one? No. I know all about how the brain encodes language and how language can affect your cognitive development in other areas, but had I ever once designed a language curriculum prior to teaching this year? Nope. I can even tell you exactly what your kidneys are doing on a cellular - even molecular - level, but would I know what to do if they weren't doing it properly? Still no. So that's what's missing.
In the meantime, if no one hires me this week, perhaps I will go learn how to weld things. I'm sure it is a useful life skill. Failing that, I will use my medieval Catalan philology skills and my rudimentary knowledge of Reggiana dialect (yay Arzan!) to become a spy.
When you're in college, people tell you 'take classes that appeal to you! follow your interests!' and it's all very rosy. And depending on which college you go to, you can take some pretty cool stuff. For example, at my particular Prestigious Institution of Higher Learning you could take a language called Khmer (where do they even speak that?), a class called "Mystical Mushrooms and Magical Molds" (or something along those lines), spider biology, game theory, intro to wines (also intro to beers, but only if you passed intro to wines), and a whole slew of phys ed classes ranging from 'intro to swedish massage' to fencing and whatever you call it when people shoot guns. The thing is, though, that it doesn't always turn out to be very useful (for example, unless you go into entomology as a field, how many times in your life is knowing the circadian rhythm of a spider actually going to be of use?).
Which is fine. It's fine to have a lot of random useless knowledge. The problem is that it is also kind of good to have some practical, actually-applicable-to-something kind of knowledge, too. My father, in particular, feels very strongly about this.
"Well, it's because you have a useless degree," he informs me. We are conversing about my current (lack of) job options. "If you had learned something useful like, say, how to build a bridge, you wouldn't be in this situation."
I consider this. I am not really a bridge-building type of person.
"Or welding," he adds.
Welding? What, like with metal and fire and stuff?
"Yes, welding," he insists, even though I haven't spoken, "That's the problem these days: they don't teach you useful stuff like welding anymore."
Indeed. Well, I think it is safe to say that unless another world war breaks out and I am forced to take over from the menfolk because they have all joined the Navy, and work in a factory like Rosie the Riveter or whatever, I would probably never have considered a line of work that involved welding, anyway. And even in the World War III scenario, I probably would have volunteered for other, less fire-related jobs. Like growing turnips, or knitting socks. Darning socks. Whatever it is that one does with socks.
I must have raised my eyebrows or something because: "well, what have you learned how to do?" he challenges me. I think for a moment. Good question.
"Well, I can converse passably well in three foreign languages..." (okay, admittedly, I already knew one, so that's not very impressive and he knows it), "... and I know how to create transgenic mice... and how to calculate how much oxygen it would take to burn a certain amount of carbon... and I know Freud's opinion on a whole variety of topics... and the elements of a successful vaccine campaign..." in my head I am running through all of the myriad classes I crammed into my schedule as an undergrad, looking for something that he would think was useful (ability to comment on the significance of the Dance of the Seven Veils in "Salome"? no. extensive knowledge of the issue of maternal mortality in developing countries? meh. probably not. ability to tell you all about cognitive development and spatial relations? definitely no). I am getting a bit desperate, so I go for the next thing that comes to mind, "... also I can read medieval Catalan pretty well... even though I don't actually speak Catalan." Pfft. Nice work there, Self.
It's his turn to raise his eyebrows. He thinks for a moment.
"Maybe you should work for the CIA. You know, with the languages and stuff."
I reflect upon this. Yes. It would be kind of like in a Dan Brown book. Or like Indiana Jones, except not with the snakes and stuff. Or... something. Yeah, come to think of it... probably it would not be much like that at all.
And that's the trouble with my degree. I think it is because we are just a little too theoretical, over at [Prestigious Institute of Higher Learning]. It's not that our degrees are in completely useless subjects (I, for one, did not take a single one of the classes I mentioned in that second paragraph there). It's just that we learn the theoretical stuff that, in theory, does relate to something useful... but we don't learn the connection to said useful stuff.
For example, I can tell you all about what a PCR analysis tells you and what the different components are and everything, but can I actually physically run one? No. I know all about how the brain encodes language and how language can affect your cognitive development in other areas, but had I ever once designed a language curriculum prior to teaching this year? Nope. I can even tell you exactly what your kidneys are doing on a cellular - even molecular - level, but would I know what to do if they weren't doing it properly? Still no. So that's what's missing.
In the meantime, if no one hires me this week, perhaps I will go learn how to weld things. I'm sure it is a useful life skill. Failing that, I will use my medieval Catalan philology skills and my rudimentary knowledge of Reggiana dialect (yay Arzan!) to become a spy.
Friday, August 28
America on the bus
I miss trenitalia. Even if the regionale was a bit sporco and the intercity faceva schifo, it was cheap and it enabled me to get to all kinds of places quickly. The NJ transit trains are expensive and I don't even know where they stop, so I took the bus back from NYC instead.
First of all, the port authority on 42nd street is dead creepy. Don't go there if you can help it. It makes the area around the train station in Reggio look positively charming.
Nonetheless, I plant myself in line for the bus back to Bridgewater and try not to touch anything. The Asian woman in front of me turns around.
"These kids are saving a place in line for someone," she says, gesturing at three (Spanish-speaking) children standing in front of her.
I nod politely, failing to see how that affects me.
"Personally, I don't think it's fair," she continues in an irate tone of voice. Oh, great. One of these. She is just getting started, though. "I mean, it's nice enough that we let them into the country to begin with, and then they have to go breaking the rules. I have to wait in line, so why shouldn't she?" she wraps it up by thrusting her chin in the direction of a woman seated on a bench near the line. The woman is visibly pregnant. At a guess, I'd say eight months.
Clearly, the lady in front of me is an idiot. And, anyway, hasn't she heard? America is a melting pot. Or, actually, I think it's supposed to be a tossed salad or something, these days. It was a melting pot when I was a kid, though.
Eventually, we board the bus. I huddle into the seat against the cold. Probably I will have hypothermia by the time we get there - my toes are already numb by the time we reach the Lincoln tunnel. I start listening to the conversation of the guy behind me to distract myself, but this turns out to be a mistake because he is obviously a college student, his girlfriend (to whom he is presumably talking) seems to possess about as much intelligence as a teaspoon, and, after a brief anecdote about how he woke up on someone's couch in a puddle of vomit this weekend (lovely, and definitely the kind of story I would tell my girlfriend, if I were a man), their conversation is centered around some drama involving the room the girlfriend is renting this year. It seems that she was promised one room, but she hasn't signed the lease yet, and now they are trying to put her into another room instead. The boyfriend is urging her to call the landlord to check that she is getting the room she wants, but for some reason she does not agree with this solution.
"But, baby, you're getting over stressed about it. All you have to do, baby, is call the guy. Here. Baby, get a pen. Write this down..." he begins to dictate a potential conversation with the landlord. I don't fully understand why this is necessary (it is not a complex situation) but whatever. Forty-five minutes later, though, they are still on the same topic of conversation, he appears to be arguing himself in circles, the girl is apparently crying, and I am beginning to be annoyed. They both need to get some perspective. There are people starving in China. Or somewhere.
He gets off at Scotch Plains, approximately three seconds before I was planning to turn around, grab the phone and yell "for the love of god, "baby", get a grip and call your damn landlord before I smack your boyfriend here.' I am torn: on one hand, it is bliss not to be party to their inane conversation anymore, but on the other hand, I am (very vaguely) curious about whether or not she would have eventually grown a spine and called the landlord, script in hand. There's another one who's going to do well with real life.
I revel in the silence for approximately three seconds before the Latino kids from before start shrieking joyfully. I love kids. And I love the melting soup/garden salad/whatever food-related image we use for diversity now. And clearly pregnant people are tired and have lots on their mind. But also it would be nice if they taught their children that there are times and places in which it is inappropriate to shriek. Public buses circa 11pm are one of them.
A alcohol-smelling guy gets on in Parsippany. I note that places in America have weird names. (Think about it. Parsippany. I cannot figure out the origin of that.) I wiggle my toes experimentally. They're not blue yet, so that's nice. Next time I will bring socks. Or suck it up and deal with driving in Manhattan. Maybe. I am not a very good driver.
At the next stop, two guys in ridiculously baggy clothes get off (good to know that fad is still going strong). One is listening to his i-pod, ear thingies lodged deep within his ear. I can make out the actual words of the rap song to which he is listening, which is not a good sign for his continued ability to hear properly. I idly picture the little sensory cells in his ear canal and wince.
Eventually, it occurs to me that I am as snobby as the Asian woman from the line. I would say that at least I don't go around voicing my condescension, but here I am. And I even had to look up how to spell 'condescension'. Sigh...
First of all, the port authority on 42nd street is dead creepy. Don't go there if you can help it. It makes the area around the train station in Reggio look positively charming.
Nonetheless, I plant myself in line for the bus back to Bridgewater and try not to touch anything. The Asian woman in front of me turns around.
"These kids are saving a place in line for someone," she says, gesturing at three (Spanish-speaking) children standing in front of her.
I nod politely, failing to see how that affects me.
"Personally, I don't think it's fair," she continues in an irate tone of voice. Oh, great. One of these. She is just getting started, though. "I mean, it's nice enough that we let them into the country to begin with, and then they have to go breaking the rules. I have to wait in line, so why shouldn't she?" she wraps it up by thrusting her chin in the direction of a woman seated on a bench near the line. The woman is visibly pregnant. At a guess, I'd say eight months.
Clearly, the lady in front of me is an idiot. And, anyway, hasn't she heard? America is a melting pot. Or, actually, I think it's supposed to be a tossed salad or something, these days. It was a melting pot when I was a kid, though.
Eventually, we board the bus. I huddle into the seat against the cold. Probably I will have hypothermia by the time we get there - my toes are already numb by the time we reach the Lincoln tunnel. I start listening to the conversation of the guy behind me to distract myself, but this turns out to be a mistake because he is obviously a college student, his girlfriend (to whom he is presumably talking) seems to possess about as much intelligence as a teaspoon, and, after a brief anecdote about how he woke up on someone's couch in a puddle of vomit this weekend (lovely, and definitely the kind of story I would tell my girlfriend, if I were a man), their conversation is centered around some drama involving the room the girlfriend is renting this year. It seems that she was promised one room, but she hasn't signed the lease yet, and now they are trying to put her into another room instead. The boyfriend is urging her to call the landlord to check that she is getting the room she wants, but for some reason she does not agree with this solution.
"But, baby, you're getting over stressed about it. All you have to do, baby, is call the guy. Here. Baby, get a pen. Write this down..." he begins to dictate a potential conversation with the landlord. I don't fully understand why this is necessary (it is not a complex situation) but whatever. Forty-five minutes later, though, they are still on the same topic of conversation, he appears to be arguing himself in circles, the girl is apparently crying, and I am beginning to be annoyed. They both need to get some perspective. There are people starving in China. Or somewhere.
He gets off at Scotch Plains, approximately three seconds before I was planning to turn around, grab the phone and yell "for the love of god, "baby", get a grip and call your damn landlord before I smack your boyfriend here.' I am torn: on one hand, it is bliss not to be party to their inane conversation anymore, but on the other hand, I am (very vaguely) curious about whether or not she would have eventually grown a spine and called the landlord, script in hand. There's another one who's going to do well with real life.
I revel in the silence for approximately three seconds before the Latino kids from before start shrieking joyfully. I love kids. And I love the melting soup/garden salad/whatever food-related image we use for diversity now. And clearly pregnant people are tired and have lots on their mind. But also it would be nice if they taught their children that there are times and places in which it is inappropriate to shriek. Public buses circa 11pm are one of them.
A alcohol-smelling guy gets on in Parsippany. I note that places in America have weird names. (Think about it. Parsippany. I cannot figure out the origin of that.) I wiggle my toes experimentally. They're not blue yet, so that's nice. Next time I will bring socks. Or suck it up and deal with driving in Manhattan. Maybe. I am not a very good driver.
At the next stop, two guys in ridiculously baggy clothes get off (good to know that fad is still going strong). One is listening to his i-pod, ear thingies lodged deep within his ear. I can make out the actual words of the rap song to which he is listening, which is not a good sign for his continued ability to hear properly. I idly picture the little sensory cells in his ear canal and wince.
Eventually, it occurs to me that I am as snobby as the Asian woman from the line. I would say that at least I don't go around voicing my condescension, but here I am. And I even had to look up how to spell 'condescension'. Sigh...
Thursday, August 27
The supermarket is depressing
I remember a time, probably in high school, when I used to study a lot and not do much else, so my only hope of getting out of the house was often a trip to the supermarket with my mother. The benefits of this were twofold: a.) I could read a book (for fun!) on the way there, and b.) I had a say in what food we bought. It was all very fun. Post-Italy, it's a little different.
The parking lot of Shop Rite has not changed a bit. They still cannot spell (what was wrong with calling it Shop Right? it's kind of a stupid name either way, and was the one additional letter so costly?) and the parking lot is full of Americans in various states of obesity and unfortunate wardrobe choices. Welcome home, Self. I personally am a horrible dresser, so I really shouldn't criticize, but still. Some things were just not meant to be worn out of the house, even in America. I myself have sort of adjusted halfway to being back: I am wearing flip-flops, but with a dress that is not a nightgown and is therefore too much for Shop Rite.
We walk into the vestibule and gusts of frigid air billow out at us every time the door closes. My exposed limbs are sad, and I run back to my mother's car and return armed with a heavy sweater that you'd think would be appropriate for October.
There are a lot of types of apples in America. That's nice. Also the blueberries are significantly cheaper. The tomatoes are guaranteed not to be as good and that is sad. We buy some anyway. Perhaps I will attempt to make sauce again. Goodness only knows how that will go, but it can't be any worse than Chef Boyardee and whatever other crap is stored by the gallon in the sauce and condiments aisle.
Speaking of which, other things that are gross: "French" dressing. It is not French, and, in my opinion, not fit to be put on salad. Ditto "Italian" dressing. Ditto anything that comes out of a spray-paint-type can. And speaking of that, spray-on cheese (excuse me: cheez) and spray-on whipped cream. I roll faster through that aisle.
Ooh, the Italian food section! This contains parmesan that was made in Wisconsin, exorbitantly priced sausage, some apparently genuine (but expensive) grana padano, and some pancetta a cubetti. This is a nice surprise, and will be helpful for making either carbonara or amatriciana - it's hard to tell which, because it does not tell you whether the pancetta is dolce or smoked. I pass by the French section quickly, noting that it is in a similar state of affairs (and has been for years): Brie from Wisconsin and still no creme fraiche. I do not understand how there can be such a wide variety of products in the dairy/egg section (liquid eggs? what, because you can't beat them yourself? really?) and yet it has never occurred to anyone to import some creme fraiche. Or make it in Wisconsin.
Vats of artificial-looking vegetable oil, cereal boxes into which you could probably fit a small child if you needed to, similarly sized bags of chips (crisps!), and garishly colored "fruit snacks" follow. I emerge from the supermarket with rye bread, grapes (no seeds!!), some mediocre-looking tomatoes, and a jar of mild salsa. My mother raises her eyebrows as I deposit it into the trunk and help her with whatever she bought.
"Salsa?" she asks.
"Yeah. I like salsa. It's refreshing," I explain.
"But don't you need chips or something to put it on?"
"Oh," I say. "Yeah, I guess. I forgot about that." I am evidently still slightly disoriented. Maybe it's the fuso orario. Or something.
In any case, my toes are just thawing again in the warm humidity of NJ in August, and I have no intention of venturing back into the nuclear winter just for a bag of chips.
"We'll make tacos or something this weekend," my mother says in a consoling tone of voice. "We'll buy the boys a pizza or something," she adds as we drive past the local pizza place. (My brother and father do not like tacos.)
The smell of goopy cheese drifts in through the open windows and I glance at all of the people with their huge pizza boxes emerging from the pizza place and getting into their huge cars.
Sigh.
The parking lot of Shop Rite has not changed a bit. They still cannot spell (what was wrong with calling it Shop Right? it's kind of a stupid name either way, and was the one additional letter so costly?) and the parking lot is full of Americans in various states of obesity and unfortunate wardrobe choices. Welcome home, Self. I personally am a horrible dresser, so I really shouldn't criticize, but still. Some things were just not meant to be worn out of the house, even in America. I myself have sort of adjusted halfway to being back: I am wearing flip-flops, but with a dress that is not a nightgown and is therefore too much for Shop Rite.
We walk into the vestibule and gusts of frigid air billow out at us every time the door closes. My exposed limbs are sad, and I run back to my mother's car and return armed with a heavy sweater that you'd think would be appropriate for October.
There are a lot of types of apples in America. That's nice. Also the blueberries are significantly cheaper. The tomatoes are guaranteed not to be as good and that is sad. We buy some anyway. Perhaps I will attempt to make sauce again. Goodness only knows how that will go, but it can't be any worse than Chef Boyardee and whatever other crap is stored by the gallon in the sauce and condiments aisle.
Speaking of which, other things that are gross: "French" dressing. It is not French, and, in my opinion, not fit to be put on salad. Ditto "Italian" dressing. Ditto anything that comes out of a spray-paint-type can. And speaking of that, spray-on cheese (excuse me: cheez) and spray-on whipped cream. I roll faster through that aisle.
Ooh, the Italian food section! This contains parmesan that was made in Wisconsin, exorbitantly priced sausage, some apparently genuine (but expensive) grana padano, and some pancetta a cubetti. This is a nice surprise, and will be helpful for making either carbonara or amatriciana - it's hard to tell which, because it does not tell you whether the pancetta is dolce or smoked. I pass by the French section quickly, noting that it is in a similar state of affairs (and has been for years): Brie from Wisconsin and still no creme fraiche. I do not understand how there can be such a wide variety of products in the dairy/egg section (liquid eggs? what, because you can't beat them yourself? really?) and yet it has never occurred to anyone to import some creme fraiche. Or make it in Wisconsin.
Vats of artificial-looking vegetable oil, cereal boxes into which you could probably fit a small child if you needed to, similarly sized bags of chips (crisps!), and garishly colored "fruit snacks" follow. I emerge from the supermarket with rye bread, grapes (no seeds!!), some mediocre-looking tomatoes, and a jar of mild salsa. My mother raises her eyebrows as I deposit it into the trunk and help her with whatever she bought.
"Salsa?" she asks.
"Yeah. I like salsa. It's refreshing," I explain.
"But don't you need chips or something to put it on?"
"Oh," I say. "Yeah, I guess. I forgot about that." I am evidently still slightly disoriented. Maybe it's the fuso orario. Or something.
In any case, my toes are just thawing again in the warm humidity of NJ in August, and I have no intention of venturing back into the nuclear winter just for a bag of chips.
"We'll make tacos or something this weekend," my mother says in a consoling tone of voice. "We'll buy the boys a pizza or something," she adds as we drive past the local pizza place. (My brother and father do not like tacos.)
The smell of goopy cheese drifts in through the open windows and I glance at all of the people with their huge pizza boxes emerging from the pizza place and getting into their huge cars.
Sigh.
Wednesday, August 26
Ciao, America : /
Things that I did not miss about suburbia:
1. Suburbia.
2. Suburbia. Yesterday I woke up and applied to some jobs. Then I did some laundry. Then I ate lunch (read searched the kitchen for something appealing, did not find it, and finally ended up chewing morosely on some stale bread). After that, I wondered what to do with myself. I considered my options: the library. Walking down to the river. Grocery shopping. The library... oh, wait. Yeah, that's pretty much it.
3. American food. This could be the start of an excellent new weight loss program.
4. The rabid air conditioning. Everyone ever who has come from Europe to the States has commented on this, so I won't but... seriously. What the hell? And here I thought there was an energy crisis...
5. The New Jersey accent. Ditto for Queens, Brooklyn and Long Island. Also Boston, but we don't have much of that around here. Sorry guys, but we just do not sound good. I vote we all have a nice soft Yorkshire accent surgically implanted instead. At least that would be entertaining...
6. Telemarketers. Perhaps this is just a product of not having had a fisso in Italy, but... or, actually, wait, no. We did have one. And it rang precisely once a day: when Roomie-on-the-left's mother called. E basta. Here it is 2pm and I have so far fielded six calls, only one of them actually useful.
Okay, probably that's enough with the beating up on the homeland. I'm sure it's doing its best. To console it...
Things that are nice to see again (dare I say that I actually missed something about America?):
1. The library and it's endless supply of easy-to-read books.
2. Similarly, Borders.
3. Hearing the wind in the trees outside my bedroom window. (The crickets, less so.)
4. A very limited number of food products which, thus far, include rye bread, seedless grapes, iced green tea, and cheddar cheese.
Anyway... ciao, America. I'm back.
1. Suburbia.
2. Suburbia. Yesterday I woke up and applied to some jobs. Then I did some laundry. Then I ate lunch (read searched the kitchen for something appealing, did not find it, and finally ended up chewing morosely on some stale bread). After that, I wondered what to do with myself. I considered my options: the library. Walking down to the river. Grocery shopping. The library... oh, wait. Yeah, that's pretty much it.
3. American food. This could be the start of an excellent new weight loss program.
4. The rabid air conditioning. Everyone ever who has come from Europe to the States has commented on this, so I won't but... seriously. What the hell? And here I thought there was an energy crisis...
5. The New Jersey accent. Ditto for Queens, Brooklyn and Long Island. Also Boston, but we don't have much of that around here. Sorry guys, but we just do not sound good. I vote we all have a nice soft Yorkshire accent surgically implanted instead. At least that would be entertaining...
6. Telemarketers. Perhaps this is just a product of not having had a fisso in Italy, but... or, actually, wait, no. We did have one. And it rang precisely once a day: when Roomie-on-the-left's mother called. E basta. Here it is 2pm and I have so far fielded six calls, only one of them actually useful.
Okay, probably that's enough with the beating up on the homeland. I'm sure it's doing its best. To console it...
Things that are nice to see again (dare I say that I actually missed something about America?):
1. The library and it's endless supply of easy-to-read books.
2. Similarly, Borders.
3. Hearing the wind in the trees outside my bedroom window. (The crickets, less so.)
4. A very limited number of food products which, thus far, include rye bread, seedless grapes, iced green tea, and cheddar cheese.
Anyway... ciao, America. I'm back.
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