So, the weather is getting warmer and the urge to wear skirts and dresses and other things that are not thick black dress pants is starting to make itself known and yet the number of classes I teach at the Uber-Fancy Local Fashion Thing create a bit of a dilemma with that. Because my students are largely men and tend to show up wearing suits and ties and other such uber-fancy paraphernalia, I can't really rock up in a fluffy skirt and a tank top and plop myself down in the entry hall while all the other women sail by in stilettos and god knows what else.
It's okay, though. I happen to own two highly respectable pencil skirts that can be paired with heels and some form of shirt/blouse and are not too uncomfortable. And one of them even still fits well, so that's always a plus. All that was missing from this plan was a pair of tights so that I would look both professional and not quite so bianca like a mozzarella. At home I could just stop by in the nearest super market or drugstore and it would take me all of ten minutes to come back out with an appropriate pair of tights.
Yeah, in Italy, not so much. I stopped by in Aqua & Sapone this morning, having noticed that there is an entire wall of tights there once and decided to start at one end and work my way to the other and surely by then I'd have found something that worked well.
Oh, self. Don't you wish.
so, first of all, there seem to be about eighty-twelve varieties of tights. There are "teen" tights which feature a lower waistline and some bizarre sort of "comfort" waistband. There are old lady tights that claim to hold your legs together and enable you to sprint around like a twenty-year-old. There are "luxury" tights which apparently massage your legs in circular motions. (I can't decide whether this is creepy or intriguing.) There are others that appear to have built-in panties... or maybe just strategically placed lacy bits to give the illusion of panties? (Either way, definitely creepy.)
Eventually I caught sight of some that were contained in little boxes and appeared to be the regular boring kind for people who don't want their tights to have any special abilities. Aha! (We already know that I am an unrefined peon.)
Next up: the oh-so-fun size and measurement discrepancies between Europe and America. I do not know my height in centimeters or my weight in kilos. So that's tricky. I chose the middle measurement mostly at random. (Interestingly enough, they seem to fit okay.)
And then: the color. In America, there is this handy dandy color of tights called "nude". It is very discreet and super useful, because it goes with most things (much like the skin of the average person). Also, by "nude" they apparently mean, "nude for people who have skin that is a nice shade of normal", rather than "nude for people who look like they were raised in a cave and may or may not actually glow in the dark". So when I wear it, it makes me look like I have normal skin, not glow-in-the-dark cave skin. Always a plus.
This shade does not exist in Italy. Or, at least, not in Aqua e Sapone. Boo. They do have a shade called castoro (which means beaver, I think... kind of odd) and various shades of nero and grigio. And then they have one called daino (which I just googled and apparently it means "deer" - what's with the woodland animals?) which might work as nude-ish for people with naturally darker skin. And then the lightest one is called "melone". I purchased this, because I suppose it is my best bet, but (much like the name suggests) it makes my legs look ever so slightly orange.
Why would you make tights that make people look orange? I do not understand. Is it because of the popularity of fake tans around here, which are sometimes kind of orange? So people can seamlessly blend their tights and their tans? Still, though.
I disapprove. I think I will be wearing the black pants to Uber-Fancy Local Fashion Thing once again tomorrow, and will perhaps conduct further investigations over the weekend. Sigh.
How did I just write a whole entry about tights?
Showing posts with label Reggio. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Reggio. Show all posts
Thursday, May 27
Sunday, May 23
Delightful
When you wake up to the sound of church bells and (gently) throw open the shutters and the sun is shining and a little kid is running across the piazzetta below, laughing, and you can hear accordion music coming from somewhere (I love accordian music!) and it smells like summer and it is still the weekend, life is good. This type of thing is what makes it seem so impossible to leave Italy, in fact.
Sometimes in the winter, when you have a day with five boring lessons in a row, and there is fog and rain and that weird damp cold, you might look up at the pervasive grey of the sky and think, "meh. I could just as well be at home (in America, I mean), finished with work at 5pm and curled up on the sofa with a book from the library, and I wouldn't be particularly sad about missing out on this." But when summer comes... then it's different.
The cafes put their tables and chairs outside again, so you can have an aperitivo in the piazza, sipping a spritz and looking up at the Duomo, all lit up against that intense blue of the sky at dusk, and you can stroll around in the soft air of the evening, eating gelato (and maybe getting bitten by mosquitoes, but, hey, life's not meant to be perfect, right?).
I really just am a sucker for accordian music. I'll come back feeling a bit less gooey at a later time.
Sometimes in the winter, when you have a day with five boring lessons in a row, and there is fog and rain and that weird damp cold, you might look up at the pervasive grey of the sky and think, "meh. I could just as well be at home (in America, I mean), finished with work at 5pm and curled up on the sofa with a book from the library, and I wouldn't be particularly sad about missing out on this." But when summer comes... then it's different.
The cafes put their tables and chairs outside again, so you can have an aperitivo in the piazza, sipping a spritz and looking up at the Duomo, all lit up against that intense blue of the sky at dusk, and you can stroll around in the soft air of the evening, eating gelato (and maybe getting bitten by mosquitoes, but, hey, life's not meant to be perfect, right?).
I really just am a sucker for accordian music. I'll come back feeling a bit less gooey at a later time.
Thursday, May 20
Life Skillz
I am like a problem-solving machine over here today. Usually I have little to no life skills to speak of, but today I am having an uncharacteristically successful day. I am kind of scared to go cook dinner, because I figure the stove will probably explode or something - you know, as a sort of cosmic getting-things-back-into-balance gesture. Anyway... I feel the need to document my success before that happens.
Problem A: Finding a coursebook from which to teach French. Our language school has recently decided that it offers French courses as well as English, and that I am in charge of them, being the only person on staff that speaks any French. (Actually, the conversation went kind of like this: "hey, Christen, you speak French, right?" Me: "uh... yes..." Boss & co.: "Great! So, I'm going to give you this course at..." and that is how I came to be teaching four different French courses, two of which are Business French, no less.)
Anywy, the difficulty with this is that, while we have a great big library of stuff for teaching English, ranging from Business courses to English for Medicine to this awesome book which includes a game of pronunciation bingo (yeah, shut up - you know you wish you got to play pronunciation bingo), we have nothing for French. So every time we (read: I) get a new French course, I hop on the train to Bologna and visit the Feltrinelli International and pick out a coursebook. (Right now we have four different courses with four different purposes at three different levels, but I figure sooner or letter something will repeat and I will be *so* prepared when it does.)
So, yeah. This morning I had no classes, so I got on the train and, three hours later, there I was with two copies of a new textbook and the accompanying cahier d'exercises. (Workbook.)
Problem B: Said French book does not come with a class CD although it frequently suggests that you listen to one. The language-teaching world is fraught with such trickery. "CD included!!!" the workbook will tell you, and you will glance at the back cover and see a CD securely attached there, labelled "Student CD", and you'll go on your merry way, thinking you're all set. No. You're not. That's the student CD, which has the audio tracks for the exercises in the workbook. This ensures maximum awkwardness when you pop the sucker into the CD player and go all "okay, now we'll listen, and match the dialogues to the pictures" and then a list of vegetables or something blares out from the speakers. No, what you want is the Class CD. This is somehow much more difficult to obtain. For example, the one I wanted has to be imported from Belgium or something equally ridiculous for the low price of 70 or so euro. Yeah. Right.
So I went online and did some googling and managed to get all hooked up with this illegal downloading thing and downloaded the tracks I needed and burned them onto a CD and labelled them neatly with my little purple-ish labelling pen and voila! Fatto. (It was all very sneaky. I have never downloaded anything like that in my life, so now I feel very underhanded. But 70euro for a CD? Really? I could hire actors and record my own for less than that. Maybe.)
Problem C: We need about ten million copies of every other CD on the planet because we only have one of each and they are somehow all in the trunk of the Boss's car. No worries, y'all. I'm on it. Just running a little illegally burned CD cartel from up here in my room. Yup.
Problem D: After this eventful day and only two hours of teaching (that end-of-the-year slump is approaching fast, methinks), I hopped in the car at 10pm (because of course those two hours of teaching would need to occur between the hours of 7 and 9) to find that it had no gas. Which is not a situation conducive to my making it to Uber-Fancy Local Fashion Thing Headquarters on time for my 8am class tomorrow. So I took myself to a gas pump and wrestled the cap off (and I do mean "wrestled", quite literally) and outsmarted the machine with my mad counting skillz (yes! I can count to six! yay!) and put gas in the car. Here's hoping it was actually the regular old senza piombo and not something crazy that is eating away at the car's insides as we speak.
Problem E: I have a mild cold but I am a wimp and it feels like something is trying to push my eyeballs out from behind. Solution: tylenol. Yay.
Goodnight.
Problem A: Finding a coursebook from which to teach French. Our language school has recently decided that it offers French courses as well as English, and that I am in charge of them, being the only person on staff that speaks any French. (Actually, the conversation went kind of like this: "hey, Christen, you speak French, right?" Me: "uh... yes..." Boss & co.: "Great! So, I'm going to give you this course at..." and that is how I came to be teaching four different French courses, two of which are Business French, no less.)
Anywy, the difficulty with this is that, while we have a great big library of stuff for teaching English, ranging from Business courses to English for Medicine to this awesome book which includes a game of pronunciation bingo (yeah, shut up - you know you wish you got to play pronunciation bingo), we have nothing for French. So every time we (read: I) get a new French course, I hop on the train to Bologna and visit the Feltrinelli International and pick out a coursebook. (Right now we have four different courses with four different purposes at three different levels, but I figure sooner or letter something will repeat and I will be *so* prepared when it does.)
So, yeah. This morning I had no classes, so I got on the train and, three hours later, there I was with two copies of a new textbook and the accompanying cahier d'exercises. (Workbook.)
Problem B: Said French book does not come with a class CD although it frequently suggests that you listen to one. The language-teaching world is fraught with such trickery. "CD included!!!" the workbook will tell you, and you will glance at the back cover and see a CD securely attached there, labelled "Student CD", and you'll go on your merry way, thinking you're all set. No. You're not. That's the student CD, which has the audio tracks for the exercises in the workbook. This ensures maximum awkwardness when you pop the sucker into the CD player and go all "okay, now we'll listen, and match the dialogues to the pictures" and then a list of vegetables or something blares out from the speakers. No, what you want is the Class CD. This is somehow much more difficult to obtain. For example, the one I wanted has to be imported from Belgium or something equally ridiculous for the low price of 70 or so euro. Yeah. Right.
So I went online and did some googling and managed to get all hooked up with this illegal downloading thing and downloaded the tracks I needed and burned them onto a CD and labelled them neatly with my little purple-ish labelling pen and voila! Fatto. (It was all very sneaky. I have never downloaded anything like that in my life, so now I feel very underhanded. But 70euro for a CD? Really? I could hire actors and record my own for less than that. Maybe.)
Problem C: We need about ten million copies of every other CD on the planet because we only have one of each and they are somehow all in the trunk of the Boss's car. No worries, y'all. I'm on it. Just running a little illegally burned CD cartel from up here in my room. Yup.
Problem D: After this eventful day and only two hours of teaching (that end-of-the-year slump is approaching fast, methinks), I hopped in the car at 10pm (because of course those two hours of teaching would need to occur between the hours of 7 and 9) to find that it had no gas. Which is not a situation conducive to my making it to Uber-Fancy Local Fashion Thing Headquarters on time for my 8am class tomorrow. So I took myself to a gas pump and wrestled the cap off (and I do mean "wrestled", quite literally) and outsmarted the machine with my mad counting skillz (yes! I can count to six! yay!) and put gas in the car. Here's hoping it was actually the regular old senza piombo and not something crazy that is eating away at the car's insides as we speak.
Problem E: I have a mild cold but I am a wimp and it feels like something is trying to push my eyeballs out from behind. Solution: tylenol. Yay.
Goodnight.
Monday, May 10
Milano
I accompanied a friend from work to Milan the other day. In addition to being just plain fun, it was also kind of cheering in the I'm-a-retarded-foreigner department. When you've been here a while, you kind of stop being able to use the "I've only been here three months" excuse to cut yourself a break when you do something stupid, so you might beat up on yourself rather a lot. On this particular Saturday, though, I was able to impart all sorts of useful wisdom to my less-experienced friend (who has, in fact, only been here a couple of months, and therefore can still use that excuse): that the smaller rete regionale machines in the train station won't give you a ticket to Milan; that you shouldn't get off at Milano Rogoredo or Milano Lambrate but wait for Milano Centrale, how to buy a ticket for the metro, how to use said metro once you've got a ticket, where to get off to see the Duomo (although, being that the station is called 'Duomo', I feel like that's more or less obvious if you think about it for a minute), and other things like that.
Also, there are things in Italy that are really fun to show someone for the first time. The Duomo in Milan is one of them. I very clearly remember turning the corner into the piazza my first time in Milan (having hiked the seventy billion kilometers from the train station because I was scared of the metro at that point), and I was all sweaty and tired, but then there it was and it was amazing. It's one of those "Oh! Oh! Oh my god!"-type moments.
We take photos of various things, make a pilgrimmage to the big store of the Local Fashion Thing where we teach (it looks nice - must remember to compliment whichever of our students is in charge of the window displays), and eat some gelato while staring dazedly at the Duomo. It is a beautiful spring day.
On our way back up the Via Emilia, the Mille Miglia cars whiz past us, honking and sputtering, and the people lined up on the sidewalk cheer. There's a band playing in the piazza. They've put the yellow chairs back out by the fountains, which means reading in the sun to the sound of water splashing (yay!). Later, we have a spritz in the shadow of our Duomo while a warm breeze floats around.
Summer is back!
Also, there are things in Italy that are really fun to show someone for the first time. The Duomo in Milan is one of them. I very clearly remember turning the corner into the piazza my first time in Milan (having hiked the seventy billion kilometers from the train station because I was scared of the metro at that point), and I was all sweaty and tired, but then there it was and it was amazing. It's one of those "Oh! Oh! Oh my god!"-type moments.
We take photos of various things, make a pilgrimmage to the big store of the Local Fashion Thing where we teach (it looks nice - must remember to compliment whichever of our students is in charge of the window displays), and eat some gelato while staring dazedly at the Duomo. It is a beautiful spring day.
On our way back up the Via Emilia, the Mille Miglia cars whiz past us, honking and sputtering, and the people lined up on the sidewalk cheer. There's a band playing in the piazza. They've put the yellow chairs back out by the fountains, which means reading in the sun to the sound of water splashing (yay!). Later, we have a spritz in the shadow of our Duomo while a warm breeze floats around.
Summer is back!
Monday, May 3
In which I eat some cheese and call it dinner
Teaching English is pretty fun. I mean, think about it. Half the knowledge you need is already there if you're a native speaker. (The other half, the teaching bit, takes a little more effort to acquire, but it's doable, thus far.) You get to meet all sorts of people. And they're generally happy to see you. Unlike the me-being-a-doctor scenario, which involves children associating me with needles and evil people who poke them and are connected with being sick. I mean, aside from people who are being forced to learn English for whatever reason, most people come to lessons voluntarily. Some are even being given a little break from work in order to attend.
The trouble with teaching English, though, is that the hours are pretty ridiculous. Sometimes you have a lesson at 8am and some more sprinkled throughout the day and another that finishes at 8:30pm. Sometimes you arrive at home and take your heels off and your feet hurt and you've forgotten which of your five businessmen students is an Inter fan (again!) so you won't know who to ask about the match next week.
At such times, the last thing you feel like doing is hauling out the pots and pans and knives and torturing some food into a semblance of edible. (Edibleness? Edibility? What? What am I even talking about?) So you take a piece of Pecorino Toscano out of the fridge, lop off a few slices, and call it a day, sitting in front of the computer and staring vaguely at the computer while wondering what you meant to do when you sat down in front of it. (Hint: probably it involved checking your email, genius. Just click on Internet Explorer and you're halfway there.)
So, sometimes, that's what happens at my house. You know what, though? There is calcium in cheese. That's good for you. So there.
The trouble with teaching English, though, is that the hours are pretty ridiculous. Sometimes you have a lesson at 8am and some more sprinkled throughout the day and another that finishes at 8:30pm. Sometimes you arrive at home and take your heels off and your feet hurt and you've forgotten which of your five businessmen students is an Inter fan (again!) so you won't know who to ask about the match next week.
At such times, the last thing you feel like doing is hauling out the pots and pans and knives and torturing some food into a semblance of edible. (Edibleness? Edibility? What? What am I even talking about?) So you take a piece of Pecorino Toscano out of the fridge, lop off a few slices, and call it a day, sitting in front of the computer and staring vaguely at the computer while wondering what you meant to do when you sat down in front of it. (Hint: probably it involved checking your email, genius. Just click on Internet Explorer and you're halfway there.)
So, sometimes, that's what happens at my house. You know what, though? There is calcium in cheese. That's good for you. So there.
Friday, April 30
When do the bimbi go to school?
Anzi, not the bimbi, but the ragazzi. The high school kids. I'm just wondering, because, having finally figured out the Italian school system (I think... more or less), I was under the impression that they went to school from 8ish to 1ish. So why is it that no matter what time of day I walk through town, they are there, hanging out, in the cafes and the piazze, all good-naturedly jostling each other and stuff?
Like, just now, I stopped back in town between lessons to grab some food and do some domestic stuff and they are all crowded into Melli in the piazza, demanding pezzi di pizza and wondering why the line is so long. (Because there are twelve million of your little school buddies here, genius.) But it's, like, 9:30. How come they're not in school, doing something productive?
Actually, I have an idea about this. Every time an Italian sees me typing (without looking! mamma mia!), they are all shocked and amazed. But really it is not a very difficult skill to acquire. I vaguely remember being taught how to type when I was ten-ish. At school. And then when I was 13ish they started demanding that assignments be typed. And ten years of practice later... here we are, and I can type this and look out of the window at the same time. So I suggest that the ragazzi put down their slices of pizza, get their little arses off the benches around the fountain, and go learn to type. Then they won't be quite so shocked when they see someone else doing it, and I won't have to read their scrawl-y cramped looking essays on lined paper torn out of a notebook. Win-win.
Um, aside from that... it is a *beautiful* day here today with sun and a lovely breeze and a near-ideal temperature, and the market is out and the people are out (I'm still confused as to why none of them are at work or in school, but whatever) and it's delightful. I love this time of year here.
Like, just now, I stopped back in town between lessons to grab some food and do some domestic stuff and they are all crowded into Melli in the piazza, demanding pezzi di pizza and wondering why the line is so long. (Because there are twelve million of your little school buddies here, genius.) But it's, like, 9:30. How come they're not in school, doing something productive?
Actually, I have an idea about this. Every time an Italian sees me typing (without looking! mamma mia!), they are all shocked and amazed. But really it is not a very difficult skill to acquire. I vaguely remember being taught how to type when I was ten-ish. At school. And then when I was 13ish they started demanding that assignments be typed. And ten years of practice later... here we are, and I can type this and look out of the window at the same time. So I suggest that the ragazzi put down their slices of pizza, get their little arses off the benches around the fountain, and go learn to type. Then they won't be quite so shocked when they see someone else doing it, and I won't have to read their scrawl-y cramped looking essays on lined paper torn out of a notebook. Win-win.
Um, aside from that... it is a *beautiful* day here today with sun and a lovely breeze and a near-ideal temperature, and the market is out and the people are out (I'm still confused as to why none of them are at work or in school, but whatever) and it's delightful. I love this time of year here.
Wednesday, April 28
Zanzariere
The mosquitos are back, sneaky little suckers. First mosquito of the year and I've got seven bites on one leg.
So. much. fun.
I'd kind of forgotten about them since last year. And does our house have any zanzariere (window screens)? Magari!
In other news, apparently Inter and Barcelona are playing an important game now. I am confused about who I am meant to support: I promised a student that I'd root for Milan, but they are not playing. So do you root for Inter because Italy bands together for such occasions, or is the rivalry between Milan and Inter strong enough that you actually just go ahead and root for a whole other country? I feel that this is plausible, because the other day I brought up soccer with a class of four year olds, and they actually came to blows over it. (Te sei Juventino? Ma che schifo! yelled one little Interista before whacking his compatriot on the shoulder.) So apparently the inter-team within-Italy rivalry is quite... engaging.
There is a whole group of Italians in my kitchen, though, and they are getting quite agitated, whatever it is that's going on, and also someone is shouting at the top of their lungs in the piazza...
Huh.
So. much. fun.
I'd kind of forgotten about them since last year. And does our house have any zanzariere (window screens)? Magari!
In other news, apparently Inter and Barcelona are playing an important game now. I am confused about who I am meant to support: I promised a student that I'd root for Milan, but they are not playing. So do you root for Inter because Italy bands together for such occasions, or is the rivalry between Milan and Inter strong enough that you actually just go ahead and root for a whole other country? I feel that this is plausible, because the other day I brought up soccer with a class of four year olds, and they actually came to blows over it. (Te sei Juventino? Ma che schifo! yelled one little Interista before whacking his compatriot on the shoulder.) So apparently the inter-team within-Italy rivalry is quite... engaging.
There is a whole group of Italians in my kitchen, though, and they are getting quite agitated, whatever it is that's going on, and also someone is shouting at the top of their lungs in the piazza...
Huh.
Monday, April 26
Of gnocco fritto and the red flag
"Want to come with us to the festa?" my housemate kindly offers on the morning of the 25th of April. The 25th of April is Liberation Day here - as far as I can tell, it is the day that Italy was liberated from Germany during WWII. This is a very important point here in Emilia, because the tradition of revering the partigiani seems quite strong here.
"Sure, thanks," I say. Why not?
"Apparently that's where all of Reggio goes on the 25th," her boyfriend informs me on the way there.
When we arrive, though, we become aware that it is not really all of Reggio, per se. Rather, it is all of a certain subset of Reggio people. It is not the ones who saunter around in their designer clothes and perfectly straightened hair. It is not the ones who dress their children in Lacoste with Prada sneakers. It is the ones who have Che Guevara tattoos and let their children play soccer in the mud (where they shriek with laughter).
They are selling a sort of Fair Trade coke-like drink that I've never seen before along with the beer and the coffee. They are also selling t-shirts, the slogans on which are complicated enough that I only figure out a few of them before we move on. There is a man with a priest's collar shouting political-sounding things from a stage at the front of the crowd. I don't understand enough of what he says to follow his line of thought, so I let the words float by my head and look around at the people instead.
A man with dreadlocks that reach halfway down his back walks by, balancing three beers between his two hands. A smallish little boy weaves his way between people's legs until his father catches up with him to throw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and give him a stern lecture about getting lost in the crowd. We walk past people proudly wearing Che Guevara t-shirts and flying the red hammer-and-sickle flag above their heads, and I vaguely wonder how such an open display of very-left-leaning political philosophy would do in the States. I'm not very knowledgeable about the whole politics thing, but I get the feeling that it might not be taken so well. It clearly doesn't mean the same thing here, though, because no one seems perturbed in the least.
It's very sunny out, and we find some space at a picnic table half in the shade. We drink some beer and wonder how long it would actually take to wait in the line for gnocco fritto. Someone is brave and decides to give it a try. He comes back bearing salumi, meat that is grigliata (like little sausages and stuff), and bread. The gnocco was apparently finito. Music is playing now, and we let it wash over us with the sun and the sound of people chatting and laughing and children shoving each other around in the space between some tables that has apparently been converted into a makeshift soccer field. The table next to us strikes up a stirring rendition of a canzone poplare - from what I can gather, this seems to be a type of song that everyone knows the words to but whose origins are kind of unknown. "Boh, non te lo saprei dire," my housemate says when I ask her who it is by. I like it, though... do we have anything similar in America?
Later we go to Parma, which is far more alive than Reggio usually is, and eat some gelato. We enjoy the sheer number of people who are milling around, and the lingering warmth after sunset. There is a big palco for a concert in Piazza Garibaldi. The mayor reminds us all of the solemnity of the day, and introduces an ex-partigiano (or maybe you never really cease being a partigiano), who reminds us not to forget how lucky we are to live in freedom, even though we can't possibly understand what freedom really is because we've never had to do without it. (He has a point, there.) The concert is lovely - listening to music with a lot of people in a piazza in Italy when it's still warm after sundown and there aren't any mosquitoes yet... there's really nothing you could possibly complain about.
"Sure, thanks," I say. Why not?
"Apparently that's where all of Reggio goes on the 25th," her boyfriend informs me on the way there.
When we arrive, though, we become aware that it is not really all of Reggio, per se. Rather, it is all of a certain subset of Reggio people. It is not the ones who saunter around in their designer clothes and perfectly straightened hair. It is not the ones who dress their children in Lacoste with Prada sneakers. It is the ones who have Che Guevara tattoos and let their children play soccer in the mud (where they shriek with laughter).
They are selling a sort of Fair Trade coke-like drink that I've never seen before along with the beer and the coffee. They are also selling t-shirts, the slogans on which are complicated enough that I only figure out a few of them before we move on. There is a man with a priest's collar shouting political-sounding things from a stage at the front of the crowd. I don't understand enough of what he says to follow his line of thought, so I let the words float by my head and look around at the people instead.
A man with dreadlocks that reach halfway down his back walks by, balancing three beers between his two hands. A smallish little boy weaves his way between people's legs until his father catches up with him to throw him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and give him a stern lecture about getting lost in the crowd. We walk past people proudly wearing Che Guevara t-shirts and flying the red hammer-and-sickle flag above their heads, and I vaguely wonder how such an open display of very-left-leaning political philosophy would do in the States. I'm not very knowledgeable about the whole politics thing, but I get the feeling that it might not be taken so well. It clearly doesn't mean the same thing here, though, because no one seems perturbed in the least.
It's very sunny out, and we find some space at a picnic table half in the shade. We drink some beer and wonder how long it would actually take to wait in the line for gnocco fritto. Someone is brave and decides to give it a try. He comes back bearing salumi, meat that is grigliata (like little sausages and stuff), and bread. The gnocco was apparently finito. Music is playing now, and we let it wash over us with the sun and the sound of people chatting and laughing and children shoving each other around in the space between some tables that has apparently been converted into a makeshift soccer field. The table next to us strikes up a stirring rendition of a canzone poplare - from what I can gather, this seems to be a type of song that everyone knows the words to but whose origins are kind of unknown. "Boh, non te lo saprei dire," my housemate says when I ask her who it is by. I like it, though... do we have anything similar in America?
Later we go to Parma, which is far more alive than Reggio usually is, and eat some gelato. We enjoy the sheer number of people who are milling around, and the lingering warmth after sunset. There is a big palco for a concert in Piazza Garibaldi. The mayor reminds us all of the solemnity of the day, and introduces an ex-partigiano (or maybe you never really cease being a partigiano), who reminds us not to forget how lucky we are to live in freedom, even though we can't possibly understand what freedom really is because we've never had to do without it. (He has a point, there.) The concert is lovely - listening to music with a lot of people in a piazza in Italy when it's still warm after sundown and there aren't any mosquitoes yet... there's really nothing you could possibly complain about.
Saturday, April 17
Grana padano
"No, ma, probably in America your 'parmesan', it's not veramente Parmigiano Reggiano - D.O.P." he says this last rather emphatically.
Our Wednesday morning English lesson is winding down, the whirring sound of insects beyond the screens contributes a sense of summer lethargy to the lesson, and we have slipped onto the subject of food (as you do) and one of my students is explaining to me why American food is defective. (This is a common theme if you're talking to Italians about food.)
"No, its probably grana padano," he explains, making a face. I nod, pretending I understand why this is such an important point. He continues, his facial expression clearly conveying his distaste, "grana padano, it's not such good quality," he tells me. "Don't buy it."
"Infatti," adds another student, "it's strange because when you tell someone to go buy cheese, just generally, you say 'vai a prendere la grana', but really you mean Parmigiano Reggiano. No one would ever just buy grana padano."
"Yes," they all agree. "Don't buy grana padano. Only Parmigiano Reggiano. It's better."
I accept this and we move on to adverbs of frequency, using the framework of how often we eat various types of food. (Should you ever be in the situation of teaching English - or any language, really - to adults in Italy, food is pretty much a sure bet as a conversation point. You can make the longest of lessons go by in two seconds if you just start them talking about food.)
In the ensuing months (this was actually last May), every time I pass grana padano in the supermarket, I remember what's-his-name from that group last year, and I do not buy it. Until one day there happens to be a very appealing chunk of it on sale in Standa (Billa, whatever) and I am hungry and I say (to myself, silently), 'hey, what the heck, it has a D.O.P. as well,' and buy it.
And now it's awkward because the other day I grated it onto some bizarre rice and tomato mixture that I had concocted (don't ask - we've already established that I am crap at cooking, right?) and... anyway... the point is, Ithink I might possibly like it better than Parmigiano Reggiano, D.O.P.
Clearly I have the palate of an uncultured peon. Sigh. So now when I go to the supermarket, I have to sneakily grab my grana padano and hide it under a head of lettuce or something. Although apparently I don't feel the need to capitalize 'grana padano', even though it's clearly got its own D.O.P, too. I'm too lazy to go back and fix it now, though, so... tough luck. Anyway... yeah, there's no moral to that story or anything. Back to your normally scheduled activities.
Our Wednesday morning English lesson is winding down, the whirring sound of insects beyond the screens contributes a sense of summer lethargy to the lesson, and we have slipped onto the subject of food (as you do) and one of my students is explaining to me why American food is defective. (This is a common theme if you're talking to Italians about food.)
"No, its probably grana padano," he explains, making a face. I nod, pretending I understand why this is such an important point. He continues, his facial expression clearly conveying his distaste, "grana padano, it's not such good quality," he tells me. "Don't buy it."
"Infatti," adds another student, "it's strange because when you tell someone to go buy cheese, just generally, you say 'vai a prendere la grana', but really you mean Parmigiano Reggiano. No one would ever just buy grana padano."
"Yes," they all agree. "Don't buy grana padano. Only Parmigiano Reggiano. It's better."
I accept this and we move on to adverbs of frequency, using the framework of how often we eat various types of food. (Should you ever be in the situation of teaching English - or any language, really - to adults in Italy, food is pretty much a sure bet as a conversation point. You can make the longest of lessons go by in two seconds if you just start them talking about food.)
In the ensuing months (this was actually last May), every time I pass grana padano in the supermarket, I remember what's-his-name from that group last year, and I do not buy it. Until one day there happens to be a very appealing chunk of it on sale in Standa (Billa, whatever) and I am hungry and I say (to myself, silently), 'hey, what the heck, it has a D.O.P. as well,' and buy it.
And now it's awkward because the other day I grated it onto some bizarre rice and tomato mixture that I had concocted (don't ask - we've already established that I am crap at cooking, right?) and... anyway... the point is, Ithink I might possibly like it better than Parmigiano Reggiano, D.O.P.
Clearly I have the palate of an uncultured peon. Sigh. So now when I go to the supermarket, I have to sneakily grab my grana padano and hide it under a head of lettuce or something. Although apparently I don't feel the need to capitalize 'grana padano', even though it's clearly got its own D.O.P, too. I'm too lazy to go back and fix it now, though, so... tough luck. Anyway... yeah, there's no moral to that story or anything. Back to your normally scheduled activities.
Saturday, April 3
Boh
"Ma sei tornata, alla fine?" the cashier asks me. I am sorting through my change, cursing once again the fact that I still have not removed the quarters from my purse, so it takes me a second to look up at her. It is indeed the one I chatted with a few days before leaving last year.
"Ah, si," I respond, smiling.
We chat for a moment. I feel all neighborhood-y. You know, like when the cashiers know you and stuff.
"E poi a settembre, che fai?" she asks.
"Boh... non sono sicura... maybe I'll go home and go back to school," I explain, not particularly clearly.
"Brava," she encourages.
Boh. If I were really brava, maybe I'd know what to do with my life by now...
"Ah, si," I respond, smiling.
We chat for a moment. I feel all neighborhood-y. You know, like when the cashiers know you and stuff.
"E poi a settembre, che fai?" she asks.
"Boh... non sono sicura... maybe I'll go home and go back to school," I explain, not particularly clearly.
"Brava," she encourages.
Boh. If I were really brava, maybe I'd know what to do with my life by now...
Tuesday, March 30
La giacca
"Ti sei tolto la giacca," says the bakery lady (baker... bakeress? boh.) at the little bakery where I go pretty much every morning for a nice little fresh roll.
I glance down, and remember that I did indeed choose to leave my jacket at home today, electing to walk to school in just jeans and a sweater. It's a good 60 degrees out, though, so I don't really feel that it will be a problem, even though i Reggiani are still all bundled up in their scarves and whatever else.
I nod and smile stupidly, unprepared for this exchange and thus unable to formulate an appropriately friendly/humorous response.
"Non dovevi," she continues, "I took my jacket off when I went for a walk yesterday evening, and now I have the sniffles. See?" she turns away to blow her nose. The other bakery lady nods sympathetically.
"Infatti," she says.
I continue my idiot nodding and smiling routine.
"You have to wait another few weeks, okay?" the first bakery lady counsels me, handing me my receipt. What's great about these two ladies is that despite my continued inability to converse like a normal person during these sorts of brief exchanges at the cash register, they still always chat with me. I wish there were a non-awkward way of thanking them for their patience.
"Si, forse è meglio," I agree, finally managing to mumble a semi-intelligible sentence. "Grazie, buona giornata!" I rally, because this is my stock phrase for people in stores (or anyone, really) and I am totally brilliant at saying it by now. (Um, not that it's in any way difficult, but whatever.)
"Anche a te!" they smile back at me. "Remember - put on your jacket!"
Aw. You know that stereotype of Europe where people go in the same little shops to buy their food every day and eventually they are friends with the people in the little shops and they ask after each other's families and all that kind of thing? It feels kind of like that.
The next time I go to the bakery, I wear my jacket.
I glance down, and remember that I did indeed choose to leave my jacket at home today, electing to walk to school in just jeans and a sweater. It's a good 60 degrees out, though, so I don't really feel that it will be a problem, even though i Reggiani are still all bundled up in their scarves and whatever else.
I nod and smile stupidly, unprepared for this exchange and thus unable to formulate an appropriately friendly/humorous response.
"Non dovevi," she continues, "I took my jacket off when I went for a walk yesterday evening, and now I have the sniffles. See?" she turns away to blow her nose. The other bakery lady nods sympathetically.
"Infatti," she says.
I continue my idiot nodding and smiling routine.
"You have to wait another few weeks, okay?" the first bakery lady counsels me, handing me my receipt. What's great about these two ladies is that despite my continued inability to converse like a normal person during these sorts of brief exchanges at the cash register, they still always chat with me. I wish there were a non-awkward way of thanking them for their patience.
"Si, forse è meglio," I agree, finally managing to mumble a semi-intelligible sentence. "Grazie, buona giornata!" I rally, because this is my stock phrase for people in stores (or anyone, really) and I am totally brilliant at saying it by now. (Um, not that it's in any way difficult, but whatever.)
"Anche a te!" they smile back at me. "Remember - put on your jacket!"
Aw. You know that stereotype of Europe where people go in the same little shops to buy their food every day and eventually they are friends with the people in the little shops and they ask after each other's families and all that kind of thing? It feels kind of like that.
The next time I go to the bakery, I wear my jacket.
Sunday, March 28
Take two
Okay, so, now I think it really is spring. The trench coats have come out (speaking of which, does anyone know how to tie the tie thing so that I look neither obese nor retarded? I just can't seem to do it...) and today I wore ballet flats senza calze and didn't even get weird looks. Huzzah!
In other news, mia mamma is coming to visit and I'm meant to send some winter clothes back with her so that I don't have to haul everything back myself when I leave again this summer. The thing is that in order to do that, I kind of need to deal with the fact that I'll actually be leaving. Which... okay, well, I won't get all melodramatic about it, but... yeah. Boo. (That's me not being melodramatic, see.)
Oh, the life choices. I hate making choices. People who know me in real life will tell you that I'm not even capable of picking which pizzeria place to go to. Or which exit to get off of on the highway... which may contribute to the amount of time I spent lost and/or making u-turns. But those are little things. So little in comparison to this sort of choice. US or Italy? Medicine or... some other (very) vaguely defined career path? Sleeplessness and stress or gallivanting around on the weekends, occasionally bored?
I don't know. I really don't. Being unable to commit to sending a couple of wool sweaters home just underlines that fact.
Then again... come on, self. Just pick yourself up off your arse and deal with it. There are people in the world who have real problems.
In other news, mia mamma is coming to visit and I'm meant to send some winter clothes back with her so that I don't have to haul everything back myself when I leave again this summer. The thing is that in order to do that, I kind of need to deal with the fact that I'll actually be leaving. Which... okay, well, I won't get all melodramatic about it, but... yeah. Boo. (That's me not being melodramatic, see.)
Oh, the life choices. I hate making choices. People who know me in real life will tell you that I'm not even capable of picking which pizzeria place to go to. Or which exit to get off of on the highway... which may contribute to the amount of time I spent lost and/or making u-turns. But those are little things. So little in comparison to this sort of choice. US or Italy? Medicine or... some other (very) vaguely defined career path? Sleeplessness and stress or gallivanting around on the weekends, occasionally bored?
I don't know. I really don't. Being unable to commit to sending a couple of wool sweaters home just underlines that fact.
Then again... come on, self. Just pick yourself up off your arse and deal with it. There are people in the world who have real problems.
Monday, March 15
Just kidding
Says Reggio. About the springtime, I mean. Apparently up in Albinea there were 70 cm of snow last week. Here in the center a bit less, but still...
The Duomo seems slightly overwhelmed. Also, if I were five, or had access to a five-year-old to share the snow with, I would have SO MUCH FUN playing on that pile of snow.
The Duomo seems slightly overwhelmed. Also, if I were five, or had access to a five-year-old to share the snow with, I would have SO MUCH FUN playing on that pile of snow.
And also, tromping into school on foot and acting as the emergency snow phone chain in a foreign country? Something else I can check off my list of Things to Do in life.
Wednesday, March 3
Springtime!
Let it be known that springtime has come to Reggio, despite what the return of the uber-fog may tell you. I know this because on my way to work on Monday, I noticed that the little cafe off to the right of the theater had put out its tables and chairs. (Marginally related: have they changed owners? Where is the lady with the really long black hair who calls everyone "bimba"? Also, I don't think they even had outdoor tables and chairs last year. I am confused.)
Yesterday we sat out and had our first outdoor coffee of the season at the little cafe under the school. Yay for coffee in the sun.
Today the uber-fog is back, but it's okay, because you can see the springtime off in the not-so-distant distance. Um. Metaphorically. Or something.
Yesterday we sat out and had our first outdoor coffee of the season at the little cafe under the school. Yay for coffee in the sun.
Today the uber-fog is back, but it's okay, because you can see the springtime off in the not-so-distant distance. Um. Metaphorically. Or something.
Monday, March 1
Love
Kind of loved being a teacher today. Maybe because I spend the day in an extreme sleep deprivation-induced fog. Maybe because of the recent med school business has reminded me that these could be my last few months doing this. I'm not sure.
One student was his usual lovely self. Another was his usual nitpicky self but my superior knowledge of grammar and - dare I say it? - burgeoning didactic skillz managed to satisfy him. A third burst in halfway through the second lesson just to say 'hello! hi! ciao! come va? how are you? ciao!' And with the last guy we spent another half hour after the end of the lesson just talking because we forgot to end the lesson. And I think I forgot to give him homework. Oops.
Anyway, though. I kind of wanted to hug them all. Not really sure why...
How lovely is that, though? How many people can say that they smiled when they sat down and reflected on their day at work, and are happy to go back tomorrow?
Check in with me tomorrow when the alarm clock goes off, but in the meantime... isn't that nice?
One student was his usual lovely self. Another was his usual nitpicky self but my superior knowledge of grammar and - dare I say it? - burgeoning didactic skillz managed to satisfy him. A third burst in halfway through the second lesson just to say 'hello! hi! ciao! come va? how are you? ciao!' And with the last guy we spent another half hour after the end of the lesson just talking because we forgot to end the lesson. And I think I forgot to give him homework. Oops.
Anyway, though. I kind of wanted to hug them all. Not really sure why...
How lovely is that, though? How many people can say that they smiled when they sat down and reflected on their day at work, and are happy to go back tomorrow?
Check in with me tomorrow when the alarm clock goes off, but in the meantime... isn't that nice?
Sunday, February 28
Home and back
"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?
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?
Wednesday, February 24
Day in the life...
"There are three rules you can use to decide between the present perfect and the past simple," I begin. I am in my element - I taught this lesson twice yesterday.
My fancypants important person student takes out a fancypants pen and begins to take notes. I must confess, it still kind of cracks me up that someone might want to take notes on what I have to say.
"I have a good summary of these rules - do you want me to email it to you?"
I take the opportunity to make him dictate his email. We spend ten minutes sorting out our vowels.
"Chiocciola?" he asks sheepishly.
I love it when they ask you something they think they should already know and look all sheepish about it. Even important-people 50-year-olds will do it. Adorable.
"Ancora!" chorus the three-year-olds.
"Again?!" I feign incredulity for their amusement. Well, actually, not feign. More exaggerate. Because why would anyone want to subject themselves voluntarily to the ultra-inane "snowflake song" is indeed beyond me. If that's the standard for amusement, daily life must be hilarious when you're three.
"Si, again!" they shout, beside themselves.
Bingo! Taught them a new word. Feel that the hour of singing at the top of my lungs and making ridiculous faces has been worth it, and launch into another round of the snowflake song with gusto.
"Should we sing fast-fast-fast or sloooowly?" I ask.
"Fast!" they shriek. Wow. We're on a roll here. Good day. One litte guy in the front row can't quite contain himself and jumps onto my lap, clinging like a little barnacle. See the joy you bring to people's lives when you're an English teacher?
"If I saw him, I would tell him..." my 3 o'clock drones on. Apparently my purpose is to sit at his kitchen table and ensure that his homework gets done correctly. A small beam of sunlight falls across the top of his head. (Sun! In Reggio! Alert the press!) He's a good boy, but ye gods, is his homework ever boring. I wonder if I am a horrible lazy teacher for not thinking of a way to make this fascinating and hilarious. Probably. Sigh. Am momentarily depressed.
"If I will go..." I'm jolted out of my stupor by probably one of the top 5 most common Italian-learner mistakes. I launch into my canned explanation about that.
All new English teachers should develop two things (well, probably a lot of things, but these are the two that come to mind at the moment). One, canned explanations for the most common mistakes people make wherever you are (it varies depending on their native language). These should be based on examples that have been proven to work on your other students - seriously, there are some examples that, for whatever reason, make everyone go click! like little lightbulbs. It's great. And two, a sort of automatic alert for mistakes. This allows you to be completely not paying attention and still catch and correct their mistakes. Key. Because I, for one, find it near impossible to keep my full attention focused on "put these twenty inane sentences into the passive voice".
I pour some yogurt with crunchy bits down my throat, standing over the heater in the office. Yogurt with crunchy bits: best thing ever. Can be sucked down in under three minutes if you're focused, and kind of resembles a balanced meal.
"And then he wants to know if he can move up a whole level in a week's time if we do two hours a day, and I'm like 'no'." We all dissolve into laughter. (Yeah, okay, you maybe start to find kind of random things funny after teaching for a while.
"It's when you can see the clouds that the spring, it starts," says my four-thirty. "Because now it's all grey. You cannot see the clouds - just grey sky of winter. When you can see each cloud, round, you know then it is beginning spring. Maybe next week..." he smiles. "I'm live in Reggio 46 years." Huh.
I jump into the car, restored by a ridiculously sugar-laden coffee. I'm not sure which is the more important component - the caffeine, or the 1/2 cup of sugar. (I exaggerate, but not by much.) Either way, purchase of coffee machine for the office? Best idea ever.
"E poi, sai cos'ha detto?" one of the three kids in my last group of the day. I'm supposed to pretend not to understand them, but what unfeeling robot would decline the invitation into their world? This is prime gossip from the seconda media over here.
I yawn driving home, listening to the radio. Apparently there's an accident on the autostrada near Napoli. Must remember to photocopy more exercises about the conditional for that high school kid for next week and maybe make a question-formation activity for that guy tomorrow... I wonder if anyone has confirmed the Modena lesson for tomorrow... really should laminate those photos of Boston for Saturday...
I boil some veggies, call it dinner, and crawl into bed after checking my email. One of my students has sent me a wikipedia article about Disney characters in the '50s. I can't quite recall why. (Did we talk about Disney characters this morning?)
I probably fall asleep kind of smiling.
My fancypants important person student takes out a fancypants pen and begins to take notes. I must confess, it still kind of cracks me up that someone might want to take notes on what I have to say.
"I have a good summary of these rules - do you want me to email it to you?"
I take the opportunity to make him dictate his email. We spend ten minutes sorting out our vowels.
"Chiocciola?" he asks sheepishly.
I love it when they ask you something they think they should already know and look all sheepish about it. Even important-people 50-year-olds will do it. Adorable.
"Ancora!" chorus the three-year-olds.
"Again?!" I feign incredulity for their amusement. Well, actually, not feign. More exaggerate. Because why would anyone want to subject themselves voluntarily to the ultra-inane "snowflake song" is indeed beyond me. If that's the standard for amusement, daily life must be hilarious when you're three.
"Si, again!" they shout, beside themselves.
Bingo! Taught them a new word. Feel that the hour of singing at the top of my lungs and making ridiculous faces has been worth it, and launch into another round of the snowflake song with gusto.
"Should we sing fast-fast-fast or sloooowly?" I ask.
"Fast!" they shriek. Wow. We're on a roll here. Good day. One litte guy in the front row can't quite contain himself and jumps onto my lap, clinging like a little barnacle. See the joy you bring to people's lives when you're an English teacher?
"If I saw him, I would tell him..." my 3 o'clock drones on. Apparently my purpose is to sit at his kitchen table and ensure that his homework gets done correctly. A small beam of sunlight falls across the top of his head. (Sun! In Reggio! Alert the press!) He's a good boy, but ye gods, is his homework ever boring. I wonder if I am a horrible lazy teacher for not thinking of a way to make this fascinating and hilarious. Probably. Sigh. Am momentarily depressed.
"If I will go..." I'm jolted out of my stupor by probably one of the top 5 most common Italian-learner mistakes. I launch into my canned explanation about that.
All new English teachers should develop two things (well, probably a lot of things, but these are the two that come to mind at the moment). One, canned explanations for the most common mistakes people make wherever you are (it varies depending on their native language). These should be based on examples that have been proven to work on your other students - seriously, there are some examples that, for whatever reason, make everyone go click! like little lightbulbs. It's great. And two, a sort of automatic alert for mistakes. This allows you to be completely not paying attention and still catch and correct their mistakes. Key. Because I, for one, find it near impossible to keep my full attention focused on "put these twenty inane sentences into the passive voice".
I pour some yogurt with crunchy bits down my throat, standing over the heater in the office. Yogurt with crunchy bits: best thing ever. Can be sucked down in under three minutes if you're focused, and kind of resembles a balanced meal.
"And then he wants to know if he can move up a whole level in a week's time if we do two hours a day, and I'm like 'no'." We all dissolve into laughter. (Yeah, okay, you maybe start to find kind of random things funny after teaching for a while.
"It's when you can see the clouds that the spring, it starts," says my four-thirty. "Because now it's all grey. You cannot see the clouds - just grey sky of winter. When you can see each cloud, round, you know then it is beginning spring. Maybe next week..." he smiles. "I'm live in Reggio 46 years." Huh.
I jump into the car, restored by a ridiculously sugar-laden coffee. I'm not sure which is the more important component - the caffeine, or the 1/2 cup of sugar. (I exaggerate, but not by much.) Either way, purchase of coffee machine for the office? Best idea ever.
"E poi, sai cos'ha detto?" one of the three kids in my last group of the day. I'm supposed to pretend not to understand them, but what unfeeling robot would decline the invitation into their world? This is prime gossip from the seconda media over here.
I yawn driving home, listening to the radio. Apparently there's an accident on the autostrada near Napoli. Must remember to photocopy more exercises about the conditional for that high school kid for next week and maybe make a question-formation activity for that guy tomorrow... I wonder if anyone has confirmed the Modena lesson for tomorrow... really should laminate those photos of Boston for Saturday...
I boil some veggies, call it dinner, and crawl into bed after checking my email. One of my students has sent me a wikipedia article about Disney characters in the '50s. I can't quite recall why. (Did we talk about Disney characters this morning?)
I probably fall asleep kind of smiling.
Friday, February 19
Womanizer
It's nice that American music makes it over to Europe and is super popular. (Or, anglophone music, I should say.) Really, it is: my students listen to it and hum the tunes and sometimes wander in vaguely singing a line from something or other. It's good practice for them.
Why is it always the stuff that you really don't feel like explaining is the stuff that's the most often repeated, though?
Because there they are, all humming and whatever, and the next thing you know, an earnest-looking twelve-year-old wants to know what "womanizer" means.
Thanks, pop culture.
Why is it always the stuff that you really don't feel like explaining is the stuff that's the most often repeated, though?
Because there they are, all humming and whatever, and the next thing you know, an earnest-looking twelve-year-old wants to know what "womanizer" means.
Thanks, pop culture.
Sunday, January 31
In which I cook chicken
"Well, you pretty much cook it like a bistecca," the secretary tells me, explaining about the chicken breast I am meant to cook for the children (hers and the boss') after I pick them up from school and walk them home.
I stare blankly into space for a moment, contemplating this.
"Well, the thing is... I've never cooked a steak before, either," I finally explain.
"Oh... well... um... so, you take a pan, right?" she makes a pan-shaped sort of gesture with her hands. "And then you put some olive oil in it. You know? Olive oil?"
I do know.
"And then you... cook it. You know?"
I suppose.
She hands me the package of what presumably contains chicken breast. It feels remarkably heavy for being meant for only three small-ish children. I shift it gingerly to my left hand and grab my keys.
"So, when it's done, the meat should be... white on the inside? Not pink?" I turn back to ask - just to double check, you know. The last thing I need to do is poison the boss' kid.
"That's right," she nods encouragingly, "pink if it were steak, but white for the chicken."
Grande.
The children recount the day's adventures to me on the way home (and then, Manu's mom brought their pet dog into our class!), and also sing a traditional African folk song that they have apparently just learned at the top of their lungs, earning us more than one puzzled stare as we walk up the Via Emilia.
When we get home, I turn on the stove (ha! I've got you all figured out, you silly stove, even though you caused me all kinds of grief when I first started having to use you: hold down the button for a while to make the gas stay lit). The children are occupied with torturing the boss' cat. I take a moment to hope it won't scratch them before turning to the package of chicken.
I open it. It is raw. I mean, obviously, but... ew. Raw. It's all slimey and gooey and stuff, but I bravely pick it up and plop it into a pan with some oil. Actually, a lot of oil, because, fact: oil and fried-ness generally makes everything taste delicious, so maybe the olive-y deliciousness will be able to cancel out whatever other horrible flavors I manage to create. (If you're thinking 'it's just chicken - what can possibly go wrong?', you don't know me very well.) The oil splatters. Never mind the children being scratched by the cat: probably the injury of the day is that I'm going to get hot oil in my eye and be blind. Sigh.
For the next five minutes, I alternate between staring intently at the clock on my phone and staring intently at the chicken in the pan. I time the five minutes very precisely. Flip. Another five minutes. Sizzle. Flip to check for doneness. Well, I can't see the meat on the inside, but it looks okay from here. I cut it open to check and it's white. Not much else I can do, right?
Two more pieces later, I am holding my breath as the children eye the chicken (I wonder if they know I am a horrible cook or if they are in the habit of staring down their food before they eat it because they are children or if they are wondering why it is cut in half down the middle - because I didn't want to poison you, kids, that's all!).
"So?" I ask the one who speaks English. I figure I can get one opinion before opening up the polls to the other two. She shrugs noncommittally. I chew nervously on my bottom lip. Okay, self, I think, as long as none of them actually gets sick, it's okay. I mean, I was hired to be a teacher, right? No one said anything about knowing how to cook. I am still pondering my defense in the event of cries of "ew, your chicken sucks" when the littlest one pokes me.
"C'e n'e' ancora?" she asks. (Is there any more?) This takes me a moment to process.
"Does anyone else... want more?" I ask cautiously.
Three little heads nod enthusiastically. I smile as I take their plates and head back to the stove and I don't even mind that raw chicken is icky.
I stare blankly into space for a moment, contemplating this.
"Well, the thing is... I've never cooked a steak before, either," I finally explain.
"Oh... well... um... so, you take a pan, right?" she makes a pan-shaped sort of gesture with her hands. "And then you put some olive oil in it. You know? Olive oil?"
I do know.
"And then you... cook it. You know?"
I suppose.
She hands me the package of what presumably contains chicken breast. It feels remarkably heavy for being meant for only three small-ish children. I shift it gingerly to my left hand and grab my keys.
"So, when it's done, the meat should be... white on the inside? Not pink?" I turn back to ask - just to double check, you know. The last thing I need to do is poison the boss' kid.
"That's right," she nods encouragingly, "pink if it were steak, but white for the chicken."
Grande.
The children recount the day's adventures to me on the way home (and then, Manu's mom brought their pet dog into our class!), and also sing a traditional African folk song that they have apparently just learned at the top of their lungs, earning us more than one puzzled stare as we walk up the Via Emilia.
When we get home, I turn on the stove (ha! I've got you all figured out, you silly stove, even though you caused me all kinds of grief when I first started having to use you: hold down the button for a while to make the gas stay lit). The children are occupied with torturing the boss' cat. I take a moment to hope it won't scratch them before turning to the package of chicken.
I open it. It is raw. I mean, obviously, but... ew. Raw. It's all slimey and gooey and stuff, but I bravely pick it up and plop it into a pan with some oil. Actually, a lot of oil, because, fact: oil and fried-ness generally makes everything taste delicious, so maybe the olive-y deliciousness will be able to cancel out whatever other horrible flavors I manage to create. (If you're thinking 'it's just chicken - what can possibly go wrong?', you don't know me very well.) The oil splatters. Never mind the children being scratched by the cat: probably the injury of the day is that I'm going to get hot oil in my eye and be blind. Sigh.
For the next five minutes, I alternate between staring intently at the clock on my phone and staring intently at the chicken in the pan. I time the five minutes very precisely. Flip. Another five minutes. Sizzle. Flip to check for doneness. Well, I can't see the meat on the inside, but it looks okay from here. I cut it open to check and it's white. Not much else I can do, right?
Two more pieces later, I am holding my breath as the children eye the chicken (I wonder if they know I am a horrible cook or if they are in the habit of staring down their food before they eat it because they are children or if they are wondering why it is cut in half down the middle - because I didn't want to poison you, kids, that's all!).
"So?" I ask the one who speaks English. I figure I can get one opinion before opening up the polls to the other two. She shrugs noncommittally. I chew nervously on my bottom lip. Okay, self, I think, as long as none of them actually gets sick, it's okay. I mean, I was hired to be a teacher, right? No one said anything about knowing how to cook. I am still pondering my defense in the event of cries of "ew, your chicken sucks" when the littlest one pokes me.
"C'e n'e' ancora?" she asks. (Is there any more?) This takes me a moment to process.
"Does anyone else... want more?" I ask cautiously.
Three little heads nod enthusiastically. I smile as I take their plates and head back to the stove and I don't even mind that raw chicken is icky.
Wednesday, January 27
The blue car is back!
And now we are on to bigger and better things together, like finding the Top Secret Headquarters of the Uber-Fancy Local Fashion Thing and conquering the autostrada. Oh, yes. It is going about as well as can be expected, given our history: the former took us about three hours despite being only ten minutes away from our starting point, and the latter probably shaved about three years off the end of my life.
I should preface this by explaining that the Uber-Fancy Top Secret Local Fashion Headquarters is not actually top-secret. In fact, aside from the flag having been invented here, it's probably Reggio's one other claim to fame. I'm pretty sure a significant portion of Reggio's population is employed or somehow otherwise connected to this fashion group and its associated industries and whatever.
Anyway, that said, you'd think someone would know how to get to the headquarters. Or that the address would be available on the internet. Or that the UFLFT HR people who are organizing the English courses might have included it in part of their correspondance with our school. You'd think. And yet...
"Oh, yeah, it's... you know... over there," our receptionist assures us, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the window, from which you can see Ipercoop and the beginning of Reggio's charming industrial district. "You know."
But we don't. Twenty minutes later and a phone call to the aforementioned HR people later, we have the address. Via M--- G----. (Just maintaining the secrecy, you know. Even though anyone who lives in Reggio will probably know exactly what I am talking about. I think there is really only one Uber-Fancy fashion thing with its headquarters here.) We put the address into the GPS. We attach the GPS to the windshield.
"You have to put the car in neutral for it to start," I offer, sharing the wisdom I garnered last year with the new girl. I am helping her to practice driving in Italy. You should take a moment to reflect upon how ludicrous it is to have me helping anyone to practice anything. Particularly driving the blue car. Anyway, we make it out of the parking lot and after a brief panic on the roundabout ("which way do I go? Left or right? Quick!" Me: "um... right. Like the little arrow. Always right. Because here we drive on the right, remember?" "Oh, that's right." Oh, dear. I check my seatbelt.)
The GPS is exceedingly bossy and we follow its directions, checking them against the Google Maps thing we printed out. They agree. Things are going well.
We miss a turn, but it is no big deal, except for the fact that the GPS is not very sympathetic: "turn around as soon as possible. Turn around as soon as possible," she orders crisply. Couldn't it be just a little more tactful? Like "that's okay, dear - it's hard to see the signs in this light. I'm sure you'll get it on the second try."
As it happens, we turn around and promptly miss the turn again. It is a tiny side street with no lighting and little ditches on either side. On the fourth or fifth try, we get it. Huzzah. We begin to inch along the miniscule dirt road, and the ditches on either side widen until they are huge and we have about six inches on either side of the car. We roll along silently for a few minutes. We appear to be deep in the middle of a farm, surrounded on either side by some sort of field and a faint smell of pigs. The GPS has no advice for us. We are so focused on not falling into the ditches that it takes a few minutes before one of us says, "wait... but would the headquarters of the Uber-Fancy Local Fashion Thing really be here in the middle of a field?" "Good point," agrees the other. "Surely they wouldn't want to work in a place that kind of smells like pigs?"
An even smaller side road branches off ahead, barely visible in the fog. It is clearly a sign. We execute a graceful 3 point turn that only takes us the better part of half an hour (as we are not so confident about our abilites to not end up in the ditch) and inch carefully back to the main road. Splendid.
We slink back to the school. What with having made a side trip to the village of Massenzatico (twice), our adventure has taken a little over an hour.
We acquire a third member for our search party and a new set of google directions.
We end up on Via M--- G---, which turns out to be located in a quiet residential area made up cute little apartment buildings. I roll down my window to ask for help from an elderly lady hobbling down the sidewalk.
"Scusi, ma do you know if the Top Secret Headquarters of the UFLFT is located near here?" I ask.
"The what? The fashion thing? Noooo, signorina, not even close." After indulging in a brief cackle of amusement, she gives us lengthy directions mainly in dialect.
"Grazie mille!" I call cheerfully, rolling up the window. I turn back to my cohorts. Their faces are as blank as mine probably is. Right, then.
"You know," ventures one of them, "one of my students works for the local fashion thing and I have her mobile number. I could... call her." It is eight-thirty on a Friday night, but this seems to be our best bet. She dials.
"Hello? Hi, this is [your English teacher]. Um... we're trying to find the Top Secret Headquarters. You know, where you work. Can you help us?"
Pause.
"Well, we're not quite sure... um... we've been looking for Via M--- G---, but we got a little lost and now we're in the middle of nowhere, at a petrol station. Because also we ran out of benzina."
Pause.
"Wait, really? Via M--- F---, not M--- G---?"
Pause.
"Oh. Yeah. I guess that *would* make a difference. Wait, let me see if the GPS can find it."
We type it into the GPS. It does not recognize it as a real place. (See, I told you it was top secret.)
"Wait, Via M--- F---? You're sure? Because the GPS says it doesn't exist."
Pause, during which the student gives detailed and precise directions for ending up on the so-secret-GPS-doesn't-know-about-it Via M--- F---. It turns out to be located practically under the Ponti di Calatrava (google it, they're pretty cool-looking). Also, we can see them from the window of the school. They are literally less than ten minutes away.
We find them. The student calls to check up on us. (We love our students.) The Top Secret Headquarters is huge, eerily covered in fog, and gated shut. We turn around and head home. We go and get a pizza.
I wonder if there will ever be a time when I will just drive the blue car somewhere and it will be simple and not require emergency phone calls and three sets of a directions.
I should preface this by explaining that the Uber-Fancy Top Secret Local Fashion Headquarters is not actually top-secret. In fact, aside from the flag having been invented here, it's probably Reggio's one other claim to fame. I'm pretty sure a significant portion of Reggio's population is employed or somehow otherwise connected to this fashion group and its associated industries and whatever.
Anyway, that said, you'd think someone would know how to get to the headquarters. Or that the address would be available on the internet. Or that the UFLFT HR people who are organizing the English courses might have included it in part of their correspondance with our school. You'd think. And yet...
"Oh, yeah, it's... you know... over there," our receptionist assures us, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the window, from which you can see Ipercoop and the beginning of Reggio's charming industrial district. "You know."
But we don't. Twenty minutes later and a phone call to the aforementioned HR people later, we have the address. Via M--- G----. (Just maintaining the secrecy, you know. Even though anyone who lives in Reggio will probably know exactly what I am talking about. I think there is really only one Uber-Fancy fashion thing with its headquarters here.) We put the address into the GPS. We attach the GPS to the windshield.
"You have to put the car in neutral for it to start," I offer, sharing the wisdom I garnered last year with the new girl. I am helping her to practice driving in Italy. You should take a moment to reflect upon how ludicrous it is to have me helping anyone to practice anything. Particularly driving the blue car. Anyway, we make it out of the parking lot and after a brief panic on the roundabout ("which way do I go? Left or right? Quick!" Me: "um... right. Like the little arrow. Always right. Because here we drive on the right, remember?" "Oh, that's right." Oh, dear. I check my seatbelt.)
The GPS is exceedingly bossy and we follow its directions, checking them against the Google Maps thing we printed out. They agree. Things are going well.
We miss a turn, but it is no big deal, except for the fact that the GPS is not very sympathetic: "turn around as soon as possible. Turn around as soon as possible," she orders crisply. Couldn't it be just a little more tactful? Like "that's okay, dear - it's hard to see the signs in this light. I'm sure you'll get it on the second try."
As it happens, we turn around and promptly miss the turn again. It is a tiny side street with no lighting and little ditches on either side. On the fourth or fifth try, we get it. Huzzah. We begin to inch along the miniscule dirt road, and the ditches on either side widen until they are huge and we have about six inches on either side of the car. We roll along silently for a few minutes. We appear to be deep in the middle of a farm, surrounded on either side by some sort of field and a faint smell of pigs. The GPS has no advice for us. We are so focused on not falling into the ditches that it takes a few minutes before one of us says, "wait... but would the headquarters of the Uber-Fancy Local Fashion Thing really be here in the middle of a field?" "Good point," agrees the other. "Surely they wouldn't want to work in a place that kind of smells like pigs?"
An even smaller side road branches off ahead, barely visible in the fog. It is clearly a sign. We execute a graceful 3 point turn that only takes us the better part of half an hour (as we are not so confident about our abilites to not end up in the ditch) and inch carefully back to the main road. Splendid.
We slink back to the school. What with having made a side trip to the village of Massenzatico (twice), our adventure has taken a little over an hour.
We acquire a third member for our search party and a new set of google directions.
We end up on Via M--- G---, which turns out to be located in a quiet residential area made up cute little apartment buildings. I roll down my window to ask for help from an elderly lady hobbling down the sidewalk.
"Scusi, ma do you know if the Top Secret Headquarters of the UFLFT is located near here?" I ask.
"The what? The fashion thing? Noooo, signorina, not even close." After indulging in a brief cackle of amusement, she gives us lengthy directions mainly in dialect.
"Grazie mille!" I call cheerfully, rolling up the window. I turn back to my cohorts. Their faces are as blank as mine probably is. Right, then.
"You know," ventures one of them, "one of my students works for the local fashion thing and I have her mobile number. I could... call her." It is eight-thirty on a Friday night, but this seems to be our best bet. She dials.
"Hello? Hi, this is [your English teacher]. Um... we're trying to find the Top Secret Headquarters. You know, where you work. Can you help us?"
Pause.
"Well, we're not quite sure... um... we've been looking for Via M--- G---, but we got a little lost and now we're in the middle of nowhere, at a petrol station. Because also we ran out of benzina."
Pause.
"Wait, really? Via M--- F---, not M--- G---?"
Pause.
"Oh. Yeah. I guess that *would* make a difference. Wait, let me see if the GPS can find it."
We type it into the GPS. It does not recognize it as a real place. (See, I told you it was top secret.)
"Wait, Via M--- F---? You're sure? Because the GPS says it doesn't exist."
Pause, during which the student gives detailed and precise directions for ending up on the so-secret-GPS-doesn't-know-about-it Via M--- F---. It turns out to be located practically under the Ponti di Calatrava (google it, they're pretty cool-looking). Also, we can see them from the window of the school. They are literally less than ten minutes away.
We find them. The student calls to check up on us. (We love our students.) The Top Secret Headquarters is huge, eerily covered in fog, and gated shut. We turn around and head home. We go and get a pizza.
I wonder if there will ever be a time when I will just drive the blue car somewhere and it will be simple and not require emergency phone calls and three sets of a directions.
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