I think San Remo is going on. Well, actually, I know it's going on, because someone mentioned it yesterday. I think my flatmate is watching it because there is the sound of a strident female voice making its way through the wall we share. And now clapping.
I'm not 100% sure what San Remo is about, though. As nearly as I can tell, it's some sort of music contest. I once heard it mentioned in relation to a song about a man who wished he was a pigeon. I think. I didn't 100% understand that song, either, though it did have a fairly pleasant tune and the man made some interestingly authentic pigeon-y sounds (if that was really him making them... if it wasn't, I shall be disappointed and lose whatever respect I previously had for him).
In other news, I had some food that was great, the other day. (Which makes it not really news, I suppose.) We went to this excellent restaurant in the sketchy part of town, and they made delicious regional things. I finally had tortelli di zucca (pumpkin), which people have been telling me to try since forever (or September, rather) but which I hadn't got around to before. Tiramisu for dessert, which is possibly a bit cliche' (check it out, I'm almost Italian - all putting my accents in as apostrophes) but this was the most delicious tiramisu I've ever had because they're wasn't too much alcohol in it. And we had lambrusco. Which some people seem not to like it (e.g. certain froggish family members who appear to think their froggish wine is superior) but I think it's quite pleasant.
And the day after that we had gelato not once, but twice. And it was excellent both times. I am full just thinking about it. I will miss your food a LOT, Italy, when I leave.
Wednesday, February 18
Tuesday, February 17
Hot and cold
"Do you know this song?" asked the kids in my Tuesday evening group last week. They played some catchy pop thing that, effettivamente, I vaguely recalled having heard on the radio at some point or other.
"Sure, yeah," I replied, not wanting to seem ignorant about my own culture. I quickly listened for one of the repeated lines ("you're hot, then you're cold") and made a mental note to Google it later.
"Can we do it next week?" they asked enthusiastically. Three sets of ten-year-old eyes looked pleadingly up at me.
"Um... sure," said I, hoping that this would magically turn me into the hip, cool teacher. (Now that I think of it, this is probably similar to when you're a child and you agree to do whatever the cool kids ask of you in hopes that it will move them to accept you. Hm...)
It transpires that the song in question was "Hot 'n' cold" by Katy Perry. I don't understand why she spells her name like that. Anyway, though, it is not 100% appropriate, but a promise is a promise. (And, of course, I really want to be the cool teacher.) And it has some good opposites in it. So I figured we'd focus on the refrain and not pay attention to the rest and life would be good.
I hadn't counted on the fact that certain words are just easier to say than others, though. And once kids say a bad word, it's almost worse if you point it out to them and tell them not to say it. And that's why, after a few run-throughs during which we were assiduously learning the opposites in the refrain, I found myself listening to three Italian ten-year-olds belting out:
"You rrreeimumblesss like a BITCH. Rahwohnoo."
Oh, dear.
"Sure, yeah," I replied, not wanting to seem ignorant about my own culture. I quickly listened for one of the repeated lines ("you're hot, then you're cold") and made a mental note to Google it later.
"Can we do it next week?" they asked enthusiastically. Three sets of ten-year-old eyes looked pleadingly up at me.
"Um... sure," said I, hoping that this would magically turn me into the hip, cool teacher. (Now that I think of it, this is probably similar to when you're a child and you agree to do whatever the cool kids ask of you in hopes that it will move them to accept you. Hm...)
It transpires that the song in question was "Hot 'n' cold" by Katy Perry. I don't understand why she spells her name like that. Anyway, though, it is not 100% appropriate, but a promise is a promise. (And, of course, I really want to be the cool teacher.) And it has some good opposites in it. So I figured we'd focus on the refrain and not pay attention to the rest and life would be good.
I hadn't counted on the fact that certain words are just easier to say than others, though. And once kids say a bad word, it's almost worse if you point it out to them and tell them not to say it. And that's why, after a few run-throughs during which we were assiduously learning the opposites in the refrain, I found myself listening to three Italian ten-year-olds belting out:
"You rrreeimumblesss like a BITCH. Rahwohnoo."
Oh, dear.
Monday, February 16
The Wet Hair Look
Am feeling mildly ill this morning. This is mysterious, because I was feeling a bit yuck on Friday afternoon, and then felt fine all weekend, and now that it's Monday morning... perhaps I'm allergic to my job. Wouldn't surprise me.
Anyway, my sore-ish throat did not deter me from breaking the cardinal rule of The Rules According to People's Grandmothers by emerging from my apartment with wet hair. It's just not that cold (+4 degrees, C) and I really didn't feel like brushing it and blow-drying it and brushing it again just in order to run down the street to the local Standa (supermarket chain) for a few necessities. So I scraped it back into a reasonable looking bun and was on my way.
And proceeded to enjoy all of the trying-to-be-subtle-but-just-not-quite-succeeding looks I got. This was very similar to when it was late October and I was still wearing ballet flats with no stockings while everyone else had gotten out their parkas and gloves.
We all know that the Reggiani are very image-conscious. You don't go out with wet hair, you don't wander about wearing jeans and sneakers (trainers)... in fact, ideally, you don't go out at all unless you and your hair have been manipulated into advanced stages of perfection by one or more professionals.
And it's not that I mind, really. I'm not one of those Americans who strides down the street in my blindingly white sneakers, humming the Star Spangled Banner and thinking to myself that I'm American and I know my rights and I'll wear what I damn well want and just you try looking at me funny! I love Italy, and they clearly have better fashion sense than I do anyway, so I'm more than happy to do a bit of mild conforming. What I wonder, though, is exactly why some things are so shocking. Is it because they honestly think you're likely to contract the plague and die if the top of your head gets a bit chilled? Or is it just simply Not the Done Thing? If I could work up the courage and the linguistic confidence, I'd ask someone. For now... boh.
I'll go dry my hair now.
Anyway, my sore-ish throat did not deter me from breaking the cardinal rule of The Rules According to People's Grandmothers by emerging from my apartment with wet hair. It's just not that cold (+4 degrees, C) and I really didn't feel like brushing it and blow-drying it and brushing it again just in order to run down the street to the local Standa (supermarket chain) for a few necessities. So I scraped it back into a reasonable looking bun and was on my way.
And proceeded to enjoy all of the trying-to-be-subtle-but-just-not-quite-succeeding looks I got. This was very similar to when it was late October and I was still wearing ballet flats with no stockings while everyone else had gotten out their parkas and gloves.
We all know that the Reggiani are very image-conscious. You don't go out with wet hair, you don't wander about wearing jeans and sneakers (trainers)... in fact, ideally, you don't go out at all unless you and your hair have been manipulated into advanced stages of perfection by one or more professionals.
And it's not that I mind, really. I'm not one of those Americans who strides down the street in my blindingly white sneakers, humming the Star Spangled Banner and thinking to myself that I'm American and I know my rights and I'll wear what I damn well want and just you try looking at me funny! I love Italy, and they clearly have better fashion sense than I do anyway, so I'm more than happy to do a bit of mild conforming. What I wonder, though, is exactly why some things are so shocking. Is it because they honestly think you're likely to contract the plague and die if the top of your head gets a bit chilled? Or is it just simply Not the Done Thing? If I could work up the courage and the linguistic confidence, I'd ask someone. For now... boh.
I'll go dry my hair now.
Sunday, February 15
Nothing much
My flatmate (oh, I sound so British) and her boyfriend are chatting in dialect while watching Friends in Italian. This makes for a very disorienting experience (for me).
However, I hope this keeps them occupied for the next twenty minutes or so, because I'm cooking my dinner and generally prefer not to have witnesses, just in case something goes horribly wrong. (I'm boiling rice, at the moment, so it's hard to imagine what this might be, but you just never know.)
Today, during an unprecedented spurt of domesticity that coincided quite handily with a morning's worth of free time, I did some ironing. It must have been contagious because the flatmate got up from her breakfast and diligently began to mop the floor. Not wanting to be outdone, I washed the windows. I am happy to report that I did not burn my fingers or char any of my bedlinens during this morning of domestic productivity. Unfortunately, the bedlinens involved do not look significantly smoother than before. And the windows look a bit streak-y, despite my best efforts, which involved standing precariously on a chair in the kitchen and inhaling copious amounts of window spray.
I would bake my no-fail yogurt cake to restore my confidence in my (largely nonexistant) home-making abilities, but it has recently come to my attention (approximately twenty minutes ago) that I do not possess a measuring cup here in Italy. Ah, well.
The flatmate is emerging from her bedroom, which makes me feel the need to go do something industrious in the kitchen. Perhaps I will cut up a pear. Pears, like most fruit, are good for your digestive tract (and mine). And, more importantly, not much can go wrong in the chopping up of a pear, even if you are me, so this will provide a distraction so that my rice can get on with its business without attracting unwelcome attention.
However, I hope this keeps them occupied for the next twenty minutes or so, because I'm cooking my dinner and generally prefer not to have witnesses, just in case something goes horribly wrong. (I'm boiling rice, at the moment, so it's hard to imagine what this might be, but you just never know.)
Today, during an unprecedented spurt of domesticity that coincided quite handily with a morning's worth of free time, I did some ironing. It must have been contagious because the flatmate got up from her breakfast and diligently began to mop the floor. Not wanting to be outdone, I washed the windows. I am happy to report that I did not burn my fingers or char any of my bedlinens during this morning of domestic productivity. Unfortunately, the bedlinens involved do not look significantly smoother than before. And the windows look a bit streak-y, despite my best efforts, which involved standing precariously on a chair in the kitchen and inhaling copious amounts of window spray.
I would bake my no-fail yogurt cake to restore my confidence in my (largely nonexistant) home-making abilities, but it has recently come to my attention (approximately twenty minutes ago) that I do not possess a measuring cup here in Italy. Ah, well.
The flatmate is emerging from her bedroom, which makes me feel the need to go do something industrious in the kitchen. Perhaps I will cut up a pear. Pears, like most fruit, are good for your digestive tract (and mine). And, more importantly, not much can go wrong in the chopping up of a pear, even if you are me, so this will provide a distraction so that my rice can get on with its business without attracting unwelcome attention.
Saturday, February 14
Gli 'obby
You know what would be cool? If I still knew how to play the piano. That would imply that I had continued to play it during all this time since I've stopped (I think it's about seven or eight years by now), so I'd probably be pretty decent at it and could use it to impress people at parties. Parties that had pianos. And parties where I was mysteriously outgoing and not my usual must-turn-red-as-a-beet-because-more-than-one-person-is-looking-at-me-at-the-same-time self.
Also it would be cool if I still did ballet. I might be thinner and more graceful if that were the case. A mere five years since that ended (four, if you count that one semester in college), so there's still hope there.
Latin. It would be cool if I spoke Latin, too. Or read it, rather - I suppose there's not much call for actually speaking Latin, per se (ahahaha), these days. (That was actually unintentional but it looked so lame that I decided to leave it in). Anyway. I would feel really distinguished and educated if I could decline some Latin nouns. Or verbs. Or whatever it is one actually declines. (Nouns, right? And conjugate verbs? Or perhaps not... I actually have no clue.)
I actually have a lot of free time these days, which I generally spend grocery shopping (bear in mind that I'm in Italy, which makes that statement marginally - but very marginally - less pathetic), wandering around, and staring into space in the teachers' room. I probably should use it to learn Latin. Or something similarly useless. Or even something useful. Generally, though, when confronted with free time, I tend to get really lazy and not actually do anything with it. So perhaps I was made for a free-time-less lifestyle after all... medicine, here I come. (Kidding, kidding. Still no decision made on that front.)
Also it would be cool if I still did ballet. I might be thinner and more graceful if that were the case. A mere five years since that ended (four, if you count that one semester in college), so there's still hope there.
Latin. It would be cool if I spoke Latin, too. Or read it, rather - I suppose there's not much call for actually speaking Latin, per se (ahahaha), these days. (That was actually unintentional but it looked so lame that I decided to leave it in). Anyway. I would feel really distinguished and educated if I could decline some Latin nouns. Or verbs. Or whatever it is one actually declines. (Nouns, right? And conjugate verbs? Or perhaps not... I actually have no clue.)
I actually have a lot of free time these days, which I generally spend grocery shopping (bear in mind that I'm in Italy, which makes that statement marginally - but very marginally - less pathetic), wandering around, and staring into space in the teachers' room. I probably should use it to learn Latin. Or something similarly useless. Or even something useful. Generally, though, when confronted with free time, I tend to get really lazy and not actually do anything with it. So perhaps I was made for a free-time-less lifestyle after all... medicine, here I come. (Kidding, kidding. Still no decision made on that front.)
Wednesday, February 4
Again with the trains
I had a fairly satisfying experience on the train today.
So I was riding the regionale after dark by myself, which made it necessary to search out a position near the least sketchy looking person or group of people possible. I found a business looking type guy wearing a really unfortunate sweater and chattering self-importantly on the phone and figured he would do. I sat down with my little bag of chips (I rarely eat chips, but for some reason I felt like chips). (Additional parenthetical comment: if any Brits should happen to wander over here, by chips I mean crisps. See, with all the teaching of the english, I am now aware of issues like this one.)
"What flavor are those?" he paused his phone conversation to ask.
"Um... nothing. I don't know. Salt," I responded eloquently. He went back to his phone conversation. I frowned at my chips (crisps) and wondered whether he wanted me to offer him one. Meanwhile, the moment in which that would have been appropriate passed.
Also meanwhile, he continued to chatter away in that I'm-so-popular-I-can't-pause-my-social-life-to-take-the-train kind of way and I was feeling left out, so I called my grandmother. (Oh, the social life. How it scintillates!) This turned out to have been a strategically valid move, though, because this is the French grandmother so I got to exhibit my language skillz.
"So, where are you from?" he asked when I hung up. This was satisfying in and of itself because he was prompted to ask it after he heard me speaking another language rather than immediately after my first syllable in Italian. A significant improvement on other conversations I've had.
"America."
To his credit, he didn't bat an eye.
"Che bello. And are you studying here?"
"Teaching English."
"Che bello! Quite the polyglot, aren't you?"
What, did you miss it? That was the satisfying part. (Yeah, no, it doesn't take much. I'm aware, but thanks for pointing it out.) It occurred to me, though: perhaps this is how people meet other people while on public transportation. You know, like in movies where people meet the really hot guy on the plane and then they have some drama and eventually get married and have babies? Yeah. It's a pity his sweater was so unfortunate. I mean, compared to the native Reggiani, I'm fairly non-judgemental about clothes, but it was argyle and in various shades of orange, brown and puke. Still, though, I can't deny that I was vainly pleased when he called out a casual "ciao!" as he rode past me on his bike. (This is after we got off of the train, by the way. In case you were trying to picture that in your head and it wasn't quite working out.)
So I was riding the regionale after dark by myself, which made it necessary to search out a position near the least sketchy looking person or group of people possible. I found a business looking type guy wearing a really unfortunate sweater and chattering self-importantly on the phone and figured he would do. I sat down with my little bag of chips (I rarely eat chips, but for some reason I felt like chips). (Additional parenthetical comment: if any Brits should happen to wander over here, by chips I mean crisps. See, with all the teaching of the english, I am now aware of issues like this one.)
"What flavor are those?" he paused his phone conversation to ask.
"Um... nothing. I don't know. Salt," I responded eloquently. He went back to his phone conversation. I frowned at my chips (crisps) and wondered whether he wanted me to offer him one. Meanwhile, the moment in which that would have been appropriate passed.
Also meanwhile, he continued to chatter away in that I'm-so-popular-I-can't-pause-my-social-life-to-take-the-train kind of way and I was feeling left out, so I called my grandmother. (Oh, the social life. How it scintillates!) This turned out to have been a strategically valid move, though, because this is the French grandmother so I got to exhibit my language skillz.
"So, where are you from?" he asked when I hung up. This was satisfying in and of itself because he was prompted to ask it after he heard me speaking another language rather than immediately after my first syllable in Italian. A significant improvement on other conversations I've had.
"America."
To his credit, he didn't bat an eye.
"Che bello. And are you studying here?"
"Teaching English."
"Che bello! Quite the polyglot, aren't you?"
What, did you miss it? That was the satisfying part. (Yeah, no, it doesn't take much. I'm aware, but thanks for pointing it out.) It occurred to me, though: perhaps this is how people meet other people while on public transportation. You know, like in movies where people meet the really hot guy on the plane and then they have some drama and eventually get married and have babies? Yeah. It's a pity his sweater was so unfortunate. I mean, compared to the native Reggiani, I'm fairly non-judgemental about clothes, but it was argyle and in various shades of orange, brown and puke. Still, though, I can't deny that I was vainly pleased when he called out a casual "ciao!" as he rode past me on his bike. (This is after we got off of the train, by the way. In case you were trying to picture that in your head and it wasn't quite working out.)
Sunday, February 1
The thing with the train station
The thing with the train station is that I love it. In fact, I love the trains in general. Before Italy, I think I'd taken precisely one train in my life: the TGV in France to get from Paris to Nice. I don't remember any of it, but I'm told I threw up afterwards. Lovely.
Here, though, I love the trains. I love the departures board - I love looking up and seeing Milano C.le, Bologna C.le, Napoli C.le. Or Salerno, Pescara, Venezia. The places I've only ever heard of on the departures board, like Sassuolo and Guastalla (where are they? does anyone go there?). And the familiar ends of the regionale line, Piacenza and Ancona. I love the self-service machines: defiantly pushing the "Italiano" button and briskly skipping the screen where it warns you about pickpockets (I'm no tourist - I already know what that screen says and don't need to read it again). I love the shiny new regionale to Bologna at 10:46, and I love the feeling of importance that the Eurostar lends to a trip. I love the big schedule, and even more, I love knowing how to read it. I love the announcements and the set phrases and rhythms ("il treno proveniente da ...", "arrivera con dieci minuti di ritardo. Ci scusiamo per il disagio," "Ferma a Modena, Castelfranco Emilia... Forli, Cesena... Falconara Marittima...", "e' vietato attraversare i binari; allontanarsi dalla linea gialla.") In fact, that last is my very favorite and somehow embodies the whole train thing for me. Possibly because it's all I understood the first time I was on the train. Also, there's something completely irresistable about that series of double Ls.
The first time I took the regionale from Bologna to Reggio for an interview (for the job I currently have, actually), I was nervous. It was hot, and I didn't know that the train was going to stop in Modena and Castelfranco before getting to Reggio, and I was scared of being late. On the way back, I was elated. The interview was a success and I was in a train in Italy all by myself!
Then I went to Rome on the Eurostar, by myself again, and felt all grown up and special. Also sleepy, because it was the ass crack of dawn. On the way back it was great, though: I passed through Perugia (where some guy tried to pick my pocket, but I squeaked at him, and apparently that was sufficient to scare him off) and got all proficient with the self service machines, and road the train that goes along the coast on the way to meet my family in Rimini, and it was great.
And now that I live here, the train is part of what makes everything worthwhile. Because on a Saturday morning, you and your colleagues can stroll over to the train station and, after consulting the departures board and someone's lonely planet guide, you can end up in Verona. Mantova. Pistoia, Florence, Ferrara, Modena, Parma. And for minimal cost, too.
I think that's why I feel a little bubble of glee every time I hear that authoritative and reassuring, beautifully cadenced "allontanarsi dalla linea gialla."
Here, though, I love the trains. I love the departures board - I love looking up and seeing Milano C.le, Bologna C.le, Napoli C.le. Or Salerno, Pescara, Venezia. The places I've only ever heard of on the departures board, like Sassuolo and Guastalla (where are they? does anyone go there?). And the familiar ends of the regionale line, Piacenza and Ancona. I love the self-service machines: defiantly pushing the "Italiano" button and briskly skipping the screen where it warns you about pickpockets (I'm no tourist - I already know what that screen says and don't need to read it again). I love the shiny new regionale to Bologna at 10:46, and I love the feeling of importance that the Eurostar lends to a trip. I love the big schedule, and even more, I love knowing how to read it. I love the announcements and the set phrases and rhythms ("il treno proveniente da ...", "arrivera con dieci minuti di ritardo. Ci scusiamo per il disagio," "Ferma a Modena, Castelfranco Emilia... Forli, Cesena... Falconara Marittima...", "e' vietato attraversare i binari; allontanarsi dalla linea gialla.") In fact, that last is my very favorite and somehow embodies the whole train thing for me. Possibly because it's all I understood the first time I was on the train. Also, there's something completely irresistable about that series of double Ls.
The first time I took the regionale from Bologna to Reggio for an interview (for the job I currently have, actually), I was nervous. It was hot, and I didn't know that the train was going to stop in Modena and Castelfranco before getting to Reggio, and I was scared of being late. On the way back, I was elated. The interview was a success and I was in a train in Italy all by myself!
Then I went to Rome on the Eurostar, by myself again, and felt all grown up and special. Also sleepy, because it was the ass crack of dawn. On the way back it was great, though: I passed through Perugia (where some guy tried to pick my pocket, but I squeaked at him, and apparently that was sufficient to scare him off) and got all proficient with the self service machines, and road the train that goes along the coast on the way to meet my family in Rimini, and it was great.
And now that I live here, the train is part of what makes everything worthwhile. Because on a Saturday morning, you and your colleagues can stroll over to the train station and, after consulting the departures board and someone's lonely planet guide, you can end up in Verona. Mantova. Pistoia, Florence, Ferrara, Modena, Parma. And for minimal cost, too.
I think that's why I feel a little bubble of glee every time I hear that authoritative and reassuring, beautifully cadenced "allontanarsi dalla linea gialla."
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