Part the first here.
It was rapidly concluded that I was not capable of making it from my lesson with the six-year-olds at the school to the ten-year-olds’ living room in Nearby Village in the twenty-five minutes that had been allotted for this purpose. This is partially due to my ineptitude in driving and general stupidity, and partially due to the fact that apparently very few people can make that drive that fast at rush hour. And the people who can are all native Reggiani.
“Ma (but), what if you left a little earlier?” suggests one of the mothers in the living room in Nearby Village. I explain that I would love to leave earlier, but that I only have twenty-five minutes between these two classes and that at least five of those get taken up prying the six-year-olds off my various limbs and re-attaching them to their parents instead. Not to mention mundane things like actually walking to the car. And also the clock in that classroom is slow, but I don’t mention that because then I would have to explain that half the clocks in the school are slow and the rest are fast, and sometimes it’s tricky to remember which are which.
The three sets of parents look at me in mild shock. A discussion breaks out, in which it is established that one cannot drive from Reggio to Nearby Village in twenty minutes at this time of day, even if there were no six-year-olds involved. Someone mentions the fact that I should have time to eat; I repress an unbecoming snort of laughter. Eventually it is decided that I will come fifteen minutes later, thus giving me forty minutes between the two lessons.
You’d think this would solve my problems, but… no.
On the day of my third lesson in Nearby Village, I am excited. I have got rid of my previous class in record time (we pretended to be a train on the way out of the classroom), I have the keys, I have been informed that the car has plenty of gas, and my lesson plan for the Nearby Village kids includes a game that looks like fun. Excellent.
I climb (crawl) into the car. It is already in neutral. Life is good. I shove the key into the ignition and blithely turn- no. No, I do not turn the key, because it will not budge. Crap. I go to give the wheel a good twist to vent my frustrations, and note that it will not move either. Great. This time the car probably really is broken.
I have no desire to be late again, so I whip out my trusty telefonino and call the secretary.
“Francesca. The car is stuck. The wheel won’t turn, and the key won’t turn either.”
“Cosa?” she asks, probably wondering whose idea it was to hire me. I repeat, in sketchy Italian, just to eliminate any language barriers.
“Ah. Beh, non lo so. Aspetta. Ti mando qualcuno,” she says mysteriously, before hanging up on me. (Wait; I'll send you someone.)
Five minutes later, two figures emerge from the café under the school and wander over to me and the blue car. I recognize them as the owners’ daughter and her boyfriend (daughter of the owner of the cafe, I mean, not of the school). We are friends with the people from the café, which is lucky (they will even make you a cappuccino in the afternoon if you want one - once or twice we did that, just to see their faces).
Another five minutes later, they have straightened out my car. Apparently you can lock the wheel by shoving it completely to one side. Apparently this helps safeguard you against theft. I don’t really get it, because if everyone except for me knows this trick, presumably that includes the potential car thieves, no? In my opinion, what really safeguards you against the theft of your car is keeping a close eye on your keys. Anyway, though…
It is as I get into the car for the fourth lesson that I realize that the week before they had unblocked the steering wheel without explaining how it is done, and that I have neglected to inform myself since then. And of course the stupid thing is locked again. (And bear in mind that I am not the clever, logical kind of person who is likely to figure these things out on her own.)
I sigh and drum my fingers against it (the wheel) for a moment to gather my wits. I eye the horizon suspiciously. It had better not start to rain.
Five minutes later, the wheel is still blocked and I want to cry. Instead, I call my supervisor, Other Teacher.
“Other Teacher,” I say, “the steering wheel is blocked and I don’t know how to undo it. Please enlighten me.”
“Of course!” she exclaims cheerily. I grind my teeth. “You just push lightly on the brake, turn the key towards you, and the steering wheel towards the left, hard.” This is far too many things for me to think about at once, but I give it a try anyway. And another. And another.
“Got it?” she chirps, “you have to push the steering wheel really hard.”
“No,” I grunt, ramming the steering wheel with all of my (meager) might.
“Oh, wait, wait!” she exclaims suddenly, “I mean right. Turn the wheel towards the right. Your right, my left.”
I glance up at the school, briefly wondering at what angle she can possibly be sitting that she would picture the car from any point of view other than the driver’s. Meanwhile, I give it another try and finally the wheel comes free.
“Thanks!” I say before hanging up and reversing sloppily into the parking lot. I am about to go zipping around the first roundabout when some rain splatters onto my windshield. If only I knew how to turn on the windshield wipers…
I take advantage of a straight bit in the road to flick a couple of switch-type things at random. Nope. I wiggle the rod that, in my mother’s car, controls the windshield wipers and they twitch feebly. I experiment a little more, and finally find that if I hold the rod up with my right hand (which leaves only my left to drive, but whatever), the wipers move slowly back and forth, which, I suppose, is better than nothing. Just not quite better enough to be able to actually see what’s in front of me, so I roll down the window and stick my head halfway out and that is why, when I arrive in the living room in Nearby Village, the same ten-year-old goes, “Ciao! Ma… come mai sei tutta bagnata? Did you forget your umbrella?”
The blue car and I had lots of other fun adventures together after that. There was the time another teacher and I took it home (clandestinely! such daring!) after a particularly late bunch of lessons and were so tired we may have missed a stop light. And the time when I had caught some sort of febbre/cough/dizziness/difficulty-remaining-upright thing off one of the wee ones and had to teach in a different nearby village anyway and I drove there in a sort of Tylenol Flu-induced haze and taught for four hours propped against the blackboard (thus ending up with a lot of chalk dust in my hair – very elegant, per usual) and then took a nice nap in the blue car (in a parking lot) before driving blearily home.
By the end, though, the blue car and I were quite good friends and the roundabouts rarely even ruffled me anymore.
“No, Francesca!” I say into the phone with a quick look over my shoulder to check for oncoming traffic. I ease into the roundabout. “We absolutely can’t put those three together. He’s very slow and she’s very forceful and the new guy seems really shy.” Is it legal to drive and talk on the phone in Italy? Boh. No one has said anything yet, anyway…
As the secretary blathers on about scheduling, I zip around two more roundabouts and calmly spoon some yogurt into my mouth from the cup I am holding in between my knees. I have been on deck for at least ten hours and haven’t eaten since some crackers after the first class.
By the time I reach Nearby Village, I have checked the CD for their first exercise, straightened out the scheduling difficulties (more or less), finished my yogurt, and managed not to kill anyone. I slap on some lip gloss and ring the doorbell. The cute ten-year-old greets me with a hug, and has no comments as to my appearance, navigational skills, or choice of outerwear.
"Cosa facciamo oggi?" he asks, before launching into an exhaustive summary of his day at school.
I feel a vast (and largely ridiculous) sense of accomplishment.
Sunday, May 3
Wednesday, April 22
Felce
Another faaaascinating entry from me. This one is going to be about... wait for it... ... ... soap! Yes! (You have my full permission to go do something else, something slightly less excrutiatingly boring.) For the rest of you...
My attention has been snagged by the "Felce Azzurra" soap stuff pretty much every time I have walked past it in a store, the entire time I've been here. First, I was all in the 'omg there is so much exciting stuff in this supermarket and the reason it is all so exciting is because the label is written in Italian' phase. While a good half of the soap here in Italy exists in America, too, (e.g. Dove, Neutrogena), some of it didn't. And so I was fascinated. I am not hard to entertain, sometimes.
Then I started to wonder what it mean. Okay, so azzurra is light blue. Got that. Even if I hadn't learned it in my Italian classes during semesters of yore, my own students endearingly call anything they perceive as being azzurro "blue... light". Even the little ones. (Side note to self: I would probably just call it all "blue" and not differentiate, but they will actually argue with me. Is this because in Italian there are actually two separate words? Language shaping cognitive development? Remember to ponder this some other time.) Anyway, so, azzurra is covered, but what the hell is felce? (For those of you who know the answer, bear with me. I'm not that bright. Evidently.)
First I thought it meant jacket. But that turns out to be felpe. The two are not related. Then I thought it meant felt, for obvious reasons. But why would anyone make a soap called "light blue felt"? Especially since the bottle proclaims that it's an inimitable scent. Last I checked, felt doesn't smell particularly interesting.
Fast-forward seven months, I finally succombed and bought some. It smells kind of vaguely... spicy. Not spicy like hot, but spicy like spices. Like cinnamon or ginger or something. So this morning I word-referenced it and it means fern. Which would pretty much explain why there is a picture of a blue fern on all of the bottles. (Told you I wasn't very bright.)
The only remaining question is this: it smells kind of manly. Not very feminine, anyway. Is it actually men's soap? Because that would be awkward.
Then again, I'm sure my roommates are used to awkward by now.
My attention has been snagged by the "Felce Azzurra" soap stuff pretty much every time I have walked past it in a store, the entire time I've been here. First, I was all in the 'omg there is so much exciting stuff in this supermarket and the reason it is all so exciting is because the label is written in Italian' phase. While a good half of the soap here in Italy exists in America, too, (e.g. Dove, Neutrogena), some of it didn't. And so I was fascinated. I am not hard to entertain, sometimes.
Then I started to wonder what it mean. Okay, so azzurra is light blue. Got that. Even if I hadn't learned it in my Italian classes during semesters of yore, my own students endearingly call anything they perceive as being azzurro "blue... light". Even the little ones. (Side note to self: I would probably just call it all "blue" and not differentiate, but they will actually argue with me. Is this because in Italian there are actually two separate words? Language shaping cognitive development? Remember to ponder this some other time.) Anyway, so, azzurra is covered, but what the hell is felce? (For those of you who know the answer, bear with me. I'm not that bright. Evidently.)
First I thought it meant jacket. But that turns out to be felpe. The two are not related. Then I thought it meant felt, for obvious reasons. But why would anyone make a soap called "light blue felt"? Especially since the bottle proclaims that it's an inimitable scent. Last I checked, felt doesn't smell particularly interesting.
Fast-forward seven months, I finally succombed and bought some. It smells kind of vaguely... spicy. Not spicy like hot, but spicy like spices. Like cinnamon or ginger or something. So this morning I word-referenced it and it means fern. Which would pretty much explain why there is a picture of a blue fern on all of the bottles. (Told you I wasn't very bright.)
The only remaining question is this: it smells kind of manly. Not very feminine, anyway. Is it actually men's soap? Because that would be awkward.
Then again, I'm sure my roommates are used to awkward by now.
Tuesday, April 21
In which the authoress slinks guiltily back to her blog
Ciao, people! I'm alive!
Just barely. No, I kid. I've just been a bit busy. First I was sick for about two weeks, and that was annoying, particularly because the slave driver people at work made me teach even the psycho three year olds (see previous entry on the topic of psycho three year olds) even on the day when I could barely stand up. I resent that, Slave Driver People at Work. Just so you know.
Then I went to Rome for Easter and that was delightful. Much like at carnevale in Venice, there was un sacco di gente (and I just really like that expression). Rome is beautiful and I will perhaps write about that another day.
For now I have to go to work (bah) and before that I think I will eat some lunch. Probably I will stick some cheese on some pane integrale and call it a day. The cheese is part of my new educate-self-about-food campaign, which came about because I don't know anything about food, so I pretty much only ever eat cheese at other people's houses, because that way they have already selected it. And if they happen to mention what kind it is, then I can buy it later, too.
This is a somewhat inefficient method, though, so I decided to try something else. My new strategy is this: walk up to the cheese section in Standa or Esselunga or wherever, select a piece of cheese at random, and hope for the best. So far I have tried Pecorino Romano (actually, someone had already told me that was good), Pecorino Toscano (actually, I meant to buy more of the first, but I wasn't paying attention... but it it was good anyway), and today's selection is Casera Valtellina (DOP... which at least makes me feel all officious about buying it). I shall google it in a moment and let you know how it all works out later.
Hm... I think my throat feels a bit sore. How can this be? Clearly my immune system of steel is a thing of the past. I *knew* I should have just run in the opposite direction when all the materna kids mobbed me yesterday going "tata d'inglese, un bacino! un bacino!" But... I mean... hugs from four-year-olds... how can you resist?
Just barely. No, I kid. I've just been a bit busy. First I was sick for about two weeks, and that was annoying, particularly because the slave driver people at work made me teach even the psycho three year olds (see previous entry on the topic of psycho three year olds) even on the day when I could barely stand up. I resent that, Slave Driver People at Work. Just so you know.
Then I went to Rome for Easter and that was delightful. Much like at carnevale in Venice, there was un sacco di gente (and I just really like that expression). Rome is beautiful and I will perhaps write about that another day.
For now I have to go to work (bah) and before that I think I will eat some lunch. Probably I will stick some cheese on some pane integrale and call it a day. The cheese is part of my new educate-self-about-food campaign, which came about because I don't know anything about food, so I pretty much only ever eat cheese at other people's houses, because that way they have already selected it. And if they happen to mention what kind it is, then I can buy it later, too.
This is a somewhat inefficient method, though, so I decided to try something else. My new strategy is this: walk up to the cheese section in Standa or Esselunga or wherever, select a piece of cheese at random, and hope for the best. So far I have tried Pecorino Romano (actually, someone had already told me that was good), Pecorino Toscano (actually, I meant to buy more of the first, but I wasn't paying attention... but it it was good anyway), and today's selection is Casera Valtellina (DOP... which at least makes me feel all officious about buying it). I shall google it in a moment and let you know how it all works out later.
Hm... I think my throat feels a bit sore. How can this be? Clearly my immune system of steel is a thing of the past. I *knew* I should have just run in the opposite direction when all the materna kids mobbed me yesterday going "tata d'inglese, un bacino! un bacino!" But... I mean... hugs from four-year-olds... how can you resist?
Wednesday, April 1
Pezzi
Today I saw an auto-scuola car from a driving school apparently called "Pezzi". Which means "pieces". This is not very confidence-inspiring, in my opinion. Not that I should talk, when it comes to driving - remind me to tell you the story of the blue car someday.
Speaking of pezzi, there is a pizza a taglio place on the Via Emilia (the end closer to Modena) called "Pizza a pezzi", whose sign I really enjoy. I've never actually bought pizza there, but I just really like how 'pizza a pezzi' sounds. Although I think it would be even better if it said 'pizze a pezzi' (pizze, for those not in the know, being the plural of pizza... so it would totally work).
Anyway. I'm off to bed. Eight and a half hours teaching today... but then pizza with a group of gli studenti, which was fun.
P.S. I have that sincerita' song from San Remo stuck in my head. I didn't even watch San Remo. It seems unfair.
Speaking of pezzi, there is a pizza a taglio place on the Via Emilia (the end closer to Modena) called "Pizza a pezzi", whose sign I really enjoy. I've never actually bought pizza there, but I just really like how 'pizza a pezzi' sounds. Although I think it would be even better if it said 'pizze a pezzi' (pizze, for those not in the know, being the plural of pizza... so it would totally work).
Anyway. I'm off to bed. Eight and a half hours teaching today... but then pizza with a group of gli studenti, which was fun.
P.S. I have that sincerita' song from San Remo stuck in my head. I didn't even watch San Remo. It seems unfair.
Sunday, March 29
Chaotic
The three-year-olds that are my Friday-evening class are adorable. However... the craziness. It is... crazy.
As I sing the opening bars of the "hello song" which is too incredibly inane to even record here, they stick out their tongues and start spluttering at me. And cosi' via. You can tell they're delighted in their naughtiness. It's killingly cute, but not ideal from a discipline standpoint.
Ten minutes later, I am seated on the pedana (bench-y thing) with them (this is to provide maximum access for holding them in place) reading a story. One little girl is listening attentively. Another is attempting to distract her by rattling a metallic box and its contents under her nose. The third little girl is sorting the crayons into different bins according to color (which is a marked improvement on last week, when she kept herself busy by systematically snapping them in half), and the two boys are alternately sitting down to rip pages out of a book and crying "facciamo un giro!" before running a few laps around the room.
This somehow results in one little boy's nose being pushed against the wall. I try to comfort him while two of the others amuse themselves by turning the heaters on and off (by twisting a dial - a trick I inadvertently taught them a few weeks ago when using the heaters to demonstrate the concept of wind; I now know better). "He's fine," his mother reassures me, sticking her head in (presumably as a result of that crazy mother-radar/sixth sense) and glancing around. I see the room through her eyes for a moment: mass chaos. But at least no one is bleeding.
This thought comforts me for the next portion of the lesson, during which we make a collage of cut-out pictures of petals and leaves. I try in vain to get one of the two shy girls to repeat "leaf, please!" while a mother pokes her head in to check on them. I can't decide whether the expression on her face is one of skepticism or pity. Or perhaps she's just trying to figure out why the third little girl (who is the tiniest bit matta, in my opinion) is assiduously trying to ram a crayon into the center of a glue stick. She raises her eyebrows briefly before retreating into the relative safety of the hallway. I can almost hear her thinking "seems a bit strange, but the brochure does say 'highly trained and very experienced madrelinguiste'".
"Leaf, please!" chorus the two little boys as soon as the door has closed and all witnesses are safely out of earshot. I repress a sigh. "Good job!" I enthuse instead.
By the end of the lesson, two of the little girls have fashioned a bed out of some lengths of cloth and a few cushions we keep in the room, and the little boys have climbed into a basket and are pretending it's a train. The other little girl is spreading glue down the front of her dress.
It takes me ten minutes to drag them away from their various forms of amusement - none of which are related to the original theme (flowers) - and eject them from the classroom. In the process, one little boy manages to clock the other in the eye with a puzzle piece, scratching his eyelid.
So someone is bleeding after all.
As I sing the opening bars of the "hello song" which is too incredibly inane to even record here, they stick out their tongues and start spluttering at me. And cosi' via. You can tell they're delighted in their naughtiness. It's killingly cute, but not ideal from a discipline standpoint.
Ten minutes later, I am seated on the pedana (bench-y thing) with them (this is to provide maximum access for holding them in place) reading a story. One little girl is listening attentively. Another is attempting to distract her by rattling a metallic box and its contents under her nose. The third little girl is sorting the crayons into different bins according to color (which is a marked improvement on last week, when she kept herself busy by systematically snapping them in half), and the two boys are alternately sitting down to rip pages out of a book and crying "facciamo un giro!" before running a few laps around the room.
This somehow results in one little boy's nose being pushed against the wall. I try to comfort him while two of the others amuse themselves by turning the heaters on and off (by twisting a dial - a trick I inadvertently taught them a few weeks ago when using the heaters to demonstrate the concept of wind; I now know better). "He's fine," his mother reassures me, sticking her head in (presumably as a result of that crazy mother-radar/sixth sense) and glancing around. I see the room through her eyes for a moment: mass chaos. But at least no one is bleeding.
This thought comforts me for the next portion of the lesson, during which we make a collage of cut-out pictures of petals and leaves. I try in vain to get one of the two shy girls to repeat "leaf, please!" while a mother pokes her head in to check on them. I can't decide whether the expression on her face is one of skepticism or pity. Or perhaps she's just trying to figure out why the third little girl (who is the tiniest bit matta, in my opinion) is assiduously trying to ram a crayon into the center of a glue stick. She raises her eyebrows briefly before retreating into the relative safety of the hallway. I can almost hear her thinking "seems a bit strange, but the brochure does say 'highly trained and very experienced madrelinguiste'".
"Leaf, please!" chorus the two little boys as soon as the door has closed and all witnesses are safely out of earshot. I repress a sigh. "Good job!" I enthuse instead.
By the end of the lesson, two of the little girls have fashioned a bed out of some lengths of cloth and a few cushions we keep in the room, and the little boys have climbed into a basket and are pretending it's a train. The other little girl is spreading glue down the front of her dress.
It takes me ten minutes to drag them away from their various forms of amusement - none of which are related to the original theme (flowers) - and eject them from the classroom. In the process, one little boy manages to clock the other in the eye with a puzzle piece, scratching his eyelid.
So someone is bleeding after all.
Wednesday, March 25
Drivel
Taralli are delicious. In particular, the ones that Conad has, in the red bag. Probably also the ones that you actually get in Puglia, but I haven't been there. It's very far down. (Why do some people call it Apulia? It took me a while to figure out that those were the same place, and I still can't figure out with the difference is.)
I went to some Italian lessons last week. That was fun. We chatted about verb tenses and did some exercises with that 'come se fossero' tense, which is possibly my favorite. I really enjoy all of the Ss in it. I'm really jealous of how some of my little little students (like even three year olds) insert it so fluently into conversation. Sigh.
Speaking of three-year-olds, last week one asked me out. "Dopo, vieni a casa con me?" he queried, tugging on my hand and looking up at me. The adorable-ness was truly overwhelming. And then he and his little friend got into a fight over who I would go home with. Simply too cute.
Adorable-ness notwithstanding, I'm exhausted. The sweat-shop-like work schedule is getting to me a bit. Also the rest of the staff is ill, so perhaps I will be, soon, too. In light of this, I have elected not to celebrate the warm weather by wearing sandals. I also don't want to give anyone a stroke. Bah. Anyway, I'm off to teach some beginners... and then another beginner... and some more beginners. Four and half hours down... three and a half to go.
One more thing: I bought some erbazzone today (because it was all I had time to eat) and faceva schiffo. I feel that the fact that I have becoming a discriminating erbazzone connaisseur makes me quasi-Reggiana. However, this only slightly mitigates the fact that it was truly revolting. Will purchase some healthful and practically calorie-free soup on my way back to work. Am becoming obese here in the land of good food.
Okay. Next time perhaps I will treat you to some uncharacteristically eloquent prose rather than this stream-of-consciousness nonsense.
I went to some Italian lessons last week. That was fun. We chatted about verb tenses and did some exercises with that 'come se fossero' tense, which is possibly my favorite. I really enjoy all of the Ss in it. I'm really jealous of how some of my little little students (like even three year olds) insert it so fluently into conversation. Sigh.
Speaking of three-year-olds, last week one asked me out. "Dopo, vieni a casa con me?" he queried, tugging on my hand and looking up at me. The adorable-ness was truly overwhelming. And then he and his little friend got into a fight over who I would go home with. Simply too cute.
Adorable-ness notwithstanding, I'm exhausted. The sweat-shop-like work schedule is getting to me a bit. Also the rest of the staff is ill, so perhaps I will be, soon, too. In light of this, I have elected not to celebrate the warm weather by wearing sandals. I also don't want to give anyone a stroke. Bah. Anyway, I'm off to teach some beginners... and then another beginner... and some more beginners. Four and half hours down... three and a half to go.
One more thing: I bought some erbazzone today (because it was all I had time to eat) and faceva schiffo. I feel that the fact that I have becoming a discriminating erbazzone connaisseur makes me quasi-Reggiana. However, this only slightly mitigates the fact that it was truly revolting. Will purchase some healthful and practically calorie-free soup on my way back to work. Am becoming obese here in the land of good food.
Okay. Next time perhaps I will treat you to some uncharacteristically eloquent prose rather than this stream-of-consciousness nonsense.
Sunday, March 15
Miscellaneous
The weather has been getting warmer. It's very pleasant. I bimbi are still all bundled up in their parkas and wool hats, though. At home, I'd almost be wandering around in a t-shirt (okay, maybe a sweater) in weather like this, but here I don't dare even get out my spring-y-ish trench coat for fear that it would be an irreperable faux pas. One of my colleagues started wearing shoes without stockings again a few days ago (gasp!) but she has a better accent than I do, so somehow that makes it okay... um... in my head, anyway. What do you want to bet that the second spring starts "officially" (the 21st) everbody's beige trench coats come out all at once? It's like synchronized swimming but with fashion over here.
In the meantime... visited Piacenza the other day. This is significant (in my head) because it's the end of the regionale line. Although, actually, I think you can take the regionale all the way to Milan. But maybe it's a different one or something. In any case, it was exciting. They have several exceedingly creepy churches in that town. Also some excellent gelato. And some very impressive horse statues. And a lot more gente per strada then we have in Reggio.
Took a walk along the river Crostolo this afternoon. Pleasant weather, but my coat was bothersome. The river Crostolo is not very impressive. It's more of a trickle, really. Still. Will give it another try when lighter attire is permissible.
Taught in a scuola media yesterday. Four identical lessons in a row. I liked the kids better than I thought I would, though. Let's face it: 11/12/13 are not particularly lovely ages, but they were actually really sweet. I have now taught children of all ages from 2 to 13, and also 17-ish. (I don't know, actually: quarta superiore - how old are they?). In any case, I feel quite accomplished. Pity that I don't actually plan to go into teaching for the long term.
Also tried the potato/leek/onion/pancetta business again the other day, this time in the oven. There was a bit of the false start when it turned out that someone had left a bit of tupperware in the oven (why?) and it started to melt, but I rescued it and then resumed cooking my stuff. It still tasted like crap. Am not cut out to be a chef. Will stick to eating taralli and pasta-practically-in-bianco for the time being. Although I bought some sundried tomatoes the other day because they were on sale in Esselunga and I was inspired, but, upon reflection, I have no idea what one actually does with sundried tomatoes. I suppose I could always just put them on toast. If I had a toaster...
Anyway, off to bed. Scuola materna bright and early tomorrow, followed by some business people... some factory people... a random thirteen-year-old... and a few more business people. Sigh. I kind of preferred when it was still the weekend.
In the meantime... visited Piacenza the other day. This is significant (in my head) because it's the end of the regionale line. Although, actually, I think you can take the regionale all the way to Milan. But maybe it's a different one or something. In any case, it was exciting. They have several exceedingly creepy churches in that town. Also some excellent gelato. And some very impressive horse statues. And a lot more gente per strada then we have in Reggio.
Took a walk along the river Crostolo this afternoon. Pleasant weather, but my coat was bothersome. The river Crostolo is not very impressive. It's more of a trickle, really. Still. Will give it another try when lighter attire is permissible.
Taught in a scuola media yesterday. Four identical lessons in a row. I liked the kids better than I thought I would, though. Let's face it: 11/12/13 are not particularly lovely ages, but they were actually really sweet. I have now taught children of all ages from 2 to 13, and also 17-ish. (I don't know, actually: quarta superiore - how old are they?). In any case, I feel quite accomplished. Pity that I don't actually plan to go into teaching for the long term.
Also tried the potato/leek/onion/pancetta business again the other day, this time in the oven. There was a bit of the false start when it turned out that someone had left a bit of tupperware in the oven (why?) and it started to melt, but I rescued it and then resumed cooking my stuff. It still tasted like crap. Am not cut out to be a chef. Will stick to eating taralli and pasta-practically-in-bianco for the time being. Although I bought some sundried tomatoes the other day because they were on sale in Esselunga and I was inspired, but, upon reflection, I have no idea what one actually does with sundried tomatoes. I suppose I could always just put them on toast. If I had a toaster...
Anyway, off to bed. Scuola materna bright and early tomorrow, followed by some business people... some factory people... a random thirteen-year-old... and a few more business people. Sigh. I kind of preferred when it was still the weekend.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
