Culture shock

"Io ci ripenserei a questa qua," the young man tells me, pointing to number four, by which I have put a little question mark.

I am taking the CILS test (Certificato dell'Italiano come Lingua Straniera) at an obscure education center near the Reggio train station, and the proctors, as far as I can tell, are wandering around the room to chat about people's answers.

I glance up at him, unsure. Is he teasing? Being funny? He's been standing over me for the past two minutes, reading over my shoulder and generally making me nervous. He's very cute and his shirt is unbuttoned to halfway down his chest - judging solely by his appearance, he seems like the kind of guy that would tease. He throws me a friendly grin and continues:

"Le altre vanno bene, pero'." He indicates the other two where I had put question marks, intending to go back and ponder them some more if I had time. Just as he says this, I hear his fellow proctor (also male, cute, and half-unbuttoned) informing the person behind me that "dalle" is spelled with two Ls. "Ricordati: le preposizioni articolate..."

I limit the visible evidence of the exam-taking-habits short circuit that this produces in my brain to a quick raise of the eyebrows and mumble "grazie".

The two proctors proceed to stand at the front of the classroom and debate the answers to the grammar section in loud whispers before going around and distributing more hints. During the written section, he all but offers to proofread my work.

We are so not in Kansas anymore.

Or, um, anywhere else in the US - it's not like I've ever even been to Kansas. But, anyway... yeah. Mild shock. In America they throw you out of the testing center for so much as looking up to check the time if you have the misfortune to accidently slide your eyes past anywhere that could conceivably be construed as someone else's paper. (Not that I have personal experience - after a lifetime of standardized testing in the US, you pretty much perfect the "eyes closed, glance at clock, eyes closed, back to paper" routine). But still. The strictness with testing in the US. It is intense. I couldn't even have tissues with me when I took the MCAT. God only knows what they figured I could have done to cheat with tissues, but... anyway. Back to Italy.

First I laughed a bit on the inside. Then I felt a bit guilty. Then I remembered how my high school students kept breaking out in conversation during the final exam I gave them (!) and it's not really so shocking. That's just how it's done, I guess.

In any case, provided that the people who distribute i voti are satisfied with my 2-3 minute rambling monologue on plastic surgery (don't ask; I was feeling more than a little flustered), I should have a C1 level certification in Italian sometime in the next year. Yay.

Progress

Things that I would write on my students' progress reports if I could:

Sometimes spontaneously breaks into song in English (e.g. rendition of "Edelweiss" last Thursday), which is adorable. Otherwise an insufferable brat. Stop spoiling her, please. (Age 8)

Great kid with an infectious laugh, routinely have to suppress the urge to ruffle his hair. Totally crap pronunciation that I have been unable to fix. Sorry. (Age 10)

Psychosis not mitigated by cute smile. What the hell are you feeding her? (Age 3)

Creepy bastard who routinely stares down my shirt, no matter how high I button it. Would probably see more improvements in his English-speaking abilities if we blindfolded him. (Adult. Obviously.)

Great sense of humor. Needs to stop copying off her classmates, though - she'd probably have been kicked out of an American school by now. Also, should consider trying to quit smoking. (Age 17.)

Wonderful, amazing, warm, funny, and egaging person. Decent English skills. But, seriously, can we just go ahead and be friends in real life? (Adult.)

But instead I have to restrain myself and think of creative ways in which to attempt to convey what I mean. Creative ways involving words like "spirited" (#3), "opinionated" (#1), "strong student, a pleasure to have in class" (#6), "should try to work more independently" (#5)... etc.

Sigh.

Dolce

"Caffe? Dolce?" the waiter stops by to ask, leaning over the people at the end of the table in order to be heard.

"Cosa avete di bello stasera?" asks someone towards the middle.

The waiter puts one hand contemplatively on the shoulder of the man over whom he is standing and begins to reel off the options. The men order things with chocolate, cream, and sauce flavored with frutti di bosco. The women order sorbetti, causing a lively discussion to erupt. The theme of it appears to be that they should go ahead and indulge, have a real dessert, stop watching their figures.

Italian, Italianized English, and two varieties of dialect fly up and down the table, along with a lot of gesticulating and some of the idioms I have come to love so much. I can detect at least three different conversations occurring simultaneously, with people occasionally crossing over from one to the other as their opinion is requested - often by someone shouting down the length of the table. The guy sitting next to me is so animated he bumps me in the shoulder.

"Scusa!" he interrupts himself, touching my back briefly in apology before reaching around me to smack the guy on the other side of me, ostensibly to reinforce whatever point he was originally making. The waiter, in the meantime, has surreptitiously gone around the table and managed to confirm everyone's choices.

"Ah-oh!" the first guy finishes off decisively with something that is between a sound and an actual expression, as far as I can tell. I look around and take a deep breath, absorbing the smell of pizza and coffee, the jovial attitude, and the deep sense of contentment that my dinner companions, longtime friends who have taken me temporarily into their group, derive from each other's company. I'll miss this when I leave.

The blue car saga, continued

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.

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.

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?

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.