If I get into medical school, the first thing I am going to do when I get there is march into the admissions office and ask to see the person who writes the content for their website. Then I will inform him or her that every single time they write "please respond in X characters or less" it makes something in my tummy get all twisty. I mean, presumably the person who writes the supplemental applications is educated, no? Perhaps he or she is even an MD. Or a PhD. So why is it that they don't know about grammar? This is not a difficult concept, people: less is for things that can't be counted (e.g. sugar, coffee, sand) and for things that can be counted (e.g. chairs, bananas, grains of sugar, cups of coffee, not to mention words and characters) you use FEWER.
Rant provoked by the fact that I caved in and filled out the Newark application today. I bet you I will get in there and only there. If this happens, I may defect from the land of useful careers and go off to study linguistics and become an ivory tower type person who teaches a ridiculously boring and abstruse (yeah, see, check out my mad ivory tower vocabulary skills) class every second Tuesday and spends the rest of her time poring over medieval manuscripts in search of wayward diacritical marks.
Okay, admittedly, I don't 100% remember what diacritical marks are. They are either accents or some sort of punctuation. Hm... now I am curious. Perhaps I really was better suited to ivory tower life. You can even do fun experiments with little kids... which sounds a lot more sinister than it actually was...
Anyway. Yesterday I walked from here in the Kremlin-Bicetre all the way up Rue Monge and then past Beaubourg to the Marais and then to Place de la Republique, back down Rue Lafayette and back home via the opera, the Tuileries, the Pont des Arts and St. Michel. I really hope that was a lot of miles because now my legs are sore, and it would be sad indeed if my legs got sore after, like, 3 miles or something.
Now I am off to go pose for my grandmother, who feels the need to resurrect her drawing skills and use them on me, doubtless while telling me about all the children who have had something calamitous befall them in the past twenty-four hours. Pity that I did not inherit any of the artistic skills. Then I could be a tortured starving artist in a garret in Montmartre or the Latin Quarter or something and that would be funny.
P.S. Yeah, I looked it up. Diacritical marks are accents, also known as ancillary glyphs. Hee. Also, it is apparently 5-6 kilometers from here to that part of Paris. Hm. Even counting the walk back... still kind of wimpy. Sigh.
Monday, August 17
Saturday, August 15
That one time with the mattress
In honor of spending time with beloved family members... the story of the time I helped my grandmother buy a mattress. Like most traumatic experiences, it is a little bit seared into my memory.
"It's very important for your health, you know - how moelleux (soft) the mattress is. If it's too soft, you will sink in and your backbone will not be properly aligned while you sleep, but if it's too firm, you will get sore. For example, my back gets sore. And my pelvis. Especially since I had your mother!" my grandmother wraps up her lecture on mattress firmness with a fun fact as we step out of the elevator onto the home furnishings floor.
I nod and sigh (I've already been with her all morning and I'm nearing the end of my patience) and let my eyes drift slowly out of focus as she flips her cane upside down and uses the handle to prod the nearest mattress.
"Too soft!" she proclaims loudly. A pregnant woman nearby makes the mistake of looking up.
"Yes, too soft," repeats my grandmother authoritatively, "especially for you, Miss. Now, when you have your baby, do you plan to let it sleep in the bed with you? Because, you know, children can suffocate very easily. Can you imagine? Especially when you're very tired, you could easily just roll over and... if the mattress is too soft... I tell my granddaughter this all the time - she has two small children, you know - but she doesn't listen. I just hope... little Pierre..." she trails off mournfully, although it should be noted that little Pierre is, to the best of my knowledge, still in perfectly good health. The young woman pulls out a cell phone and turns away. I don't blame her.
However, I happen to know my grandmother's stance on pregnant women and cell phones, so I attempt to distract her by asking her opinion of another mattress (too firm). In vain. She snags the nearest sales assistant, a guy who doesn't look much older than me. I bring my eyes into focus just long enough to size him up. He looks far too nice. He's no match for her.
"Young man!" she begins emphatically. "Now, I know it's none of my business (no kidding), but, perhaps, being a member of the staff, it would be more appropriate for you to tell her..."
He raises his eyebrows, clearly perplexed.
"Well, someone should explain to that young woman that it's not a good idea to use a cell phone while she's pregnant - the radiation, you know: it could damage the fetus. I saw a program on tv..."
I cut her off, suggesting that perhaps the young man doesn't need to know what she saw on tv, given that his job is just to sell mattresses.
"Nonsense!" she interrupts, thumping her cane emphatically on the floor. "My granddaughter here thinks a lot of what I say is ridiculous, but she's too young! She doesn't know. I've been through the war, you know. And anyway," she turns to me, "the young man does need to know about this program. It was a very good program, very informative. For example, monsieur here should really not keep his cell phone in his pocket: the radiation is much too close to his... well, you know... let's just say it's better for his fertility if he doesn't keep his cell phone in his pocket. I hope I'm not being too indiscreet..." she smiles conspiratorially at the young man.
"No, no, of course not," he murmurs as he starts to back away, his cheeks bright pink. I try not to laugh as he mumbles something about his colleague being more qualified...
Moments later, a no-nonsense, infallibly polite Parisienne has seated us in front of her desk and seems prepared to field any and all questions and comments about mattresses, cell phones, pregnancy, and whatever else might come up. I figure she will be unlikely to need my help and crack open the paperback I've been carrying around for just such an occasion. The woman pauses in her list of mattress-varieties to give me a reproachful Look: you crude foreigner. How can you even think of reading when you're having such a nice outing with your charming grandmother. Young people these days!
Yes, well. Filial piety is all well and good in theory, but she hasn't even been speaking to my grandmother for five minutes yet.
I look up about twenty pages later. "... because of my pelvis, you see. Children, you know. You know that before I had my daughter, my pelvis was in perfectly good shape and I was studying fine arts. I did sculpture, and painting, and ink drawings, you know. But then my husband got me pregnant and he wouldn't let me continue school, and now when it rains, my bones..."
I smile to myself and go back to my book.
Another few pages later, I am wrenched back out of my book by a sharp jab to the ribs.
"Because my granddaughter here refuses to have a hip x-ray done, right?" I nod automatically and glance up at the saleslady as my grandmother cackles merrily. The saleslady's eyes are looking a bit glazed, and her mouth is hanging slightly open as she continues to nod occasionally.
"Have you had an x-ray done, Madame?" asks my grandmother solicitously, peering under the desk at the poor woman's legs. "Also you should get a blood test to get your sugar checked. Now, I'm lucky, because even though I have a lot of cholesterol, it's mostly good cholesterol. My son, on the other hand, has very high blood sugar. Practically diabetic. So we told him to eat less sugar, but lately he looks positively scrawny... I think his wife is probably starving him. I never really trusted that woman anyway..."
The saleslady doesn't react except to nod vaguely, so my grandmother thumps her cane for emphasis. I repress a snort of laughter and go back to the book.
The next time I look up, another good twenty pages later, my grandmother is spiritedly recounting the story of the time during the war when she biked from Paris to Lyonne alone with only a sack of oranges which she planned to either eat or use to clout any bothersome Germans. Perhaps it's time to intervene. Anyway, the saleslady is staring at me imploringly. Sure, I want to say, *now* you want my help.
But I am getting hungry and eventually the store will be closing, so I hustle my grandmother through several mattress-related choices. We only spend about five minutes on each issue, so that's good, anyway. For example: white or cream? I don't really see how it can possibly matter, given that mattresses are generally covered with sheets and things, but whatever. I am past caring.
My grandmother is still advising the woman not to give personal information or, indeed, any significant kind of information over the phone, because you never know who could be listening, as we get back on the elevator. I breath a sigh of relief. But no. We are not done. "I just need to stop in the Fnac (a bookstore like Borders or the Feltrinelli) and..." I tune her out, trying to locate my sanity and drag it out of wherever it is hiding.
We step out of the elevator in the basement and she grabs the sleeve of the nearest available salesperson. Jean-Pierre, his tag reads. Poor Jean-Pierre.
"I saw this great program on tv the other day," my grandmother begins. Great. "On channel five," she clarifies, "about African music."
The sales guy nods expectantly.
"Did you see it?" she asks conversationally.
"Um..." he says, and finally: "well, I don't watch tv much..."
"Ah, beh, vous avez tort," she informs him, "channel five does a lot of great programs. I saw one about Thailand the other day that-"
"The CD," I remind her, through gritted teeth.
"Yes, I'd like to buy the CD of the singer I saw on tv. I don't remember his name, exactly, but I drew a sketch of him..." she roots through her purse and finally pulls out a used envelope on the back of which, effectivement, she has sketched a rather vague portrait of what is evidently a singer. Another sales guy has joined the first and they look at the envelope together.
"Ah, oui, beh, vous dessinez bien, dites-donc, Madame," comments one (you draw really well). Bad move, buddy. Insert entire monologue on les Beaux Arts (prestigious fine arts school) and how she met her husband there, and wrapping up with my mother and the pelvis. Both sales guys look back and forth from me to her in disbelief. I am just about to wander off and throw myself under a bus when she shoves the envelope into my hands, to facilitate illustrative gesturing. I turn it over.
"Is this the guy's name?" I ask, pointing to a scribbled, African-looking name in the corner.
"Ah, mais oui! Voila! My granddaughter's very smart, you know!" crows my grandmother, "but you can't have her, because she lives far away. In America. Except for a while she lived in Italy, but..." Now I really want to throw myself under a bus. Nonetheless, the two guys flash me grateful smiles and turn around to investigate on the computer, in the shelves... anywhere that lets them laugh out of our sight.
"Okay, and which album will you be wanting? He has nine," announces one upon returning. My grandmother looks at him as if he were daft. I absently take a sip from my bottle of Vittel. This should be funny.
"Well, the one I saw on tv, of course."
I try to choke discreetly. My grandmother thwacks me enthusiastically on the back with a shopping bag, and I narrowly miss falling over the clerks' desk. Sadly, I am still conscious. However, the slightly older clerk returns and apparently decides to take the situation in hand.
"When did you see the program?"
"On February 5th. I remember because it was the day before I called my niece to tell her about-"
"Well then it was probably this album," he says confidently, thrusting one (probably at random) at her.
"Oh? How do you know?"
"Because of the internet," I interrupt. I give the guy a Look. Bringing up the internet is a risky move, because on one hand, she doesn't understand it at all, so you can use it to explain all kinds of things, but on the other hand, she still firmly believes that it sucks young children in and causes them to be kidnapped, murdered and dumped in creeks, and that it is thus Evil. In any case, the guy appears to have caught on.
"Oui, voila, c'est ca (yes, right, that's it). I researched it on the internet." My grandmother is more or less pacified, and this guy and I are clearly a great team. I should probably marry him.
She spends the entirety of the way home harranguing me about the evils of the internet and all of the stories she's seen on the news about children getting murdered/kidnapped/raped/stabbed/abandoned by their parents/eaten by dogs/impaled on wrought-iron fences "comme le fils de Romy Schneider" (I wish I were making it up, but I'm pretty sure she actually remembers every single unfortunate incident involving children, all the way back to Romy Schneider's son, who, apparently, died as a result of an injury obtained while climbing over a fence.) Meanwhile, I spend the bus-ride home thinking that someone should write a book about her. (My grandmother, I mean. Probably someone has already written a book about Romy Schneider.)
PS. It should be noted that I do love my grandmother. And I know she's great. But sometimes you have to laugh in order to stave off the urge to slit your wrists with a ballpoint pen in the department store bathroom.
"It's very important for your health, you know - how moelleux (soft) the mattress is. If it's too soft, you will sink in and your backbone will not be properly aligned while you sleep, but if it's too firm, you will get sore. For example, my back gets sore. And my pelvis. Especially since I had your mother!" my grandmother wraps up her lecture on mattress firmness with a fun fact as we step out of the elevator onto the home furnishings floor.
I nod and sigh (I've already been with her all morning and I'm nearing the end of my patience) and let my eyes drift slowly out of focus as she flips her cane upside down and uses the handle to prod the nearest mattress.
"Too soft!" she proclaims loudly. A pregnant woman nearby makes the mistake of looking up.
"Yes, too soft," repeats my grandmother authoritatively, "especially for you, Miss. Now, when you have your baby, do you plan to let it sleep in the bed with you? Because, you know, children can suffocate very easily. Can you imagine? Especially when you're very tired, you could easily just roll over and... if the mattress is too soft... I tell my granddaughter this all the time - she has two small children, you know - but she doesn't listen. I just hope... little Pierre..." she trails off mournfully, although it should be noted that little Pierre is, to the best of my knowledge, still in perfectly good health. The young woman pulls out a cell phone and turns away. I don't blame her.
However, I happen to know my grandmother's stance on pregnant women and cell phones, so I attempt to distract her by asking her opinion of another mattress (too firm). In vain. She snags the nearest sales assistant, a guy who doesn't look much older than me. I bring my eyes into focus just long enough to size him up. He looks far too nice. He's no match for her.
"Young man!" she begins emphatically. "Now, I know it's none of my business (no kidding), but, perhaps, being a member of the staff, it would be more appropriate for you to tell her..."
He raises his eyebrows, clearly perplexed.
"Well, someone should explain to that young woman that it's not a good idea to use a cell phone while she's pregnant - the radiation, you know: it could damage the fetus. I saw a program on tv..."
I cut her off, suggesting that perhaps the young man doesn't need to know what she saw on tv, given that his job is just to sell mattresses.
"Nonsense!" she interrupts, thumping her cane emphatically on the floor. "My granddaughter here thinks a lot of what I say is ridiculous, but she's too young! She doesn't know. I've been through the war, you know. And anyway," she turns to me, "the young man does need to know about this program. It was a very good program, very informative. For example, monsieur here should really not keep his cell phone in his pocket: the radiation is much too close to his... well, you know... let's just say it's better for his fertility if he doesn't keep his cell phone in his pocket. I hope I'm not being too indiscreet..." she smiles conspiratorially at the young man.
"No, no, of course not," he murmurs as he starts to back away, his cheeks bright pink. I try not to laugh as he mumbles something about his colleague being more qualified...
Moments later, a no-nonsense, infallibly polite Parisienne has seated us in front of her desk and seems prepared to field any and all questions and comments about mattresses, cell phones, pregnancy, and whatever else might come up. I figure she will be unlikely to need my help and crack open the paperback I've been carrying around for just such an occasion. The woman pauses in her list of mattress-varieties to give me a reproachful Look: you crude foreigner. How can you even think of reading when you're having such a nice outing with your charming grandmother. Young people these days!
Yes, well. Filial piety is all well and good in theory, but she hasn't even been speaking to my grandmother for five minutes yet.
I look up about twenty pages later. "... because of my pelvis, you see. Children, you know. You know that before I had my daughter, my pelvis was in perfectly good shape and I was studying fine arts. I did sculpture, and painting, and ink drawings, you know. But then my husband got me pregnant and he wouldn't let me continue school, and now when it rains, my bones..."
I smile to myself and go back to my book.
Another few pages later, I am wrenched back out of my book by a sharp jab to the ribs.
"Because my granddaughter here refuses to have a hip x-ray done, right?" I nod automatically and glance up at the saleslady as my grandmother cackles merrily. The saleslady's eyes are looking a bit glazed, and her mouth is hanging slightly open as she continues to nod occasionally.
"Have you had an x-ray done, Madame?" asks my grandmother solicitously, peering under the desk at the poor woman's legs. "Also you should get a blood test to get your sugar checked. Now, I'm lucky, because even though I have a lot of cholesterol, it's mostly good cholesterol. My son, on the other hand, has very high blood sugar. Practically diabetic. So we told him to eat less sugar, but lately he looks positively scrawny... I think his wife is probably starving him. I never really trusted that woman anyway..."
The saleslady doesn't react except to nod vaguely, so my grandmother thumps her cane for emphasis. I repress a snort of laughter and go back to the book.
The next time I look up, another good twenty pages later, my grandmother is spiritedly recounting the story of the time during the war when she biked from Paris to Lyonne alone with only a sack of oranges which she planned to either eat or use to clout any bothersome Germans. Perhaps it's time to intervene. Anyway, the saleslady is staring at me imploringly. Sure, I want to say, *now* you want my help.
But I am getting hungry and eventually the store will be closing, so I hustle my grandmother through several mattress-related choices. We only spend about five minutes on each issue, so that's good, anyway. For example: white or cream? I don't really see how it can possibly matter, given that mattresses are generally covered with sheets and things, but whatever. I am past caring.
My grandmother is still advising the woman not to give personal information or, indeed, any significant kind of information over the phone, because you never know who could be listening, as we get back on the elevator. I breath a sigh of relief. But no. We are not done. "I just need to stop in the Fnac (a bookstore like Borders or the Feltrinelli) and..." I tune her out, trying to locate my sanity and drag it out of wherever it is hiding.
We step out of the elevator in the basement and she grabs the sleeve of the nearest available salesperson. Jean-Pierre, his tag reads. Poor Jean-Pierre.
"I saw this great program on tv the other day," my grandmother begins. Great. "On channel five," she clarifies, "about African music."
The sales guy nods expectantly.
"Did you see it?" she asks conversationally.
"Um..." he says, and finally: "well, I don't watch tv much..."
"Ah, beh, vous avez tort," she informs him, "channel five does a lot of great programs. I saw one about Thailand the other day that-"
"The CD," I remind her, through gritted teeth.
"Yes, I'd like to buy the CD of the singer I saw on tv. I don't remember his name, exactly, but I drew a sketch of him..." she roots through her purse and finally pulls out a used envelope on the back of which, effectivement, she has sketched a rather vague portrait of what is evidently a singer. Another sales guy has joined the first and they look at the envelope together.
"Ah, oui, beh, vous dessinez bien, dites-donc, Madame," comments one (you draw really well). Bad move, buddy. Insert entire monologue on les Beaux Arts (prestigious fine arts school) and how she met her husband there, and wrapping up with my mother and the pelvis. Both sales guys look back and forth from me to her in disbelief. I am just about to wander off and throw myself under a bus when she shoves the envelope into my hands, to facilitate illustrative gesturing. I turn it over.
"Is this the guy's name?" I ask, pointing to a scribbled, African-looking name in the corner.
"Ah, mais oui! Voila! My granddaughter's very smart, you know!" crows my grandmother, "but you can't have her, because she lives far away. In America. Except for a while she lived in Italy, but..." Now I really want to throw myself under a bus. Nonetheless, the two guys flash me grateful smiles and turn around to investigate on the computer, in the shelves... anywhere that lets them laugh out of our sight.
"Okay, and which album will you be wanting? He has nine," announces one upon returning. My grandmother looks at him as if he were daft. I absently take a sip from my bottle of Vittel. This should be funny.
"Well, the one I saw on tv, of course."
I try to choke discreetly. My grandmother thwacks me enthusiastically on the back with a shopping bag, and I narrowly miss falling over the clerks' desk. Sadly, I am still conscious. However, the slightly older clerk returns and apparently decides to take the situation in hand.
"When did you see the program?"
"On February 5th. I remember because it was the day before I called my niece to tell her about-"
"Well then it was probably this album," he says confidently, thrusting one (probably at random) at her.
"Oh? How do you know?"
"Because of the internet," I interrupt. I give the guy a Look. Bringing up the internet is a risky move, because on one hand, she doesn't understand it at all, so you can use it to explain all kinds of things, but on the other hand, she still firmly believes that it sucks young children in and causes them to be kidnapped, murdered and dumped in creeks, and that it is thus Evil. In any case, the guy appears to have caught on.
"Oui, voila, c'est ca (yes, right, that's it). I researched it on the internet." My grandmother is more or less pacified, and this guy and I are clearly a great team. I should probably marry him.
She spends the entirety of the way home harranguing me about the evils of the internet and all of the stories she's seen on the news about children getting murdered/kidnapped/raped/stabbed/abandoned by their parents/eaten by dogs/impaled on wrought-iron fences "comme le fils de Romy Schneider" (I wish I were making it up, but I'm pretty sure she actually remembers every single unfortunate incident involving children, all the way back to Romy Schneider's son, who, apparently, died as a result of an injury obtained while climbing over a fence.) Meanwhile, I spend the bus-ride home thinking that someone should write a book about her. (My grandmother, I mean. Probably someone has already written a book about Romy Schneider.)
PS. It should be noted that I do love my grandmother. And I know she's great. But sometimes you have to laugh in order to stave off the urge to slit your wrists with a ballpoint pen in the department store bathroom.
Thursday, August 13
In Paris: stuff that they've changed
They re-painted the front of the boulangerie (purple and black? really?).
The people who run the charcuterie are retiring after 23 years. 23 years! This means that, although I can't remember it, they have been open and feeding us for as long as I have been alive. What are we supposed to eat around here if they leave?
They did something to the locks in the building doors and now they make odd repetitive clicky sounds when I punch the code in. It makes me jump, every time.
They had the whole inside of the post office re-done. Now it is shiny and white and all ergonomic-looking. I say 'looking' because it actually does not seem to be any more efficient or any more comfortable than before. Instead of all that nonsense, they should have invested in air conditioning. Or even just a decent ventilation system.
The crepe guy that used to stand outside the shopping center in the Place d'Italie is *gone*. And some North African guy has taken his place and now apparently sells crepes and falafel. From the same stand. I have nothing against North Africans. Or falafel, for that matter, but it's a bit disconcerting all the same.
Also, they changed the supermarket in the basement of the shopping center from a Champion to a Carrefour and re-arranged the interior to make it, if possible, even more confusing than it used to be. Now, not only can you not find what you're looking for, but you also can't necessarily find the exit. Awkward.
Someone moved the sink in our kitchen. Presumably to make room for that weird stove. It is still disorienting, and also I'm still scared of the stove. I bumped into it yesterday and it beeped in a warning tone of voice (yeah, probably I just imagined the tone of voice) and made flashing red numbers.
On the bright side, my cousin has informed me that we young people can go to the cinema for 3.90 all summer. Now I must just find someone to drag there with me, and then I can be all caught up on contemporary culture.
Also, my hand is no longer puffy. Now it's just vaguely purple and sad. I figure as long as it doesn't turn black and fall off, it's probably fine.
Anyway. Perhaps if the sun comes out I will go read in the Tuileries. I had found a very nice bench there the last time I was here, although I don't really remember where it was, now. Whatever.
The people who run the charcuterie are retiring after 23 years. 23 years! This means that, although I can't remember it, they have been open and feeding us for as long as I have been alive. What are we supposed to eat around here if they leave?
They did something to the locks in the building doors and now they make odd repetitive clicky sounds when I punch the code in. It makes me jump, every time.
They had the whole inside of the post office re-done. Now it is shiny and white and all ergonomic-looking. I say 'looking' because it actually does not seem to be any more efficient or any more comfortable than before. Instead of all that nonsense, they should have invested in air conditioning. Or even just a decent ventilation system.
The crepe guy that used to stand outside the shopping center in the Place d'Italie is *gone*. And some North African guy has taken his place and now apparently sells crepes and falafel. From the same stand. I have nothing against North Africans. Or falafel, for that matter, but it's a bit disconcerting all the same.
Also, they changed the supermarket in the basement of the shopping center from a Champion to a Carrefour and re-arranged the interior to make it, if possible, even more confusing than it used to be. Now, not only can you not find what you're looking for, but you also can't necessarily find the exit. Awkward.
Someone moved the sink in our kitchen. Presumably to make room for that weird stove. It is still disorienting, and also I'm still scared of the stove. I bumped into it yesterday and it beeped in a warning tone of voice (yeah, probably I just imagined the tone of voice) and made flashing red numbers.
On the bright side, my cousin has informed me that we young people can go to the cinema for 3.90 all summer. Now I must just find someone to drag there with me, and then I can be all caught up on contemporary culture.
Also, my hand is no longer puffy. Now it's just vaguely purple and sad. I figure as long as it doesn't turn black and fall off, it's probably fine.
Anyway. Perhaps if the sun comes out I will go read in the Tuileries. I had found a very nice bench there the last time I was here, although I don't really remember where it was, now. Whatever.
Wednesday, August 12
Things that I miss
People speaking Italian. (Still.) French is not bad to listen to either, but I'm dreading walking into immigration in Newark. That lady who stands in the middle and screeches 'immigrants to the left! citizens and permanent residents to the right!' makes me want to stab pencils into my eardrums.
The piazze, the via Emilia, via Calderini, and via Andreoli... and a bunch of others... even if the cobblestones were definitely trying to kill me.
The big blocks of Parmigiano Reggiano in the supermarket. I didn't actually buy any very often, but it was nice that it was there. Here there is only pre-grated grana padano. I checked.
Sitting on the steps of the duomo to work on applications. Doing them here in the kitchen is not quite the same. Especially because my mother seems to have put in this weird stove that cooks by induction (or something) since I was last here. I am scared that it will either blow up the apartment or emit radiation and rearrange my DNA. (And now we know why I almost failed physics.)
Reading in those weird orange chairs in front of the theater and watching little kids play in the fountain.
Caffe macchiato. Although seeing that in writing makes me remember that starbucks has something called that. I may possibly throw up if I hear someone order one. Perhaps I just won't go in starbucks when I get home.
The 'Reggio Emilia' sign in the train station. I really enjoy whatever font that is, with the bubbly-dotted 'i's.
Libreria all'Arco. Enough said.
Rucola. Particularly on my pizza.
Opening my shutters every morning to see the vescovado and people cycling past down below. And looking at San Prospero's campanile every night before closing them again.
On the bright side... finished applications yesterday. Oh, except Newark. But do I really want to go to Newark? No. I would likely get shot in Newark. Or so depressed that I would shoot myself. So... pretty much finished applications. Which is nice because I'm all kinds of bored with them. Medicine, you are kind of silly, you know that? You make it such a pain in the arse to get there that, having almost arrived, I kind of almost don't want it anymore... which could turn out to be a good thing, because I've already had one rejection. 17 more like that and the 'should I be a doctor' dilemma won't be a problem anymore...
The piazze, the via Emilia, via Calderini, and via Andreoli... and a bunch of others... even if the cobblestones were definitely trying to kill me.
The big blocks of Parmigiano Reggiano in the supermarket. I didn't actually buy any very often, but it was nice that it was there. Here there is only pre-grated grana padano. I checked.
Sitting on the steps of the duomo to work on applications. Doing them here in the kitchen is not quite the same. Especially because my mother seems to have put in this weird stove that cooks by induction (or something) since I was last here. I am scared that it will either blow up the apartment or emit radiation and rearrange my DNA. (And now we know why I almost failed physics.)
Reading in those weird orange chairs in front of the theater and watching little kids play in the fountain.
Caffe macchiato. Although seeing that in writing makes me remember that starbucks has something called that. I may possibly throw up if I hear someone order one. Perhaps I just won't go in starbucks when I get home.
The 'Reggio Emilia' sign in the train station. I really enjoy whatever font that is, with the bubbly-dotted 'i's.
Libreria all'Arco. Enough said.
Rucola. Particularly on my pizza.
Opening my shutters every morning to see the vescovado and people cycling past down below. And looking at San Prospero's campanile every night before closing them again.
On the bright side... finished applications yesterday. Oh, except Newark. But do I really want to go to Newark? No. I would likely get shot in Newark. Or so depressed that I would shoot myself. So... pretty much finished applications. Which is nice because I'm all kinds of bored with them. Medicine, you are kind of silly, you know that? You make it such a pain in the arse to get there that, having almost arrived, I kind of almost don't want it anymore... which could turn out to be a good thing, because I've already had one rejection. 17 more like that and the 'should I be a doctor' dilemma won't be a problem anymore...
Sunday, August 9
In Paris
I have so far walked into the boulangerie on three separate occasions thinking 'crap, I still don't know how to say baguette in Italian' before realizing that it is not relevant, given that I am not in Italy anymore and they don't have baguettes there anyway.
I also went to the supermarket and got all excited because they had Santa Lucia mozzarella. I never even bought that in Reggio, so that particular emotion made no sense.
Then I practically jumped out of my skin (from shock) when I walked past this guy and he answered his cell phone in French. I mean, I'd just been speaking French with the boulangere two seconds before that, but apparently that whole conversation didn't register.
Oh, except for the part where she called me 'madame', which is unfortunate, especially given that I'm even wearing my chubby, full of Italian food face that should, in theory, make me look like a child. Funny how it's so exciting when they start calling you 'vous' instead of 'tu' when you're about fourteen years old, but the switch from 'mademoiselle' to 'madame' is just a whole other story. Perhaps it's actually a very subtle way for them to establish their superiority over my sorry American self: we can make you feel like crap and be impeccably polite, all in the same sentence!
Clearly I'm in a sparkly shiny mood over here in frog-land. It's all very disorienting, though. I haven't quite switched languages in my head yet, and I don't want to because I'm afraid the Italian will go away and never come back. Here there are no zanzare but there are huge flies. And no one is speaking Italian. I thought about going to sit near Notre Dame and waiting for some Italian tourists to walk by, but then that would be rather pathetic. Oh, and speaking of sitting outside, someone should inform Paris that August is meant to be part of the summertime. What's up with this seventy degrees nonsense?
In other news, all of my arm muscles are sore, as well as some in my back. (Who even knew there were muscles in the crook of your elbow? Hm. My medical career is off to a great start.) This means that my suitcases are really heavy or I am really weak. I'm inclined to think the latter. Also, I don't think all the business with the dragging of the suitcases to the train station agreed with my left hand a whole lot, because now it is all puffy and sad. This is alternately funny (because of the puffiness) and unfortunate (because it kind of hurts). Oh, well. Who needs those tendons (or whatever), anyway, right? (Again with the medical knowledge.) All the same, next time I think I will try to remember to look up the phone number for taxis before I disconnect the electricity.
I also went to the supermarket and got all excited because they had Santa Lucia mozzarella. I never even bought that in Reggio, so that particular emotion made no sense.
Then I practically jumped out of my skin (from shock) when I walked past this guy and he answered his cell phone in French. I mean, I'd just been speaking French with the boulangere two seconds before that, but apparently that whole conversation didn't register.
Oh, except for the part where she called me 'madame', which is unfortunate, especially given that I'm even wearing my chubby, full of Italian food face that should, in theory, make me look like a child. Funny how it's so exciting when they start calling you 'vous' instead of 'tu' when you're about fourteen years old, but the switch from 'mademoiselle' to 'madame' is just a whole other story. Perhaps it's actually a very subtle way for them to establish their superiority over my sorry American self: we can make you feel like crap and be impeccably polite, all in the same sentence!
Clearly I'm in a sparkly shiny mood over here in frog-land. It's all very disorienting, though. I haven't quite switched languages in my head yet, and I don't want to because I'm afraid the Italian will go away and never come back. Here there are no zanzare but there are huge flies. And no one is speaking Italian. I thought about going to sit near Notre Dame and waiting for some Italian tourists to walk by, but then that would be rather pathetic. Oh, and speaking of sitting outside, someone should inform Paris that August is meant to be part of the summertime. What's up with this seventy degrees nonsense?
In other news, all of my arm muscles are sore, as well as some in my back. (Who even knew there were muscles in the crook of your elbow? Hm. My medical career is off to a great start.) This means that my suitcases are really heavy or I am really weak. I'm inclined to think the latter. Also, I don't think all the business with the dragging of the suitcases to the train station agreed with my left hand a whole lot, because now it is all puffy and sad. This is alternately funny (because of the puffiness) and unfortunate (because it kind of hurts). Oh, well. Who needs those tendons (or whatever), anyway, right? (Again with the medical knowledge.) All the same, next time I think I will try to remember to look up the phone number for taxis before I disconnect the electricity.
Saturday, August 8
Sigh
"Ma sei ancora qua? Non sei andata in ferie?" asks the cashier. I look up at her. Effetivamente, I have seen her before (actually, ormai I recognize all of the ones at the ex-Standa and most of the ones at the Conad on via Adua), but I'm fairly certain we have never talked before. Evidently they pay more attention to us customers than vice versa. Also it's kind of a tricky question...
"Beh... I'm going home, actually..." I respond after a moment of thought. She frowns slightly, apparently trying to figure this out. "Sono americana," I clarify.
"Ahhh," she responds. I briefly wonder if she had all along thought I was just a particularly stupid Italian person, since it took me a month to figure out what "ce l'hai, la tessera?" and "vuoi un sacchetto?" mean. ('Have you got the card' and 'do you want a bag', respectively. The first refers to a membership card that gives you points or something - no, non ce l'ho - and the second to the fact that here you pay for your plastic bags.)
A brief conversation ensues, in which we establish that I am/was a teacher here, I also speak English (I figured this would be a given what with being American and all, but apparently not), that she's just been to Spain on vacation, and that I'm leaving tomorrow morning. The person behind me is showing signs of irritation.
"Ma poi torni, vero?" she finally asks. I shrug. I don't really feel up to explaining about the if-I-get-enough-interviews-to-get-into-a-school-by-December-I-can-come-back-in-January situation, and so I respond with a vague negative.
"Maddai! No!" she seems genuinely upset. I find this vaguely odd, but also kind of touching.
I'm kind of smiling as I walk out. The bells are ringing. There are not one, but two accordian players in via Toschi, both playing Strauss (not especially well, but still). Both piazze are full of market stalls and baby carriages and chattering people. Bits and pieces of conversation in Italian and in dialect float past.
I think my colleagues who abandoned ship in February had the right idea - Reggio would have been a lot easier to leave when it was chilly and gloomy and covered in nebbia (fog) and I caught some virus or other every Tuesday morning in the materna classes. Now that it's sunny and beautiful and even a random cashier appears to be distressed by my leaving. Can't say that you're making it easy for me, Reggio.
On that note... I think I've done pretty much everything possible to put off actually finishing with the packing and cleaning, so... I guess I'd better do that. I also discovered another spider in a corner, which brings the total up to three, so that right there could take an hour or two to deal with. Sigh.
Intanto... per gennaio... speriamo, veh?
"Beh... I'm going home, actually..." I respond after a moment of thought. She frowns slightly, apparently trying to figure this out. "Sono americana," I clarify.
"Ahhh," she responds. I briefly wonder if she had all along thought I was just a particularly stupid Italian person, since it took me a month to figure out what "ce l'hai, la tessera?" and "vuoi un sacchetto?" mean. ('Have you got the card' and 'do you want a bag', respectively. The first refers to a membership card that gives you points or something - no, non ce l'ho - and the second to the fact that here you pay for your plastic bags.)
A brief conversation ensues, in which we establish that I am/was a teacher here, I also speak English (I figured this would be a given what with being American and all, but apparently not), that she's just been to Spain on vacation, and that I'm leaving tomorrow morning. The person behind me is showing signs of irritation.
"Ma poi torni, vero?" she finally asks. I shrug. I don't really feel up to explaining about the if-I-get-enough-interviews-to-get-into-a-school-by-December-I-can-come-back-in-January situation, and so I respond with a vague negative.
"Maddai! No!" she seems genuinely upset. I find this vaguely odd, but also kind of touching.
I'm kind of smiling as I walk out. The bells are ringing. There are not one, but two accordian players in via Toschi, both playing Strauss (not especially well, but still). Both piazze are full of market stalls and baby carriages and chattering people. Bits and pieces of conversation in Italian and in dialect float past.
I think my colleagues who abandoned ship in February had the right idea - Reggio would have been a lot easier to leave when it was chilly and gloomy and covered in nebbia (fog) and I caught some virus or other every Tuesday morning in the materna classes. Now that it's sunny and beautiful and even a random cashier appears to be distressed by my leaving. Can't say that you're making it easy for me, Reggio.
On that note... I think I've done pretty much everything possible to put off actually finishing with the packing and cleaning, so... I guess I'd better do that. I also discovered another spider in a corner, which brings the total up to three, so that right there could take an hour or two to deal with. Sigh.
Intanto... per gennaio... speriamo, veh?
Thursday, August 6
That one time with the suitcase
So, there are lots of things I should be doing, including packing, taking out the recycling (this would facilitate the packing because then I would be able to walk in our hallway without dying), and med school applications. But the applications are just so god-awfully boring that I'm resurrecting my mad procrastination skills instead. In honor of the (theoretical) packing, I shall tell you the fun not very interesting story of the time I lugged the world's largest suitcase around half of Italy.
(Actually it was just Bologna, but whatever.)
"Okay, so you're just about at the weight limit, there," proclaims the lady at the airport check-in desk. My mother and brother are going home after their salto in Italy (see Viareggio story), and we have devised a crafty plan for having them take some of my stuff back with them, thereby ensuring that I am physically able to lift everything that remains behind. Which will be useful for when I have to convey it all home by myself. It is an excellent plan. And we fit under the weight limit. Huzzah!
The check-in lady looks pointedly at the large red suitcase against which I am still comfortably leaning (that's how large it is).
"What are you planning to do with that one?"
Crap.
The over-the-limit fee is ridiculous, and she recommends that I have it shipped by the cargo office. This seems like a good suggestion. I assure my mother that I will be fine to carry it by myself. Ormai I am a strong and independent young woman, right? Sort of. It transpires that I have zero muscles and am somewhat overpowered by 20 kilos of suitcase. Sigh. Must remember to do some physical exercise every once in a while.
Anyway, I bring it to three different offices labeled "cargo/merce" or something of that nature. Finally I hit on the right one. It is on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator, which seems like poor planning to me.
"Ma, sei sicura? You definitely want to send it to Paris?" Yes. "But why?" I'm not sure it's any of his business, but I explain anyway. If nothing else, it's good practice for my Italian story-telling abilities. Either way, it turns out it's very expensive to ship it that way.
"Magari con la posta si spende meno...?" I inquire, using my best help-me-I'm-foreign voice. (Maybe it's cheaper by mail)
"Eh, si, certo, but how are you going to get it to the post office?" I am touched by his concern.
"Well, I'll take the bus back to Bologna and then find a post office..."
He raises his eyebrows doubtfully.
"Well, what time do the post offices close?" I ask, since I appear to still have his attention (perhaps he's bored).
"Beh, verso le quattro, ma... no, no, non ce la fai. E' troppo pesante and probably you won't even find a post office." I elect to be touched by this rather than offended... with difficulty, because what kind of moron can't even find the post office?
Anyway. Me and the suitcase make our way back to the main part of the airport. Back to the bus. Onto the bus. Back to the train station. And to tourist information.
Apparently there are many post offices in Bologna, but none of the people in tourist information seem to be sure where they are located or what the hours are. (I mean, they only live here, but whatever...) Finally, someone is almost positive that there is one that is open di sicuro all the way down via Oberdan to piazza something or other (I don't remember, but it was far).
The suitcase and I make our way there. It is a long and sweaty half hour of walking. I had never noticed how warm Bologna was in mid-July. Boo.
Yes! Post office! I haul Red up the stairs and put myself in the line. People look at me funny. I'm not sure if it is because I'm all gross-looking, or because I just rolled a suitcase into a post office.
"Ce l'hai, la tessera?" some old lady asks me. This is disconcerting. Usually they only ask me that in supermarkets. I shake my head no. She explains that this is "PostaBusiness" or something, and you can only come here if you are a business (?) and have the tessera (card). Regular people have to go around to the other side of the building. Ah. Indeed.
I dutifully go around, take a ticket, and try not to have a seizure with all the bleeping numbers and screens and flashing lights.
"Oh, pero'!" exclaims the post office employee after I have lifted the thing onto the scale in response to her request to weigh whatever my "package" is. (That, by the way, counts as my physical activity for the next month, at least.)
"But why do you want to send that to Paris? Are you sure?" asks the lady. Usually I find it charming that Italian people like to ask personal questions. Today it's getting old. I grit my teeth and respond.
"Ma, mica la puoi spedire cosi', sai," comments one of her colleagues, a middle aged lady at the next desk, "you have to wrap it up in brown paper."
Oh.
Also, they don't have any brown paper. They recommend a cartoleria where brown paper can be procured and grant me permission to leave the suitcase with them in the meantime. (This is good, because otherwise I was totally planning on ditching it somewhere. Basta with the carrying around of the suitcase and the sweat dribbling annoyingly down my back. Who needs those winter clothes, anyway?)
Upon my return, I squat down in a corner of the post office and proceed to wrap the thing up in brown paper. I am no engineer and also have zero real-life type skills, and both of these facts are evident in the finished product. I scribble the address on it in black marker and the effect is complete: it is a miracle I passed first grade.
"You know," comments the younger woman as they help me and my wiggly arms get the suitcase back onto the scale, "if you had taken out 500 grams, we could have sent it in a different class and it would have cost half as much." Indeed. I eye the suitcase, thoroughly (if messily) strapped up in crooked post-office tape. I look back at her. I do not know how to say "now you tell me" in Italian. Perhaps it's for the best.
The older one seems to sense that, language-abilities permitting, that could've been anwkward moment. "You know," she says contemplatively as I hand over the money, "I love Paris. My dream is to sell everything and go to Paris to be a flower seller."
"Ah, si?" is all I can manage. (I mean, think about it: what is the appropriate response there?)
She takes this as an invitation to elaborate and even shares her dream with the customer at the next desk over. By the time the suitcase has been sent into the back room for processing, we are all chatting companionably about which district of Paris would be the best place to sell flowers, and what kind she should sell.
"Buon viaggio, allora," they call after me as I leave. I feel smiling and re-energized, despite the fact that it is 6:30 and me and the suitcase have been at it since circa le 2:00. In a moment of craziness, I decide that this would be a good time to attempt the climb to the Madonna di San Luca (it's a path of 666 portici that takes you to the top of a big hill). I am a bit bleary by the time I reach the top, and also it is closed. Boo.
Probably Italy is a little bit magic, though, because despite all that, I am still kind of smiley when I get back to the train station and think about the lady's flower selling scheme. I was a much grumpier person when I lived in America.
(Actually it was just Bologna, but whatever.)
"Okay, so you're just about at the weight limit, there," proclaims the lady at the airport check-in desk. My mother and brother are going home after their salto in Italy (see Viareggio story), and we have devised a crafty plan for having them take some of my stuff back with them, thereby ensuring that I am physically able to lift everything that remains behind. Which will be useful for when I have to convey it all home by myself. It is an excellent plan. And we fit under the weight limit. Huzzah!
The check-in lady looks pointedly at the large red suitcase against which I am still comfortably leaning (that's how large it is).
"What are you planning to do with that one?"
Crap.
The over-the-limit fee is ridiculous, and she recommends that I have it shipped by the cargo office. This seems like a good suggestion. I assure my mother that I will be fine to carry it by myself. Ormai I am a strong and independent young woman, right? Sort of. It transpires that I have zero muscles and am somewhat overpowered by 20 kilos of suitcase. Sigh. Must remember to do some physical exercise every once in a while.
Anyway, I bring it to three different offices labeled "cargo/merce" or something of that nature. Finally I hit on the right one. It is on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator, which seems like poor planning to me.
"Ma, sei sicura? You definitely want to send it to Paris?" Yes. "But why?" I'm not sure it's any of his business, but I explain anyway. If nothing else, it's good practice for my Italian story-telling abilities. Either way, it turns out it's very expensive to ship it that way.
"Magari con la posta si spende meno...?" I inquire, using my best help-me-I'm-foreign voice. (Maybe it's cheaper by mail)
"Eh, si, certo, but how are you going to get it to the post office?" I am touched by his concern.
"Well, I'll take the bus back to Bologna and then find a post office..."
He raises his eyebrows doubtfully.
"Well, what time do the post offices close?" I ask, since I appear to still have his attention (perhaps he's bored).
"Beh, verso le quattro, ma... no, no, non ce la fai. E' troppo pesante and probably you won't even find a post office." I elect to be touched by this rather than offended... with difficulty, because what kind of moron can't even find the post office?
Anyway. Me and the suitcase make our way back to the main part of the airport. Back to the bus. Onto the bus. Back to the train station. And to tourist information.
Apparently there are many post offices in Bologna, but none of the people in tourist information seem to be sure where they are located or what the hours are. (I mean, they only live here, but whatever...) Finally, someone is almost positive that there is one that is open di sicuro all the way down via Oberdan to piazza something or other (I don't remember, but it was far).
The suitcase and I make our way there. It is a long and sweaty half hour of walking. I had never noticed how warm Bologna was in mid-July. Boo.
Yes! Post office! I haul Red up the stairs and put myself in the line. People look at me funny. I'm not sure if it is because I'm all gross-looking, or because I just rolled a suitcase into a post office.
"Ce l'hai, la tessera?" some old lady asks me. This is disconcerting. Usually they only ask me that in supermarkets. I shake my head no. She explains that this is "PostaBusiness" or something, and you can only come here if you are a business (?) and have the tessera (card). Regular people have to go around to the other side of the building. Ah. Indeed.
I dutifully go around, take a ticket, and try not to have a seizure with all the bleeping numbers and screens and flashing lights.
"Oh, pero'!" exclaims the post office employee after I have lifted the thing onto the scale in response to her request to weigh whatever my "package" is. (That, by the way, counts as my physical activity for the next month, at least.)
"But why do you want to send that to Paris? Are you sure?" asks the lady. Usually I find it charming that Italian people like to ask personal questions. Today it's getting old. I grit my teeth and respond.
"Ma, mica la puoi spedire cosi', sai," comments one of her colleagues, a middle aged lady at the next desk, "you have to wrap it up in brown paper."
Oh.
Also, they don't have any brown paper. They recommend a cartoleria where brown paper can be procured and grant me permission to leave the suitcase with them in the meantime. (This is good, because otherwise I was totally planning on ditching it somewhere. Basta with the carrying around of the suitcase and the sweat dribbling annoyingly down my back. Who needs those winter clothes, anyway?)
Upon my return, I squat down in a corner of the post office and proceed to wrap the thing up in brown paper. I am no engineer and also have zero real-life type skills, and both of these facts are evident in the finished product. I scribble the address on it in black marker and the effect is complete: it is a miracle I passed first grade.
"You know," comments the younger woman as they help me and my wiggly arms get the suitcase back onto the scale, "if you had taken out 500 grams, we could have sent it in a different class and it would have cost half as much." Indeed. I eye the suitcase, thoroughly (if messily) strapped up in crooked post-office tape. I look back at her. I do not know how to say "now you tell me" in Italian. Perhaps it's for the best.
The older one seems to sense that, language-abilities permitting, that could've been anwkward moment. "You know," she says contemplatively as I hand over the money, "I love Paris. My dream is to sell everything and go to Paris to be a flower seller."
"Ah, si?" is all I can manage. (I mean, think about it: what is the appropriate response there?)
She takes this as an invitation to elaborate and even shares her dream with the customer at the next desk over. By the time the suitcase has been sent into the back room for processing, we are all chatting companionably about which district of Paris would be the best place to sell flowers, and what kind she should sell.
"Buon viaggio, allora," they call after me as I leave. I feel smiling and re-energized, despite the fact that it is 6:30 and me and the suitcase have been at it since circa le 2:00. In a moment of craziness, I decide that this would be a good time to attempt the climb to the Madonna di San Luca (it's a path of 666 portici that takes you to the top of a big hill). I am a bit bleary by the time I reach the top, and also it is closed. Boo.
Probably Italy is a little bit magic, though, because despite all that, I am still kind of smiley when I get back to the train station and think about the lady's flower selling scheme. I was a much grumpier person when I lived in America.
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