My interview clothes and I have a history together. I wore them to two research conferences as an undergrad. And also on the day I defended my thesis. Perhaps this is why they remind me of research, even though I've worn them to other job interviews more recently - most notably the one that got me my last job (*cough* position of indentured servitude). Anyway, after a year of lying dormant in Italy, Evil Competitive Pre-med Self is the one who stalks up the steps to the latest interview (confidence courtesy of said interview clothes) - without even tripping! huzzah! - with half-formed thoughts of methodology and p-values swimming vaguely in her brain.
I greet the lady at the door with a confident smile and a firm handshake. I take the seat she offers me and sit with my back as straight as it goes; while she leaves the room to get something, I skim idly through my resume and try to remember my stock responses for interview questions. There's the two-sentence research summary... the chronological volunteer-work history... Oh, look, and that time I was a supervisor at that other thing... better mention that. Leadership or whatever.
"So, what's your previous experience with children?" she asks upon her return.
I start with the most recent (indentured servitude) and then start to summarize the research thing, "... focusing on early cognitive development..." I'm fairly sure I lost her somewhere around the word cognitive, though, so I trail off slightly and then wrap it all up with a bright, "and some babysitting in high school!" She perks up. There we go.
"That's great," she says kind of vaguely, apparently still re-grouping, "uh-huh, so... " you can see she's thinking. It looks kind of painful. This is why when I interview people, I always think up the questions in advance. Or used to, anyway. When I interviewed people. Back when I had a real job. She breaks through my little daydream with her next question: "... do you know how to change diapers?"
She opens her eyes wide and looks at me expectantly. I must confess, I am somewhat taken aback. Does she really get that many people applying to work in a daycare who don't know how to change diapers? For that matter, there is nothing particularly complex about changing a diaper. I am pretty sure that most reasonably intelligent people would be able to figure it out if suddenly placed in a situation that urgently required them to do so.
"Uh... yes. Of course," I can't help adding.
"Great!" she enthuses, before beginning to shuffle through some paperwork.
I like kids. Really, I do. But sometimes, I miss some things about before - when I was a student and I had other jobs. Mostly, I miss having a job where people were impressed when you did something like, say, figure out a new way to analyze the data on SPSS (not that that happened to me very frequently) or churned out 10 pages in half as many hours (that did). People when being impressed when you confirm your ability to properly operate the sticky tabs on a diaper is just not the same.
Monday, September 7
Tuesday, September 1
You know what I really miss about Italy?
And it's not the food. Don't get me wrong - the lack of pizza/rucola/parmiggiano/crudo/etc. here is all kinds of tragic. But what I really miss right now is being a madrelingua inglese. It gives you access to your own little job market, one that you share only with the other expats (and even then - only expats that have the proper certification). Here negli Stati Uniti most of us speak English, and so that does not compel people to hire me, and this leads to an unfortunate state of affairs known as unemployment.
When you're in college, people tell you 'take classes that appeal to you! follow your interests!' and it's all very rosy. And depending on which college you go to, you can take some pretty cool stuff. For example, at my particular Prestigious Institution of Higher Learning you could take a language called Khmer (where do they even speak that?), a class called "Mystical Mushrooms and Magical Molds" (or something along those lines), spider biology, game theory, intro to wines (also intro to beers, but only if you passed intro to wines), and a whole slew of phys ed classes ranging from 'intro to swedish massage' to fencing and whatever you call it when people shoot guns. The thing is, though, that it doesn't always turn out to be very useful (for example, unless you go into entomology as a field, how many times in your life is knowing the circadian rhythm of a spider actually going to be of use?).
Which is fine. It's fine to have a lot of random useless knowledge. The problem is that it is also kind of good to have some practical, actually-applicable-to-something kind of knowledge, too. My father, in particular, feels very strongly about this.
"Well, it's because you have a useless degree," he informs me. We are conversing about my current (lack of) job options. "If you had learned something useful like, say, how to build a bridge, you wouldn't be in this situation."
I consider this. I am not really a bridge-building type of person.
"Or welding," he adds.
Welding? What, like with metal and fire and stuff?
"Yes, welding," he insists, even though I haven't spoken, "That's the problem these days: they don't teach you useful stuff like welding anymore."
Indeed. Well, I think it is safe to say that unless another world war breaks out and I am forced to take over from the menfolk because they have all joined the Navy, and work in a factory like Rosie the Riveter or whatever, I would probably never have considered a line of work that involved welding, anyway. And even in the World War III scenario, I probably would have volunteered for other, less fire-related jobs. Like growing turnips, or knitting socks. Darning socks. Whatever it is that one does with socks.
I must have raised my eyebrows or something because: "well, what have you learned how to do?" he challenges me. I think for a moment. Good question.
"Well, I can converse passably well in three foreign languages..." (okay, admittedly, I already knew one, so that's not very impressive and he knows it), "... and I know how to create transgenic mice... and how to calculate how much oxygen it would take to burn a certain amount of carbon... and I know Freud's opinion on a whole variety of topics... and the elements of a successful vaccine campaign..." in my head I am running through all of the myriad classes I crammed into my schedule as an undergrad, looking for something that he would think was useful (ability to comment on the significance of the Dance of the Seven Veils in "Salome"? no. extensive knowledge of the issue of maternal mortality in developing countries? meh. probably not. ability to tell you all about cognitive development and spatial relations? definitely no). I am getting a bit desperate, so I go for the next thing that comes to mind, "... also I can read medieval Catalan pretty well... even though I don't actually speak Catalan." Pfft. Nice work there, Self.
It's his turn to raise his eyebrows. He thinks for a moment.
"Maybe you should work for the CIA. You know, with the languages and stuff."
I reflect upon this. Yes. It would be kind of like in a Dan Brown book. Or like Indiana Jones, except not with the snakes and stuff. Or... something. Yeah, come to think of it... probably it would not be much like that at all.
And that's the trouble with my degree. I think it is because we are just a little too theoretical, over at [Prestigious Institute of Higher Learning]. It's not that our degrees are in completely useless subjects (I, for one, did not take a single one of the classes I mentioned in that second paragraph there). It's just that we learn the theoretical stuff that, in theory, does relate to something useful... but we don't learn the connection to said useful stuff.
For example, I can tell you all about what a PCR analysis tells you and what the different components are and everything, but can I actually physically run one? No. I know all about how the brain encodes language and how language can affect your cognitive development in other areas, but had I ever once designed a language curriculum prior to teaching this year? Nope. I can even tell you exactly what your kidneys are doing on a cellular - even molecular - level, but would I know what to do if they weren't doing it properly? Still no. So that's what's missing.
In the meantime, if no one hires me this week, perhaps I will go learn how to weld things. I'm sure it is a useful life skill. Failing that, I will use my medieval Catalan philology skills and my rudimentary knowledge of Reggiana dialect (yay Arzan!) to become a spy.
When you're in college, people tell you 'take classes that appeal to you! follow your interests!' and it's all very rosy. And depending on which college you go to, you can take some pretty cool stuff. For example, at my particular Prestigious Institution of Higher Learning you could take a language called Khmer (where do they even speak that?), a class called "Mystical Mushrooms and Magical Molds" (or something along those lines), spider biology, game theory, intro to wines (also intro to beers, but only if you passed intro to wines), and a whole slew of phys ed classes ranging from 'intro to swedish massage' to fencing and whatever you call it when people shoot guns. The thing is, though, that it doesn't always turn out to be very useful (for example, unless you go into entomology as a field, how many times in your life is knowing the circadian rhythm of a spider actually going to be of use?).
Which is fine. It's fine to have a lot of random useless knowledge. The problem is that it is also kind of good to have some practical, actually-applicable-to-something kind of knowledge, too. My father, in particular, feels very strongly about this.
"Well, it's because you have a useless degree," he informs me. We are conversing about my current (lack of) job options. "If you had learned something useful like, say, how to build a bridge, you wouldn't be in this situation."
I consider this. I am not really a bridge-building type of person.
"Or welding," he adds.
Welding? What, like with metal and fire and stuff?
"Yes, welding," he insists, even though I haven't spoken, "That's the problem these days: they don't teach you useful stuff like welding anymore."
Indeed. Well, I think it is safe to say that unless another world war breaks out and I am forced to take over from the menfolk because they have all joined the Navy, and work in a factory like Rosie the Riveter or whatever, I would probably never have considered a line of work that involved welding, anyway. And even in the World War III scenario, I probably would have volunteered for other, less fire-related jobs. Like growing turnips, or knitting socks. Darning socks. Whatever it is that one does with socks.
I must have raised my eyebrows or something because: "well, what have you learned how to do?" he challenges me. I think for a moment. Good question.
"Well, I can converse passably well in three foreign languages..." (okay, admittedly, I already knew one, so that's not very impressive and he knows it), "... and I know how to create transgenic mice... and how to calculate how much oxygen it would take to burn a certain amount of carbon... and I know Freud's opinion on a whole variety of topics... and the elements of a successful vaccine campaign..." in my head I am running through all of the myriad classes I crammed into my schedule as an undergrad, looking for something that he would think was useful (ability to comment on the significance of the Dance of the Seven Veils in "Salome"? no. extensive knowledge of the issue of maternal mortality in developing countries? meh. probably not. ability to tell you all about cognitive development and spatial relations? definitely no). I am getting a bit desperate, so I go for the next thing that comes to mind, "... also I can read medieval Catalan pretty well... even though I don't actually speak Catalan." Pfft. Nice work there, Self.
It's his turn to raise his eyebrows. He thinks for a moment.
"Maybe you should work for the CIA. You know, with the languages and stuff."
I reflect upon this. Yes. It would be kind of like in a Dan Brown book. Or like Indiana Jones, except not with the snakes and stuff. Or... something. Yeah, come to think of it... probably it would not be much like that at all.
And that's the trouble with my degree. I think it is because we are just a little too theoretical, over at [Prestigious Institute of Higher Learning]. It's not that our degrees are in completely useless subjects (I, for one, did not take a single one of the classes I mentioned in that second paragraph there). It's just that we learn the theoretical stuff that, in theory, does relate to something useful... but we don't learn the connection to said useful stuff.
For example, I can tell you all about what a PCR analysis tells you and what the different components are and everything, but can I actually physically run one? No. I know all about how the brain encodes language and how language can affect your cognitive development in other areas, but had I ever once designed a language curriculum prior to teaching this year? Nope. I can even tell you exactly what your kidneys are doing on a cellular - even molecular - level, but would I know what to do if they weren't doing it properly? Still no. So that's what's missing.
In the meantime, if no one hires me this week, perhaps I will go learn how to weld things. I'm sure it is a useful life skill. Failing that, I will use my medieval Catalan philology skills and my rudimentary knowledge of Reggiana dialect (yay Arzan!) to become a spy.
Sunday, August 30
That other time with the sciopero*
Speaking of public transportation... this one actually occurred about a week after the Viareggio episode (circa mid-July), so you'd think I'd have learned my lesson, but evidently not. I am really not very bright. Anyway, it was too much fun (and character building) to allow it to be forgotten, so...
It was when we realized that we only had a few more weekends all together in Italy that we decided to embark on some marathon daytrips for the purpose of sightseeing and becoming cultured. So one fine Saturday, guidebooks in hand, we decided to do Pisa and Lucca. I accompanied the Boys (from work) despite the fact that every time they go somewhere, it turns into an Adventure. They figured that my staid presence would prevent any calamities from befalling us, but no. It did not.
The Campo dei Miracoli in Pisa is impressive. And the tower is indeed very wonky, as advertised. Also, people (including us) probably should stop for a bit longer in Pisa and investigate the rest of it, because I think that it's actually quite nice and rather underrated. In any case, the day is very sunny and hot and we are tired, but, being energetic and enthusiastic young English teachers, we grab some sandwiches (bresaola and rucola and scaglie di grana - protein! vegetables! yay!) and hop onto the train to Lucca. Lucca is charming as well. It boasts medieval walls all the way around it which are kind of fun, some very nice piazze, impressive churches, and an old arena that was later turned into a piazza (google this if you are so inclined - it is interesting).
The one thing about which Lucca should not boast is its train station. It does not contain those ticket-y machines that enable you to buy tickets at any time of day or night without even interacting with other human beings and also give you all the possible combinations of trains to get to your destination. Instead, they have the crappy ticket machines (the ones that say rete regionale on them) which are nice if you already know what time your train is leaving at and only want to take the regionale trains. They don't tell you the schedule or where to transfer. This means that you often have to actually talk to the ticket people to get your ticket, which is fine, except that they close at 8pm.
Despite this, we are in a reasonably good mood as we walk into the train station at 9:30 - just in time for the 9:42 train to Florence which we had previously looked up online, just like responsible adults.
"Hey, what does 'sopp' mean?" asks one of my travelling companions after a moment of orienting ourselves and concluding that there is no convenient way to procure tickets.
"Sopp?" I glance at the partenze. The trains are indeed all being marked sopp, one by one. Including ours. Crap.
Sopp, for those not in the know, stands for soppresso, which is an unfortuante state of affairs. It means cancelled, so if it ever says that next to your train, it is bad. Ritardo, incidentally, means late and is also kind of unfortunate, but generally less so. I explain this to my colleagues. Also to some German tourists who spontaneously join the conversation. They are not so pleased. "Where should we go?" they ask plaintively. I shrug. Damned if I know. (And also I speak no German. Note to self: learn how to apologize in German in case it ever comes up again.) Anyway, though, I decide to go investigate.
Sciopero del personale! declares a sign on the ticket window, from 9pm today until 9pm tomorrow. Refer to personnel for more information. I translate this for the colleagues, and also the Germans, who are now following us around. I assume the sign means non-striking personnel, and we resolve to go find some, because, essentially, we need to know if any trains will get us home tonight, or if we should begin making alternative plans (buses, hostels, park benches, etc.).
It seems the non-striking personnel have all taken refuge behind a door that says "vietato, no entry, etc." Yes, well. It's getting dark and we want to go home. I knock and step in, hoping the whole I'm-a-girl-in-a-dress thing will be helpful.
It is the room where they make 'allontanarsi dalla linea gialla' announcements!! I love those announcements, and now I have seen their source. Yay. The man turns around and looks at me expectantly, and I am forced to return to the problem at hand. I apologize for disturbing him and ask him about the possibility of trains.
"Beh, forse partira' quello delle 10:50," he says noncommitally when I ask if there will be any trains to Florence.
"Ma puo' darsi che non venga?" I take a moment to congratulate myself on having used both puo' darsi (I've been working on this one) and the present subjunctive in the same sentence in what might just be a correct combination. He shrugs.
"Si, puo' darsi." So helpful. (Travel tip: If you are stuck in a train station because the trains aren't running, aim for trains that travel a long distance before your stop. This is because they will already have left, and the people will - in theory - know this, and be able to tell you. The ones that only travel 20 minutes altogether could leave at any time and you will have no forewarning. Actually... this is common sense, but I am dumb, so it seemed like a revelation at the time...)
We decide to investigate alternative options, and, an hour later, we have gathered the following information: the last bus for Florence left at 6:15pm (from Piazzale Verdi, in case you're ever in the same situation), there are no hostels in Lucca that anyone knows of, there are some very nice benches in sheltered spots on top of the aforementioned medieval walls, and there are also bats flying around above said benches, which decrease their appeal ever so slightly. There is also a concert by some famous guy (I've forgotten who it was because I have no knowledge of actual current culture) and even a group of people wandering about in medieval costume and playing drums and horns and such. This is all very nice, but we trudge back to the train station anyway, because it is getting chilly and we have already been walking around since 8 this morning.
The train is going to Florence! Yay! We board and fall promptly asleep. No one asks for tickets, which is nice, because we don't have them.
Santa Maria Novella is, in case you were ever wondering, very quiet at midnight during a strike (less so when there is not a strike). There are some parked trains, and some people milling around. The departures board is full of trains that are soppressi. It is at this point that we realize that it is going to be a long-ish night, because the next possible train is the regionale at 7:45, or the intercity at 8:29. We are undeterred (because we are young and enthusiastic, you know) and so we decide to wander about Florence in search of a restorative drink.
The Duomo looks as nice circa 1am as it usually does. Someone is playing the violin under the arcades of the Uffizi and we stop there and listen and it is one of the nicest performances I have ever heard. We have a drink in an "American Bar" but they kick us out around 3am, and it is cold. We reflect that this is maybe what being homeless is like: it seems that it more or less boils down to finding hot air vents to stand over and public bathrooms that are open at night.
We wander around a bit more until the boys spot a McDonalds. I have not been in a McDonalds since America, almost a year ago, but I can report to you now that the smell is just as unappealing as in America, and it is particularly nauseating at 4am. However, the warmth is nice and the bathroom is reasonably clean (this is good for you - people in general - to know, actually, should you ever find yourselves homeless in Florence in the dead of night: the McDonalds opposite Firenze SMN is apparently open 24/7 and you can use the bathrooms for free).
A fight breaks out in the McDonalds, and we watch this vaguely until one of the colleagues becomes concerned for my delicate female sensibilities, so we leave. In the train station, there are rats on the rails, sort of like the Paris metro at night. (So much for delicate.) We decide that the best thing to do would be to crawl onto an open train and sleep there until the morning, but there is some debate over which kind of train to choose. The eurostars are all locked, which is unfortunate. The intercity notte might be the next best choice but the intercity is not my favorite because it is always filthy and there is no ventilation in those little compartments (yes, okay, so, kind of delicate after all). There are two kinds of regionale: the nicer new ones, and the old ones, so we spend some time finding one of the newer ones. We close all of the doors and windows (in case rats can fly? boh.) and curl up. It is cold and stiff and not very comfortable, but whatever. We doze.
Circa seven am, announcements come back on, thus awakening us with the sound of more trains being soppresso'd. A creepy guy comes and stands in our train and apparently watches us sleep (I open one eye to check - like a pirate or something). This is creepy and I debate kicking one of my (big strong male) colleagues to wake him up and demand that he defend my honor and whatever. Eventually the creepy guy departs, but he leaves the door open, which means the rats could get in. I am finished sleeping.
Eventually, it transpires that the 8:29 intercity did leave Napoli this morning (see what I mean about the long distance trains?) and will indeed arrive on schedule and can even take us directly to Reggio. Huzzah! We do not feel obligated to buy tickets, and we get on it and sit in those little seats in the corridor and bend over and hang sadly with our heads on our knees. We are perhaps a smidge tired of sitting up by now. We get busted for not having tickets and are somewhat disgruntled. Unfortunately, my I've-been-mostly-awake-for-over-24-hours Italian does not extend to explaining that I just spent the night in one of their (possibly rat infested) train cars because they did not deign to run the trains last night. The boys gesture feebly. We pay for our tickets.
In Reggio, the boys and I part ways, and I trudge up the via Emilia, feeling all kinds of yucky and disheveled. The Reggiani are just emerging from the 10am church service at San Giorgio (or San Pietro? boh. the one down there near the train station) and are looking all spiffy and glamorous, per usual. I elect to take the back streets. I am not in the mood to run into any students.
The shower + food that is not McDonalds + bed combination has never felt so good.
*sciopero = strike
It was when we realized that we only had a few more weekends all together in Italy that we decided to embark on some marathon daytrips for the purpose of sightseeing and becoming cultured. So one fine Saturday, guidebooks in hand, we decided to do Pisa and Lucca. I accompanied the Boys (from work) despite the fact that every time they go somewhere, it turns into an Adventure. They figured that my staid presence would prevent any calamities from befalling us, but no. It did not.
The Campo dei Miracoli in Pisa is impressive. And the tower is indeed very wonky, as advertised. Also, people (including us) probably should stop for a bit longer in Pisa and investigate the rest of it, because I think that it's actually quite nice and rather underrated. In any case, the day is very sunny and hot and we are tired, but, being energetic and enthusiastic young English teachers, we grab some sandwiches (bresaola and rucola and scaglie di grana - protein! vegetables! yay!) and hop onto the train to Lucca. Lucca is charming as well. It boasts medieval walls all the way around it which are kind of fun, some very nice piazze, impressive churches, and an old arena that was later turned into a piazza (google this if you are so inclined - it is interesting).
The one thing about which Lucca should not boast is its train station. It does not contain those ticket-y machines that enable you to buy tickets at any time of day or night without even interacting with other human beings and also give you all the possible combinations of trains to get to your destination. Instead, they have the crappy ticket machines (the ones that say rete regionale on them) which are nice if you already know what time your train is leaving at and only want to take the regionale trains. They don't tell you the schedule or where to transfer. This means that you often have to actually talk to the ticket people to get your ticket, which is fine, except that they close at 8pm.
Despite this, we are in a reasonably good mood as we walk into the train station at 9:30 - just in time for the 9:42 train to Florence which we had previously looked up online, just like responsible adults.
"Hey, what does 'sopp' mean?" asks one of my travelling companions after a moment of orienting ourselves and concluding that there is no convenient way to procure tickets.
"Sopp?" I glance at the partenze. The trains are indeed all being marked sopp, one by one. Including ours. Crap.
Sopp, for those not in the know, stands for soppresso, which is an unfortuante state of affairs. It means cancelled, so if it ever says that next to your train, it is bad. Ritardo, incidentally, means late and is also kind of unfortunate, but generally less so. I explain this to my colleagues. Also to some German tourists who spontaneously join the conversation. They are not so pleased. "Where should we go?" they ask plaintively. I shrug. Damned if I know. (And also I speak no German. Note to self: learn how to apologize in German in case it ever comes up again.) Anyway, though, I decide to go investigate.
Sciopero del personale! declares a sign on the ticket window, from 9pm today until 9pm tomorrow. Refer to personnel for more information. I translate this for the colleagues, and also the Germans, who are now following us around. I assume the sign means non-striking personnel, and we resolve to go find some, because, essentially, we need to know if any trains will get us home tonight, or if we should begin making alternative plans (buses, hostels, park benches, etc.).
It seems the non-striking personnel have all taken refuge behind a door that says "vietato, no entry, etc." Yes, well. It's getting dark and we want to go home. I knock and step in, hoping the whole I'm-a-girl-in-a-dress thing will be helpful.
It is the room where they make 'allontanarsi dalla linea gialla' announcements!! I love those announcements, and now I have seen their source. Yay. The man turns around and looks at me expectantly, and I am forced to return to the problem at hand. I apologize for disturbing him and ask him about the possibility of trains.
"Beh, forse partira' quello delle 10:50," he says noncommitally when I ask if there will be any trains to Florence.
"Ma puo' darsi che non venga?" I take a moment to congratulate myself on having used both puo' darsi (I've been working on this one) and the present subjunctive in the same sentence in what might just be a correct combination. He shrugs.
"Si, puo' darsi." So helpful. (Travel tip: If you are stuck in a train station because the trains aren't running, aim for trains that travel a long distance before your stop. This is because they will already have left, and the people will - in theory - know this, and be able to tell you. The ones that only travel 20 minutes altogether could leave at any time and you will have no forewarning. Actually... this is common sense, but I am dumb, so it seemed like a revelation at the time...)
We decide to investigate alternative options, and, an hour later, we have gathered the following information: the last bus for Florence left at 6:15pm (from Piazzale Verdi, in case you're ever in the same situation), there are no hostels in Lucca that anyone knows of, there are some very nice benches in sheltered spots on top of the aforementioned medieval walls, and there are also bats flying around above said benches, which decrease their appeal ever so slightly. There is also a concert by some famous guy (I've forgotten who it was because I have no knowledge of actual current culture) and even a group of people wandering about in medieval costume and playing drums and horns and such. This is all very nice, but we trudge back to the train station anyway, because it is getting chilly and we have already been walking around since 8 this morning.
The train is going to Florence! Yay! We board and fall promptly asleep. No one asks for tickets, which is nice, because we don't have them.
Santa Maria Novella is, in case you were ever wondering, very quiet at midnight during a strike (less so when there is not a strike). There are some parked trains, and some people milling around. The departures board is full of trains that are soppressi. It is at this point that we realize that it is going to be a long-ish night, because the next possible train is the regionale at 7:45, or the intercity at 8:29. We are undeterred (because we are young and enthusiastic, you know) and so we decide to wander about Florence in search of a restorative drink.
The Duomo looks as nice circa 1am as it usually does. Someone is playing the violin under the arcades of the Uffizi and we stop there and listen and it is one of the nicest performances I have ever heard. We have a drink in an "American Bar" but they kick us out around 3am, and it is cold. We reflect that this is maybe what being homeless is like: it seems that it more or less boils down to finding hot air vents to stand over and public bathrooms that are open at night.
We wander around a bit more until the boys spot a McDonalds. I have not been in a McDonalds since America, almost a year ago, but I can report to you now that the smell is just as unappealing as in America, and it is particularly nauseating at 4am. However, the warmth is nice and the bathroom is reasonably clean (this is good for you - people in general - to know, actually, should you ever find yourselves homeless in Florence in the dead of night: the McDonalds opposite Firenze SMN is apparently open 24/7 and you can use the bathrooms for free).
A fight breaks out in the McDonalds, and we watch this vaguely until one of the colleagues becomes concerned for my delicate female sensibilities, so we leave. In the train station, there are rats on the rails, sort of like the Paris metro at night. (So much for delicate.) We decide that the best thing to do would be to crawl onto an open train and sleep there until the morning, but there is some debate over which kind of train to choose. The eurostars are all locked, which is unfortunate. The intercity notte might be the next best choice but the intercity is not my favorite because it is always filthy and there is no ventilation in those little compartments (yes, okay, so, kind of delicate after all). There are two kinds of regionale: the nicer new ones, and the old ones, so we spend some time finding one of the newer ones. We close all of the doors and windows (in case rats can fly? boh.) and curl up. It is cold and stiff and not very comfortable, but whatever. We doze.
Circa seven am, announcements come back on, thus awakening us with the sound of more trains being soppresso'd. A creepy guy comes and stands in our train and apparently watches us sleep (I open one eye to check - like a pirate or something). This is creepy and I debate kicking one of my (big strong male) colleagues to wake him up and demand that he defend my honor and whatever. Eventually the creepy guy departs, but he leaves the door open, which means the rats could get in. I am finished sleeping.
Eventually, it transpires that the 8:29 intercity did leave Napoli this morning (see what I mean about the long distance trains?) and will indeed arrive on schedule and can even take us directly to Reggio. Huzzah! We do not feel obligated to buy tickets, and we get on it and sit in those little seats in the corridor and bend over and hang sadly with our heads on our knees. We are perhaps a smidge tired of sitting up by now. We get busted for not having tickets and are somewhat disgruntled. Unfortunately, my I've-been-mostly-awake-for-over-24-hours Italian does not extend to explaining that I just spent the night in one of their (possibly rat infested) train cars because they did not deign to run the trains last night. The boys gesture feebly. We pay for our tickets.
In Reggio, the boys and I part ways, and I trudge up the via Emilia, feeling all kinds of yucky and disheveled. The Reggiani are just emerging from the 10am church service at San Giorgio (or San Pietro? boh. the one down there near the train station) and are looking all spiffy and glamorous, per usual. I elect to take the back streets. I am not in the mood to run into any students.
The shower + food that is not McDonalds + bed combination has never felt so good.
*sciopero = strike
Friday, August 28
America on the bus
I miss trenitalia. Even if the regionale was a bit sporco and the intercity faceva schifo, it was cheap and it enabled me to get to all kinds of places quickly. The NJ transit trains are expensive and I don't even know where they stop, so I took the bus back from NYC instead.
First of all, the port authority on 42nd street is dead creepy. Don't go there if you can help it. It makes the area around the train station in Reggio look positively charming.
Nonetheless, I plant myself in line for the bus back to Bridgewater and try not to touch anything. The Asian woman in front of me turns around.
"These kids are saving a place in line for someone," she says, gesturing at three (Spanish-speaking) children standing in front of her.
I nod politely, failing to see how that affects me.
"Personally, I don't think it's fair," she continues in an irate tone of voice. Oh, great. One of these. She is just getting started, though. "I mean, it's nice enough that we let them into the country to begin with, and then they have to go breaking the rules. I have to wait in line, so why shouldn't she?" she wraps it up by thrusting her chin in the direction of a woman seated on a bench near the line. The woman is visibly pregnant. At a guess, I'd say eight months.
Clearly, the lady in front of me is an idiot. And, anyway, hasn't she heard? America is a melting pot. Or, actually, I think it's supposed to be a tossed salad or something, these days. It was a melting pot when I was a kid, though.
Eventually, we board the bus. I huddle into the seat against the cold. Probably I will have hypothermia by the time we get there - my toes are already numb by the time we reach the Lincoln tunnel. I start listening to the conversation of the guy behind me to distract myself, but this turns out to be a mistake because he is obviously a college student, his girlfriend (to whom he is presumably talking) seems to possess about as much intelligence as a teaspoon, and, after a brief anecdote about how he woke up on someone's couch in a puddle of vomit this weekend (lovely, and definitely the kind of story I would tell my girlfriend, if I were a man), their conversation is centered around some drama involving the room the girlfriend is renting this year. It seems that she was promised one room, but she hasn't signed the lease yet, and now they are trying to put her into another room instead. The boyfriend is urging her to call the landlord to check that she is getting the room she wants, but for some reason she does not agree with this solution.
"But, baby, you're getting over stressed about it. All you have to do, baby, is call the guy. Here. Baby, get a pen. Write this down..." he begins to dictate a potential conversation with the landlord. I don't fully understand why this is necessary (it is not a complex situation) but whatever. Forty-five minutes later, though, they are still on the same topic of conversation, he appears to be arguing himself in circles, the girl is apparently crying, and I am beginning to be annoyed. They both need to get some perspective. There are people starving in China. Or somewhere.
He gets off at Scotch Plains, approximately three seconds before I was planning to turn around, grab the phone and yell "for the love of god, "baby", get a grip and call your damn landlord before I smack your boyfriend here.' I am torn: on one hand, it is bliss not to be party to their inane conversation anymore, but on the other hand, I am (very vaguely) curious about whether or not she would have eventually grown a spine and called the landlord, script in hand. There's another one who's going to do well with real life.
I revel in the silence for approximately three seconds before the Latino kids from before start shrieking joyfully. I love kids. And I love the melting soup/garden salad/whatever food-related image we use for diversity now. And clearly pregnant people are tired and have lots on their mind. But also it would be nice if they taught their children that there are times and places in which it is inappropriate to shriek. Public buses circa 11pm are one of them.
A alcohol-smelling guy gets on in Parsippany. I note that places in America have weird names. (Think about it. Parsippany. I cannot figure out the origin of that.) I wiggle my toes experimentally. They're not blue yet, so that's nice. Next time I will bring socks. Or suck it up and deal with driving in Manhattan. Maybe. I am not a very good driver.
At the next stop, two guys in ridiculously baggy clothes get off (good to know that fad is still going strong). One is listening to his i-pod, ear thingies lodged deep within his ear. I can make out the actual words of the rap song to which he is listening, which is not a good sign for his continued ability to hear properly. I idly picture the little sensory cells in his ear canal and wince.
Eventually, it occurs to me that I am as snobby as the Asian woman from the line. I would say that at least I don't go around voicing my condescension, but here I am. And I even had to look up how to spell 'condescension'. Sigh...
First of all, the port authority on 42nd street is dead creepy. Don't go there if you can help it. It makes the area around the train station in Reggio look positively charming.
Nonetheless, I plant myself in line for the bus back to Bridgewater and try not to touch anything. The Asian woman in front of me turns around.
"These kids are saving a place in line for someone," she says, gesturing at three (Spanish-speaking) children standing in front of her.
I nod politely, failing to see how that affects me.
"Personally, I don't think it's fair," she continues in an irate tone of voice. Oh, great. One of these. She is just getting started, though. "I mean, it's nice enough that we let them into the country to begin with, and then they have to go breaking the rules. I have to wait in line, so why shouldn't she?" she wraps it up by thrusting her chin in the direction of a woman seated on a bench near the line. The woman is visibly pregnant. At a guess, I'd say eight months.
Clearly, the lady in front of me is an idiot. And, anyway, hasn't she heard? America is a melting pot. Or, actually, I think it's supposed to be a tossed salad or something, these days. It was a melting pot when I was a kid, though.
Eventually, we board the bus. I huddle into the seat against the cold. Probably I will have hypothermia by the time we get there - my toes are already numb by the time we reach the Lincoln tunnel. I start listening to the conversation of the guy behind me to distract myself, but this turns out to be a mistake because he is obviously a college student, his girlfriend (to whom he is presumably talking) seems to possess about as much intelligence as a teaspoon, and, after a brief anecdote about how he woke up on someone's couch in a puddle of vomit this weekend (lovely, and definitely the kind of story I would tell my girlfriend, if I were a man), their conversation is centered around some drama involving the room the girlfriend is renting this year. It seems that she was promised one room, but she hasn't signed the lease yet, and now they are trying to put her into another room instead. The boyfriend is urging her to call the landlord to check that she is getting the room she wants, but for some reason she does not agree with this solution.
"But, baby, you're getting over stressed about it. All you have to do, baby, is call the guy. Here. Baby, get a pen. Write this down..." he begins to dictate a potential conversation with the landlord. I don't fully understand why this is necessary (it is not a complex situation) but whatever. Forty-five minutes later, though, they are still on the same topic of conversation, he appears to be arguing himself in circles, the girl is apparently crying, and I am beginning to be annoyed. They both need to get some perspective. There are people starving in China. Or somewhere.
He gets off at Scotch Plains, approximately three seconds before I was planning to turn around, grab the phone and yell "for the love of god, "baby", get a grip and call your damn landlord before I smack your boyfriend here.' I am torn: on one hand, it is bliss not to be party to their inane conversation anymore, but on the other hand, I am (very vaguely) curious about whether or not she would have eventually grown a spine and called the landlord, script in hand. There's another one who's going to do well with real life.
I revel in the silence for approximately three seconds before the Latino kids from before start shrieking joyfully. I love kids. And I love the melting soup/garden salad/whatever food-related image we use for diversity now. And clearly pregnant people are tired and have lots on their mind. But also it would be nice if they taught their children that there are times and places in which it is inappropriate to shriek. Public buses circa 11pm are one of them.
A alcohol-smelling guy gets on in Parsippany. I note that places in America have weird names. (Think about it. Parsippany. I cannot figure out the origin of that.) I wiggle my toes experimentally. They're not blue yet, so that's nice. Next time I will bring socks. Or suck it up and deal with driving in Manhattan. Maybe. I am not a very good driver.
At the next stop, two guys in ridiculously baggy clothes get off (good to know that fad is still going strong). One is listening to his i-pod, ear thingies lodged deep within his ear. I can make out the actual words of the rap song to which he is listening, which is not a good sign for his continued ability to hear properly. I idly picture the little sensory cells in his ear canal and wince.
Eventually, it occurs to me that I am as snobby as the Asian woman from the line. I would say that at least I don't go around voicing my condescension, but here I am. And I even had to look up how to spell 'condescension'. Sigh...
Thursday, August 27
The supermarket is depressing
I remember a time, probably in high school, when I used to study a lot and not do much else, so my only hope of getting out of the house was often a trip to the supermarket with my mother. The benefits of this were twofold: a.) I could read a book (for fun!) on the way there, and b.) I had a say in what food we bought. It was all very fun. Post-Italy, it's a little different.
The parking lot of Shop Rite has not changed a bit. They still cannot spell (what was wrong with calling it Shop Right? it's kind of a stupid name either way, and was the one additional letter so costly?) and the parking lot is full of Americans in various states of obesity and unfortunate wardrobe choices. Welcome home, Self. I personally am a horrible dresser, so I really shouldn't criticize, but still. Some things were just not meant to be worn out of the house, even in America. I myself have sort of adjusted halfway to being back: I am wearing flip-flops, but with a dress that is not a nightgown and is therefore too much for Shop Rite.
We walk into the vestibule and gusts of frigid air billow out at us every time the door closes. My exposed limbs are sad, and I run back to my mother's car and return armed with a heavy sweater that you'd think would be appropriate for October.
There are a lot of types of apples in America. That's nice. Also the blueberries are significantly cheaper. The tomatoes are guaranteed not to be as good and that is sad. We buy some anyway. Perhaps I will attempt to make sauce again. Goodness only knows how that will go, but it can't be any worse than Chef Boyardee and whatever other crap is stored by the gallon in the sauce and condiments aisle.
Speaking of which, other things that are gross: "French" dressing. It is not French, and, in my opinion, not fit to be put on salad. Ditto "Italian" dressing. Ditto anything that comes out of a spray-paint-type can. And speaking of that, spray-on cheese (excuse me: cheez) and spray-on whipped cream. I roll faster through that aisle.
Ooh, the Italian food section! This contains parmesan that was made in Wisconsin, exorbitantly priced sausage, some apparently genuine (but expensive) grana padano, and some pancetta a cubetti. This is a nice surprise, and will be helpful for making either carbonara or amatriciana - it's hard to tell which, because it does not tell you whether the pancetta is dolce or smoked. I pass by the French section quickly, noting that it is in a similar state of affairs (and has been for years): Brie from Wisconsin and still no creme fraiche. I do not understand how there can be such a wide variety of products in the dairy/egg section (liquid eggs? what, because you can't beat them yourself? really?) and yet it has never occurred to anyone to import some creme fraiche. Or make it in Wisconsin.
Vats of artificial-looking vegetable oil, cereal boxes into which you could probably fit a small child if you needed to, similarly sized bags of chips (crisps!), and garishly colored "fruit snacks" follow. I emerge from the supermarket with rye bread, grapes (no seeds!!), some mediocre-looking tomatoes, and a jar of mild salsa. My mother raises her eyebrows as I deposit it into the trunk and help her with whatever she bought.
"Salsa?" she asks.
"Yeah. I like salsa. It's refreshing," I explain.
"But don't you need chips or something to put it on?"
"Oh," I say. "Yeah, I guess. I forgot about that." I am evidently still slightly disoriented. Maybe it's the fuso orario. Or something.
In any case, my toes are just thawing again in the warm humidity of NJ in August, and I have no intention of venturing back into the nuclear winter just for a bag of chips.
"We'll make tacos or something this weekend," my mother says in a consoling tone of voice. "We'll buy the boys a pizza or something," she adds as we drive past the local pizza place. (My brother and father do not like tacos.)
The smell of goopy cheese drifts in through the open windows and I glance at all of the people with their huge pizza boxes emerging from the pizza place and getting into their huge cars.
Sigh.
The parking lot of Shop Rite has not changed a bit. They still cannot spell (what was wrong with calling it Shop Right? it's kind of a stupid name either way, and was the one additional letter so costly?) and the parking lot is full of Americans in various states of obesity and unfortunate wardrobe choices. Welcome home, Self. I personally am a horrible dresser, so I really shouldn't criticize, but still. Some things were just not meant to be worn out of the house, even in America. I myself have sort of adjusted halfway to being back: I am wearing flip-flops, but with a dress that is not a nightgown and is therefore too much for Shop Rite.
We walk into the vestibule and gusts of frigid air billow out at us every time the door closes. My exposed limbs are sad, and I run back to my mother's car and return armed with a heavy sweater that you'd think would be appropriate for October.
There are a lot of types of apples in America. That's nice. Also the blueberries are significantly cheaper. The tomatoes are guaranteed not to be as good and that is sad. We buy some anyway. Perhaps I will attempt to make sauce again. Goodness only knows how that will go, but it can't be any worse than Chef Boyardee and whatever other crap is stored by the gallon in the sauce and condiments aisle.
Speaking of which, other things that are gross: "French" dressing. It is not French, and, in my opinion, not fit to be put on salad. Ditto "Italian" dressing. Ditto anything that comes out of a spray-paint-type can. And speaking of that, spray-on cheese (excuse me: cheez) and spray-on whipped cream. I roll faster through that aisle.
Ooh, the Italian food section! This contains parmesan that was made in Wisconsin, exorbitantly priced sausage, some apparently genuine (but expensive) grana padano, and some pancetta a cubetti. This is a nice surprise, and will be helpful for making either carbonara or amatriciana - it's hard to tell which, because it does not tell you whether the pancetta is dolce or smoked. I pass by the French section quickly, noting that it is in a similar state of affairs (and has been for years): Brie from Wisconsin and still no creme fraiche. I do not understand how there can be such a wide variety of products in the dairy/egg section (liquid eggs? what, because you can't beat them yourself? really?) and yet it has never occurred to anyone to import some creme fraiche. Or make it in Wisconsin.
Vats of artificial-looking vegetable oil, cereal boxes into which you could probably fit a small child if you needed to, similarly sized bags of chips (crisps!), and garishly colored "fruit snacks" follow. I emerge from the supermarket with rye bread, grapes (no seeds!!), some mediocre-looking tomatoes, and a jar of mild salsa. My mother raises her eyebrows as I deposit it into the trunk and help her with whatever she bought.
"Salsa?" she asks.
"Yeah. I like salsa. It's refreshing," I explain.
"But don't you need chips or something to put it on?"
"Oh," I say. "Yeah, I guess. I forgot about that." I am evidently still slightly disoriented. Maybe it's the fuso orario. Or something.
In any case, my toes are just thawing again in the warm humidity of NJ in August, and I have no intention of venturing back into the nuclear winter just for a bag of chips.
"We'll make tacos or something this weekend," my mother says in a consoling tone of voice. "We'll buy the boys a pizza or something," she adds as we drive past the local pizza place. (My brother and father do not like tacos.)
The smell of goopy cheese drifts in through the open windows and I glance at all of the people with their huge pizza boxes emerging from the pizza place and getting into their huge cars.
Sigh.
Wednesday, August 26
Ciao, America : /
Things that I did not miss about suburbia:
1. Suburbia.
2. Suburbia. Yesterday I woke up and applied to some jobs. Then I did some laundry. Then I ate lunch (read searched the kitchen for something appealing, did not find it, and finally ended up chewing morosely on some stale bread). After that, I wondered what to do with myself. I considered my options: the library. Walking down to the river. Grocery shopping. The library... oh, wait. Yeah, that's pretty much it.
3. American food. This could be the start of an excellent new weight loss program.
4. The rabid air conditioning. Everyone ever who has come from Europe to the States has commented on this, so I won't but... seriously. What the hell? And here I thought there was an energy crisis...
5. The New Jersey accent. Ditto for Queens, Brooklyn and Long Island. Also Boston, but we don't have much of that around here. Sorry guys, but we just do not sound good. I vote we all have a nice soft Yorkshire accent surgically implanted instead. At least that would be entertaining...
6. Telemarketers. Perhaps this is just a product of not having had a fisso in Italy, but... or, actually, wait, no. We did have one. And it rang precisely once a day: when Roomie-on-the-left's mother called. E basta. Here it is 2pm and I have so far fielded six calls, only one of them actually useful.
Okay, probably that's enough with the beating up on the homeland. I'm sure it's doing its best. To console it...
Things that are nice to see again (dare I say that I actually missed something about America?):
1. The library and it's endless supply of easy-to-read books.
2. Similarly, Borders.
3. Hearing the wind in the trees outside my bedroom window. (The crickets, less so.)
4. A very limited number of food products which, thus far, include rye bread, seedless grapes, iced green tea, and cheddar cheese.
Anyway... ciao, America. I'm back.
1. Suburbia.
2. Suburbia. Yesterday I woke up and applied to some jobs. Then I did some laundry. Then I ate lunch (read searched the kitchen for something appealing, did not find it, and finally ended up chewing morosely on some stale bread). After that, I wondered what to do with myself. I considered my options: the library. Walking down to the river. Grocery shopping. The library... oh, wait. Yeah, that's pretty much it.
3. American food. This could be the start of an excellent new weight loss program.
4. The rabid air conditioning. Everyone ever who has come from Europe to the States has commented on this, so I won't but... seriously. What the hell? And here I thought there was an energy crisis...
5. The New Jersey accent. Ditto for Queens, Brooklyn and Long Island. Also Boston, but we don't have much of that around here. Sorry guys, but we just do not sound good. I vote we all have a nice soft Yorkshire accent surgically implanted instead. At least that would be entertaining...
6. Telemarketers. Perhaps this is just a product of not having had a fisso in Italy, but... or, actually, wait, no. We did have one. And it rang precisely once a day: when Roomie-on-the-left's mother called. E basta. Here it is 2pm and I have so far fielded six calls, only one of them actually useful.
Okay, probably that's enough with the beating up on the homeland. I'm sure it's doing its best. To console it...
Things that are nice to see again (dare I say that I actually missed something about America?):
1. The library and it's endless supply of easy-to-read books.
2. Similarly, Borders.
3. Hearing the wind in the trees outside my bedroom window. (The crickets, less so.)
4. A very limited number of food products which, thus far, include rye bread, seedless grapes, iced green tea, and cheddar cheese.
Anyway... ciao, America. I'm back.
Thursday, August 20
That time with the sheets
While we're on the topic of grammar and other types of information with very little practical use...
"Sheets?" says my boss upon overhearing my conversation with another teacher. We've been in Italy for a week or two and have now moved out of the temporary apartment (into Creepy Guy Apartment, in my case) and are discussing our lack of basic housewares. I have been sleeping on a (starchy) mattress protector and under a (thin) towel. The mattress cover is itchy and the towel is not a very good blanket.
"You can buy those at Zara Home," she continues. "At Petali. It's just up the road a bit, like five minutes by car."
Which conveniently overlooks the fact that neither of us possesses a car and she has already informed us that taking the school cars out for fun is verboten.
We trudge to Petali on the side of the road. The sun is kind of hot. Italian men seem to feel that it's okay to beep their horns at us as they go by. (We elect to feel amused rather than degraded.)
We enter Zara Home and laugh. Our boss is a hilarious woman. She sends us on a "five minute drive" on foot to a place where they sell things that we cannot really afford on the puny salary she pays us. We do not have a Zara Home type salary. It's more of a Wal-mart salary. Ikea on a good day. We trudge back.
"Maybe at Meridiana," recommends someone else, helpfully pointing out where that is on a map. Did you know they have a large-ish road named for JFK just outside of Reggio? And on it, there is the Meridiana shopping center, in which there is a large-ish supermarket which contains sheets in a number of basic colors.
The next day I trudge out to there on foot, as I don't yet understand the bus system. It is not a particularly pleasant walk, but whatever. Also it is kind of long. But whatever. There are sheets.
"Lenzuole!" I read proudly to myself, very pleased that I have managed to remember what this means. (Also the picture on the front is a good clue.) Having been in Italy for a week, I have decided to strike out on my own, minus my little dictionary, so any vocabulary I use will have to come from my own head. The dictionary was Italian-French, anyway, which lead to mild confusion at times. Still, though, it was reassuring.
I assiduously read several different packages of sheets. Some say "1 piazza" and some say "2 piazze". I am stumped. I translate the labels into French (leftover habit from the dictionary, I guess) but "piazza" is tricky. Because it could either mean "place" or it could mean "piece", just because they kind of sound the same. In scenario A, this would mean that "2 piazze" means a bigger bed, for two people. If it means "piece", then "1 piazza" contains one sheet and you have to buy them separately, whereas "2 piazze" means you have both in that package. I ponder this for a while.
Probably the logical thing to do would be to go ask someone, using my dictionary-less, somewhat rusty Italian. My Italian at that point is still more suited to writing commentary on intertextuality in Dante than to actually conversing with real people in this century, though, and so I stare at the sheets some more.
Being fresh from a semester's worth of advanced hisorical romance linguistics, it occurs to me to trace the Italian words back up to their Latin roots and then down again to modern French. It would be just like an exercise from class! Or so I tell myself. In reality, I almost always screwed those exercises up because they work much better if you actually know Latin. But whatever, I think to myself.
And that is how I found myself scribbling notes about palatalization on the back of a receipt in the middle of an Iper-Sigma.
"Hai bisogno?" says a guy in an Iper-Sigma uniform at one point.
I look up from my receipt, trying very hard to remember why "piece" has a palatalized /pj/ like Italian tends to do and "place" has a regular French /pl/.
"No, no, grazie... " I mumble vaguely at him, probably kind of staring into space. (Another moment of spectacular grace and poise for me.)
Shortly thereafter, I conclude that applying medieval language development patterns to the purchase of modern day bedlinens does not work particularly well. Especially when you can't remember the patterns to begin with. I go for math instead: there are measurements in centimeters on the back. This turns out not to be a good move because I suck at math.
I start by converting to inches, which requires me to divide by 2.54, which is already far beyond my mathematical capabilities. Eventually, I remember that I do have a decent idea what a meter is, and that I therefore don't really need convert to inches. I try to picture in my head the length of the sheet and then the length of a bed, until it occurs to me that the length is not really up for debate. So I find the width measurement (which takes a while because I am retarded) and picture that instead. I picture the width of a double bed... and the width of a single bed... and already it is too many pictures. I am not a visual person. I give up.
Logic, I decide, is the answer. There is no other information on these sheets, ergo "piazza" must refer to the size, because they have to mention the size somewhere. I buy some "1 piazza" sheets in a relatively innocuous shade of blue. I trudge home under the hot September sun. They fit.
It is so pleasant to own sheets that I am able to overlook the fact that I still don't have a pillow, which kind of makes my neck stiff, which makes me think I have meningitis every morning and run, all panicked, to the dictionary, to look that up in Italian (meningite... there's one where the Latin would've worked out just fine).
It's funny the odd kinds of things you end up having trouble with when you move to another country. People are always warning you about the "culture shock" and stuff like that, but really it's other stuff that's trickier.
"Sheets?" says my boss upon overhearing my conversation with another teacher. We've been in Italy for a week or two and have now moved out of the temporary apartment (into Creepy Guy Apartment, in my case) and are discussing our lack of basic housewares. I have been sleeping on a (starchy) mattress protector and under a (thin) towel. The mattress cover is itchy and the towel is not a very good blanket.
"You can buy those at Zara Home," she continues. "At Petali. It's just up the road a bit, like five minutes by car."
Which conveniently overlooks the fact that neither of us possesses a car and she has already informed us that taking the school cars out for fun is verboten.
We trudge to Petali on the side of the road. The sun is kind of hot. Italian men seem to feel that it's okay to beep their horns at us as they go by. (We elect to feel amused rather than degraded.)
We enter Zara Home and laugh. Our boss is a hilarious woman. She sends us on a "five minute drive" on foot to a place where they sell things that we cannot really afford on the puny salary she pays us. We do not have a Zara Home type salary. It's more of a Wal-mart salary. Ikea on a good day. We trudge back.
"Maybe at Meridiana," recommends someone else, helpfully pointing out where that is on a map. Did you know they have a large-ish road named for JFK just outside of Reggio? And on it, there is the Meridiana shopping center, in which there is a large-ish supermarket which contains sheets in a number of basic colors.
The next day I trudge out to there on foot, as I don't yet understand the bus system. It is not a particularly pleasant walk, but whatever. Also it is kind of long. But whatever. There are sheets.
"Lenzuole!" I read proudly to myself, very pleased that I have managed to remember what this means. (Also the picture on the front is a good clue.) Having been in Italy for a week, I have decided to strike out on my own, minus my little dictionary, so any vocabulary I use will have to come from my own head. The dictionary was Italian-French, anyway, which lead to mild confusion at times. Still, though, it was reassuring.
I assiduously read several different packages of sheets. Some say "1 piazza" and some say "2 piazze". I am stumped. I translate the labels into French (leftover habit from the dictionary, I guess) but "piazza" is tricky. Because it could either mean "place" or it could mean "piece", just because they kind of sound the same. In scenario A, this would mean that "2 piazze" means a bigger bed, for two people. If it means "piece", then "1 piazza" contains one sheet and you have to buy them separately, whereas "2 piazze" means you have both in that package. I ponder this for a while.
Probably the logical thing to do would be to go ask someone, using my dictionary-less, somewhat rusty Italian. My Italian at that point is still more suited to writing commentary on intertextuality in Dante than to actually conversing with real people in this century, though, and so I stare at the sheets some more.
Being fresh from a semester's worth of advanced hisorical romance linguistics, it occurs to me to trace the Italian words back up to their Latin roots and then down again to modern French. It would be just like an exercise from class! Or so I tell myself. In reality, I almost always screwed those exercises up because they work much better if you actually know Latin. But whatever, I think to myself.
And that is how I found myself scribbling notes about palatalization on the back of a receipt in the middle of an Iper-Sigma.
"Hai bisogno?" says a guy in an Iper-Sigma uniform at one point.
I look up from my receipt, trying very hard to remember why "piece" has a palatalized /pj/ like Italian tends to do and "place" has a regular French /pl/.
"No, no, grazie... " I mumble vaguely at him, probably kind of staring into space. (Another moment of spectacular grace and poise for me.)
Shortly thereafter, I conclude that applying medieval language development patterns to the purchase of modern day bedlinens does not work particularly well. Especially when you can't remember the patterns to begin with. I go for math instead: there are measurements in centimeters on the back. This turns out not to be a good move because I suck at math.
I start by converting to inches, which requires me to divide by 2.54, which is already far beyond my mathematical capabilities. Eventually, I remember that I do have a decent idea what a meter is, and that I therefore don't really need convert to inches. I try to picture in my head the length of the sheet and then the length of a bed, until it occurs to me that the length is not really up for debate. So I find the width measurement (which takes a while because I am retarded) and picture that instead. I picture the width of a double bed... and the width of a single bed... and already it is too many pictures. I am not a visual person. I give up.
Logic, I decide, is the answer. There is no other information on these sheets, ergo "piazza" must refer to the size, because they have to mention the size somewhere. I buy some "1 piazza" sheets in a relatively innocuous shade of blue. I trudge home under the hot September sun. They fit.
It is so pleasant to own sheets that I am able to overlook the fact that I still don't have a pillow, which kind of makes my neck stiff, which makes me think I have meningitis every morning and run, all panicked, to the dictionary, to look that up in Italian (meningite... there's one where the Latin would've worked out just fine).
It's funny the odd kinds of things you end up having trouble with when you move to another country. People are always warning you about the "culture shock" and stuff like that, but really it's other stuff that's trickier.
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