At best.
"So, how are you tonight? Aside from being freezing cold and wet, probably. It's snowing pretty hard out there, huh?" the young waiter soliloquizes* by way of introducing himself. If you are a stray Italian who has wandered onto this site and wonders why this is: it is because in America, tips aren't automatically included in the bill. You have to remember to leave them at the end of the meal, of your own volition. This is irritating and requires you to calculate percentages and stuff like that. It also causes the waiters to share far more of their personal lives and/or opinions on such things as the weather than you probably care about. You guys definitely have the better system. (Beppe Severgnini has a hilarious chapter about this in one of his hilarious books; I believe it is called "Un Italiano in America". Or "Ciao, America" for the English version. And I am not being sarcastic. He really is hilarious.)
In any case, though, I wish I could just stop the guy mid-paragraph: 'relax. We're going to tip you. You don't have to befriend us. Now just shut up and let us read the menu in peace.' I mean, if we'd wanted to sit around being hungry while someone blathered on unintelligently about nothing, we could've just stayed home and turned on the tv.
"... and a great cheese tortellini in creamy alfredo sauce." He is evidently giving the specials. "I had it myself during my break," he enthuses. Fun fact.
And probably a bad decision on his part. Alfredo sauce, apart from being kind of gross, is probably like guaranteed heart failure. Particularly when poured over cheese tortellini.
Also, minus fifty points for mentioning Alfredo sauce at all. Apart from being kind of gross (I feel the need to reiterate this) it is sort of like "french dressing" (and "Italian dressing", for that matter) in that it has absolutely nothing to do with the country from which it purportedly hails. I can guarantee that if you stick a bottle of "french dressing" in front of a French person, they will laugh at you until they taste it, after which they will possibly clock you over the head with the bottle. I was explaining this point to a mixed group of Italians and Americans once, and mentioned "alfredo sauce" as a comparable example of this phenomenon; one of the Italians launched into such a rant I almost started to worry he was going to give himself a stroke.
So, Italian restaurants in America: don't serve alfredo sauce, because it will cause you to lose all of your credibility. Or do, because most of America seems to like it. Whatever.
Anyway, one "main course" later (it was actually primi if you want to get picky: risotto that was tasty but not really risotto and some very chewy gnocchi in an oddly tasteless sauce), the dessert menu yielded the following: cheesecake (okay...), fudge brownie (I think we lost our Italian theme), apple pie (ditto), profiteroles (these are actually French, but whatever), tiramisu (oh, wait, here we go), and a rather linguistically-challenged "torta de nona". Interestingly enough, that last did not seem to be in any way related to torta della nonna, though I can only assume that's what they were going for.
We chose the profiteroles, which were a crime against French cooking, but on the bright side, no one will ever know because they will think the whole thing was Italian. Sorry, Italy.
Anyway, conclusion: Italian food, generally speaking, is a lot better in Italy. And note that I say "generally speaking". This is because some of the best Italian food I have ever had was actually in America, in the town where I went to college, in the restaurant owned, interestingly enough, by the professor who taught Italian II.
So, actually, I guess that means that the real conclusion is that you have to try it to know for sure... but it's kind of at your own risk, so good luck with that.
*Soliloquizes looks very bizarre written down, but Merriam-Webster online confirms that 'to soliloquize' is indeed a verb. ... It's probably a little pretentious that I feel the need to put footnotes in my blog. Oh, well.
Sunday, January 3
Saturday, January 2
New Year
A very happy 2010 to all!
I'm back! (Not from the dead. Although I did catch the Cold of Death, probably from my piccolini at the daycare, but I'm over it and so I forgive them.) Anyway. Um...
December in brief:
12/3 - Make final decision to move back to Reggio. Give notice at daycare. An interesting mix of sadness and awkwardness ensues. Promise to return for visits in the summer.
12/12 - Experience Italian food in America. Will possibly share thoughts on this in the near future. (And by "near" I probably mean "sometime before 2011".)
12/19 - Try new Indian restaurant in Morristown. Is delicious, and markedly better than previous week's restaurant experience.
12/20 - Bake Christmas cookies!!! (Um, yes, because clearly this was important for everyone to know.)
12/23 - Holiday parties at daycare. This involves a.) decorating our room with decorations that are both festive and evenly spread among the various holidays but also religion-free (this is harder than you'd think) as well as made by the children (baby sweatshop!), b.) coordinating a lot of easily chewable nut-free food, and c.) coralling my children into some sort of circle so that we can perform our "holiday songs". Yes, perform. The one-year-olds. They actually did remarkably well, my little geniuses. Am proud mommy! (Lest anyone be confused: I am kidding. These are the daycare children. I don't have any that are actually mine.) Anyway...
12/24 - Finish Christmas shopping circa 3pm. (Also vital information.) To ponder: why do I feel like this is actually an improvement on previous years? New year's resolution: research methods to combat procrastination.
12/25 - Christmas!! In case you weren't aware.
12/26 - Pack life into two suitcases for the third time in a year and a half. (Probably should consider being a little more stationary at some point in the near future.) Finish up some last minute travel arrangements.
12/27 - Make way to Newark to depart for the motherland (France). Renew my (largely unfounded) dislike for Newark airport.
12/28 - Arrive in motherland. Eat bread. Yum. Curl up in bed with Cold of Death.
Which pretty much brings us to the present.
I'm back! (Not from the dead. Although I did catch the Cold of Death, probably from my piccolini at the daycare, but I'm over it and so I forgive them.) Anyway. Um...
December in brief:
12/3 - Make final decision to move back to Reggio. Give notice at daycare. An interesting mix of sadness and awkwardness ensues. Promise to return for visits in the summer.
12/12 - Experience Italian food in America. Will possibly share thoughts on this in the near future. (And by "near" I probably mean "sometime before 2011".)
12/19 - Try new Indian restaurant in Morristown. Is delicious, and markedly better than previous week's restaurant experience.
12/20 - Bake Christmas cookies!!! (Um, yes, because clearly this was important for everyone to know.)
12/23 - Holiday parties at daycare. This involves a.) decorating our room with decorations that are both festive and evenly spread among the various holidays but also religion-free (this is harder than you'd think) as well as made by the children (baby sweatshop!), b.) coordinating a lot of easily chewable nut-free food, and c.) coralling my children into some sort of circle so that we can perform our "holiday songs". Yes, perform. The one-year-olds. They actually did remarkably well, my little geniuses. Am proud mommy! (Lest anyone be confused: I am kidding. These are the daycare children. I don't have any that are actually mine.) Anyway...
12/24 - Finish Christmas shopping circa 3pm. (Also vital information.) To ponder: why do I feel like this is actually an improvement on previous years? New year's resolution: research methods to combat procrastination.
12/25 - Christmas!! In case you weren't aware.
12/26 - Pack life into two suitcases for the third time in a year and a half. (Probably should consider being a little more stationary at some point in the near future.) Finish up some last minute travel arrangements.
12/27 - Make way to Newark to depart for the motherland (France). Renew my (largely unfounded) dislike for Newark airport.
12/28 - Arrive in motherland. Eat bread. Yum. Curl up in bed with Cold of Death.
Which pretty much brings us to the present.
Tuesday, December 29
Moving to Italy: What to pack
I wrote this while I was in Paris and bored with a sinus infection and thought I would just try my hand at that informational type of writing. You know - the useful kind. I don't think I am very good at it. But for some reason I'm going to subject this blog to it anyway...
So, last september I was all like "I will bring sheets and an umbrella and socks and a fuzzy blanket and some fashionable shoes and pots and pans maybe a measuring cup and then I will learn how to cook delicious Italian food. Oh, and clothes. Probably I will bring clothes. And books, because no Borders for a year! OMG." (I never actually say OMG. It is silly internet-speak.) I thought I was being all reasonable because I had decided my pillows probably wouldn't fit.
Oh, self. You are so silly.
The pillows didn't fit, obviously, and nor did any of that stuff except the clothes and some books (got in just under the weight limit! huzzah!) and the umbrella because I carried it.
This time, I am packing with a lot more wisdom (subtle cough) under my belt (mixed metaphors. so unnattractive.) and so I can share some of my wisdom with you, should you be experiencing a situation in which you have to pack your stuff in order to move to Italy. Or France, really. Or maybe lots of places, but those are the only two I can tell you about with sort of any authority.
Also, this is more relevant if you're going somewhere for a medium length of time, like studying abroad or something. Longer than a quick week or two of vacation, but shorter than your life. If you're relocating your entire life, definitely you should find a better source than me.
1. Clothes. These are important, because it is good to be clothed. A lot of people tell you not to bring too many clothes because you will want to buy lots there. This is partially true, because they have nice clothes and it is always nice to buy nice clothes, but also only applies if you can afford to do so. If you are going to be looking for a job and have limited savings to use in the meantime, you should probably plan accordingly and bring some clothes to wear until then.
Other than that... Italians dress quite nicely. In the winter they wear a lot of black. They do not go anywhere in their sweatpants and nor should you. (Or, well, you can, but you might feel a touch awkward.) They don't tend to walk around in either sneakers or flip-flops, at least not in Reggio (except maybe the early teens crowd). Beyond that... well, I suck at fashion, so go find a better source.
Oh, except: useful information - there is a big sale after Christmas (and possibly one in July? I wasn't really paying attention) so that's good to keep in mind. Cultural difference: it is not like Macy's and stuff where things seem to be perpetually 10% off for one reason or another, or Gap and stuff where they send you a coupon by email every twenty minutes.
2. Things to put in your house. Like furniture and sheets. Yeah, good luck with that. Unless you are supernaturally talented with the packing or are planning to ship things over via some fancy transnational moving thing that I know nothing about (see relocating your whole life, why I am not knowledgeable about it), this is going to be difficult. There is a good and cheap source for such things, and it is called Ikea. You can buy a pillow for, like, two euro, and also pots and plates and bedspreads and fuzzy blankets and furniture and all kinds of random oddly-shaped things with cool Swedish names.
3. Books. Books are delightful and they are probably one of my favorite things in the world. Unfortunately, they are heavy and airline weight restrictions are getting irritatingly rigid. If the thought of being away from your library and Borders and whatever makes you, like me, hurt inside, there is still hope. There are actually an impressive number of sources of English speaking books in Italy. Here are some, listed in whatever order they're popping into my head:
- Libreria all'Arco on the Via Emilia in Reggio (there is a shelf of foreign books upstairs and towards the back in a little room on the left)
- Biblioteca Panizzi on Via Farini in Reggio (there are various foreign sections - not a particularly stellar collection in English, but worth a try)
- Feltrinelli International on Via Zamboni in Bologna (good selection, also some other languages and lots of instructional language type books, too)
- There's a Feltrinelli International in Milan, too, nearish the train station but I can't really remember where. Also in Turin. This type of bookstore has caused me to miss trains more than once.
- And another one in Perugia, near the Piazza IV Novembre.
- That bookstore that's kind of half suspended in the air in the Roma Termini train station: in the upstairs, suspended-looking part there are a lot of English books.
- The Paperback Exchange, very near the Duomo in Florence, but I can't remember the street name. Dell'Oca, maybe? Google it, though. It's a lovely bookstore where you can even sell back your books and get store credit to buy new ones. Or cheaper used ones. (I do this almost every time I go to Florence.)
In Paris:
- Gibert Jeune, Place St. Michel - this is a whole series of bookstores that each specialize in some different subject (like math, science, social sciences, etc.). You have to find the one that is labelled "langues etrangeres" or something. They're all grouped around the Place. And it's a really lovely spot, too.
- WH Smith on the Rue de Rivoli (near the end - not the end towards the Hotel de Ville and stuff, but the other end, by the Place de la Concorde). Big fancy store that also apparently sells some British candy and stuff. Splendid selection.
Actually... I think there is a whole blog devoted to bookstores in other countries. Hang on. Yes. Here you go: http://www.bookstoreguide.org/. Never mind. They have much better information than I do. In fact, I'm pretty sure this is how I found all of these originally.
4. Toiletries and stuff. If you have a favorite brand of deodorant that you are attached to, bring some. Ditto toothpaste and stuff. They have a fairly decent selection of all these type things (toothpaste, shampoo, soap, shaving gel, etc.) but if you have very strong feelings about having a particular one, then bring it. No liquid in carry-ons, though, remember.
5. Over-the-counter medicine. They do not sell this stuff in Esselunga the way they do in Wal-Mart. If you need medicine in Italy (or France) you have to go in the pharmacy and explain to the person what is wrong with you and they will give you whatever they deem appropriate. In France this usually means enough drugs to medicate a small town. They are generally very solicitious and nice. However, when I'm sick, I like to drag myself into a sweatshirt, select whatever I want from a shelf that contains every variety of Tylenol ever invented and go home having had minimal contact with actual people. If you are like me in this respect, bring along your drugs of choice. My personal stock includes Tylenol, Tylenol Cold (day), Tylenol Cold (night), Neosporin, and Halls cough drops. (Yes. I like Tylenol.) Band-aids, in case you're wondering, ARE sold at Esselunga and stuff.
6. Things that involve electricity. Be careful with this. Depending on how you plug American things into a European wall, you can make the things in question blow up (at least inside). No, seriously. The voltage is different, which means you need a converting thing. (As you can probably already tell, I am no expert in physics, and so you really should find a more reliable source for this part. Unless you are as un-informed as me, in which case you may possibly understand this version better.)
Anyway, there are two kinds of converting things: the kind that converts just the shape of the plug, and the kind that converts the actual electricity. The former is good for things like laptop chargers, because apparently they convert the voltage themselves (mine says so right on that little box with the light). The latter is good for everything else, I guess, although I really would not risk it, because, you know, blowing things up. Not so good.
(Fun fact: the converse - meaning European things with American electricity - is apparently not true. American voltage is much lower, so apparently things like cell phones just charge very slowly. This information makes a lot of sense, but my practical experience with it involves one single cell phone. Small sample size: seek other information before trying at home.)
So, that's all I can think of. I think I will go dispose of my immense pile of tissues now and possibly venture out into Paris. Because it is silly to sit here with tissues and the internet when there is Paris out there, regardless of the condition of my sinuses.
So, last september I was all like "I will bring sheets and an umbrella and socks and a fuzzy blanket and some fashionable shoes and pots and pans maybe a measuring cup and then I will learn how to cook delicious Italian food. Oh, and clothes. Probably I will bring clothes. And books, because no Borders for a year! OMG." (I never actually say OMG. It is silly internet-speak.) I thought I was being all reasonable because I had decided my pillows probably wouldn't fit.
Oh, self. You are so silly.
The pillows didn't fit, obviously, and nor did any of that stuff except the clothes and some books (got in just under the weight limit! huzzah!) and the umbrella because I carried it.
This time, I am packing with a lot more wisdom (subtle cough) under my belt (mixed metaphors. so unnattractive.) and so I can share some of my wisdom with you, should you be experiencing a situation in which you have to pack your stuff in order to move to Italy. Or France, really. Or maybe lots of places, but those are the only two I can tell you about with sort of any authority.
Also, this is more relevant if you're going somewhere for a medium length of time, like studying abroad or something. Longer than a quick week or two of vacation, but shorter than your life. If you're relocating your entire life, definitely you should find a better source than me.
1. Clothes. These are important, because it is good to be clothed. A lot of people tell you not to bring too many clothes because you will want to buy lots there. This is partially true, because they have nice clothes and it is always nice to buy nice clothes, but also only applies if you can afford to do so. If you are going to be looking for a job and have limited savings to use in the meantime, you should probably plan accordingly and bring some clothes to wear until then.
Other than that... Italians dress quite nicely. In the winter they wear a lot of black. They do not go anywhere in their sweatpants and nor should you. (Or, well, you can, but you might feel a touch awkward.) They don't tend to walk around in either sneakers or flip-flops, at least not in Reggio (except maybe the early teens crowd). Beyond that... well, I suck at fashion, so go find a better source.
Oh, except: useful information - there is a big sale after Christmas (and possibly one in July? I wasn't really paying attention) so that's good to keep in mind. Cultural difference: it is not like Macy's and stuff where things seem to be perpetually 10% off for one reason or another, or Gap and stuff where they send you a coupon by email every twenty minutes.
2. Things to put in your house. Like furniture and sheets. Yeah, good luck with that. Unless you are supernaturally talented with the packing or are planning to ship things over via some fancy transnational moving thing that I know nothing about (see relocating your whole life, why I am not knowledgeable about it), this is going to be difficult. There is a good and cheap source for such things, and it is called Ikea. You can buy a pillow for, like, two euro, and also pots and plates and bedspreads and fuzzy blankets and furniture and all kinds of random oddly-shaped things with cool Swedish names.
3. Books. Books are delightful and they are probably one of my favorite things in the world. Unfortunately, they are heavy and airline weight restrictions are getting irritatingly rigid. If the thought of being away from your library and Borders and whatever makes you, like me, hurt inside, there is still hope. There are actually an impressive number of sources of English speaking books in Italy. Here are some, listed in whatever order they're popping into my head:
- Libreria all'Arco on the Via Emilia in Reggio (there is a shelf of foreign books upstairs and towards the back in a little room on the left)
- Biblioteca Panizzi on Via Farini in Reggio (there are various foreign sections - not a particularly stellar collection in English, but worth a try)
- Feltrinelli International on Via Zamboni in Bologna (good selection, also some other languages and lots of instructional language type books, too)
- There's a Feltrinelli International in Milan, too, nearish the train station but I can't really remember where. Also in Turin. This type of bookstore has caused me to miss trains more than once.
- And another one in Perugia, near the Piazza IV Novembre.
- That bookstore that's kind of half suspended in the air in the Roma Termini train station: in the upstairs, suspended-looking part there are a lot of English books.
- The Paperback Exchange, very near the Duomo in Florence, but I can't remember the street name. Dell'Oca, maybe? Google it, though. It's a lovely bookstore where you can even sell back your books and get store credit to buy new ones. Or cheaper used ones. (I do this almost every time I go to Florence.)
In Paris:
- Gibert Jeune, Place St. Michel - this is a whole series of bookstores that each specialize in some different subject (like math, science, social sciences, etc.). You have to find the one that is labelled "langues etrangeres" or something. They're all grouped around the Place. And it's a really lovely spot, too.
- WH Smith on the Rue de Rivoli (near the end - not the end towards the Hotel de Ville and stuff, but the other end, by the Place de la Concorde). Big fancy store that also apparently sells some British candy and stuff. Splendid selection.
Actually... I think there is a whole blog devoted to bookstores in other countries. Hang on. Yes. Here you go: http://www.bookstoreguide.org/. Never mind. They have much better information than I do. In fact, I'm pretty sure this is how I found all of these originally.
4. Toiletries and stuff. If you have a favorite brand of deodorant that you are attached to, bring some. Ditto toothpaste and stuff. They have a fairly decent selection of all these type things (toothpaste, shampoo, soap, shaving gel, etc.) but if you have very strong feelings about having a particular one, then bring it. No liquid in carry-ons, though, remember.
5. Over-the-counter medicine. They do not sell this stuff in Esselunga the way they do in Wal-Mart. If you need medicine in Italy (or France) you have to go in the pharmacy and explain to the person what is wrong with you and they will give you whatever they deem appropriate. In France this usually means enough drugs to medicate a small town. They are generally very solicitious and nice. However, when I'm sick, I like to drag myself into a sweatshirt, select whatever I want from a shelf that contains every variety of Tylenol ever invented and go home having had minimal contact with actual people. If you are like me in this respect, bring along your drugs of choice. My personal stock includes Tylenol, Tylenol Cold (day), Tylenol Cold (night), Neosporin, and Halls cough drops. (Yes. I like Tylenol.) Band-aids, in case you're wondering, ARE sold at Esselunga and stuff.
6. Things that involve electricity. Be careful with this. Depending on how you plug American things into a European wall, you can make the things in question blow up (at least inside). No, seriously. The voltage is different, which means you need a converting thing. (As you can probably already tell, I am no expert in physics, and so you really should find a more reliable source for this part. Unless you are as un-informed as me, in which case you may possibly understand this version better.)
Anyway, there are two kinds of converting things: the kind that converts just the shape of the plug, and the kind that converts the actual electricity. The former is good for things like laptop chargers, because apparently they convert the voltage themselves (mine says so right on that little box with the light). The latter is good for everything else, I guess, although I really would not risk it, because, you know, blowing things up. Not so good.
(Fun fact: the converse - meaning European things with American electricity - is apparently not true. American voltage is much lower, so apparently things like cell phones just charge very slowly. This information makes a lot of sense, but my practical experience with it involves one single cell phone. Small sample size: seek other information before trying at home.)
So, that's all I can think of. I think I will go dispose of my immense pile of tissues now and possibly venture out into Paris. Because it is silly to sit here with tissues and the internet when there is Paris out there, regardless of the condition of my sinuses.
Sunday, November 29
Il Job
So, in honor of my new job (um, that I’ve had for three months) here is a post about that. I wrote it in Italian because a.) I’m bored and b.) that way no one can read my snarky and mean thoughts about my coworkers (whom I mostly love, but… you’ll see). Whoever has better Italian than me (so, most people, except hopefully anyone who might actually know my esteemed colleagues), do feel free to get all snarky in return and tell me how much my grammar/spelling/Italian-in-general sucks. I probably won’t get offended.
Oh, and also, I changed everyone’s names because it would be creepy if your daycare provider was all talking about your kid on the internet, right? I figure the names are different and it’s in a whole other language, so I’m good. So…
“Quindi, per oggi ti mettiamo con i bimbi da un anno a diciotto mesi. E’ una giornata piuttosto calma qua – sono solo in sette oggi.”
Entro con un gran sorriso e li guardo. Ce ne sono tre che urlano. Mamma mia.
Mezz’ora più tardi, li abbiamo dato da mangiare, sono coperta in tracce di purée di verdura e qualcosa che mi sembra banana (ma non ne sono completamente sicura), e ho già dimentacato i nomi di almeno due dei bimbi.
“Mi passi il biberon di Luca?” mi domanda l’altra ragazza.
Cavoli, ma qual’è, Luca? Doveva proprio sciegliere uno di quelli il cui nome ho dimenticato. Esito e la ragazza ci getta lo sguardo.
“Quello lì con la camicia azzurra che si sta arrampicando per salire sul tavolo. A proposito, me lo rimetti giù sulla sedia, per favore?” mi dice con calma assoluta. Vedendo il bimbo in piedi sulla sedia, il mio cuore si ferma un attimo prima di ripartire. Lo prendo, lo rimetto giù, e pesco il biberon da dov’è caduto sotto il tavolo in un lago di latte. (Spill-proof, my a**.)
“Fammi vedere quanto ne ha bevuto?” mi chiede la terza ragazza, piccola con i capelli sciolti e di un biondo sicuramente finto. Ha passato l’intero pasto descrivendo i problemi che ha con la sua manicure e comincio a sentirmi un pochino suicida. Le passo il biberon, vedendo che ci sono ancora una decina di millilitri. Non ne avrà bevuto molto. (Ogni giorno si deve scrivere quanto ha mangiato ogni bimbo per poi dirlo ai genitori.)
“Nove,” fa la ragazza. Alzo le sopraciglie.
“Davvero?” chiedo.
“Si, guarda – il latte sta lì, al nove,” e mi mostra la linea dove arriva il latte. Se potessi, alzarei ancora più alto le sopraciglie.
Ci metto dieci minuti a spiegarle che il latte che arriva al nove è ancora nel biberon, e quindi non nel stomaco del bimbo. Poi altri cinque minuti per aiutarla a fare la sostrazione (quindici meno nove). E dovrò stare otto ore al giorno con lei? Ecco, è deciso: mi voglio tagliare le vene col coltello di plastica che abbiamo usato per preparare i pezzi di carota (che sono finiti sulle ginocchie dei miei pantaloni).
Un’ora più tardi, abbiamo pulito tutto (e ce n’era da pulire, credetemi), incluso i bimbi (che guerra per pulirgli la faccia!), e sono tutti sdraiati sui materassini per dormire. Sono carinissimi, tutti addormentati, stringendo i loro animaletti di peluche, ricoperti da copertine con disegni di conigli e nuvole e chissà che altra roba. Tranne uno, un bimbo bellissimo con gli occhi scuri e le ciglia lunghissime a cui non interessa dormire per niente.
“Senti, io vado a pranzare – fallo dormire, il piccolo, e poi quando torno, ci vai tu, d’accordo?” mi fa l’altra ragazza (la bionda è sparita dopo pranzo e non mi dispiace).
“Si, certo,” dico con un tono poco certo.
“Ti aiuto, guarda,” mi dice, e solleva il bimbo per farlo sdraiare sul suo materassino, dove c’è già un cagnolino di peluche con le orecchie blu.
“Si, si, grazie,” dico. La guardo partire e poi guardo il bimbo. Lui mi sta già guardando, con gli occhi grandi apperti. Gli sorrido gentilmente.
“E adesso dormiamo un po’, no? Andiamo a nanna!”
Cinque minuti più tardi...
“Dai, forza, chiudi gli occhi...” gli passo la mano sulle spalle ancora una volta, ma non mi ricordo neanche del suo nome per supplicarlo di chiudere gli occhi. Ma come ***** si fa a fargli addormentarsi, ‘sti bimbi? L’unica cosa che mi viene in mente è di tenergli chiusi gli occhi con le dita ma secondo me non è proprio consiglatio... Gli passo la mano ancora una volta sulle spalle, accelerando il ritmo disperatamente. Comincio a sudare un po’.
“Si chiama Alessandro.” Di colpo, sento una voce che mi parla dall’altra parte del muro basso che divide questa classe da quella dei bimbi ancora più piccoli. È la loro maestra; l’ho conosciuta in fretta stamattina. “E si addormenta se gli carezzi il viso.” Ah. Già.
La ringrazio con entusiasmo e comincio ad accarezzargli la fronte. Il piccolo comincia a respirare più lentamente e due minuti più tardi dorme. In fondo in fondo, è anche carino...
“E quindi prima di venire qua vivevi in Italia?” mi domanda una delle altre maestre qualche ora più tardi, quando ci incontriamo con le altri classi nel parco. Annuisco.
“E dove in Italia?” Sto pensando se spiegargli in quale regione o se dire direttamente “il nord” per accorciare un po’ la discussione quando la ragazza parla di nuove e interrompe il mio pensiero.
“L’Italia è quel paese dove gli uomini portano le gonne, giusto?”
Ci metto un attimino a seguire il filo dei suoi pensieri per arrivarne lì. Intanto, gli risponde qualcun’altro.
“No, quello è l’Irlanda.” Non alzare le sopraciglie. Non alzare le sopraciglie! mi ripetto silenziosamente qualche volta. Devi fare amicizia con queste ragazze!
“No, secondo me, è la Scozia, no? Dove gli uomini portano le kilts?” suggerisco finalmente. Le ragazze ci pensano un attimo.
“Ah, si, può darsi...”
“È vero!” esclama una terza, “No, ragazze, l’Italia è il paese con la pizza, no? Tipo Domino’s!”* Mi guardano tutte, aspettando conferma.
“Eh... si. Più o meno.”
“Avrai mangiato della pizza buonissima lì, no?” Mi chiede la prima mentre aggiusta il capello di uno dei bimbi. Annuisco di nuovo.
“Non potresti neanche immaginare...” dico quasi sottovoce, ripensandoci. Quella pizzeria all’angolo dietro quella strada con i portici... la rucola (a proposito, perchè non si trova per niente in America, la rucola?)... sigh. Ma che ***** faccio qua, con purée dappertutto e bimbi che urlano? Due mesi fa mi mettevo i tacchi e le gonne per insegnare nelle ditte!
Intanto è già ora di tornare nell’aula per la merenda (così diversa dalla merenda dei bimbi Italiani – niente gnocco qua!). Comincio a raccogliere i nostri piccolini e dirigerli verso la porta. Sto sudando di nuovo. Cavoli, ma chi lo sapeva che ci si voleva tanto sforzo per lavorare coi bimbi?
Di colpo, si sente il rumore del tagliaerba e uno dei bimbi della mia classe si attacca alle mie gambe, urlando. Lo prendo in braccio; “ma non e’ niente, guarda,” gli dico, mostrandogli il tagliaerba col dito. Lui si afferra al mio collo e si pianta la faccia nella mia spalla. Mi scappa un piccolo sorriso e lo stringo un po’ anch’io. La sua dipendenza totale su di noi è anche un po’ commovente, alla fine, e decido che forse si può essere contenti in qualsiasi posto... anche senza rucola.
*Una catena di pizzerie decisamente mediocre nel stilo Americano.
Oh, and also, I changed everyone’s names because it would be creepy if your daycare provider was all talking about your kid on the internet, right? I figure the names are different and it’s in a whole other language, so I’m good. So…
“Quindi, per oggi ti mettiamo con i bimbi da un anno a diciotto mesi. E’ una giornata piuttosto calma qua – sono solo in sette oggi.”
Entro con un gran sorriso e li guardo. Ce ne sono tre che urlano. Mamma mia.
Mezz’ora più tardi, li abbiamo dato da mangiare, sono coperta in tracce di purée di verdura e qualcosa che mi sembra banana (ma non ne sono completamente sicura), e ho già dimentacato i nomi di almeno due dei bimbi.
“Mi passi il biberon di Luca?” mi domanda l’altra ragazza.
Cavoli, ma qual’è, Luca? Doveva proprio sciegliere uno di quelli il cui nome ho dimenticato. Esito e la ragazza ci getta lo sguardo.
“Quello lì con la camicia azzurra che si sta arrampicando per salire sul tavolo. A proposito, me lo rimetti giù sulla sedia, per favore?” mi dice con calma assoluta. Vedendo il bimbo in piedi sulla sedia, il mio cuore si ferma un attimo prima di ripartire. Lo prendo, lo rimetto giù, e pesco il biberon da dov’è caduto sotto il tavolo in un lago di latte. (Spill-proof, my a**.)
“Fammi vedere quanto ne ha bevuto?” mi chiede la terza ragazza, piccola con i capelli sciolti e di un biondo sicuramente finto. Ha passato l’intero pasto descrivendo i problemi che ha con la sua manicure e comincio a sentirmi un pochino suicida. Le passo il biberon, vedendo che ci sono ancora una decina di millilitri. Non ne avrà bevuto molto. (Ogni giorno si deve scrivere quanto ha mangiato ogni bimbo per poi dirlo ai genitori.)
“Nove,” fa la ragazza. Alzo le sopraciglie.
“Davvero?” chiedo.
“Si, guarda – il latte sta lì, al nove,” e mi mostra la linea dove arriva il latte. Se potessi, alzarei ancora più alto le sopraciglie.
Ci metto dieci minuti a spiegarle che il latte che arriva al nove è ancora nel biberon, e quindi non nel stomaco del bimbo. Poi altri cinque minuti per aiutarla a fare la sostrazione (quindici meno nove). E dovrò stare otto ore al giorno con lei? Ecco, è deciso: mi voglio tagliare le vene col coltello di plastica che abbiamo usato per preparare i pezzi di carota (che sono finiti sulle ginocchie dei miei pantaloni).
Un’ora più tardi, abbiamo pulito tutto (e ce n’era da pulire, credetemi), incluso i bimbi (che guerra per pulirgli la faccia!), e sono tutti sdraiati sui materassini per dormire. Sono carinissimi, tutti addormentati, stringendo i loro animaletti di peluche, ricoperti da copertine con disegni di conigli e nuvole e chissà che altra roba. Tranne uno, un bimbo bellissimo con gli occhi scuri e le ciglia lunghissime a cui non interessa dormire per niente.
“Senti, io vado a pranzare – fallo dormire, il piccolo, e poi quando torno, ci vai tu, d’accordo?” mi fa l’altra ragazza (la bionda è sparita dopo pranzo e non mi dispiace).
“Si, certo,” dico con un tono poco certo.
“Ti aiuto, guarda,” mi dice, e solleva il bimbo per farlo sdraiare sul suo materassino, dove c’è già un cagnolino di peluche con le orecchie blu.
“Si, si, grazie,” dico. La guardo partire e poi guardo il bimbo. Lui mi sta già guardando, con gli occhi grandi apperti. Gli sorrido gentilmente.
“E adesso dormiamo un po’, no? Andiamo a nanna!”
Cinque minuti più tardi...
“Dai, forza, chiudi gli occhi...” gli passo la mano sulle spalle ancora una volta, ma non mi ricordo neanche del suo nome per supplicarlo di chiudere gli occhi. Ma come ***** si fa a fargli addormentarsi, ‘sti bimbi? L’unica cosa che mi viene in mente è di tenergli chiusi gli occhi con le dita ma secondo me non è proprio consiglatio... Gli passo la mano ancora una volta sulle spalle, accelerando il ritmo disperatamente. Comincio a sudare un po’.
“Si chiama Alessandro.” Di colpo, sento una voce che mi parla dall’altra parte del muro basso che divide questa classe da quella dei bimbi ancora più piccoli. È la loro maestra; l’ho conosciuta in fretta stamattina. “E si addormenta se gli carezzi il viso.” Ah. Già.
La ringrazio con entusiasmo e comincio ad accarezzargli la fronte. Il piccolo comincia a respirare più lentamente e due minuti più tardi dorme. In fondo in fondo, è anche carino...
“E quindi prima di venire qua vivevi in Italia?” mi domanda una delle altre maestre qualche ora più tardi, quando ci incontriamo con le altri classi nel parco. Annuisco.
“E dove in Italia?” Sto pensando se spiegargli in quale regione o se dire direttamente “il nord” per accorciare un po’ la discussione quando la ragazza parla di nuove e interrompe il mio pensiero.
“L’Italia è quel paese dove gli uomini portano le gonne, giusto?”
Ci metto un attimino a seguire il filo dei suoi pensieri per arrivarne lì. Intanto, gli risponde qualcun’altro.
“No, quello è l’Irlanda.” Non alzare le sopraciglie. Non alzare le sopraciglie! mi ripetto silenziosamente qualche volta. Devi fare amicizia con queste ragazze!
“No, secondo me, è la Scozia, no? Dove gli uomini portano le kilts?” suggerisco finalmente. Le ragazze ci pensano un attimo.
“Ah, si, può darsi...”
“È vero!” esclama una terza, “No, ragazze, l’Italia è il paese con la pizza, no? Tipo Domino’s!”* Mi guardano tutte, aspettando conferma.
“Eh... si. Più o meno.”
“Avrai mangiato della pizza buonissima lì, no?” Mi chiede la prima mentre aggiusta il capello di uno dei bimbi. Annuisco di nuovo.
“Non potresti neanche immaginare...” dico quasi sottovoce, ripensandoci. Quella pizzeria all’angolo dietro quella strada con i portici... la rucola (a proposito, perchè non si trova per niente in America, la rucola?)... sigh. Ma che ***** faccio qua, con purée dappertutto e bimbi che urlano? Due mesi fa mi mettevo i tacchi e le gonne per insegnare nelle ditte!
Intanto è già ora di tornare nell’aula per la merenda (così diversa dalla merenda dei bimbi Italiani – niente gnocco qua!). Comincio a raccogliere i nostri piccolini e dirigerli verso la porta. Sto sudando di nuovo. Cavoli, ma chi lo sapeva che ci si voleva tanto sforzo per lavorare coi bimbi?
Di colpo, si sente il rumore del tagliaerba e uno dei bimbi della mia classe si attacca alle mie gambe, urlando. Lo prendo in braccio; “ma non e’ niente, guarda,” gli dico, mostrandogli il tagliaerba col dito. Lui si afferra al mio collo e si pianta la faccia nella mia spalla. Mi scappa un piccolo sorriso e lo stringo un po’ anch’io. La sua dipendenza totale su di noi è anche un po’ commovente, alla fine, e decido che forse si può essere contenti in qualsiasi posto... anche senza rucola.
*Una catena di pizzerie decisamente mediocre nel stilo Americano.
Saturday, November 28
I can't think of a title
I'm back! (From nowhere in particular.) Interestingly (or not so) I have almost nothing interesting to report, despite a month-long absence. High points of excitement in my life the past month include:
1. The school Halloween parade. This consisted of my esteemed colleagues and I manhandling twelve toddlers into awkward costumes, cooing over them, taking pictures of them screaming and/or merely pouting miserably (the costumes, you see), and then hauling them outside for a few circuits around the parking lot. Mine were all too young and disturbed by the proceedings to walk, so we carried them, and it turns out they're heavier than you'd think. Except one brave soul, aptly dressed as superman, who did want to walk. Specifically, he wanted to walk into oncoming traffic. Fun. (For the record, I did not let him. Yes. I am a good daycare employee.)
2. Dealing with various ills that befall children between the ages of 12 and 18 months: rashes, innumerable bumps on heads, bee stings, choking (not fun for anyone), and fevers that soar up above 104 degrees. The effect of said fevers is, oddly enough, different on everyone. My heart kind of ceases to beat while the thermometer beeps its way up past 103 and 104, and the children merely wiggle a little and glare at me reproachfully. Strange. I have a feeling being a parent is a worrisome sort of job.
3. The school's Thanksgiving Feast. Hilarity all around. You know why? Do you have acces to a toddler? If so, give him/her a pile of stuffing, some shredded corn bread (to prevent choking, see), a clump of mashed potatoes, and no utensils (because they don't know how to use them) and see what happens. Yes. I'll leave it to your imagination. But it was just as unfortunate as you'd think, and then some.
4. One solitary medical school interview. It transpired my interviewer went to the same undergrad institution as I did, and knew some of the same people in the linguistics department. We chatted amiably about linguistics. She probably ended up thinking I'd be better suited to a career in linguistics than medicine. She may have a point. In other news... public service announcement: medical schools, here's the deal: either interview me or reject me. I'm not even especially picky about which at this point. But I'm getting bored with sitting here waiting for you to make a decision. The end.
5. The leaves all fell off the trees. That was kind of depressing. Today it is sunny though windy, so that's kind of okay, but I strongly dislike the gray parts of the winter. Sigh.
6. I attended a yoga class. This was funny because at the end the instructor must have felt that she should flatter the new girl to make her come back, because she was all "well, you must exercise a lot, right? Take really good care of your body? Because it shows." And I was all, "um... well, I generally shower standing up... and that's about it." I didn't say that, though. Probably no need to discuss showering habits with random strangers, Slavic-accented yoga people or otherwise.
7. I watched a movie in Italian ("Il Giardino dei Finzi-Contini") and felt cultured as a result. Also I understood it all. Which is actually not very impressive because I've already read the book. But whatever. Culturedness. It is good.
Yeah, I think that might be about it. How pedestrian. But sometimes that's okay. In a relaxing, brain half-asleep kind of way. A good weekend to all.
1. The school Halloween parade. This consisted of my esteemed colleagues and I manhandling twelve toddlers into awkward costumes, cooing over them, taking pictures of them screaming and/or merely pouting miserably (the costumes, you see), and then hauling them outside for a few circuits around the parking lot. Mine were all too young and disturbed by the proceedings to walk, so we carried them, and it turns out they're heavier than you'd think. Except one brave soul, aptly dressed as superman, who did want to walk. Specifically, he wanted to walk into oncoming traffic. Fun. (For the record, I did not let him. Yes. I am a good daycare employee.)
2. Dealing with various ills that befall children between the ages of 12 and 18 months: rashes, innumerable bumps on heads, bee stings, choking (not fun for anyone), and fevers that soar up above 104 degrees. The effect of said fevers is, oddly enough, different on everyone. My heart kind of ceases to beat while the thermometer beeps its way up past 103 and 104, and the children merely wiggle a little and glare at me reproachfully. Strange. I have a feeling being a parent is a worrisome sort of job.
3. The school's Thanksgiving Feast. Hilarity all around. You know why? Do you have acces to a toddler? If so, give him/her a pile of stuffing, some shredded corn bread (to prevent choking, see), a clump of mashed potatoes, and no utensils (because they don't know how to use them) and see what happens. Yes. I'll leave it to your imagination. But it was just as unfortunate as you'd think, and then some.
4. One solitary medical school interview. It transpired my interviewer went to the same undergrad institution as I did, and knew some of the same people in the linguistics department. We chatted amiably about linguistics. She probably ended up thinking I'd be better suited to a career in linguistics than medicine. She may have a point. In other news... public service announcement: medical schools, here's the deal: either interview me or reject me. I'm not even especially picky about which at this point. But I'm getting bored with sitting here waiting for you to make a decision. The end.
5. The leaves all fell off the trees. That was kind of depressing. Today it is sunny though windy, so that's kind of okay, but I strongly dislike the gray parts of the winter. Sigh.
6. I attended a yoga class. This was funny because at the end the instructor must have felt that she should flatter the new girl to make her come back, because she was all "well, you must exercise a lot, right? Take really good care of your body? Because it shows." And I was all, "um... well, I generally shower standing up... and that's about it." I didn't say that, though. Probably no need to discuss showering habits with random strangers, Slavic-accented yoga people or otherwise.
7. I watched a movie in Italian ("Il Giardino dei Finzi-Contini") and felt cultured as a result. Also I understood it all. Which is actually not very impressive because I've already read the book. But whatever. Culturedness. It is good.
Yeah, I think that might be about it. How pedestrian. But sometimes that's okay. In a relaxing, brain half-asleep kind of way. A good weekend to all.
Monday, October 26
Remembering
So... I suck at blogging when I'm busy. So instead of an entry (post? whatever.) I'm going to mash up a bunch of things together so that it makes even less sense than usual. Good plan? Yes? No? Well, no one's being forced to read it, so whatever. I am grouchy because it is Sunday night and I have to get up not at but *before* the crack of dawn tomorrow and also because the world of medical education is irritating and I've just about had it with that.
Anyway. Watching the dates go by on the calendar brings back memories of this time last year (actually, more like a month ago last year, but let's not be picky). I was lazy and didn't record them at the time, so I figure I might as well write down the few bits and pieces that come back.
Walking up the Via Emilia for the first time, in the company of the other young new teacher, and the surge of feeling: eeeeeeee, I'm really in Italy. To live.
That first little supermarket on via Melato, where there were mostly fruits and vegetables and they were all so beautiful and fresh-looking. Not to mention ridiculously cheap, compared to, say, Paris. We bought tomatoes and mozzarella and bread and made sandwiches in the temporary apartment we were sharing. Buying San Benedetto water in packs of 6 and learning that the pink caps are naturale and the dark blue ones are frizzante. (Also true of the fior di spesa water that they sell in Standa. Or now it's Billa or something. The one under Oviesse, anyway.)
Drinks in piazza Fontanesi with the boss and the supervisor and the aforementioned other young new teacher, and me being all omg omg I'm socializing with people from work! Like a grown-up! In a piazza! In Italy! (Excitable much, younger Self?)
Looking for an apartment. That very first one where I stood all jet-lagged on the stairs and listened to my boss and the landlady blathering on about 'spese condominiali', wondering through the haze what that meant and why they had taught us all about Dante's effects on the vulgarization of Italian but not what 'le spese' are or what a SIM card is. The second one, where the other new teacher and I took turns calling the landlady for directions because she was a fiery Napoletana and neither of us could understand her.
The Apartment of No Hot Water and... yeah, never mind. That whole experience is best left in the past.
Signing up for library cards for la Panizzi, and having to explain that we weren't residents of Reggio; yes, we spoke English but no, we weren't both English because one of us is American; yes, we had an address, but both of us would be moving soon; no, not to the same address... and so on. The girl there was very nice and it was a whole adventure and we emerged with library cards, proud of our ability to conduct daily life business in Italian and reassured that there was a small stock of English-language books should we ever feel irrepressibly homesick.
That very first student, a woman who was moving to America to do a Master's degree and needed to use up her last two hours of lessons. "Just talk to her," they told me, "it'll be good for her to hear an American accent." Yes, well, you'd think, but actually it's not so easy. Particularly because she didn't seem to remember the name of the city she was meant to go to, or even what the university was called. This did not seem to unnerve her - in fact, I think I was more worried than she was. Actually, it's been a year now. I kind of wonder how things went...
The second student, a gregarious business guy who promptly treated me to a lecture on why Audis are the best cars. I only understood about 10% of what he was saying, and I never really was sure whether this was due to my lack of knowledge about cars or to the quality of his spoken English. In any case, he was very personable and at the end he informed me: "you are good teacher. I learn 12 new words today." Me: "oh, um, good..."
Walking all the way to Petali from the center in search of sheets (actually, I think I already wrote an entry about this) and getting sidetracked by clothes in Zara. (We will be fashionable! Classy! Italian-looking! cried the young English teachers*).
Meeting the gaggle of cousins + their friends + acquaintances of this one teacher who had family in Reggio. Enjoying the heady swirl of Reggiana dialect and Italian and aperol spritz and animated discussion about where to go for aperitivo.
Going to a movie in Italian (Vicky Cristina Barcelona) and being so happy that I could understand most of it. Being disoriented by the fact that they sometimes switched to Spanish and the difference didn't always register in my head. Also, we had just taught some slang to one of my colleagues who showed up in Reggio not knowing a word of Italian. At the end of the movie: "che c****...?" said he. We laughed a lot.
The Palio dei formaggi. You have heard of the Palio in Siena, yes? It involves horses running around in a big piazza or some such? Yeah, that's pretty much all I remembered about it at the time, too, so I was all 'wait, how could you possibly incorporate cheese into that?' Oh, but they managed. There were men jogging around the piazza del duomo with 5kg wheels of cheese on their backs. I felt like I'd been dropped into a scene from that "Tuscan sun" movie with Diane Lane. Yes, yes, I thought. Moving to Italy was indeed a good plan. Where else would I get to see a palio of cheese?
*You know what's interesting about that sentence? When you (or I, rather) write "English teachers" you can't really tell whether they are generic teachers who hail from England, or teachers of English of undefined nationality. And I can't figure out a way to make the distinction clear. Grammar, you have failed me.
Aaaand with that, back to life in America. I found a place that sells gelato. It wasn't half bad, except that even if you ask for a small they give you a tub, like the size that would cost about 4euro in Italy. I miss the little coppetta da 1,50.
Anyway. Watching the dates go by on the calendar brings back memories of this time last year (actually, more like a month ago last year, but let's not be picky). I was lazy and didn't record them at the time, so I figure I might as well write down the few bits and pieces that come back.
Walking up the Via Emilia for the first time, in the company of the other young new teacher, and the surge of feeling: eeeeeeee, I'm really in Italy. To live.
That first little supermarket on via Melato, where there were mostly fruits and vegetables and they were all so beautiful and fresh-looking. Not to mention ridiculously cheap, compared to, say, Paris. We bought tomatoes and mozzarella and bread and made sandwiches in the temporary apartment we were sharing. Buying San Benedetto water in packs of 6 and learning that the pink caps are naturale and the dark blue ones are frizzante. (Also true of the fior di spesa water that they sell in Standa. Or now it's Billa or something. The one under Oviesse, anyway.)
Drinks in piazza Fontanesi with the boss and the supervisor and the aforementioned other young new teacher, and me being all omg omg I'm socializing with people from work! Like a grown-up! In a piazza! In Italy! (Excitable much, younger Self?)
Looking for an apartment. That very first one where I stood all jet-lagged on the stairs and listened to my boss and the landlady blathering on about 'spese condominiali', wondering through the haze what that meant and why they had taught us all about Dante's effects on the vulgarization of Italian but not what 'le spese' are or what a SIM card is. The second one, where the other new teacher and I took turns calling the landlady for directions because she was a fiery Napoletana and neither of us could understand her.
The Apartment of No Hot Water and... yeah, never mind. That whole experience is best left in the past.
Signing up for library cards for la Panizzi, and having to explain that we weren't residents of Reggio; yes, we spoke English but no, we weren't both English because one of us is American; yes, we had an address, but both of us would be moving soon; no, not to the same address... and so on. The girl there was very nice and it was a whole adventure and we emerged with library cards, proud of our ability to conduct daily life business in Italian and reassured that there was a small stock of English-language books should we ever feel irrepressibly homesick.
That very first student, a woman who was moving to America to do a Master's degree and needed to use up her last two hours of lessons. "Just talk to her," they told me, "it'll be good for her to hear an American accent." Yes, well, you'd think, but actually it's not so easy. Particularly because she didn't seem to remember the name of the city she was meant to go to, or even what the university was called. This did not seem to unnerve her - in fact, I think I was more worried than she was. Actually, it's been a year now. I kind of wonder how things went...
The second student, a gregarious business guy who promptly treated me to a lecture on why Audis are the best cars. I only understood about 10% of what he was saying, and I never really was sure whether this was due to my lack of knowledge about cars or to the quality of his spoken English. In any case, he was very personable and at the end he informed me: "you are good teacher. I learn 12 new words today." Me: "oh, um, good..."
Walking all the way to Petali from the center in search of sheets (actually, I think I already wrote an entry about this) and getting sidetracked by clothes in Zara. (We will be fashionable! Classy! Italian-looking! cried the young English teachers*).
Meeting the gaggle of cousins + their friends + acquaintances of this one teacher who had family in Reggio. Enjoying the heady swirl of Reggiana dialect and Italian and aperol spritz and animated discussion about where to go for aperitivo.
Going to a movie in Italian (Vicky Cristina Barcelona) and being so happy that I could understand most of it. Being disoriented by the fact that they sometimes switched to Spanish and the difference didn't always register in my head. Also, we had just taught some slang to one of my colleagues who showed up in Reggio not knowing a word of Italian. At the end of the movie: "che c****...?" said he. We laughed a lot.
The Palio dei formaggi. You have heard of the Palio in Siena, yes? It involves horses running around in a big piazza or some such? Yeah, that's pretty much all I remembered about it at the time, too, so I was all 'wait, how could you possibly incorporate cheese into that?' Oh, but they managed. There were men jogging around the piazza del duomo with 5kg wheels of cheese on their backs. I felt like I'd been dropped into a scene from that "Tuscan sun" movie with Diane Lane. Yes, yes, I thought. Moving to Italy was indeed a good plan. Where else would I get to see a palio of cheese?
*You know what's interesting about that sentence? When you (or I, rather) write "English teachers" you can't really tell whether they are generic teachers who hail from England, or teachers of English of undefined nationality. And I can't figure out a way to make the distinction clear. Grammar, you have failed me.
Aaaand with that, back to life in America. I found a place that sells gelato. It wasn't half bad, except that even if you ask for a small they give you a tub, like the size that would cost about 4euro in Italy. I miss the little coppetta da 1,50.
Monday, October 12
Nothing much
Very productive today. Answered all of the emails that had been hanging out in my inbox, some of them since... um... mid-September. (Oops. I am a godawful email correspondent. I should just slap that onto the bottom of all my emails as a sort of disclaimer/pre-emptive apology. Anyway. Apologies all around.)
Now I am off to do my laundry and create Strategic Food Reserves for the week. This involves a lot of tupperware and significant quantities of my horrible cooking all at once, so steer clear of the kitchen, people.
Then I will be ready to start another week. Oh, my life. It is just so fascinating. Most of last week was taken up combatting the Diaper Rash of Death on one of my wee ones; who knows what this week could hold? Here's hoping something less labor-intensive because the whole diaper rash thing involved a lot of time spent wrestling this kid every time I wanted to change his diaper, and somehow... I frequently came close to losing? To a 12-month-old? Hm. Awkward, that. (For those who don't know what diaper rash is and, for whatever reason, can't figure it out for yourselves... um... inform yourselves before you procreate.)
On a tangentially related note, did you know there's such a thing as a product called "Butt Paste"? I kid you not. It is for the purpose of preventing diaper rash. Aptly named, I suppose. Can't get much more direct than that.
In other news, I am still learning German, by way of mildly irritating CDs that I play during my highly irritating commute (I'm very easily irritated), and can now introduce myself, say I'm from Dresden, count to eleven, and say I'm a lawyer. Not particularly useful, since I don't anticipate ever having to say I'm a lawyer, in any context, but whatever.
Yesterday I went to the library to get books for my bimbi and asked the children's librarian how to go about finding books on a specific topic, because it has been a long time since I looked for anything in the picture book section. In fact, I don't think this library had even been built yet, the last time I needed a picture book. "Well, what grade are you in?" she asked me, looking at me slightly askance. I am not sure how to take this. Well, because it means I look younger? Or not well because maybe I look my age but just sort of illiterate? I reigned in my narcissism, though, and did not run around the library screaming that I had a Bachelor's degree and was only teaching preschool temporarily, thank you very much.
That would be rude, unnecessary, and also innappropriate, because, having taught preschool for a full month now, I have come to realize that it is an extremely important profession and that we should somehow recruit smarter people to do it, asap. I will also now know what to look for when I have my own kids. Actually, you know where the best preschools I have ever seen are? In Reggio. Perhaps I shall just lend my kids to someone there for the duration of their pre-primary education. Or maybe we can import the Reggio approach to wherever I am living then. Or maybe I will move back to Reggio with my brats, and we'll all eat a lot of gnocco and get fat. Yes. We will bring obesity to Italy. Excellent.
Aaaanyway, I am making very little sense, per usual. And, you may have noticed, I actually have very little of import to say. This is because I now live in suburbia and spend my weeks applying goo and baby powder to small behinds and my weekends planted in a chair, reading trash from the library. (Actually, this week I'm reading a book called... hang on... "Quicksilver". By some guy. Either Neal Stephenson or Stephen Nealson. Anyway, though, if it's trash, it's quite pleasantly-written trash. And maybe it's not even trash. Who knows?) Anyway. The point is that I have pretty much nothing to say, but felt that updating ye olde blog was the last thing to do on my keeping-up-with-correspondence list, and so... now I can go do something else, guilt-free.
A good week to all.
Good lord, I'm boring even myself to death.
Now I am off to do my laundry and create Strategic Food Reserves for the week. This involves a lot of tupperware and significant quantities of my horrible cooking all at once, so steer clear of the kitchen, people.
Then I will be ready to start another week. Oh, my life. It is just so fascinating. Most of last week was taken up combatting the Diaper Rash of Death on one of my wee ones; who knows what this week could hold? Here's hoping something less labor-intensive because the whole diaper rash thing involved a lot of time spent wrestling this kid every time I wanted to change his diaper, and somehow... I frequently came close to losing? To a 12-month-old? Hm. Awkward, that. (For those who don't know what diaper rash is and, for whatever reason, can't figure it out for yourselves... um... inform yourselves before you procreate.)
On a tangentially related note, did you know there's such a thing as a product called "Butt Paste"? I kid you not. It is for the purpose of preventing diaper rash. Aptly named, I suppose. Can't get much more direct than that.
In other news, I am still learning German, by way of mildly irritating CDs that I play during my highly irritating commute (I'm very easily irritated), and can now introduce myself, say I'm from Dresden, count to eleven, and say I'm a lawyer. Not particularly useful, since I don't anticipate ever having to say I'm a lawyer, in any context, but whatever.
Yesterday I went to the library to get books for my bimbi and asked the children's librarian how to go about finding books on a specific topic, because it has been a long time since I looked for anything in the picture book section. In fact, I don't think this library had even been built yet, the last time I needed a picture book. "Well, what grade are you in?" she asked me, looking at me slightly askance. I am not sure how to take this. Well, because it means I look younger? Or not well because maybe I look my age but just sort of illiterate? I reigned in my narcissism, though, and did not run around the library screaming that I had a Bachelor's degree and was only teaching preschool temporarily, thank you very much.
That would be rude, unnecessary, and also innappropriate, because, having taught preschool for a full month now, I have come to realize that it is an extremely important profession and that we should somehow recruit smarter people to do it, asap. I will also now know what to look for when I have my own kids. Actually, you know where the best preschools I have ever seen are? In Reggio. Perhaps I shall just lend my kids to someone there for the duration of their pre-primary education. Or maybe we can import the Reggio approach to wherever I am living then. Or maybe I will move back to Reggio with my brats, and we'll all eat a lot of gnocco and get fat. Yes. We will bring obesity to Italy. Excellent.
Aaaanyway, I am making very little sense, per usual. And, you may have noticed, I actually have very little of import to say. This is because I now live in suburbia and spend my weeks applying goo and baby powder to small behinds and my weekends planted in a chair, reading trash from the library. (Actually, this week I'm reading a book called... hang on... "Quicksilver". By some guy. Either Neal Stephenson or Stephen Nealson. Anyway, though, if it's trash, it's quite pleasantly-written trash. And maybe it's not even trash. Who knows?) Anyway. The point is that I have pretty much nothing to say, but felt that updating ye olde blog was the last thing to do on my keeping-up-with-correspondence list, and so... now I can go do something else, guilt-free.
A good week to all.
Good lord, I'm boring even myself to death.
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