Finally, un attimo di bel tempo. The sun is shining outside, my apartment is clean, someone is playing Ligabue (Le donne lo sanno) from somewhere so it is just audible enough to be pleasant but not enough to be distracting, I have some delicious cheese (viva il pecorino toscano!) and maybe a salad to eat for lunch, and also delightful evening plans, and life is good.
Not even the fact that I am working on the translation of Death, also known as the translation that Refuses to End, can dampen my spirits. Evviva il bel tempo! I had better finish the sucker before November, or else there will be no more bel tempo to cheer me up and I will probably chuck my laptop (or myself) out of the window in frustration.
Perhaps when I finish the stupid thing, I will have time to update the internet world on the minutiae importantissimi of my life, including a stint as secretary, a brief escape to the Lago di Garda, our first week back at work and the trauma of preparing for our school's open day... etc.
Sunday, September 12
Tuesday, August 31
Not in ferie
Aaaand we're back. Back in the land of plentiful gelato and stores that close irritatingly early. In fact, I should probably plan all future returns to the bel paese around the closing times of local supermarkets. Because otherwise I end up like I am now: all greatful for the fact that I stuffed a package of goldfish crackers into my purse before leaving America (three or four days ago) and subsequently forgot to remove them.
You know how in America you can get pretty much anything you want at anytime you want it? I mean, definitely during extended daytime hours - you can do your banking and your post office-ing and your grocery shopping and your dry cleaning and all sorts of things until considerably later than you can in Italy. (Or France, for that matter.) Similarly, you can go to the bank on a Saturday and to the supermarket or the mall or pretty much anywhere on a Sunday. (Except the bank or the post office, I suppose. Still, though.) Like, if you suddenly need a soda at three a.m.? Probably there is a 24 hour convenience store somewhere within comfortable driving distance. McDonald's at midnight? For sure. In fact, once I was with some friends in New York and we decided we needed a board game to play (I forget what the context of this was) and it was ten p.m., but that's fine, because we just sauntered into some random Wal-Mart and there we were: toys in the middle of the night!
Here in Reggio, though, it is a different matter. Good luck to you if you happen to show up some fine evening at 8:40 and notice that you have no shampoo, no laundry detergent, no bottled water, no food, and a pressing desire to shower, do your laundry, and, uh, ingest food/hydrate yourself. You are in trouble. In fact, this is how I come to be dining on goldfish crackers and savoring the little bottle of water that I grabbed (kind of on a whim, really... but so fortunate!) before getting on the train. Not to mention eagerly awaiting Acqua e Sapone's opening time tomorrow so that I can get soap, in various forms and for various uses. Yay soap!
Hm. I feel that I am starting to make very little sense. It has been a long and largely boring day of travelling, though. In fact, I would like to take a moment to boast of my travelling prowess. Today, my trajectory was as such: tramway halfway around the periphery of Paris --> RER train around the rest of Paris --> airport shuttle to correct terminal --> airplane to Malpensa --> shuttle bus to Milano centrale --> regionale train to Reggio --> taxi to here --> very tired arms and legs lugging suitcases up three flights of stairs --> me sitting at this desk, eating goldfish and too lazy to go get ready for bed and thus continuing to type instead...
Yes, anyway. Oh, one more parting thought, though. You know how in America you can get anything anytime, pretty much? And in Italy you are quite restricted and on a Sunday afternoon, just about all you can get is a coffee or gelato? Well, in France, it's like that except for the bread. You can always, always find a boulangerie that is open and ready to feed you a fresh baguette/croissant/eclair or whatever, no matter what day it is. It's like, if it's the god-given right of an American to have tylenol and board games at whatever time of day we damn well please, it's the god-given right of French people to have fresh bread any day of the year, right down to Easter Sunday and Christmas, and don't anyone try to take it away from us!
Okay. Now I really will go to bed. 'Notte Reggio. It's good to be back.
You know how in America you can get pretty much anything you want at anytime you want it? I mean, definitely during extended daytime hours - you can do your banking and your post office-ing and your grocery shopping and your dry cleaning and all sorts of things until considerably later than you can in Italy. (Or France, for that matter.) Similarly, you can go to the bank on a Saturday and to the supermarket or the mall or pretty much anywhere on a Sunday. (Except the bank or the post office, I suppose. Still, though.) Like, if you suddenly need a soda at three a.m.? Probably there is a 24 hour convenience store somewhere within comfortable driving distance. McDonald's at midnight? For sure. In fact, once I was with some friends in New York and we decided we needed a board game to play (I forget what the context of this was) and it was ten p.m., but that's fine, because we just sauntered into some random Wal-Mart and there we were: toys in the middle of the night!
Here in Reggio, though, it is a different matter. Good luck to you if you happen to show up some fine evening at 8:40 and notice that you have no shampoo, no laundry detergent, no bottled water, no food, and a pressing desire to shower, do your laundry, and, uh, ingest food/hydrate yourself. You are in trouble. In fact, this is how I come to be dining on goldfish crackers and savoring the little bottle of water that I grabbed (kind of on a whim, really... but so fortunate!) before getting on the train. Not to mention eagerly awaiting Acqua e Sapone's opening time tomorrow so that I can get soap, in various forms and for various uses. Yay soap!
Hm. I feel that I am starting to make very little sense. It has been a long and largely boring day of travelling, though. In fact, I would like to take a moment to boast of my travelling prowess. Today, my trajectory was as such: tramway halfway around the periphery of Paris --> RER train around the rest of Paris --> airport shuttle to correct terminal --> airplane to Malpensa --> shuttle bus to Milano centrale --> regionale train to Reggio --> taxi to here --> very tired arms and legs lugging suitcases up three flights of stairs --> me sitting at this desk, eating goldfish and too lazy to go get ready for bed and thus continuing to type instead...
Yes, anyway. Oh, one more parting thought, though. You know how in America you can get anything anytime, pretty much? And in Italy you are quite restricted and on a Sunday afternoon, just about all you can get is a coffee or gelato? Well, in France, it's like that except for the bread. You can always, always find a boulangerie that is open and ready to feed you a fresh baguette/croissant/eclair or whatever, no matter what day it is. It's like, if it's the god-given right of an American to have tylenol and board games at whatever time of day we damn well please, it's the god-given right of French people to have fresh bread any day of the year, right down to Easter Sunday and Christmas, and don't anyone try to take it away from us!
Okay. Now I really will go to bed. 'Notte Reggio. It's good to be back.
Sunday, August 29
In ferie
Well, actually, I'm tornando-ing dalle ferie. (You know you've reached a certain level of comfort with a language when you can mix it in with your first one and double conjugate the verbs, right? Just, uh, don't mistake "certain level of comfort" for "anything near proficiency", at least in my case.)
Anyway. Vacation. Were you picturing me lounging on the beach, getting a stellar tan and... I don't know... doing beach-type things? That's nice. Because, actually, I was working at the daycare from my previous stint in the childcare-world and generally wearing a lot more baby spit-up and bleach than sunscreen.
I sound bitter, don't I? But actually, I'm completely not. I am a big fan of working there, in fact. It's just kind of more interesting to write about your life if you're either bitter or having adventures that make you seem completely retarded. Don't worry, though - I generally do plenty of the latter, so probably things will be up and running (read: puttering along) at their usual speed shortly.
So, to recap this summer since that last post: there was one more week after that of working in the ridiculous heat of Reggio in July. (Actually, remind me never to work full time at a job that requires me to look halfway decent through the middle of July in Reggio again: brutal. Particularly when showing up for lessons at companies that are thoroughly air conditioned, looking all disheveled when the employees have been hanging out in the subarctic temperatures all day and look at you like you're from a different planet for even considering short sleeves. Sigh.)
Then, in a colossal bout of over-ambitiousness regarding scheduling, managed to book a flight (from Milan) a mere six or so hours after the end of my last lesson (in Reggio), which somewhat compressed the activities of finishing packing/taking out the garbage/remembering to lock my apartment/calling a taxi/buying train ticket/taking navetta from Milano Centrale to Malpensa/actually boarding plane, etc. but I made it. Subsequently arrival in Paris in the dead of night, merciful picking up by mother at airport (yay! mother is awesome!). Next day spent traipsing around Paris at breakneck pace, determined to enjoy all of favorite haunts and also company of aforementioned awesome mother in just one day. Day after, return to airport and oh-so-fun flight back to Newark. Newark (and NJ in general) very humid and sticky. Highly reminiscent of Reggio, except with bigger and slower highways, more ethnic food, and crappier pizza.
Sleep it all off and return to work at daycare the next morning (because am valiant! and tireless! and maybe slightly less than sane!), marvel at growth of children cared for during previous stint at daycare, marvel at ridiculous turnover rate of staff, get assigned a classroom and offered yet another uniform polo (wrong size, do not take for fear of always looking like some sort of crazy Tent Monster; better to stick with own, bleach-stained uniform polos). Spend six weeks caring for mildly psychotic but highly entertaining 18-month-olds, while occasionally sneaking to classroom of 12-month-olds (more familiar territory - class from last time), and classroom of infants (where things are peaceful and calm and filled with cooing babies... okay, maybe sometimes they teethe and cry hysterically and frequently they spit up on you, but this is still peaceful and calm compared to the psychosis of the toddlers).
Overall, six weeks of familiar, satisfying work in familiar, pleasant workplace. Six weeks of family and friends and familiar surroundings. Many evenings spent filling up on food that Italy does not seem to have: Indian and Thai and Mexican, oh my. (Italy, don't get me wrong: I love your food. It is probably among the most excellent in the world, but... have you tried food from other countries? It also can be excellent.) Also iced coffee (I know, it is wimpy and watery and frequently unnecessarily sweet, but I have a serious weakness for iced coffee). Six weeks of coming home from work and sinking pleasantly into piles of books borrowed from the library, the words like a deliciously warm bath. (Uh-oh, now I am becoming gooey.)
Then, after quasi-tearfully hugging my little monsters and tickling all my favorite babies under the chin one more time and hearing their little giggles, loaded self back onto plane (sat next to cheerful and overly talkative couple that wanted to know whether I was leaving home or going home... surprisingly difficult question to answer), ate goopy rice under some dish that was apparently masquerading as chicken teriyaki, and then managed to sleep on plane (unprecedented!) before arriving back in Paris.
Here it is grey and slightly gloomy, but armed with a sweater and a scarf, it is a rather pleasant sort of grey. Am eating ridiculous amounts of yummy stuff that they only have in Paris, and continuing to gorge myself on books until return to Reggio the day after tomorrow. And now I think it is sufficiently late to trick myself into sleeping, since I bravely fought the jet lag upon arriving yesterday and managing not to nap in the daytime. Huzzah!
Right. Anyway, a good night to all!
Anyway. Vacation. Were you picturing me lounging on the beach, getting a stellar tan and... I don't know... doing beach-type things? That's nice. Because, actually, I was working at the daycare from my previous stint in the childcare-world and generally wearing a lot more baby spit-up and bleach than sunscreen.
I sound bitter, don't I? But actually, I'm completely not. I am a big fan of working there, in fact. It's just kind of more interesting to write about your life if you're either bitter or having adventures that make you seem completely retarded. Don't worry, though - I generally do plenty of the latter, so probably things will be up and running (read: puttering along) at their usual speed shortly.
So, to recap this summer since that last post: there was one more week after that of working in the ridiculous heat of Reggio in July. (Actually, remind me never to work full time at a job that requires me to look halfway decent through the middle of July in Reggio again: brutal. Particularly when showing up for lessons at companies that are thoroughly air conditioned, looking all disheveled when the employees have been hanging out in the subarctic temperatures all day and look at you like you're from a different planet for even considering short sleeves. Sigh.)
Then, in a colossal bout of over-ambitiousness regarding scheduling, managed to book a flight (from Milan) a mere six or so hours after the end of my last lesson (in Reggio), which somewhat compressed the activities of finishing packing/taking out the garbage/remembering to lock my apartment/calling a taxi/buying train ticket/taking navetta from Milano Centrale to Malpensa/actually boarding plane, etc. but I made it. Subsequently arrival in Paris in the dead of night, merciful picking up by mother at airport (yay! mother is awesome!). Next day spent traipsing around Paris at breakneck pace, determined to enjoy all of favorite haunts and also company of aforementioned awesome mother in just one day. Day after, return to airport and oh-so-fun flight back to Newark. Newark (and NJ in general) very humid and sticky. Highly reminiscent of Reggio, except with bigger and slower highways, more ethnic food, and crappier pizza.
Sleep it all off and return to work at daycare the next morning (because am valiant! and tireless! and maybe slightly less than sane!), marvel at growth of children cared for during previous stint at daycare, marvel at ridiculous turnover rate of staff, get assigned a classroom and offered yet another uniform polo (wrong size, do not take for fear of always looking like some sort of crazy Tent Monster; better to stick with own, bleach-stained uniform polos). Spend six weeks caring for mildly psychotic but highly entertaining 18-month-olds, while occasionally sneaking to classroom of 12-month-olds (more familiar territory - class from last time), and classroom of infants (where things are peaceful and calm and filled with cooing babies... okay, maybe sometimes they teethe and cry hysterically and frequently they spit up on you, but this is still peaceful and calm compared to the psychosis of the toddlers).
Overall, six weeks of familiar, satisfying work in familiar, pleasant workplace. Six weeks of family and friends and familiar surroundings. Many evenings spent filling up on food that Italy does not seem to have: Indian and Thai and Mexican, oh my. (Italy, don't get me wrong: I love your food. It is probably among the most excellent in the world, but... have you tried food from other countries? It also can be excellent.) Also iced coffee (I know, it is wimpy and watery and frequently unnecessarily sweet, but I have a serious weakness for iced coffee). Six weeks of coming home from work and sinking pleasantly into piles of books borrowed from the library, the words like a deliciously warm bath. (Uh-oh, now I am becoming gooey.)
Then, after quasi-tearfully hugging my little monsters and tickling all my favorite babies under the chin one more time and hearing their little giggles, loaded self back onto plane (sat next to cheerful and overly talkative couple that wanted to know whether I was leaving home or going home... surprisingly difficult question to answer), ate goopy rice under some dish that was apparently masquerading as chicken teriyaki, and then managed to sleep on plane (unprecedented!) before arriving back in Paris.
Here it is grey and slightly gloomy, but armed with a sweater and a scarf, it is a rather pleasant sort of grey. Am eating ridiculous amounts of yummy stuff that they only have in Paris, and continuing to gorge myself on books until return to Reggio the day after tomorrow. And now I think it is sufficiently late to trick myself into sleeping, since I bravely fought the jet lag upon arriving yesterday and managing not to nap in the daytime. Huzzah!
Right. Anyway, a good night to all!
Saturday, August 28
Filial piety
"So, she needs to go out to get her hair cut and she wants to go to the Galeries Lafayette... you'll take her, right?" the hope in my mother's voice is palpable even over the phone.
'
"Yes, yes," I say, full of filial piety and duty-towards-ones-grandparents, etc. (I am in Paris with the grandmother for a few days before returning to Reggio after the summer.) I picture my grandmother and myself strolling through the Galeries Lafayette, chatting amiably, and how good I will feel afterwards, knowing that she has at least been out of the house once this month.
I really should know better by now.
I am hanging out in the living room of my mother's apartment, when I hear my grandmother in the building's courtyard, having finally made it down from her fourth floor apartment (they have apartments in neighboring buildings that share a courtyard).
"Is he in the hospital?" she is inquiring, her voice full of concern. What? I get up to see who she is talking to.
"No, no," a medium-sized boy is saying, having apparently been stopped midway through taking the garbage bins back into the basement. He must be the caretaker's son. "He just has a little cold, really." My grandmother shakes her head mournfully.
"Ah!" she heaves a sigh of great regret/concern/god-knows-what. "Tell him to be careful, though. The number of times someone I know has had 'just a cold' and then, you know... " she lets her voice trail off almost mournfully. The boy looks a bit confused now, and I don't blame him. I stick my head out of the window and call, "I'll be right down." My grandmother is in her element, though, and doesn't even acknowledge me.
"Anyway, you should tell your father..." and she goes off into a list of remedies ranging from the innocuous (lots of sleep) to the minorly bizarre (boiling a mixture of herbs and medicines and breathing it). I have been subject to this last one at various times throughout my childhood, and let me tell you, it is not pleasant. It is like being suffocated by an herb garden that has been liberally doused in cough syrup. The awkward thing is that it does kind of work as a decongestant, so I can't really say anything.
"Right, well, time to go!" I say cheerfully upon reaching her. I wave to the kid and hurry her on my way. For the next twenty minutes, I am treated to a litany of our many family members and acquaintances who have had horrible things happen to them after having made light of a cold. Bronchitis... peumonia... death... lung cancer... colon cancer... (?!) I find this hard to believe, especially that last one, but I concentrate on getting her across the various streets between us and the bus stop, as she is completely not paying attention to traffic. (I think she is under the impression that anyone would stop for a little old lady with a cane. While I hope that this is true, I have my doubts. I don't think she has met very many people in my generation.)
As I grab her arm to keep her from walking into oncoming traffic, she looks up at me.
"But why are you only wearing one shirt?!" she exclaims, horrified. It is seventy degrees out and I am wearing a light sweater, and already starting to bake a little. I know better than to answer her - if I stay quiet, she'll run out of steam faster.
"Look at me: I'm wearing an undershirt and a blouse and a fleece vest, and even I'm chilly. Why aren't you wearing a fleece vest? I have a lovely fleece vest just like this one that I could've given you - it's red with orange flowers embroidered on it!" (I shudder and thank god for my lucky escape.) "Why don't we go back and get it?" (Crap.)
"No, I don't think that's a good idea. Look how close we are to the bus stop!" I try to distract her. No dice.
"Who cares about the bus? How can I ride the bus knowing you are freezing and you will probably catch a cold, just like the poor guardien, and then you will forget to take medicine and you will get a pneumonia and- "
"No, really, I'm fine," I insist. "Come on. Here, I have tickets already."
"I don't want a ticket. I need to go to the post office," with this non sequitar, she veers off in the direction of the post office, dragging me with her.
"Are you sure you don't want to run back to the apartment and get the fleece jacket? Just think how warm your ribs would be! Your ribs are probably freezing and it's terrible to let your ribs catch a chill. Did you know that your lungs are just underneath your ribs, and you've left them with practically no protection at all?"
"My ribs are FINE!" I raise my voice ever so slightly to get the point across. A man walking in front of us turns around and looks at us. Super. My grandmother thinks this is the height of hilarity and giggles to herself.
Good humour and cooperation are momentarily restored as we spend a moment laughing together about the man's likely confusion and his contemplation of the state of my ribs. We enter the post office. I patiently wait in the line so that she can sit down, and when it is her turn, we smoothly switch places. We have done this many times before and we are like a graceful and coordinated team of... I don't know. Something very coordinated.
I sit down and take the opportunity to delete all of the useless publicity-related text messages from her phone (she insists on keeping them 'in case they might be useful'... and probably also because she doesn't know how to delete them). I am about halfway through when the sound of raised voices cuts through my contemplation of a message offering discount trips to Dubai. (Tempting, but I don't think my grandmother would go for it.)
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we can't withdraw money from your account without a valid form of ID," the teller is patiently informing my grandmother, who is brandishing a passport that is twenty years out of date.
"This is perfectly valid! It even has my photo on it! Just because my hair is a little more gray, nowadays!" Oh dear. The poor teller has no idea what she's gotten herself into. Almost better to just hand over the cash and risk fraud or whatever.
"Right, but-"
"Okay, fine," interrupts my grandmother, clearly having lost patience with the poor young woman. "What if I write myself a check and then cash it?" She is already pulling out her checkbook.
"Well, I'm afraid I'll still need a valid pièce d'identité... a current passport, perhaps?"
"A current passport?! You expect me to carry my current passport around on the streets with me?! In this day and age?! With all of the hooligans about?! That is a ridiculously foolish suggestion, and I do hope that you don't carry your own current passport around for all the world to rob, young woman!" This looks like it could go on for a few more minutes, so I get up and go to her side.
"You know, maybe we should just..." I trail off. I don't really know what we should 'just' do, except maybe leave ASAP, before someone calls the police, or the nearest psychiatric facility.
"Ah, is this your granddaughter?" the teller asks cheerfully, "perhaps she could just run home and get your current passport?"
Wrong answer.
"So that she can get mugged and have my passport stolen from her and god-knows-what-else done to her?! [Insert brief but packed summary of the most recent rapes and kidnappings featured on the news in the last month or so - my grandmother's specialty.] On top of which, it's freezing out there and my granddaughter refuses to wear my extra fleece vest, even though it's orange with red flowers embroidered on it, so even if she didn't get mugged or killed, she'd probably catch a pneumonia. Never mind!"
She wraps up her discourse by zipping her handbag closed with force and begins to make her way out off the premesis. Her exit is somewhat marred by the fact that she can only walk very slowly using both crutches, but she takes the extra time to mumble just-barely-audibly about the lack of cooperation exhibited by the teller and the lack of respect for their elders of young people in general (the teller, by the way, is probably about 40, but whatever... at least she got to be called "young lady" today, right? Silver lining.).
After vetoing three or four fine-looking establishments, we are finally able to choose a cafe in which to sit down and rest and get some food before continuing our arduous journey towards the center of town. She criticizes my choice of salad to anyone who will listen - including the waiter and the woman at the table next to ours, who happens to look over at an inopportune moment - and then regales the poor waiter with the whole of our post office adventure. She finishes by asking him if he usually carries his passport around. I focus carefully on my grilled goat cheese salad, pondering what makes salad dressing in France so delightful (mustard, perhaps?) and try to smile apologetically at the waiter every so often.
Insomma, another run-of-the-mill outing with the grandmère. Sigh.
'
"Yes, yes," I say, full of filial piety and duty-towards-ones-grandparents, etc. (I am in Paris with the grandmother for a few days before returning to Reggio after the summer.) I picture my grandmother and myself strolling through the Galeries Lafayette, chatting amiably, and how good I will feel afterwards, knowing that she has at least been out of the house once this month.
I really should know better by now.
I am hanging out in the living room of my mother's apartment, when I hear my grandmother in the building's courtyard, having finally made it down from her fourth floor apartment (they have apartments in neighboring buildings that share a courtyard).
"Is he in the hospital?" she is inquiring, her voice full of concern. What? I get up to see who she is talking to.
"No, no," a medium-sized boy is saying, having apparently been stopped midway through taking the garbage bins back into the basement. He must be the caretaker's son. "He just has a little cold, really." My grandmother shakes her head mournfully.
"Ah!" she heaves a sigh of great regret/concern/god-knows-what. "Tell him to be careful, though. The number of times someone I know has had 'just a cold' and then, you know... " she lets her voice trail off almost mournfully. The boy looks a bit confused now, and I don't blame him. I stick my head out of the window and call, "I'll be right down." My grandmother is in her element, though, and doesn't even acknowledge me.
"Anyway, you should tell your father..." and she goes off into a list of remedies ranging from the innocuous (lots of sleep) to the minorly bizarre (boiling a mixture of herbs and medicines and breathing it). I have been subject to this last one at various times throughout my childhood, and let me tell you, it is not pleasant. It is like being suffocated by an herb garden that has been liberally doused in cough syrup. The awkward thing is that it does kind of work as a decongestant, so I can't really say anything.
"Right, well, time to go!" I say cheerfully upon reaching her. I wave to the kid and hurry her on my way. For the next twenty minutes, I am treated to a litany of our many family members and acquaintances who have had horrible things happen to them after having made light of a cold. Bronchitis... peumonia... death... lung cancer... colon cancer... (?!) I find this hard to believe, especially that last one, but I concentrate on getting her across the various streets between us and the bus stop, as she is completely not paying attention to traffic. (I think she is under the impression that anyone would stop for a little old lady with a cane. While I hope that this is true, I have my doubts. I don't think she has met very many people in my generation.)
As I grab her arm to keep her from walking into oncoming traffic, she looks up at me.
"But why are you only wearing one shirt?!" she exclaims, horrified. It is seventy degrees out and I am wearing a light sweater, and already starting to bake a little. I know better than to answer her - if I stay quiet, she'll run out of steam faster.
"Look at me: I'm wearing an undershirt and a blouse and a fleece vest, and even I'm chilly. Why aren't you wearing a fleece vest? I have a lovely fleece vest just like this one that I could've given you - it's red with orange flowers embroidered on it!" (I shudder and thank god for my lucky escape.) "Why don't we go back and get it?" (Crap.)
"No, I don't think that's a good idea. Look how close we are to the bus stop!" I try to distract her. No dice.
"Who cares about the bus? How can I ride the bus knowing you are freezing and you will probably catch a cold, just like the poor guardien, and then you will forget to take medicine and you will get a pneumonia and- "
"No, really, I'm fine," I insist. "Come on. Here, I have tickets already."
"I don't want a ticket. I need to go to the post office," with this non sequitar, she veers off in the direction of the post office, dragging me with her.
"Are you sure you don't want to run back to the apartment and get the fleece jacket? Just think how warm your ribs would be! Your ribs are probably freezing and it's terrible to let your ribs catch a chill. Did you know that your lungs are just underneath your ribs, and you've left them with practically no protection at all?"
"My ribs are FINE!" I raise my voice ever so slightly to get the point across. A man walking in front of us turns around and looks at us. Super. My grandmother thinks this is the height of hilarity and giggles to herself.
Good humour and cooperation are momentarily restored as we spend a moment laughing together about the man's likely confusion and his contemplation of the state of my ribs. We enter the post office. I patiently wait in the line so that she can sit down, and when it is her turn, we smoothly switch places. We have done this many times before and we are like a graceful and coordinated team of... I don't know. Something very coordinated.
I sit down and take the opportunity to delete all of the useless publicity-related text messages from her phone (she insists on keeping them 'in case they might be useful'... and probably also because she doesn't know how to delete them). I am about halfway through when the sound of raised voices cuts through my contemplation of a message offering discount trips to Dubai. (Tempting, but I don't think my grandmother would go for it.)
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we can't withdraw money from your account without a valid form of ID," the teller is patiently informing my grandmother, who is brandishing a passport that is twenty years out of date.
"This is perfectly valid! It even has my photo on it! Just because my hair is a little more gray, nowadays!" Oh dear. The poor teller has no idea what she's gotten herself into. Almost better to just hand over the cash and risk fraud or whatever.
"Right, but-"
"Okay, fine," interrupts my grandmother, clearly having lost patience with the poor young woman. "What if I write myself a check and then cash it?" She is already pulling out her checkbook.
"Well, I'm afraid I'll still need a valid pièce d'identité... a current passport, perhaps?"
"A current passport?! You expect me to carry my current passport around on the streets with me?! In this day and age?! With all of the hooligans about?! That is a ridiculously foolish suggestion, and I do hope that you don't carry your own current passport around for all the world to rob, young woman!" This looks like it could go on for a few more minutes, so I get up and go to her side.
"You know, maybe we should just..." I trail off. I don't really know what we should 'just' do, except maybe leave ASAP, before someone calls the police, or the nearest psychiatric facility.
"Ah, is this your granddaughter?" the teller asks cheerfully, "perhaps she could just run home and get your current passport?"
Wrong answer.
"So that she can get mugged and have my passport stolen from her and god-knows-what-else done to her?! [Insert brief but packed summary of the most recent rapes and kidnappings featured on the news in the last month or so - my grandmother's specialty.] On top of which, it's freezing out there and my granddaughter refuses to wear my extra fleece vest, even though it's orange with red flowers embroidered on it, so even if she didn't get mugged or killed, she'd probably catch a pneumonia. Never mind!"
She wraps up her discourse by zipping her handbag closed with force and begins to make her way out off the premesis. Her exit is somewhat marred by the fact that she can only walk very slowly using both crutches, but she takes the extra time to mumble just-barely-audibly about the lack of cooperation exhibited by the teller and the lack of respect for their elders of young people in general (the teller, by the way, is probably about 40, but whatever... at least she got to be called "young lady" today, right? Silver lining.).
After vetoing three or four fine-looking establishments, we are finally able to choose a cafe in which to sit down and rest and get some food before continuing our arduous journey towards the center of town. She criticizes my choice of salad to anyone who will listen - including the waiter and the woman at the table next to ours, who happens to look over at an inopportune moment - and then regales the poor waiter with the whole of our post office adventure. She finishes by asking him if he usually carries his passport around. I focus carefully on my grilled goat cheese salad, pondering what makes salad dressing in France so delightful (mustard, perhaps?) and try to smile apologetically at the waiter every so often.
Insomma, another run-of-the-mill outing with the grandmère. Sigh.
Wednesday, July 7
Bene
There is a lovely breeze blowing through Reggio, reaching me both in classroom 4 on Local Language School and my third floor bedroom here in the center. They are holding the penultimate Notte Rosa downstairs and some guy is playing an agreeably allegre song on his guitar practically under our hallway window. I was quite productive at work today, which is always satisfying. Also, I have a barchetta of blueberries here, which are delicious in general, and I just ate a perfectly ripe one, which was very delicious in particular.
Life is pretty good.
Um... I should get back to that translation I'm still meant to be doing, though...
Really, by productive, what I meant was "did everything ever in the whole office except the translation which is what I was actually supposed to do". Sigh.
Life is pretty good.
Um... I should get back to that translation I'm still meant to be doing, though...
Really, by productive, what I meant was "did everything ever in the whole office except the translation which is what I was actually supposed to do". Sigh.
Monday, July 5
Me vs. the Evil Painters
"Oh, and if the painters have any questions, just go ahead and answer them," says my boss. The phone connection is crackly, probably because she is on the highway, speeding towards her summer holiday. I am at the school, watching the sun set (I have been here since shortly after it rose this morning) and playing with a paperclip.
"I gave you the map of where the colors go, right?" she queries, with horns beeping in the background.
"Yup, I have it right here," I muster a cheerful, confident tone.
"Good. And you'll let them in tomorrow at eight?"
"Sure, no problem."
"Great. I trust you," she adds. Oh, brilliant.
"Right," I say. "Have a good week!" I chirp. We disconnect.
I review the color map. It is complex. Most of the school will be painted white, except for one wall in each classroom, which will be painted a color, but each of the classrooms will have a different color. I take a deep breath. Okay. All I have to do is communicate this information tomorrow morning. How hard can it be? I haul myself out of the front desk chair and head home.
- - -
"Buongiorno, signorina, do you know where I can find the English lady?" I am accosted by a short man in painters' garb the next morning before I even open the front door of the building. Aha! I smile pleasantly.
"Si, si, that's us; we're a language school," I tell him.
"No, I'm looking for an English lady," he dismisses me, and turns to walk off.
"But you're here to paint?" I call to him (how many "English" ladies can there be in our building doing paint work at one time?)
"Yeah. Do you know the English lady?"
"Yes. She's my boss. She's not here right now. I can let you in, though. I work there, too," I inform him, speaking quickly to get it all in before I lose his interest.
"Oh. Well. Okay, then," he relents with a big sigh. (Why is this a disappointment to him? Weirdo...)
---
I am sitting at the front desk, idly checking the office email while really watching the painters jabber and gesticulate together as they move their stuff in, simultaneously wondering what dialect they are speaking and when would be a good time to interrupt and tell them about the colors. I gather up my courage and jump in the next time there is a two-second pause in their conversation.
"Scusate, signori!" They both look at me with their eyebrows raised. "I was told to give you instructions for the colors.
"Colors?" queries the one who seems to be in charge.
And this is the source of our first disagreement. It seems they were told to paint everything white, while I was specifically told to tell them where the colors go. I sigh. This is why it is bad when your boss ends a thought with 'I trust you'.
After an unnecessarily complex discussion, I manage to convince him to start with the walls that should definitely be white, while I try to reach my boss and have her confirm for him that there should indeed be some colors. He stomps off in a huff. Super.
---
Half an hour later, my boss is on the phone, not really sure why there is any problem in the first place ("but did you tell him where the colors go?" - "I tried, but he doesn't believe me" suddenly seems like a lame excuse, but what can you do?) and I go in search of the painter.
Naturally, he is enthusiastically painting white all over one of the walls that has to be colored.
"That should be blue," I announce to him (just the tiniest bit caustically, I'll admit). I thrust the phone at him. "The English lady."
There is yelling on both sides (I can hear it across the room coming from the phone, and I can definitely hear his end of it). He hangs up, rants at me for a while about how confusing the English lady is and how he can't understand a thing with her crazy accent, and finally concedes:
"Okay. We'll do some colors."
"Ottimo! Let me just tell you which colors go on which walls," I say very calmly. He rolls his eyes and sighs like this is the most stressful and ridiculous request ever. I bring out my color wheel sample thingie and my map and show him which wall in each classroom should be painted. Then I list the colors for him and demonstrate with the color wheel. The colors are: sea green, periwinkle blue, blinding fluorescent yellow, and blinding fluorescent orange.
He rolls his eyes halfway through my color wheel demonstration, grabs it and the list from me, and tells me he'll figure it out. I am skeptical about this. Just to be sure, I make a sign for each room, and tape it to the table there. Each sign lists the color of that room, in big, and has an arrow pointing to the wall where it should go. The signs are even done in marker so that they are color coded. I feel that this is idiocy- and stubbornness-proof.
I leave to teach a lesson, telling our awesome, long-suffering secretary to keep an eye on them.
---
"Cri," says the secretary, as soon as I open the door, "meno male - I think you should go look at the colors. They look a little strange to me."
Well, the fluorescent colors were pretty strange anyway, I think, but I get a sinking feeling in my tummy all the same.
I peek into the first room. Okay. Not exactly the color we wanted, but close enough.
From there it all goes downhill. We have a sort of terra cotta color instead of neon orange, butter yellow instead of neon yellow, and a vomit-y sage green instead of sea green. Super. I take a deep breath and prepare for yet another confrontation.
My polite "Excuse me, sir, can I talk to you about the colors?" gets a very now-what-does-she-want look in return. I forge ahead.
"Did you get a chance to look at the samples on the wheel? Because the colors on the wall are not really the same..."
"Well, you can never get the exact same colors," he says, "I mean, we try to be exact, but it's not such a precise science. You have to allow a little leeway..."
I get a ten minute lecture on the science of mixing paint, etc., interspersed with affirmations that this is his mestiero, not mine, and that he's been doing it for twenty years, and I haven't, so really I should just listen to him.
And anyway, they're not so far apart, are they?
He leads me by the arm into the blue room.
"See?" he holds up the sample, "that's pretty close, right?"
"Yes," I concede. "It's not exact, but it's pretty close. Just come into the next room with me, okay?" (I refrain from leading him by the arm and just sort of hope that he will follow. He does.)
I hold the sample (DayGlo) up the wall (terra cotta).
"Can you at least get these to look as similar as the two in the first room?"
He sighs like it is a big imposition on his day, grumbles under his breath that his version is prettier anyway (true, admittedly, but I didn't pick the colors).
---
A few hours and two lessons later, I check on them again. The terra cotta color is ever so slightly lightened. It is still nowhere near DayGlo. Not even really within Crayola crayons range. I confront him about this, and while I'm pissing him off, tell him to fix the other two rooms, too. He starts to grumble again. The secretary, cleverly, is already getting my boss on the phone. I quickly recap the situation for her and tell her to tell the painter that he needs to listen to me rather than telling me about his twenty years of painting experience.
"Here," I tell our wayward painter, "here. Talk to the English lady."
Five minutes later, he is yelling about how he can't understand a word she says and how he's been a painter for twenty years, etc. I intercept the phone before he slams the receiver back down.
"Do you need some moral support?" asks the boss, almost kindly. I resist the urge to yell at her to get her behind back to Reggio and deal with her own damn painters, and instead tell her that what I need is for her to send an Italian person, an adult older than me or the secretary, to talk to this guy. Preferrably a man, but an authoritative woman will do in a pinch. She promises to send one first thing tomorrow morning. (Does she keep people in reserve to order around or something? Strange, but I wouldn't put it past her.)
I turn back to the painter, who is still ranting about how he doesn't understand the boss.
"Okay," I yell over him, "but do you understand me when I speak?"
"Yes, but- " I cut him off before he goes into the I've-been-in-this-mestiero-for-twenty-years speech again.
"Then why don't you listen to me? I understand the English lady and you understand me, so there should be no problem, yes?"
"Fine. Explain to me what you want," he says resentfully. This is uncharacteristically cooperative of him, though, and I am encouraged.
I explain, one more time, that I want one wall colored in each room, and I want the colors to match as closely as possible to the samples. I add that I don't understand why they create samples in such varied colors if it is not possible to reproduce them more exactly, but this is a mistake as it launches him back into the mestiero speech.
I cut him off again, "Just do your best, okay? And we'll see tomorrow."
He concedes.
I go home and eat half a bar of dark chocolate, practically swallowing it whole, and then call my mother to recount the chaos to her. She listens sympathetically. My mother is a saint.
---
The next morning, I arrive after my first lesson, in a good mood because the student was his usual hilarious self. The secretary smiles and rolls her eyes in the direction of the painters before miming pointing a gun at her head. Oh, dear.
I make my rounds of the rooms. The terra cotta is edging slightly towards tangerine. The yellow hasn't changed. The sage green is now a lighter sage green, but nowhere closer to sea green than it was yesterday. I sigh.
The painter is gearing up to start our habitual I-want-more-exact-colors vs. that's-not-possible conversation, but I cut him off, saying the boss' new representative will be here soon. It transpires that this is the person who picked the colors to start with.
---
Twenty minutes later:
"Oh, but that's not the right color at all!" she exclaims at me, "you should tell him to change it!"
I refrain from giving her a Look. After all, she only just got here. I suggest to her that she's welcome to try.
"Look here, sir," she tells him, "these are not the right colors. You need to paint the walls in the colors we chose."
He recounts the whole sorry affair, starting from how he thought things should be all white, passing through how the boss is utterly incomprehensible when she speaks, and ending with the fact that you can't get the colors exactly right when you're mixing them/it's not an exact science/he's been doing it for twenty years, etc.
She seizes on the penultimate statement.
"You're mixing them yourself?" she queries.
"Yes, and I have been for twenty-"
"Well, no wonder," she cuts him off, "you have to take them and get them professionally mixed!"
"Oh, well if you want them to be exact..."
I refrain from smacking him.
---
A week later, it is done. The colors are right. The DayGlo is awful and blinding, but at least it is accurate.
The boss waltzes in, all tanned and stuff, and she is pleased.
I refrain from smacking her, as well.
"I gave you the map of where the colors go, right?" she queries, with horns beeping in the background.
"Yup, I have it right here," I muster a cheerful, confident tone.
"Good. And you'll let them in tomorrow at eight?"
"Sure, no problem."
"Great. I trust you," she adds. Oh, brilliant.
"Right," I say. "Have a good week!" I chirp. We disconnect.
I review the color map. It is complex. Most of the school will be painted white, except for one wall in each classroom, which will be painted a color, but each of the classrooms will have a different color. I take a deep breath. Okay. All I have to do is communicate this information tomorrow morning. How hard can it be? I haul myself out of the front desk chair and head home.
- - -
"Buongiorno, signorina, do you know where I can find the English lady?" I am accosted by a short man in painters' garb the next morning before I even open the front door of the building. Aha! I smile pleasantly.
"Si, si, that's us; we're a language school," I tell him.
"No, I'm looking for an English lady," he dismisses me, and turns to walk off.
"But you're here to paint?" I call to him (how many "English" ladies can there be in our building doing paint work at one time?)
"Yeah. Do you know the English lady?"
"Yes. She's my boss. She's not here right now. I can let you in, though. I work there, too," I inform him, speaking quickly to get it all in before I lose his interest.
"Oh. Well. Okay, then," he relents with a big sigh. (Why is this a disappointment to him? Weirdo...)
---
I am sitting at the front desk, idly checking the office email while really watching the painters jabber and gesticulate together as they move their stuff in, simultaneously wondering what dialect they are speaking and when would be a good time to interrupt and tell them about the colors. I gather up my courage and jump in the next time there is a two-second pause in their conversation.
"Scusate, signori!" They both look at me with their eyebrows raised. "I was told to give you instructions for the colors.
"Colors?" queries the one who seems to be in charge.
And this is the source of our first disagreement. It seems they were told to paint everything white, while I was specifically told to tell them where the colors go. I sigh. This is why it is bad when your boss ends a thought with 'I trust you'.
After an unnecessarily complex discussion, I manage to convince him to start with the walls that should definitely be white, while I try to reach my boss and have her confirm for him that there should indeed be some colors. He stomps off in a huff. Super.
---
Half an hour later, my boss is on the phone, not really sure why there is any problem in the first place ("but did you tell him where the colors go?" - "I tried, but he doesn't believe me" suddenly seems like a lame excuse, but what can you do?) and I go in search of the painter.
Naturally, he is enthusiastically painting white all over one of the walls that has to be colored.
"That should be blue," I announce to him (just the tiniest bit caustically, I'll admit). I thrust the phone at him. "The English lady."
There is yelling on both sides (I can hear it across the room coming from the phone, and I can definitely hear his end of it). He hangs up, rants at me for a while about how confusing the English lady is and how he can't understand a thing with her crazy accent, and finally concedes:
"Okay. We'll do some colors."
"Ottimo! Let me just tell you which colors go on which walls," I say very calmly. He rolls his eyes and sighs like this is the most stressful and ridiculous request ever. I bring out my color wheel sample thingie and my map and show him which wall in each classroom should be painted. Then I list the colors for him and demonstrate with the color wheel. The colors are: sea green, periwinkle blue, blinding fluorescent yellow, and blinding fluorescent orange.
He rolls his eyes halfway through my color wheel demonstration, grabs it and the list from me, and tells me he'll figure it out. I am skeptical about this. Just to be sure, I make a sign for each room, and tape it to the table there. Each sign lists the color of that room, in big, and has an arrow pointing to the wall where it should go. The signs are even done in marker so that they are color coded. I feel that this is idiocy- and stubbornness-proof.
I leave to teach a lesson, telling our awesome, long-suffering secretary to keep an eye on them.
---
"Cri," says the secretary, as soon as I open the door, "meno male - I think you should go look at the colors. They look a little strange to me."
Well, the fluorescent colors were pretty strange anyway, I think, but I get a sinking feeling in my tummy all the same.
I peek into the first room. Okay. Not exactly the color we wanted, but close enough.
From there it all goes downhill. We have a sort of terra cotta color instead of neon orange, butter yellow instead of neon yellow, and a vomit-y sage green instead of sea green. Super. I take a deep breath and prepare for yet another confrontation.
My polite "Excuse me, sir, can I talk to you about the colors?" gets a very now-what-does-she-want look in return. I forge ahead.
"Did you get a chance to look at the samples on the wheel? Because the colors on the wall are not really the same..."
"Well, you can never get the exact same colors," he says, "I mean, we try to be exact, but it's not such a precise science. You have to allow a little leeway..."
I get a ten minute lecture on the science of mixing paint, etc., interspersed with affirmations that this is his mestiero, not mine, and that he's been doing it for twenty years, and I haven't, so really I should just listen to him.
And anyway, they're not so far apart, are they?
He leads me by the arm into the blue room.
"See?" he holds up the sample, "that's pretty close, right?"
"Yes," I concede. "It's not exact, but it's pretty close. Just come into the next room with me, okay?" (I refrain from leading him by the arm and just sort of hope that he will follow. He does.)
I hold the sample (DayGlo) up the wall (terra cotta).
"Can you at least get these to look as similar as the two in the first room?"
He sighs like it is a big imposition on his day, grumbles under his breath that his version is prettier anyway (true, admittedly, but I didn't pick the colors).
---
A few hours and two lessons later, I check on them again. The terra cotta color is ever so slightly lightened. It is still nowhere near DayGlo. Not even really within Crayola crayons range. I confront him about this, and while I'm pissing him off, tell him to fix the other two rooms, too. He starts to grumble again. The secretary, cleverly, is already getting my boss on the phone. I quickly recap the situation for her and tell her to tell the painter that he needs to listen to me rather than telling me about his twenty years of painting experience.
"Here," I tell our wayward painter, "here. Talk to the English lady."
Five minutes later, he is yelling about how he can't understand a word she says and how he's been a painter for twenty years, etc. I intercept the phone before he slams the receiver back down.
"Do you need some moral support?" asks the boss, almost kindly. I resist the urge to yell at her to get her behind back to Reggio and deal with her own damn painters, and instead tell her that what I need is for her to send an Italian person, an adult older than me or the secretary, to talk to this guy. Preferrably a man, but an authoritative woman will do in a pinch. She promises to send one first thing tomorrow morning. (Does she keep people in reserve to order around or something? Strange, but I wouldn't put it past her.)
I turn back to the painter, who is still ranting about how he doesn't understand the boss.
"Okay," I yell over him, "but do you understand me when I speak?"
"Yes, but- " I cut him off before he goes into the I've-been-in-this-mestiero-for-twenty-years speech again.
"Then why don't you listen to me? I understand the English lady and you understand me, so there should be no problem, yes?"
"Fine. Explain to me what you want," he says resentfully. This is uncharacteristically cooperative of him, though, and I am encouraged.
I explain, one more time, that I want one wall colored in each room, and I want the colors to match as closely as possible to the samples. I add that I don't understand why they create samples in such varied colors if it is not possible to reproduce them more exactly, but this is a mistake as it launches him back into the mestiero speech.
I cut him off again, "Just do your best, okay? And we'll see tomorrow."
He concedes.
I go home and eat half a bar of dark chocolate, practically swallowing it whole, and then call my mother to recount the chaos to her. She listens sympathetically. My mother is a saint.
---
The next morning, I arrive after my first lesson, in a good mood because the student was his usual hilarious self. The secretary smiles and rolls her eyes in the direction of the painters before miming pointing a gun at her head. Oh, dear.
I make my rounds of the rooms. The terra cotta is edging slightly towards tangerine. The yellow hasn't changed. The sage green is now a lighter sage green, but nowhere closer to sea green than it was yesterday. I sigh.
The painter is gearing up to start our habitual I-want-more-exact-colors vs. that's-not-possible conversation, but I cut him off, saying the boss' new representative will be here soon. It transpires that this is the person who picked the colors to start with.
---
Twenty minutes later:
"Oh, but that's not the right color at all!" she exclaims at me, "you should tell him to change it!"
I refrain from giving her a Look. After all, she only just got here. I suggest to her that she's welcome to try.
"Look here, sir," she tells him, "these are not the right colors. You need to paint the walls in the colors we chose."
He recounts the whole sorry affair, starting from how he thought things should be all white, passing through how the boss is utterly incomprehensible when she speaks, and ending with the fact that you can't get the colors exactly right when you're mixing them/it's not an exact science/he's been doing it for twenty years, etc.
She seizes on the penultimate statement.
"You're mixing them yourself?" she queries.
"Yes, and I have been for twenty-"
"Well, no wonder," she cuts him off, "you have to take them and get them professionally mixed!"
"Oh, well if you want them to be exact..."
I refrain from smacking him.
---
A week later, it is done. The colors are right. The DayGlo is awful and blinding, but at least it is accurate.
The boss waltzes in, all tanned and stuff, and she is pleased.
I refrain from smacking her, as well.
Sunday, July 4
Che caldo
"You should see if you can get some research experience at the hospital," says a well-meaning acquaintance one fine day during a conversation about my future and my staying in Reggio another year. "At the very least, some translation work."
This strikes me as a good plan, and so I offer my services as a combination research assistant/translator/editor/general voluntary slave in a series of emails written in very carefully worded Italian. (Seriously, every time I have to write an email - or anything - in Italian, it takes me the better part of half an hour just to bang out three or four lines.)
"Yes, absolutely we'll take you on," says a young man who does something related to psych, "we have loads of stuff that needs translating."
I ponder this for a moment. I do not generally translate for free and I can't really justify doing it for him if I make everyone else pay for it. I am trying to figure out how to extract myself from this situation when he presents me with a book in English.
"This, for example." I look at it.
"Wait, but I don't usually do English to Italian - my Italian isn't that great," I protest weakly. On the other hand, this partially fixes my situation: I can't possibly charge anyone anything to translate from English to Italian, because I'm so far from qualified for it that it's not even funny.
"No, no - your Italian is fine. I saw it in that email you wrote," he reminds me. "I'll just have my secretary copy the parts we'd like!"
TWenty minutes later, I am holding a packet of rather overwhelming thickness (it's not actually that thick, but do you know how many words there are on a page? and how many of those I don't know how to say in Italian? well, it starts with 'a' and ends with 'lot').
And that is how I find myself here on a Sunday night, slogging through the third page of exceedingly dense stuff at a pathetic pace while sweat all but dribbles down my back despite my being parked less than a meter away from the fan and the fact that I've taken at least four showers so far today (the sweat is because it's hot, not because I'm stressed about translating... just, you know... to be clear).
On the other hand, I now know how to say "evidence-based" in Italian, and surprised myself by coming up with "spicchi d'aglio" (cloves of garlic) all by myself a few minutes ago. I have no idea where I heard that or how I retained it, but I'll take what I can get. It's nice to feel, sometimes, that pian piano, my Italian is indeed improving.
In the meantime, though, it is ridiculously hot for 10 at night and apparently it's only going to get worse next week and I have the window wide open despite having the light on... which puts it at risk for bats coming in, and if a bat comes in I will scream so loudly that probably they will hear me in Scandiano. Also probably a million mosquitoes are going to bite me in the next hour or so. Also I am hungry but if I cook the kitchen will be even hotter than it already is. And also I will have to wash the dishes after. Quite the dilemma, clearly.
Sighhh.
Oh, in other news (well, not really news), happy birthday to the land of air-conditioning and 24-hour pharmacies. Um, and freedom, etc., of course.
This strikes me as a good plan, and so I offer my services as a combination research assistant/translator/editor/general voluntary slave in a series of emails written in very carefully worded Italian. (Seriously, every time I have to write an email - or anything - in Italian, it takes me the better part of half an hour just to bang out three or four lines.)
"Yes, absolutely we'll take you on," says a young man who does something related to psych, "we have loads of stuff that needs translating."
I ponder this for a moment. I do not generally translate for free and I can't really justify doing it for him if I make everyone else pay for it. I am trying to figure out how to extract myself from this situation when he presents me with a book in English.
"This, for example." I look at it.
"Wait, but I don't usually do English to Italian - my Italian isn't that great," I protest weakly. On the other hand, this partially fixes my situation: I can't possibly charge anyone anything to translate from English to Italian, because I'm so far from qualified for it that it's not even funny.
"No, no - your Italian is fine. I saw it in that email you wrote," he reminds me. "I'll just have my secretary copy the parts we'd like!"
TWenty minutes later, I am holding a packet of rather overwhelming thickness (it's not actually that thick, but do you know how many words there are on a page? and how many of those I don't know how to say in Italian? well, it starts with 'a' and ends with 'lot').
And that is how I find myself here on a Sunday night, slogging through the third page of exceedingly dense stuff at a pathetic pace while sweat all but dribbles down my back despite my being parked less than a meter away from the fan and the fact that I've taken at least four showers so far today (the sweat is because it's hot, not because I'm stressed about translating... just, you know... to be clear).
On the other hand, I now know how to say "evidence-based" in Italian, and surprised myself by coming up with "spicchi d'aglio" (cloves of garlic) all by myself a few minutes ago. I have no idea where I heard that or how I retained it, but I'll take what I can get. It's nice to feel, sometimes, that pian piano, my Italian is indeed improving.
In the meantime, though, it is ridiculously hot for 10 at night and apparently it's only going to get worse next week and I have the window wide open despite having the light on... which puts it at risk for bats coming in, and if a bat comes in I will scream so loudly that probably they will hear me in Scandiano. Also probably a million mosquitoes are going to bite me in the next hour or so. Also I am hungry but if I cook the kitchen will be even hotter than it already is. And also I will have to wash the dishes after. Quite the dilemma, clearly.
Sighhh.
Oh, in other news (well, not really news), happy birthday to the land of air-conditioning and 24-hour pharmacies. Um, and freedom, etc., of course.
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