Sometimes, your boss is all "oh, so, there's this translation of some dialogue that you should do, if you have time. It's a good opportunity."
Sometimes, you say yes. (Uh, actually, if you're me, you almost always say yes. This is how you end up with lots of crap to do in your life.)
Sometimes, you translate it and unthinkingly send it off, pleased to have done a good job.
Sometimes, it turns out that you were translating what would become the subtitles of a documentary about a [local charity medical place] owned by some very important people, for whose company (not the medical place) you also do a lot of teaching.
Sometimes, the next thing you know, you and your boss are all skyping with the documentary producer in the middle of the night to work out the last little dialogue issues and the secretary of the very important person knows you by name and frequently calls you at work to ask about comma placement on the documentary's DVD jacket cover.
Sometimes, you somehow end up invited to the premiere. This is traumatic, because what the hell does one wear to a premiere when the producer also owns a fashion house? All black, it seems. This requires the finding of a black skirt (because, naturally, mine is in America) and shoes to replace the Thesis Shoes of Awesomeness.
In the end, though, sometimes you totter up to the theater with your boss in heels that are rather too high. "Oh, yeah, the girl who did the translation. Brava," says a dapper looking man. Sometimes dapper looking men turn out to be the owners of major fashion houses and/or the producers of documentaries.
You shake hands and continue on, past directors of hospitals and owners of this and such, and mayors of towns. You sit and watch the thing, surrounded by what would probably be the nobility of Reggio, if there were one.
Sometimes it says your name in the credits under traduzioni. Way down past all the other weird stuff (what's a gaffer?), but still. It's probably the closest you'll ever come to fame. The lights come back on and you stand and walk out and shake hands with various people and smile and try to keep up with who's who and why they're important while a small part of your mind is also dedicated to hoping your skirt is still straight and your hair is still decent.
It's pretty weird.
Sometimes.
Wednesday, December 8
Saturday, December 4
Sometimes it's good to be a girl
Did you know that you can keep supermarkets in Italy open past their closing times just by being a girl? Me either, but apparently you can. Even all disheveled after a day's work (a 13 hour day, might I add). I did it just the other day. Very odd.
"... so then, the other thing we should do is create an Excel file... maybe you can get [other teacher] to do that... or otherwise maybe you can do it... or the secretary... anyway, what we should do is..."
I nod into the phone, staring into space. Usually I read and answer emails while I talk to my boss on the phone, especially during the end-of-the-day rundown. It saves time. She can expound at length on semi-relevant topics, and I can get some work done. Today, however, it is 8.52, the supermarket closes in precisely 8 minutes, I have no food in my house, and, having been at work since 7.20 this morning, I have just about lost the will to live.
"Uh-huh," I agree in a rather unenthusiastic monotone. Perhaps she takes this hint as my having lost interest in our conversation (and also the school and our students and really anything not immediately related to getting food in my belly and myself into my bed) because she finally releases me with a cheerful, "okay, thanks! Talk to you tomorrow!"
8.54.
I grab some car keys, hoping no one needs this particular car (the school owns three) tomorrow morning before I do, and hop into the elevator.
8.59.
I pull into the parking lot of the supermarket, where only three other cars are parked, and stride up to the doors, where the security man is ushering someone out.
"Siete chiusi?" I ask. All I really want out of life right now is some pasta, some salad, and my bed. This makes me brave enough to actually talk to the security guy.
"Quasi," he says. He is young and cute. I am at least young-ish, if nothing else. And apparently that's enough. "Cosa devi prendere?" he asks me. (What do you need to get?)
"Some lettuce!" I say, the first thing that springs to mind. What I really want is also some pasta (there is a delicious kind that is stuffed with gorgonzola and honey, by Giovanni Rana, whose numerous commercials on the radio have apparently brainwashed me into buying his stuff.... well, his commercials and my utter laziness and inability to cook). But whatever. If I even just got some lettuce, I could cook some pasta or rice or whatever that I have at home, slap some olive oil and cheese on it, and call it a meal. With both veggies and grains. Which is, you know, lots of the food groups. Right? Or at least two. Whatever.
"Just lettuce?" he says in what sounds suspisciously like a flirty sort of tone. Really? Flirting? Lettuce?
"Yeah, just some lettuce," I say, more because I don't really have any other response. He shouts something at the last open cashier and she rolls her eyes and says yes. He ushers me in.
"Just lettuce!" he says. I nod in agreement, and sprint off to get the lettuce. I do not dare get any pasta as well, because the cashier is a girl and probably not so susceptible to my... uh, just being female, apparently. I will just eat my rice. With some cheese mixed in. And vinegar. Because vinegar makes anything else taste like vinegar, which tastes good. Yes. (See what happens to me when I work 13 hour days begging people not to say things like "yesterday, I am going to Milano"?)
As I sprint off, I catch bits and pieces of the conversation between the guard guy and the cashier.
" .... .... .... ragazza," says he.
"You and the ragazze," says she.
There it is. Sigh.
"Ciao, bella!" he says as I leave.
"Ciao, grazie," I say. It's 9.12.
It's a funny thing, being a girl in Italy. It takes a lot of getting used to, for a foreigner. Especially one of the Anglo-Saxon variety. You get here, and suddenly people are staring at you and whistling at you and shouting "ciao, bella! complimenti!" at you as you walk down the street. People look you up and down and you're all keep your eyes to yourself, dude!
You wonder why they don't have any respect for women. Why do they seem to feel it's okay to completely treat women like objects to be stared at and commented on at will, as if we couldn't hear, or didn't care? I care. I want people to be interested in me for my intelligence, or because they think I'm a good person (whether or not I actually am is a different story, but still). Not because I'm shaped like a girl or have lighter hair than them. (Apparently medium brown = bionda, in Italy.)
But then, women are apparently allowed to retire five years earlier than men because "la mamma e sacra". They hold doors open for you and ask for permission before taking off their suit jackets in your presence. They walk you home at night. And they'll keep the supermarket open 12 minutes past closing time on a Thursday night if you tell them that you just got out of work and want some lettuce.
Weird, no?
"... so then, the other thing we should do is create an Excel file... maybe you can get [other teacher] to do that... or otherwise maybe you can do it... or the secretary... anyway, what we should do is..."
I nod into the phone, staring into space. Usually I read and answer emails while I talk to my boss on the phone, especially during the end-of-the-day rundown. It saves time. She can expound at length on semi-relevant topics, and I can get some work done. Today, however, it is 8.52, the supermarket closes in precisely 8 minutes, I have no food in my house, and, having been at work since 7.20 this morning, I have just about lost the will to live.
"Uh-huh," I agree in a rather unenthusiastic monotone. Perhaps she takes this hint as my having lost interest in our conversation (and also the school and our students and really anything not immediately related to getting food in my belly and myself into my bed) because she finally releases me with a cheerful, "okay, thanks! Talk to you tomorrow!"
8.54.
I grab some car keys, hoping no one needs this particular car (the school owns three) tomorrow morning before I do, and hop into the elevator.
8.59.
I pull into the parking lot of the supermarket, where only three other cars are parked, and stride up to the doors, where the security man is ushering someone out.
"Siete chiusi?" I ask. All I really want out of life right now is some pasta, some salad, and my bed. This makes me brave enough to actually talk to the security guy.
"Quasi," he says. He is young and cute. I am at least young-ish, if nothing else. And apparently that's enough. "Cosa devi prendere?" he asks me. (What do you need to get?)
"Some lettuce!" I say, the first thing that springs to mind. What I really want is also some pasta (there is a delicious kind that is stuffed with gorgonzola and honey, by Giovanni Rana, whose numerous commercials on the radio have apparently brainwashed me into buying his stuff.... well, his commercials and my utter laziness and inability to cook). But whatever. If I even just got some lettuce, I could cook some pasta or rice or whatever that I have at home, slap some olive oil and cheese on it, and call it a meal. With both veggies and grains. Which is, you know, lots of the food groups. Right? Or at least two. Whatever.
"Just lettuce?" he says in what sounds suspisciously like a flirty sort of tone. Really? Flirting? Lettuce?
"Yeah, just some lettuce," I say, more because I don't really have any other response. He shouts something at the last open cashier and she rolls her eyes and says yes. He ushers me in.
"Just lettuce!" he says. I nod in agreement, and sprint off to get the lettuce. I do not dare get any pasta as well, because the cashier is a girl and probably not so susceptible to my... uh, just being female, apparently. I will just eat my rice. With some cheese mixed in. And vinegar. Because vinegar makes anything else taste like vinegar, which tastes good. Yes. (See what happens to me when I work 13 hour days begging people not to say things like "yesterday, I am going to Milano"?)
As I sprint off, I catch bits and pieces of the conversation between the guard guy and the cashier.
" .... .... .... ragazza," says he.
"You and the ragazze," says she.
There it is. Sigh.
"Ciao, bella!" he says as I leave.
"Ciao, grazie," I say. It's 9.12.
It's a funny thing, being a girl in Italy. It takes a lot of getting used to, for a foreigner. Especially one of the Anglo-Saxon variety. You get here, and suddenly people are staring at you and whistling at you and shouting "ciao, bella! complimenti!" at you as you walk down the street. People look you up and down and you're all keep your eyes to yourself, dude!
You wonder why they don't have any respect for women. Why do they seem to feel it's okay to completely treat women like objects to be stared at and commented on at will, as if we couldn't hear, or didn't care? I care. I want people to be interested in me for my intelligence, or because they think I'm a good person (whether or not I actually am is a different story, but still). Not because I'm shaped like a girl or have lighter hair than them. (Apparently medium brown = bionda, in Italy.)
But then, women are apparently allowed to retire five years earlier than men because "la mamma e sacra". They hold doors open for you and ask for permission before taking off their suit jackets in your presence. They walk you home at night. And they'll keep the supermarket open 12 minutes past closing time on a Thursday night if you tell them that you just got out of work and want some lettuce.
Weird, no?
Sunday, November 21
Fonzies
My life these days is pretty much consumed by the slave-driver people at work. Except... these days, I kind of am one of the slave drivers. Hm. Odd. In any case, while you're waiting (pfft) for me to come up with something actually interesting and worth reading (it might be a while)... here is an entry about weird crackers.
"Abbiamo comprato i fonzies!" says the girl with whom we have been wandering around Venice. She is half Venetian and half Spanish, from a town near Barcelona. She switches from Catalan to Italian to communicate this to my friend. My friend is in the Bologna Erasmus program, and this girl is a friend of one of her cohorts. A friend thrice removed. This is how you end up knowing some really random people when you live in a foreign country. Anyway. We've all met up in Venice for the Biennale of modern art, and the Festa del Redentore fireworks tonight, and we're taking a break before marching around the rest of the Arsenale.
I look over at her and smile politely. (What the hell are fonzies?)
"You've never had fonzies?!" says my fellow American, switching into English to get things straight.
Fonzies, it transpires, are like cheese curls (or whatever those orange things are called in America) except they're white, maybe a bit less greasy and nasty, and have a weird kind of taste. Probably because they lack Cheddar in Italy, so I don't know what kind of cheese they're made with...
Anyway, though, I thought that you, too, should be educated about fonzies, just in case you don't have a Spanish/Italian/Catalan/Venetian-dialect-speaking girl in your life to do it for you.
I shall even include a photograph.
The best part of that day, though? The fireworks? The Biennale? Venice? Well, Venice was pretty cool because I always love Venice, and Venice in the summertime (the Festa del Redentore is on July 18th, I believe) is even nicer. But the best thing: definitely listening to Ms. Barcelona and her friends speaking Catalan all day.
I'm an irretrievable language nerd.
"Abbiamo comprato i fonzies!" says the girl with whom we have been wandering around Venice. She is half Venetian and half Spanish, from a town near Barcelona. She switches from Catalan to Italian to communicate this to my friend. My friend is in the Bologna Erasmus program, and this girl is a friend of one of her cohorts. A friend thrice removed. This is how you end up knowing some really random people when you live in a foreign country. Anyway. We've all met up in Venice for the Biennale of modern art, and the Festa del Redentore fireworks tonight, and we're taking a break before marching around the rest of the Arsenale.
I look over at her and smile politely. (What the hell are fonzies?)
"You've never had fonzies?!" says my fellow American, switching into English to get things straight.
Fonzies, it transpires, are like cheese curls (or whatever those orange things are called in America) except they're white, maybe a bit less greasy and nasty, and have a weird kind of taste. Probably because they lack Cheddar in Italy, so I don't know what kind of cheese they're made with...
Anyway, though, I thought that you, too, should be educated about fonzies, just in case you don't have a Spanish/Italian/Catalan/Venetian-dialect-speaking girl in your life to do it for you.
I shall even include a photograph.
The best part of that day, though? The fireworks? The Biennale? Venice? Well, Venice was pretty cool because I always love Venice, and Venice in the summertime (the Festa del Redentore is on July 18th, I believe) is even nicer. But the best thing: definitely listening to Ms. Barcelona and her friends speaking Catalan all day.
I'm an irretrievable language nerd.
Monday, November 15
Of meetings and shoes
Anything else to get ready for tomorrow?
No... just look charming and professional. See you at 8.
My boss and I are texting back and forth at 10pm the day prior to an uber-important business meeting. (Uber-important because it is with potential new clients who may possibly give us lots and lots of work, and we like potential new clients. They are good for things like earning a paycheck and not being bankrupt.)
Right, I think, charming and professional. Excellent. I'll wear a skirt and that will be that. I check one more time that all my oh-so-important documents are perfectly aligned in their plastic folder-cover-thing and then go merrily off to bed.
Not so very many hours later, I am standing in the middle of my bedroom wearing the skirt and not much else, mildly panicked. The throwing together of a charming and professional outfit... it is just a little trickier than originally anticipated.
I calmly sip my cold coffee (made by pouring room temperature water over instant coffee and a sugar cube - don't ask) while the following runs through my head: dark grey skirt would go well with white shirt... long-sleeved white shirt dirty... too cold for short sleeves... maybe with cardigan? or maybe resuscitate long sleeved one with ironing... try... shit, where's the adaptor plug? Or black pants... but are a little tight... what shirt with black pants? Or grey pants? Why are all the shirts dirty??? Why do I never do laundry?? Am stupid! And not professional! And not charming!
Okay, never mind, just try not to burn self with iron... shirt looks so-so... also has shirt-tails so needs to be tucked in but I hate tucking shirts into skirts... blahhhhh. Short sleeves after all? How is it already 7:45 and my hair is still wet?!?!
Is cold, for sure need cardigan (because I'm not organized enough to have a suit jacket that matches my favorite skirt, or to have purchased a coat or jacket for this winter yet). I straighten my short-sleeved shirt (just ironed enough so that I don't look completely like a homeless person) and pull the cardigan on over it. My boss texts me and I text back with one hand, aiming the hair dryer more or less at my head with the other.
Be there in 5. We are meeting for coffee prior to the actual meeting. Ostensibly to go over our battle plan. I don't even know why I am supposed to come with her to this meeting, as usually she takes care of the selling aspect of things herself. Perhaps she just wants moral support. Which is kind of laughable, given that I haven't even left my house yet and am already a mess.
I slip my shoes on and they slip themselves back off. Shit!!! I swear to myself (silently, because it is the arse-crack of dawn and my roommates are still sleeping, beate loro). I had forgotten that the Thesis Shoes of Awesomeness are now kind of broken and falling apart and don't really stay on so well anymore. Happily, though, I seem to be having a somewhat resourceful sort of morning, and I quickly come up with a solution: sticky stuff. Like tape. So I make some little loops of tape, affix them to both the inside of my shoes and the outside of my nylons, and voila! I am (somewhat tenuously) taped into my shoes. (So classy. Ahem.)
Seven minutes later, I am picking my way across the cobblestones of the piazza, trying not to get my heels stuck in them (this is exceedingly tricky under the best of circumstances, and slightly more so when you've had to stick your shoes on your feet with Scotch tape).
"You look nice," comments my boss vaguely, punching buttons on her blackberry like her life depends on it. We head towards the meeting.
And that is how I came to be sauntering (read: hobbling) up to my first important business meeting as an English teacher attired in a skirt (decent) and nylons (possibly weird color), a short-sleeved shirt (despite rain, fog and general chill), a black cardigan (possibly complete with blobs of lint still stuck on the back where I can't reach with the lint roller), and an aging pair of black heels Scotch-taped to my feet.
I sit across from two all-important bank people, listening and nodding and smiling officiously as appropriate (I hope), and all the while wondering whether my shoes will fall off on the way out. Leaving shoes in the client's office building and walking out in your nylons: probably not the best way to convince new clients of our professionalism and charm.
Uh, however. May I point out: we got the contract. Big old contract with lots of work. And my shoes didn't fall off until I got home. Sweeeet.
No... just look charming and professional. See you at 8.
My boss and I are texting back and forth at 10pm the day prior to an uber-important business meeting. (Uber-important because it is with potential new clients who may possibly give us lots and lots of work, and we like potential new clients. They are good for things like earning a paycheck and not being bankrupt.)
Right, I think, charming and professional. Excellent. I'll wear a skirt and that will be that. I check one more time that all my oh-so-important documents are perfectly aligned in their plastic folder-cover-thing and then go merrily off to bed.
Not so very many hours later, I am standing in the middle of my bedroom wearing the skirt and not much else, mildly panicked. The throwing together of a charming and professional outfit... it is just a little trickier than originally anticipated.
I calmly sip my cold coffee (made by pouring room temperature water over instant coffee and a sugar cube - don't ask) while the following runs through my head: dark grey skirt would go well with white shirt... long-sleeved white shirt dirty... too cold for short sleeves... maybe with cardigan? or maybe resuscitate long sleeved one with ironing... try... shit, where's the adaptor plug? Or black pants... but are a little tight... what shirt with black pants? Or grey pants? Why are all the shirts dirty??? Why do I never do laundry?? Am stupid! And not professional! And not charming!
Okay, never mind, just try not to burn self with iron... shirt looks so-so... also has shirt-tails so needs to be tucked in but I hate tucking shirts into skirts... blahhhhh. Short sleeves after all? How is it already 7:45 and my hair is still wet?!?!
Is cold, for sure need cardigan (because I'm not organized enough to have a suit jacket that matches my favorite skirt, or to have purchased a coat or jacket for this winter yet). I straighten my short-sleeved shirt (just ironed enough so that I don't look completely like a homeless person) and pull the cardigan on over it. My boss texts me and I text back with one hand, aiming the hair dryer more or less at my head with the other.
Be there in 5. We are meeting for coffee prior to the actual meeting. Ostensibly to go over our battle plan. I don't even know why I am supposed to come with her to this meeting, as usually she takes care of the selling aspect of things herself. Perhaps she just wants moral support. Which is kind of laughable, given that I haven't even left my house yet and am already a mess.
I slip my shoes on and they slip themselves back off. Shit!!! I swear to myself (silently, because it is the arse-crack of dawn and my roommates are still sleeping, beate loro). I had forgotten that the Thesis Shoes of Awesomeness are now kind of broken and falling apart and don't really stay on so well anymore. Happily, though, I seem to be having a somewhat resourceful sort of morning, and I quickly come up with a solution: sticky stuff. Like tape. So I make some little loops of tape, affix them to both the inside of my shoes and the outside of my nylons, and voila! I am (somewhat tenuously) taped into my shoes. (So classy. Ahem.)
Seven minutes later, I am picking my way across the cobblestones of the piazza, trying not to get my heels stuck in them (this is exceedingly tricky under the best of circumstances, and slightly more so when you've had to stick your shoes on your feet with Scotch tape).
"You look nice," comments my boss vaguely, punching buttons on her blackberry like her life depends on it. We head towards the meeting.
And that is how I came to be sauntering (read: hobbling) up to my first important business meeting as an English teacher attired in a skirt (decent) and nylons (possibly weird color), a short-sleeved shirt (despite rain, fog and general chill), a black cardigan (possibly complete with blobs of lint still stuck on the back where I can't reach with the lint roller), and an aging pair of black heels Scotch-taped to my feet.
I sit across from two all-important bank people, listening and nodding and smiling officiously as appropriate (I hope), and all the while wondering whether my shoes will fall off on the way out. Leaving shoes in the client's office building and walking out in your nylons: probably not the best way to convince new clients of our professionalism and charm.
Uh, however. May I point out: we got the contract. Big old contract with lots of work. And my shoes didn't fall off until I got home. Sweeeet.
Monday, November 8
Monday evening
So. Then what you can do is go on to have a thirteen-hour day. Always a grand old time. Of which, somehow, only four and a half hours were teaching? Huh.
And then a lot of administrative stuff... and some translating... etc.
But, you know what? Somehow, I'm happy. This morning, Simon & Garfunkel's "The Boxer" came on the radio randomly, as I was pulling out of Uber-Fancy Local Fashion Thing Headquarters, and that was delightful. Then, this afternoon, a charming email from a student... and that's all it takes.
Even with 13-hour days... this life is so delightfully simple, sometimes.
And then a lot of administrative stuff... and some translating... etc.
But, you know what? Somehow, I'm happy. This morning, Simon & Garfunkel's "The Boxer" came on the radio randomly, as I was pulling out of Uber-Fancy Local Fashion Thing Headquarters, and that was delightful. Then, this afternoon, a charming email from a student... and that's all it takes.
Even with 13-hour days... this life is so delightfully simple, sometimes.
Monday morning
So, yesterday, I was quietly productive. First I got up late and decided not to actually get up, and stayed in bed to watch tv shows online. (This is productive with regards to relaxing, by the way, and pretending to nurse a vague sore throat... why do I always seem to have a vague sore throat?)
Then I actually got up, and answered some emails that I really did not feel like answering, and by, like, 5pm, sat my arse down to work on the Translation of Death (uh, yes, still... but I swear I'm finishing it this week, if it kills me). Actually got a few pages done (thank Christ!), caught up with the parents on Skype (yay!), pondered the booking of tickets home for Christmas (yay!) but did not actually book them (must, though, asap), and decided to clean the apartment circa midnight.
Then remembered that had wanted to mark one of my students' final exams, and also plan a bit for the one I'm giving in class today... and then finally went to bed, all happy because my apartment was clean, the Translation of Death had made some slight progress, and my flannel sheets are delightfully warm.
Now it is Monday morning and I can't decide whether to be residually satisfied with myself (from the productivity, you know) or cranky because it is the crack of dawn (well, before it, actually) and I am sleepy. On the other hand... classes today from 8 to 3.30. Do you know what that is? That is, like, a normal school schedule. Even if I get stuck at work for a few hours after, I could still leave by a normal time! Before the 12-hour mark! And cook myself a healthy dinner! And continue the Translation of Death! Yay!
Okay, decided: I'm going to be in a good mood. Despite the mosquito (mosquitoes? really? in the second week in November? basta!!) that is sitting on the wall just above my computer, taunting me. Bastardo.
Then I actually got up, and answered some emails that I really did not feel like answering, and by, like, 5pm, sat my arse down to work on the Translation of Death (uh, yes, still... but I swear I'm finishing it this week, if it kills me). Actually got a few pages done (thank Christ!), caught up with the parents on Skype (yay!), pondered the booking of tickets home for Christmas (yay!) but did not actually book them (must, though, asap), and decided to clean the apartment circa midnight.
Then remembered that had wanted to mark one of my students' final exams, and also plan a bit for the one I'm giving in class today... and then finally went to bed, all happy because my apartment was clean, the Translation of Death had made some slight progress, and my flannel sheets are delightfully warm.
Now it is Monday morning and I can't decide whether to be residually satisfied with myself (from the productivity, you know) or cranky because it is the crack of dawn (well, before it, actually) and I am sleepy. On the other hand... classes today from 8 to 3.30. Do you know what that is? That is, like, a normal school schedule. Even if I get stuck at work for a few hours after, I could still leave by a normal time! Before the 12-hour mark! And cook myself a healthy dinner! And continue the Translation of Death! Yay!
Okay, decided: I'm going to be in a good mood. Despite the mosquito (mosquitoes? really? in the second week in November? basta!!) that is sitting on the wall just above my computer, taunting me. Bastardo.
Thursday, October 28
Little blue car strikes again!
"We should stop on the way back to school and put some petrol in the car," says my fellow teacher as we exit the Uber-Fancy Local Fashion Thing (UFLFT). I nod, still smiling about something hilarious one of my students said. It's nice when your Friday lunchtime three-hours-back-to-back students make you smile. Also it's nice when you finish and the sun is out and you know you only have one more lesson later today, and plenty of time to plan it, and even time for a coffee.
The other teacher is recounting something hilarious that one of her students said as we start the car and head out of the parking lot. (Her students, evidently, are hilarious, too.)
It is not until we are out of the parking lot and trundling along the main, tree-lined driveway of the UFLFT (the UFLFT is quite big) that Fellow Teacher stops mid-sentence to say "we have no petrol left." I find this to be an odd sort of statement, given that we have just established our plan to go and get some on the way back from school.
"No, I mean, really none left," she says, apparently using her mind-reading capabilities to discern my skepticism. I realize over the next few seconds that this means we will have to actually stop the car. Right here in the tree-lined driveway of the UFLFT.
Crap.
Once the poor little blue car (yeah, still the same one, thanks for asking) has ground to a halt (uh, literally), I am surprisingly efficient. I call the secretary to ask her to come and retrieve us, preferrably with some gas. I pull out a book and swiftly plan my next lesson. Conveniently, it is located right here at the UFLFT in two hours' time, so I could easily just walk back up the driveway and teach it, if I have to.
We pass the time exclaiming repeatedly how ridiculous a situation this is to be in, and imagining what our students would say if they could see us. We are happy that it is no longer lunch hour, so hopefully they are all safely ensconced in their offices, and not within view of the driveway. (Yay trees.)
When the secretary gets here, it transpires that the gas station was unwilling to sell her any gas without the proper receptacle. Like a car. Or a gas tank. Yes, well.
"Can we just leave the car there in the driveway?" we ask the man in the little guardhouse. "It's not really blocking anything much. And it's not broken or anything. It's just that we ran out of gas, you know." He looks hesitant, but we promise to come right back and he finally agrees. Probably months of rolling down our windows just enough to shout "lezioni d'Inglese!!" in his general direction, using more volume than correct pronunciation, have convinced him that we are well and truly mad.
We elect to go to the biggest gas station we can find, and are happy to discover that they do, indeed, have receptacles specially designed for idiots who have run out of gas somewhere and also do not happen to own portable gas tanks, or whatever the proper thing is to resolve such a situation. The specially designed receptacles are massive bags of thick-ish but clear plastic. This allows you to hold 5 liters of gas in your hands and also be able to see it! Fun! (Did you know that gas is a weird turquoise greenish-blue? I did not know this, but now I do! Yay!)
It's also a bit unnerving. I mean, what if it spontaneously combusts while it's sitting in your lap? I feel like I am inept enough, when it comes to cars, to cause spontaneous combustion of gas, particularly if the only thing between it and us is a plastic bag. Hm.
We arrive back at the UFLFT, having rather miraculously avoided combustion, and discover that the fun is not over yet. Now we need to maneuver 5 liters of bright bluish-greenish gas into the tank of the little blue car, all while standing in the middle of the driveway.
"What do you want to bet one of our students drives by?" I say to the other teacher. I have a knack for making it rain on a perfectly sunny day by saying things like this, and, indeed, not five minutes passes before a lovely light-grey Audi rolls calmly past, bearing one of my students. He's only the head of the Technical department or something like that. You know. Whatever. He cranes his neck to look at us as he drives by, looking confused. Happily, I am on the other side of the car at this point, so to this day we reassure ourselves that he didn't recognize us.
This is good, because I am at this moment standing next to the gas tank with my arms wrapped around the bag of gas, attempting to aim it into the tank rather than spill it all over my feet. It's going reasonably well (not easy when you're wearing spindly heels - for the teaching of the fashion people, you see - but are significantly taller than the car even without heels) but it is far from graceful.
A few minutes later, we are on our way back to school with yet another ridiculous story to tell.
"Okay, so, we need to not tell our students about this, ever, okay?" we promise each other.
"Yes, definitely."
They all know within the week. Naturally. I still occasionally get teased about it. Sigh.
The other teacher is recounting something hilarious that one of her students said as we start the car and head out of the parking lot. (Her students, evidently, are hilarious, too.)
It is not until we are out of the parking lot and trundling along the main, tree-lined driveway of the UFLFT (the UFLFT is quite big) that Fellow Teacher stops mid-sentence to say "we have no petrol left." I find this to be an odd sort of statement, given that we have just established our plan to go and get some on the way back from school.
"No, I mean, really none left," she says, apparently using her mind-reading capabilities to discern my skepticism. I realize over the next few seconds that this means we will have to actually stop the car. Right here in the tree-lined driveway of the UFLFT.
Crap.
Once the poor little blue car (yeah, still the same one, thanks for asking) has ground to a halt (uh, literally), I am surprisingly efficient. I call the secretary to ask her to come and retrieve us, preferrably with some gas. I pull out a book and swiftly plan my next lesson. Conveniently, it is located right here at the UFLFT in two hours' time, so I could easily just walk back up the driveway and teach it, if I have to.
We pass the time exclaiming repeatedly how ridiculous a situation this is to be in, and imagining what our students would say if they could see us. We are happy that it is no longer lunch hour, so hopefully they are all safely ensconced in their offices, and not within view of the driveway. (Yay trees.)
When the secretary gets here, it transpires that the gas station was unwilling to sell her any gas without the proper receptacle. Like a car. Or a gas tank. Yes, well.
"Can we just leave the car there in the driveway?" we ask the man in the little guardhouse. "It's not really blocking anything much. And it's not broken or anything. It's just that we ran out of gas, you know." He looks hesitant, but we promise to come right back and he finally agrees. Probably months of rolling down our windows just enough to shout "lezioni d'Inglese!!" in his general direction, using more volume than correct pronunciation, have convinced him that we are well and truly mad.
We elect to go to the biggest gas station we can find, and are happy to discover that they do, indeed, have receptacles specially designed for idiots who have run out of gas somewhere and also do not happen to own portable gas tanks, or whatever the proper thing is to resolve such a situation. The specially designed receptacles are massive bags of thick-ish but clear plastic. This allows you to hold 5 liters of gas in your hands and also be able to see it! Fun! (Did you know that gas is a weird turquoise greenish-blue? I did not know this, but now I do! Yay!)
It's also a bit unnerving. I mean, what if it spontaneously combusts while it's sitting in your lap? I feel like I am inept enough, when it comes to cars, to cause spontaneous combustion of gas, particularly if the only thing between it and us is a plastic bag. Hm.
We arrive back at the UFLFT, having rather miraculously avoided combustion, and discover that the fun is not over yet. Now we need to maneuver 5 liters of bright bluish-greenish gas into the tank of the little blue car, all while standing in the middle of the driveway.
"What do you want to bet one of our students drives by?" I say to the other teacher. I have a knack for making it rain on a perfectly sunny day by saying things like this, and, indeed, not five minutes passes before a lovely light-grey Audi rolls calmly past, bearing one of my students. He's only the head of the Technical department or something like that. You know. Whatever. He cranes his neck to look at us as he drives by, looking confused. Happily, I am on the other side of the car at this point, so to this day we reassure ourselves that he didn't recognize us.
This is good, because I am at this moment standing next to the gas tank with my arms wrapped around the bag of gas, attempting to aim it into the tank rather than spill it all over my feet. It's going reasonably well (not easy when you're wearing spindly heels - for the teaching of the fashion people, you see - but are significantly taller than the car even without heels) but it is far from graceful.
A few minutes later, we are on our way back to school with yet another ridiculous story to tell.
"Okay, so, we need to not tell our students about this, ever, okay?" we promise each other.
"Yes, definitely."
They all know within the week. Naturally. I still occasionally get teased about it. Sigh.
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