I have so far walked into the boulangerie on three separate occasions thinking 'crap, I still don't know how to say baguette in Italian' before realizing that it is not relevant, given that I am not in Italy anymore and they don't have baguettes there anyway.
I also went to the supermarket and got all excited because they had Santa Lucia mozzarella. I never even bought that in Reggio, so that particular emotion made no sense.
Then I practically jumped out of my skin (from shock) when I walked past this guy and he answered his cell phone in French. I mean, I'd just been speaking French with the boulangere two seconds before that, but apparently that whole conversation didn't register.
Oh, except for the part where she called me 'madame', which is unfortunate, especially given that I'm even wearing my chubby, full of Italian food face that should, in theory, make me look like a child. Funny how it's so exciting when they start calling you 'vous' instead of 'tu' when you're about fourteen years old, but the switch from 'mademoiselle' to 'madame' is just a whole other story. Perhaps it's actually a very subtle way for them to establish their superiority over my sorry American self: we can make you feel like crap and be impeccably polite, all in the same sentence!
Clearly I'm in a sparkly shiny mood over here in frog-land. It's all very disorienting, though. I haven't quite switched languages in my head yet, and I don't want to because I'm afraid the Italian will go away and never come back. Here there are no zanzare but there are huge flies. And no one is speaking Italian. I thought about going to sit near Notre Dame and waiting for some Italian tourists to walk by, but then that would be rather pathetic. Oh, and speaking of sitting outside, someone should inform Paris that August is meant to be part of the summertime. What's up with this seventy degrees nonsense?
In other news, all of my arm muscles are sore, as well as some in my back. (Who even knew there were muscles in the crook of your elbow? Hm. My medical career is off to a great start.) This means that my suitcases are really heavy or I am really weak. I'm inclined to think the latter. Also, I don't think all the business with the dragging of the suitcases to the train station agreed with my left hand a whole lot, because now it is all puffy and sad. This is alternately funny (because of the puffiness) and unfortunate (because it kind of hurts). Oh, well. Who needs those tendons (or whatever), anyway, right? (Again with the medical knowledge.) All the same, next time I think I will try to remember to look up the phone number for taxis before I disconnect the electricity.
Sunday, August 9
Saturday, August 8
Sigh
"Ma sei ancora qua? Non sei andata in ferie?" asks the cashier. I look up at her. Effetivamente, I have seen her before (actually, ormai I recognize all of the ones at the ex-Standa and most of the ones at the Conad on via Adua), but I'm fairly certain we have never talked before. Evidently they pay more attention to us customers than vice versa. Also it's kind of a tricky question...
"Beh... I'm going home, actually..." I respond after a moment of thought. She frowns slightly, apparently trying to figure this out. "Sono americana," I clarify.
"Ahhh," she responds. I briefly wonder if she had all along thought I was just a particularly stupid Italian person, since it took me a month to figure out what "ce l'hai, la tessera?" and "vuoi un sacchetto?" mean. ('Have you got the card' and 'do you want a bag', respectively. The first refers to a membership card that gives you points or something - no, non ce l'ho - and the second to the fact that here you pay for your plastic bags.)
A brief conversation ensues, in which we establish that I am/was a teacher here, I also speak English (I figured this would be a given what with being American and all, but apparently not), that she's just been to Spain on vacation, and that I'm leaving tomorrow morning. The person behind me is showing signs of irritation.
"Ma poi torni, vero?" she finally asks. I shrug. I don't really feel up to explaining about the if-I-get-enough-interviews-to-get-into-a-school-by-December-I-can-come-back-in-January situation, and so I respond with a vague negative.
"Maddai! No!" she seems genuinely upset. I find this vaguely odd, but also kind of touching.
I'm kind of smiling as I walk out. The bells are ringing. There are not one, but two accordian players in via Toschi, both playing Strauss (not especially well, but still). Both piazze are full of market stalls and baby carriages and chattering people. Bits and pieces of conversation in Italian and in dialect float past.
I think my colleagues who abandoned ship in February had the right idea - Reggio would have been a lot easier to leave when it was chilly and gloomy and covered in nebbia (fog) and I caught some virus or other every Tuesday morning in the materna classes. Now that it's sunny and beautiful and even a random cashier appears to be distressed by my leaving. Can't say that you're making it easy for me, Reggio.
On that note... I think I've done pretty much everything possible to put off actually finishing with the packing and cleaning, so... I guess I'd better do that. I also discovered another spider in a corner, which brings the total up to three, so that right there could take an hour or two to deal with. Sigh.
Intanto... per gennaio... speriamo, veh?
"Beh... I'm going home, actually..." I respond after a moment of thought. She frowns slightly, apparently trying to figure this out. "Sono americana," I clarify.
"Ahhh," she responds. I briefly wonder if she had all along thought I was just a particularly stupid Italian person, since it took me a month to figure out what "ce l'hai, la tessera?" and "vuoi un sacchetto?" mean. ('Have you got the card' and 'do you want a bag', respectively. The first refers to a membership card that gives you points or something - no, non ce l'ho - and the second to the fact that here you pay for your plastic bags.)
A brief conversation ensues, in which we establish that I am/was a teacher here, I also speak English (I figured this would be a given what with being American and all, but apparently not), that she's just been to Spain on vacation, and that I'm leaving tomorrow morning. The person behind me is showing signs of irritation.
"Ma poi torni, vero?" she finally asks. I shrug. I don't really feel up to explaining about the if-I-get-enough-interviews-to-get-into-a-school-by-December-I-can-come-back-in-January situation, and so I respond with a vague negative.
"Maddai! No!" she seems genuinely upset. I find this vaguely odd, but also kind of touching.
I'm kind of smiling as I walk out. The bells are ringing. There are not one, but two accordian players in via Toschi, both playing Strauss (not especially well, but still). Both piazze are full of market stalls and baby carriages and chattering people. Bits and pieces of conversation in Italian and in dialect float past.
I think my colleagues who abandoned ship in February had the right idea - Reggio would have been a lot easier to leave when it was chilly and gloomy and covered in nebbia (fog) and I caught some virus or other every Tuesday morning in the materna classes. Now that it's sunny and beautiful and even a random cashier appears to be distressed by my leaving. Can't say that you're making it easy for me, Reggio.
On that note... I think I've done pretty much everything possible to put off actually finishing with the packing and cleaning, so... I guess I'd better do that. I also discovered another spider in a corner, which brings the total up to three, so that right there could take an hour or two to deal with. Sigh.
Intanto... per gennaio... speriamo, veh?
Thursday, August 6
That one time with the suitcase
So, there are lots of things I should be doing, including packing, taking out the recycling (this would facilitate the packing because then I would be able to walk in our hallway without dying), and med school applications. But the applications are just so god-awfully boring that I'm resurrecting my mad procrastination skills instead. In honor of the (theoretical) packing, I shall tell you the fun not very interesting story of the time I lugged the world's largest suitcase around half of Italy.
(Actually it was just Bologna, but whatever.)
"Okay, so you're just about at the weight limit, there," proclaims the lady at the airport check-in desk. My mother and brother are going home after their salto in Italy (see Viareggio story), and we have devised a crafty plan for having them take some of my stuff back with them, thereby ensuring that I am physically able to lift everything that remains behind. Which will be useful for when I have to convey it all home by myself. It is an excellent plan. And we fit under the weight limit. Huzzah!
The check-in lady looks pointedly at the large red suitcase against which I am still comfortably leaning (that's how large it is).
"What are you planning to do with that one?"
Crap.
The over-the-limit fee is ridiculous, and she recommends that I have it shipped by the cargo office. This seems like a good suggestion. I assure my mother that I will be fine to carry it by myself. Ormai I am a strong and independent young woman, right? Sort of. It transpires that I have zero muscles and am somewhat overpowered by 20 kilos of suitcase. Sigh. Must remember to do some physical exercise every once in a while.
Anyway, I bring it to three different offices labeled "cargo/merce" or something of that nature. Finally I hit on the right one. It is on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator, which seems like poor planning to me.
"Ma, sei sicura? You definitely want to send it to Paris?" Yes. "But why?" I'm not sure it's any of his business, but I explain anyway. If nothing else, it's good practice for my Italian story-telling abilities. Either way, it turns out it's very expensive to ship it that way.
"Magari con la posta si spende meno...?" I inquire, using my best help-me-I'm-foreign voice. (Maybe it's cheaper by mail)
"Eh, si, certo, but how are you going to get it to the post office?" I am touched by his concern.
"Well, I'll take the bus back to Bologna and then find a post office..."
He raises his eyebrows doubtfully.
"Well, what time do the post offices close?" I ask, since I appear to still have his attention (perhaps he's bored).
"Beh, verso le quattro, ma... no, no, non ce la fai. E' troppo pesante and probably you won't even find a post office." I elect to be touched by this rather than offended... with difficulty, because what kind of moron can't even find the post office?
Anyway. Me and the suitcase make our way back to the main part of the airport. Back to the bus. Onto the bus. Back to the train station. And to tourist information.
Apparently there are many post offices in Bologna, but none of the people in tourist information seem to be sure where they are located or what the hours are. (I mean, they only live here, but whatever...) Finally, someone is almost positive that there is one that is open di sicuro all the way down via Oberdan to piazza something or other (I don't remember, but it was far).
The suitcase and I make our way there. It is a long and sweaty half hour of walking. I had never noticed how warm Bologna was in mid-July. Boo.
Yes! Post office! I haul Red up the stairs and put myself in the line. People look at me funny. I'm not sure if it is because I'm all gross-looking, or because I just rolled a suitcase into a post office.
"Ce l'hai, la tessera?" some old lady asks me. This is disconcerting. Usually they only ask me that in supermarkets. I shake my head no. She explains that this is "PostaBusiness" or something, and you can only come here if you are a business (?) and have the tessera (card). Regular people have to go around to the other side of the building. Ah. Indeed.
I dutifully go around, take a ticket, and try not to have a seizure with all the bleeping numbers and screens and flashing lights.
"Oh, pero'!" exclaims the post office employee after I have lifted the thing onto the scale in response to her request to weigh whatever my "package" is. (That, by the way, counts as my physical activity for the next month, at least.)
"But why do you want to send that to Paris? Are you sure?" asks the lady. Usually I find it charming that Italian people like to ask personal questions. Today it's getting old. I grit my teeth and respond.
"Ma, mica la puoi spedire cosi', sai," comments one of her colleagues, a middle aged lady at the next desk, "you have to wrap it up in brown paper."
Oh.
Also, they don't have any brown paper. They recommend a cartoleria where brown paper can be procured and grant me permission to leave the suitcase with them in the meantime. (This is good, because otherwise I was totally planning on ditching it somewhere. Basta with the carrying around of the suitcase and the sweat dribbling annoyingly down my back. Who needs those winter clothes, anyway?)
Upon my return, I squat down in a corner of the post office and proceed to wrap the thing up in brown paper. I am no engineer and also have zero real-life type skills, and both of these facts are evident in the finished product. I scribble the address on it in black marker and the effect is complete: it is a miracle I passed first grade.
"You know," comments the younger woman as they help me and my wiggly arms get the suitcase back onto the scale, "if you had taken out 500 grams, we could have sent it in a different class and it would have cost half as much." Indeed. I eye the suitcase, thoroughly (if messily) strapped up in crooked post-office tape. I look back at her. I do not know how to say "now you tell me" in Italian. Perhaps it's for the best.
The older one seems to sense that, language-abilities permitting, that could've been anwkward moment. "You know," she says contemplatively as I hand over the money, "I love Paris. My dream is to sell everything and go to Paris to be a flower seller."
"Ah, si?" is all I can manage. (I mean, think about it: what is the appropriate response there?)
She takes this as an invitation to elaborate and even shares her dream with the customer at the next desk over. By the time the suitcase has been sent into the back room for processing, we are all chatting companionably about which district of Paris would be the best place to sell flowers, and what kind she should sell.
"Buon viaggio, allora," they call after me as I leave. I feel smiling and re-energized, despite the fact that it is 6:30 and me and the suitcase have been at it since circa le 2:00. In a moment of craziness, I decide that this would be a good time to attempt the climb to the Madonna di San Luca (it's a path of 666 portici that takes you to the top of a big hill). I am a bit bleary by the time I reach the top, and also it is closed. Boo.
Probably Italy is a little bit magic, though, because despite all that, I am still kind of smiley when I get back to the train station and think about the lady's flower selling scheme. I was a much grumpier person when I lived in America.
(Actually it was just Bologna, but whatever.)
"Okay, so you're just about at the weight limit, there," proclaims the lady at the airport check-in desk. My mother and brother are going home after their salto in Italy (see Viareggio story), and we have devised a crafty plan for having them take some of my stuff back with them, thereby ensuring that I am physically able to lift everything that remains behind. Which will be useful for when I have to convey it all home by myself. It is an excellent plan. And we fit under the weight limit. Huzzah!
The check-in lady looks pointedly at the large red suitcase against which I am still comfortably leaning (that's how large it is).
"What are you planning to do with that one?"
Crap.
The over-the-limit fee is ridiculous, and she recommends that I have it shipped by the cargo office. This seems like a good suggestion. I assure my mother that I will be fine to carry it by myself. Ormai I am a strong and independent young woman, right? Sort of. It transpires that I have zero muscles and am somewhat overpowered by 20 kilos of suitcase. Sigh. Must remember to do some physical exercise every once in a while.
Anyway, I bring it to three different offices labeled "cargo/merce" or something of that nature. Finally I hit on the right one. It is on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator, which seems like poor planning to me.
"Ma, sei sicura? You definitely want to send it to Paris?" Yes. "But why?" I'm not sure it's any of his business, but I explain anyway. If nothing else, it's good practice for my Italian story-telling abilities. Either way, it turns out it's very expensive to ship it that way.
"Magari con la posta si spende meno...?" I inquire, using my best help-me-I'm-foreign voice. (Maybe it's cheaper by mail)
"Eh, si, certo, but how are you going to get it to the post office?" I am touched by his concern.
"Well, I'll take the bus back to Bologna and then find a post office..."
He raises his eyebrows doubtfully.
"Well, what time do the post offices close?" I ask, since I appear to still have his attention (perhaps he's bored).
"Beh, verso le quattro, ma... no, no, non ce la fai. E' troppo pesante and probably you won't even find a post office." I elect to be touched by this rather than offended... with difficulty, because what kind of moron can't even find the post office?
Anyway. Me and the suitcase make our way back to the main part of the airport. Back to the bus. Onto the bus. Back to the train station. And to tourist information.
Apparently there are many post offices in Bologna, but none of the people in tourist information seem to be sure where they are located or what the hours are. (I mean, they only live here, but whatever...) Finally, someone is almost positive that there is one that is open di sicuro all the way down via Oberdan to piazza something or other (I don't remember, but it was far).
The suitcase and I make our way there. It is a long and sweaty half hour of walking. I had never noticed how warm Bologna was in mid-July. Boo.
Yes! Post office! I haul Red up the stairs and put myself in the line. People look at me funny. I'm not sure if it is because I'm all gross-looking, or because I just rolled a suitcase into a post office.
"Ce l'hai, la tessera?" some old lady asks me. This is disconcerting. Usually they only ask me that in supermarkets. I shake my head no. She explains that this is "PostaBusiness" or something, and you can only come here if you are a business (?) and have the tessera (card). Regular people have to go around to the other side of the building. Ah. Indeed.
I dutifully go around, take a ticket, and try not to have a seizure with all the bleeping numbers and screens and flashing lights.
"Oh, pero'!" exclaims the post office employee after I have lifted the thing onto the scale in response to her request to weigh whatever my "package" is. (That, by the way, counts as my physical activity for the next month, at least.)
"But why do you want to send that to Paris? Are you sure?" asks the lady. Usually I find it charming that Italian people like to ask personal questions. Today it's getting old. I grit my teeth and respond.
"Ma, mica la puoi spedire cosi', sai," comments one of her colleagues, a middle aged lady at the next desk, "you have to wrap it up in brown paper."
Oh.
Also, they don't have any brown paper. They recommend a cartoleria where brown paper can be procured and grant me permission to leave the suitcase with them in the meantime. (This is good, because otherwise I was totally planning on ditching it somewhere. Basta with the carrying around of the suitcase and the sweat dribbling annoyingly down my back. Who needs those winter clothes, anyway?)
Upon my return, I squat down in a corner of the post office and proceed to wrap the thing up in brown paper. I am no engineer and also have zero real-life type skills, and both of these facts are evident in the finished product. I scribble the address on it in black marker and the effect is complete: it is a miracle I passed first grade.
"You know," comments the younger woman as they help me and my wiggly arms get the suitcase back onto the scale, "if you had taken out 500 grams, we could have sent it in a different class and it would have cost half as much." Indeed. I eye the suitcase, thoroughly (if messily) strapped up in crooked post-office tape. I look back at her. I do not know how to say "now you tell me" in Italian. Perhaps it's for the best.
The older one seems to sense that, language-abilities permitting, that could've been anwkward moment. "You know," she says contemplatively as I hand over the money, "I love Paris. My dream is to sell everything and go to Paris to be a flower seller."
"Ah, si?" is all I can manage. (I mean, think about it: what is the appropriate response there?)
She takes this as an invitation to elaborate and even shares her dream with the customer at the next desk over. By the time the suitcase has been sent into the back room for processing, we are all chatting companionably about which district of Paris would be the best place to sell flowers, and what kind she should sell.
"Buon viaggio, allora," they call after me as I leave. I feel smiling and re-energized, despite the fact that it is 6:30 and me and the suitcase have been at it since circa le 2:00. In a moment of craziness, I decide that this would be a good time to attempt the climb to the Madonna di San Luca (it's a path of 666 portici that takes you to the top of a big hill). I am a bit bleary by the time I reach the top, and also it is closed. Boo.
Probably Italy is a little bit magic, though, because despite all that, I am still kind of smiley when I get back to the train station and think about the lady's flower selling scheme. I was a much grumpier person when I lived in America.
Wednesday, July 22
Heat
"Voglio la mamma..." whines my little charge.
I hand her a pebble, which, miraculously, distracts her. The three-year-old brain is a marvelous thing. She flings it over her shoulder, narrowly missing my head, and runs for the swings. I pray that she won't fall down.
"Spingimi forte!" she commands (push me fast). I push her gently.
"Forte, t'ho detto!" (I told you fast!) I push her a fraction harder. Having spent a total of three hours with her so far, I bet you she'd get all excited and forget to hold on if I pushed her any faster. I tell her that this is as fast I as I can make her go, and that only daddies can make the swing go any higher.
"You're not very strong," she comments. Yes, well... But she has already moved onto a new idea before I even finish my mental grumbling. "Look! A pigeon! Let's catch it and and tie it up and put it in the stroller and trick it into coming home with us and then nonna will put it in the pot and I'll put some salt and pepper on it because that's my job e lo MANGIAMO!!"
She flings her arms out in excitement and I grab her off the swing before she can go flying into the gravel (knew it! it is a small and rather worthless victory). I put her down and let her chase the pigeon for a few minutes.
"You catch him," she orders a few minutes later. I consider how ridiculous that would look and wonder if the amusement she would get out of it would be worth it. The pigeon runs out of the shade and into the sun. I'll pass. I explain to her that I don't know how to run. She informs me that grown-ups aren't very good at playing. (Yeah, well, you weren't complaining when I hauled your heavy little arse the whole way to the playground on my hip because *somebody* was too tired to walk.)
"At least you can push me on the swing. Push me again. Fast." The sun has moved and the swings are no longer in the shade. I glance at my phone. Forty-five more minutes until her mother returns from what she calls work (I don't know what it is that she actually accomplishes, given that she calls me approximately three times per hour).
"Push harder!" I comply and start to count while sweat dribbles down my back.
One mississippi... two mississippi...
I have counted to 60 mississippi three times when the kid's grandmother shows up and starts telling me what she has prepared for lunch. This takes five minutes. She tells me about her health problems... her husband's health problems... her son's cough (contracted because he had the air-conditioning on in his car and his throat was exposed)... she moves on to more general topics: how children grow up and move away from you, and even if you set them up in houses that are within walking distance of yours, it's just not as easy to keep an eye on them as when they live in your own home.
By the time her daughter (the kid's mother) arrives, she is telling me that we really should take the child off the swings because so much movement before eating is going to upset her digestion (what, like, retroactively?), and also a sliver of her pancia (tummy) is exposed to the wind from the swinging and that is just no good at all. I smile feebly at the mother, still trying to decide whether I most feel like laughing or like collapsing in a heap of sweat and boredom.
"Ciao!" I wave cheerfully a few moments later. On my way home, I pick up some gnocco, noting that I have turned into an Italian twelve-year-old with my snacking habits, and some gelato. I shower off the sweat-and-playground-dust combination and plunk myself down in a chair with my lunch and a book.
What's funny is that six months from now, I bet you I will totally be looking back on this fondly: oh, man, self, remember when you used to have gelato for lunch and read all afternoon and the most stressful part of your day was pushing a little kid (who, alla fine, despite being mildly snotty, did have some hilarious little-kid speech peculiarities) on the swings and coming up with potential conversation topics for your shy elementary student? Those were the days...
In the meantime, I really do need to get some actual (non-childcare-related) work done and it really is a bit toasty and despite my glorious post-playground shower and a lot of splashing-water-on-the-face and having the fan sitting a mere two feet away from me and the fact that I'm not moving except to type, I find myself feeling a bit fuzzy and melty. I think I will go shelter nella Panizzi. (The local library. They must have air-conditioning there, right?)
I hand her a pebble, which, miraculously, distracts her. The three-year-old brain is a marvelous thing. She flings it over her shoulder, narrowly missing my head, and runs for the swings. I pray that she won't fall down.
"Spingimi forte!" she commands (push me fast). I push her gently.
"Forte, t'ho detto!" (I told you fast!) I push her a fraction harder. Having spent a total of three hours with her so far, I bet you she'd get all excited and forget to hold on if I pushed her any faster. I tell her that this is as fast I as I can make her go, and that only daddies can make the swing go any higher.
"You're not very strong," she comments. Yes, well... But she has already moved onto a new idea before I even finish my mental grumbling. "Look! A pigeon! Let's catch it and and tie it up and put it in the stroller and trick it into coming home with us and then nonna will put it in the pot and I'll put some salt and pepper on it because that's my job e lo MANGIAMO!!"
She flings her arms out in excitement and I grab her off the swing before she can go flying into the gravel (knew it! it is a small and rather worthless victory). I put her down and let her chase the pigeon for a few minutes.
"You catch him," she orders a few minutes later. I consider how ridiculous that would look and wonder if the amusement she would get out of it would be worth it. The pigeon runs out of the shade and into the sun. I'll pass. I explain to her that I don't know how to run. She informs me that grown-ups aren't very good at playing. (Yeah, well, you weren't complaining when I hauled your heavy little arse the whole way to the playground on my hip because *somebody* was too tired to walk.)
"At least you can push me on the swing. Push me again. Fast." The sun has moved and the swings are no longer in the shade. I glance at my phone. Forty-five more minutes until her mother returns from what she calls work (I don't know what it is that she actually accomplishes, given that she calls me approximately three times per hour).
"Push harder!" I comply and start to count while sweat dribbles down my back.
One mississippi... two mississippi...
I have counted to 60 mississippi three times when the kid's grandmother shows up and starts telling me what she has prepared for lunch. This takes five minutes. She tells me about her health problems... her husband's health problems... her son's cough (contracted because he had the air-conditioning on in his car and his throat was exposed)... she moves on to more general topics: how children grow up and move away from you, and even if you set them up in houses that are within walking distance of yours, it's just not as easy to keep an eye on them as when they live in your own home.
By the time her daughter (the kid's mother) arrives, she is telling me that we really should take the child off the swings because so much movement before eating is going to upset her digestion (what, like, retroactively?), and also a sliver of her pancia (tummy) is exposed to the wind from the swinging and that is just no good at all. I smile feebly at the mother, still trying to decide whether I most feel like laughing or like collapsing in a heap of sweat and boredom.
"Ciao!" I wave cheerfully a few moments later. On my way home, I pick up some gnocco, noting that I have turned into an Italian twelve-year-old with my snacking habits, and some gelato. I shower off the sweat-and-playground-dust combination and plunk myself down in a chair with my lunch and a book.
What's funny is that six months from now, I bet you I will totally be looking back on this fondly: oh, man, self, remember when you used to have gelato for lunch and read all afternoon and the most stressful part of your day was pushing a little kid (who, alla fine, despite being mildly snotty, did have some hilarious little-kid speech peculiarities) on the swings and coming up with potential conversation topics for your shy elementary student? Those were the days...
In the meantime, I really do need to get some actual (non-childcare-related) work done and it really is a bit toasty and despite my glorious post-playground shower and a lot of splashing-water-on-the-face and having the fan sitting a mere two feet away from me and the fact that I'm not moving except to type, I find myself feeling a bit fuzzy and melty. I think I will go shelter nella Panizzi. (The local library. They must have air-conditioning there, right?)
Monday, July 20
L'omino bianco
I am wandering through the Standa, the supermarket that lives under the Oviesse on Via Roma, absently sticking a packet of "mix grattugiato" (delicious grated cheese) into the crook of my elbow and vaguely wishing I had remembered to grab one of those cool basket/carts when I see a swatch of familiar light blue in the distance. (Yeah, okay, it's about a meter away, but it sounded more dramatic the other way.) I turn my head to investigate.
Yess! I think to myself. It is a pile of laundry detergent, with some kind of 2-for-1 deal.
Specifically, it is Omino Bianco laundry detergent. The blue kind (I think the flavor is actually called muschio bianco, which I don't really get - is muschio musk? Because it doesn't really smell like what I thought that would smell like. The picture looks like muguet - which I think is called lily of the valley in English - but then other brands have scents called mughetto, and presumbly that is the Italian equivalent to muguet. Or maybe musk and muguet are synonyms? Boh). Anyway. It is my favorite laundry detergent here in Italy (well, ever, actually) and it was quite the lucky discovery.
In my first apartment here, I was only living there for a week with one of the other teachers and we decided it wasn't worth it to figure out how the washer worked (for some reason the instructions were only in French and German, and I didn't want to be responsible for deciphering them). So we handwashed our stuff. With fabric softener. Because we bought that by mistake. It smelled nice, though, and had a cuddly bear on the front.
In the second apartment, the one with the crazy man, the washer was located in the (dubiously clean) kitchen and smelled like mold. I elected not to use it, which meant dragging all my stuff to a nearby (sort of) washing machine place (the actual name will come to me... someday), stuffing them all in the same machine (because I was poor at the time), having them not dry as a consequence, and thus having drying clothes draped damply around my room for the next two days. Yum. The other unfortunate thing about that particular adventure was that I zipped into Acqua e Sapone (an excellent store) to grab some detergent on my way and it was right before closing time and I was so excited about having successfully found the place again and I was poor, remember, so I just grabbed the first cheap-ish bottle of stuff with flowers on the front that I saw and that was that. I figured the word on the label - candeggina - was probably the brand or something.
Yeah, no. Candeggina is bleach. Flower-scented bleach, in this particular case, but bleach nonetheless. Oh, and the third unfortunate thing about the washing machine place adventure was that it was relatively close to the train station (sketchy part of town) and this Egyptian guy showed up and I was dumb enough to answer his what's your name/where are you from questions and then he wanted to talk the whole time my laundry was going. Sigh.
So that one evening a couple of weeks later when I had moved into the Good Apartment (finally) and was strolling around Esselunga and picked up a bottle of blue Omino Bianco laundry detergent and successfully did my laundry and my room smelled delightfully of flowers... it was nice. Finally. So the "little white man" (who, parenthetically, is actually a little black stick figure man wearing a white t-shirt) always reminds me of that feeling of yesss! My clothes are clean and I own a drying rack and my room smells good and I didn't blow up the washer and I don't live with the creepy man any more!
Back to Standa. The trick about the blue Omino Bianco stuff is that no one ever has it. They often have the green one (aloe, or something) and the white one (savon de Marseille), but not the blue one. It is elusive. You have to check the detergent aisle in every supermarket every time you go in order to have a steady supply. And even then... so this is a good deal. I must buy some. I have been using some other stuff that the housemates bought (it smells like roses, which is nice too, but just not the same) but now I have found Omino Bianco. Huzzah! (Yeah, it's the little things in life, right?)
I turn around with my mix grattugiato and my bread and whatever else and scurry back to get a basket/cart. I haul my prize home. I do some laundry and my room smells half like muschio bianco (whatever it is) and half like the summery smell of sun on the cobblestones... or sun on something, anyway (it's very sunny here right now). I am happy.
The only thing is... now that I have managed to bring home not one, but two (!!) bottles of the stuff, it occurs to me that I am only here for another two and a half weeks. That's probably not even long enough to use up two whole bottles of it. I am sad.
Yess! I think to myself. It is a pile of laundry detergent, with some kind of 2-for-1 deal.
Specifically, it is Omino Bianco laundry detergent. The blue kind (I think the flavor is actually called muschio bianco, which I don't really get - is muschio musk? Because it doesn't really smell like what I thought that would smell like. The picture looks like muguet - which I think is called lily of the valley in English - but then other brands have scents called mughetto, and presumbly that is the Italian equivalent to muguet. Or maybe musk and muguet are synonyms? Boh). Anyway. It is my favorite laundry detergent here in Italy (well, ever, actually) and it was quite the lucky discovery.
In my first apartment here, I was only living there for a week with one of the other teachers and we decided it wasn't worth it to figure out how the washer worked (for some reason the instructions were only in French and German, and I didn't want to be responsible for deciphering them). So we handwashed our stuff. With fabric softener. Because we bought that by mistake. It smelled nice, though, and had a cuddly bear on the front.
In the second apartment, the one with the crazy man, the washer was located in the (dubiously clean) kitchen and smelled like mold. I elected not to use it, which meant dragging all my stuff to a nearby (sort of) washing machine place (the actual name will come to me... someday), stuffing them all in the same machine (because I was poor at the time), having them not dry as a consequence, and thus having drying clothes draped damply around my room for the next two days. Yum. The other unfortunate thing about that particular adventure was that I zipped into Acqua e Sapone (an excellent store) to grab some detergent on my way and it was right before closing time and I was so excited about having successfully found the place again and I was poor, remember, so I just grabbed the first cheap-ish bottle of stuff with flowers on the front that I saw and that was that. I figured the word on the label - candeggina - was probably the brand or something.
Yeah, no. Candeggina is bleach. Flower-scented bleach, in this particular case, but bleach nonetheless. Oh, and the third unfortunate thing about the washing machine place adventure was that it was relatively close to the train station (sketchy part of town) and this Egyptian guy showed up and I was dumb enough to answer his what's your name/where are you from questions and then he wanted to talk the whole time my laundry was going. Sigh.
So that one evening a couple of weeks later when I had moved into the Good Apartment (finally) and was strolling around Esselunga and picked up a bottle of blue Omino Bianco laundry detergent and successfully did my laundry and my room smelled delightfully of flowers... it was nice. Finally. So the "little white man" (who, parenthetically, is actually a little black stick figure man wearing a white t-shirt) always reminds me of that feeling of yesss! My clothes are clean and I own a drying rack and my room smells good and I didn't blow up the washer and I don't live with the creepy man any more!
Back to Standa. The trick about the blue Omino Bianco stuff is that no one ever has it. They often have the green one (aloe, or something) and the white one (savon de Marseille), but not the blue one. It is elusive. You have to check the detergent aisle in every supermarket every time you go in order to have a steady supply. And even then... so this is a good deal. I must buy some. I have been using some other stuff that the housemates bought (it smells like roses, which is nice too, but just not the same) but now I have found Omino Bianco. Huzzah! (Yeah, it's the little things in life, right?)
I turn around with my mix grattugiato and my bread and whatever else and scurry back to get a basket/cart. I haul my prize home. I do some laundry and my room smells half like muschio bianco (whatever it is) and half like the summery smell of sun on the cobblestones... or sun on something, anyway (it's very sunny here right now). I am happy.
The only thing is... now that I have managed to bring home not one, but two (!!) bottles of the stuff, it occurs to me that I am only here for another two and a half weeks. That's probably not even long enough to use up two whole bottles of it. I am sad.
Wednesday, July 15
Noontime in Reggio
Sometimes I don't have work until late in the evening, so I like to sleep late (until someone starts chucking bottles in the glass recycling thing), lie in bed for a while wondering how many bottles the guy can possibly have, and then go for a walk around Reggio. Right now it's very hot, so it's a short walk: down to Oviesse to stock up on water (pain in the arse but necessary chore), and back to the piazza to absorb the culture, take a moment to look at the duomo and get teary about having to leave (for some reason the sight of the duomo over the roof of the vescovado makes me exceptionally emotional), and get some erbazzone to comfort myself. (Yay, emotional eating! So healthy!)
On some days, the erbazzone at Melli (local panificio - bakery) is fresh, hot, and crunchy. Especially if they give you a piece from the side: the side pieces have more crunchiness and a thinner layer of spinach-y stuff, thus giving you the optimal ratio of crunchy part to spinach-y part. It pretty much all depends on when you go - you have to go when they have taken a fresh batch out of the oven, before it has cooled, but after they have finished the last batch. I have not yet discerned the precise pattern of how often they take out a new batch, though. I fear that my time in Reggio will come to an end before I solve that particular mystery. Or if you're good friends with the people there, they just give you some of the new batch anyway.
I'm not good friends with the people there. Probably because I've only been going there for about a month, rather than a decade, like most of the clients (I'm guessing). This is because a) I haven't lived here a decade and b) I was scared to go in there for a really long time because I wasn't sure how one ordered things, or what they were called. It gets kind of awkward when you're like "I want a piece of bread" and they're like "what kind?" and you're like "um... the round kind? I dunno... any kind, really... you pick!" and they raise their eyebrows at you.
The eyebrow raise is killer. Actually, I live in fear of getting the eyebrow raise every time they ask how much I want of the erbazzone/gnocco/crostata/anything-else-that-comes-in-large-trays. Some of them are nice (or just want to sell their stuff) and they place their knife such that you stand to get an enormous piece of whatever you're buying. Then you can experience the satisfaction of a demure "un po' meno, per favore". Very ladylike. Excellent.
Others are a bit stingy, which I don't really get, because hello, how about you worry about selling your product and I'll worry about my weight, okay? and they offer you a midgy little piece and (internally) you're like "aww, hell, lady, I've been running around after six-year-olds all day and I haven't eaten since those stale crackers for breakfast" but because you're a proper repressed girl (men, you have it *so* much easier) what you actually say is "si, va bene, grazie," and try not to sigh regretfully. At least this way you don't get the eyebrow raise, though.
Actually, what's even riskier in terms of eyebrow raise potential is when you get there around 7:25pm (they close at 7:30) and you've just come from a long day at work (see reference to six-year-olds) and you don't plan to put any effort into making dinner so what you really want to do is buy both a piece of erbazzone or gnocco (main course) and a piece of crostata or torta di riso (dessert!) and sit down in your chair (yeah, I don't own a table) and that way the most challenging thing you have to worry about is how to avoid getting crumbs down the front of your shirt. I did that once and got a very disdainful look from the lady, though, so that was the end of that. This can be remedied by visiting two of the branches of Melli separately and buying one thing at each, but that takes more effort and also just makes me feel ridiculously pathetic. So instead I just buy my usual piece of erbazzone and try to remember whether or not I still have any nutella that I can just eat out of the jar for dessert.
Yeah. We Americans are kind of gross. It's the food-related female guilt complex, though, I'm telling you. Otherwise I could just wander over to the gelateria and have a granita (practically calorie-free, I bet - it's just ice and syrup, right?) and stroll around with it, trying not to get hit on by those weirdos in the piazza. As it is, though, I am a girl and so I will never go to the gelateria unless I am either desperate or in a group of friends (that's okay because it's social eating - permissible). Anyway. Both the gelateria and the weirdos in the piazza are a story for another day, so I'll leave you with that incredibly un-enlightening thought...
On some days, the erbazzone at Melli (local panificio - bakery) is fresh, hot, and crunchy. Especially if they give you a piece from the side: the side pieces have more crunchiness and a thinner layer of spinach-y stuff, thus giving you the optimal ratio of crunchy part to spinach-y part. It pretty much all depends on when you go - you have to go when they have taken a fresh batch out of the oven, before it has cooled, but after they have finished the last batch. I have not yet discerned the precise pattern of how often they take out a new batch, though. I fear that my time in Reggio will come to an end before I solve that particular mystery. Or if you're good friends with the people there, they just give you some of the new batch anyway.
I'm not good friends with the people there. Probably because I've only been going there for about a month, rather than a decade, like most of the clients (I'm guessing). This is because a) I haven't lived here a decade and b) I was scared to go in there for a really long time because I wasn't sure how one ordered things, or what they were called. It gets kind of awkward when you're like "I want a piece of bread" and they're like "what kind?" and you're like "um... the round kind? I dunno... any kind, really... you pick!" and they raise their eyebrows at you.
The eyebrow raise is killer. Actually, I live in fear of getting the eyebrow raise every time they ask how much I want of the erbazzone/gnocco/crostata/anything-else-that-comes-in-large-trays. Some of them are nice (or just want to sell their stuff) and they place their knife such that you stand to get an enormous piece of whatever you're buying. Then you can experience the satisfaction of a demure "un po' meno, per favore". Very ladylike. Excellent.
Others are a bit stingy, which I don't really get, because hello, how about you worry about selling your product and I'll worry about my weight, okay? and they offer you a midgy little piece and (internally) you're like "aww, hell, lady, I've been running around after six-year-olds all day and I haven't eaten since those stale crackers for breakfast" but because you're a proper repressed girl (men, you have it *so* much easier) what you actually say is "si, va bene, grazie," and try not to sigh regretfully. At least this way you don't get the eyebrow raise, though.
Actually, what's even riskier in terms of eyebrow raise potential is when you get there around 7:25pm (they close at 7:30) and you've just come from a long day at work (see reference to six-year-olds) and you don't plan to put any effort into making dinner so what you really want to do is buy both a piece of erbazzone or gnocco (main course) and a piece of crostata or torta di riso (dessert!) and sit down in your chair (yeah, I don't own a table) and that way the most challenging thing you have to worry about is how to avoid getting crumbs down the front of your shirt. I did that once and got a very disdainful look from the lady, though, so that was the end of that. This can be remedied by visiting two of the branches of Melli separately and buying one thing at each, but that takes more effort and also just makes me feel ridiculously pathetic. So instead I just buy my usual piece of erbazzone and try to remember whether or not I still have any nutella that I can just eat out of the jar for dessert.
Yeah. We Americans are kind of gross. It's the food-related female guilt complex, though, I'm telling you. Otherwise I could just wander over to the gelateria and have a granita (practically calorie-free, I bet - it's just ice and syrup, right?) and stroll around with it, trying not to get hit on by those weirdos in the piazza. As it is, though, I am a girl and so I will never go to the gelateria unless I am either desperate or in a group of friends (that's okay because it's social eating - permissible). Anyway. Both the gelateria and the weirdos in the piazza are a story for another day, so I'll leave you with that incredibly un-enlightening thought...
Tuesday, July 14
Christmas in July
I sit on the floor with my legs curled under me, carefully lining little foam magnet tiles up with a pattern sheet on a magnetic board. I am babysitting my boss' daughter and we are making a magnetic mosaic of a fish, using the pattern to cheat a little (it's like magnetic color by number). She is half American and half Italian, and has apparently just discovered a passion for Christmas music (American) and so "Have yourself a merry little Christmas" drifts in and out of my consciousness.
She knows all the words to the chipmunk song. It's pretty cute, and actually very soothing - childhood favorites while attaching bits of colored foam to a black board. It only gets a little iffy when we're listening to the "Santa baby" song, where some woman is using her sexy voice to ask Santa for a yacht, a million dollars and other related things, and the kid goes "who's the woman in the song?" I hesitate, "umm... probably she's friends with Santa". The kid thinks for a moment. "Oh. I thought she was Santa's mom." I wonder where she got the impression that that is the voice that mothers use to speak to their children. I'm momentarily glad that she doesn't have any brothers, and therefore can't have gotten it from her own family.
Oh, and P.S.: speaking of patriotism (ish) happy 14 juillet to la Francia! I once taught the little French student the chorus to the Marseillaise (by her request, actually)... I dedicate that effort to you, fellow frogs.
She knows all the words to the chipmunk song. It's pretty cute, and actually very soothing - childhood favorites while attaching bits of colored foam to a black board. It only gets a little iffy when we're listening to the "Santa baby" song, where some woman is using her sexy voice to ask Santa for a yacht, a million dollars and other related things, and the kid goes "who's the woman in the song?" I hesitate, "umm... probably she's friends with Santa". The kid thinks for a moment. "Oh. I thought she was Santa's mom." I wonder where she got the impression that that is the voice that mothers use to speak to their children. I'm momentarily glad that she doesn't have any brothers, and therefore can't have gotten it from her own family.
Oh, and P.S.: speaking of patriotism (ish) happy 14 juillet to la Francia! I once taught the little French student the chorus to the Marseillaise (by her request, actually)... I dedicate that effort to you, fellow frogs.
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