Greetings from Lleida!
As of my last post, I was leaving Italy and heading for yet another foreign adventure. As I told my mother, my first reaction when I arrived in Lleida, Spain with all of my worldly possessions and only a smattering of the Spanish I once knew was, "What the hell was I thinking?" However, a very kind professor took me in until I could find someone else to stay, and he and his wife and his very intelligent children made me feel very welcome. His seven-year-old son decided that I was the perfect target for a new gaming buddy, and he taught me how to play and then subsequently beat me roundly at a series of board, card, and memory games. Also table soccer. He would sit and very seriously and quickly explain the rules of a game to me in Catalan (the Romance language spoken in this region of Spain), and I would feel very dumb pointing and asking questions using a combination of broken Spanish and Italian and, if his 10-year-old sister was around to translate, a bit of English. I must admit that, even though I really wanted to be in my own place, it was a bit sad to leave them.
Which brings me to . . . my flat! I have four flatmates, two women and two men. They are all university students, and one is from the Czech Republic. It is very much a student flat, complete with a fold-out chair, squeaky bed, front door with a lock that only opens if you jimmy it and hold your tongue just right, and living room with mismatched couches. But it is in my price range, right near the university, and my flatmates seem nice enough. I am well-pleased. Plus, (and they bragged to me about this when I was deciding whether or not to take the room) they get BBC and German MTV on their TV. I am well pleased, all things considered. I spent last night unpacking, and opted for low-budget decorating, affixing the city maps of various places I have visited these last few months to my walls with a euro worth of sticky tac. Also, and I am sure anyone who has ever seen my college dorm room would predict this, there are scarves draped over everything that a scarf can be draped over. It's a pleasant effect.
My internship is going to be a combination of a crash course on applied linguistics and my own thesis research, which deals with cognitive poetics and Romance language poetry (it's not nearly as impressive as it sounds, which seems to be a general characteristic of senior theses).
More on this city I find myself in later. Suffice to say, it is tiny yet urban yet traditional. I attended a ceremonial reenactment of the crusades which was, interestingly enough, delightful. It was preceded by a parade of all the various groups of Muslims in Christians. Each group had its own costumes and banners and marching band, and everyone, men, women, children, babies in strollers, marched side-by-side in their costumes. Have you ever seen a baby in a fez? Because it's pretty darn adorable.
I am still a little overwhelmed, but I think this is going to be quite the adventure.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Saying Goodbye to Italy
I am writing this my last night in Italy, but I am not sure when I shall next have wireless to post it. I am currently in an adorable “bungalow” in a campground in Pisa. I was a bit nervous at first, because it looked a bit sketchy. Dormitory-style sleeping in trailers didn’t exactly sound like the sort of thing I wanted to do alone, but there were only so many places that offered dormitory space on such short notice, and this was the least expensive. As it turns out, I have a shower and a little kitchen and a British roommate, and I am well pleased. I am taking off for the airport very early tomorrow, from which I shall fly to Barcelona then catch a bus or train to Lleida for my internship. Frankly, I am terrified. I hate traveling alone, and I have to find an apartment and a phone and feed myself every night and all sorts of things that are much easier as a student. I even have to completely self-direct my own research on my thesis. It’s exhilarating, but nervewracking, so I am taking everything one step at a time. I managed two trans and a taxi with all my wordly possessions to arrive here.
It has been a charmingly Italian day. Everything that is typical about this temporary home of mine has stuck out in stark contrast today. This morning, I got on the bus to the center city for a farewell lunch that lasted three hours and involved multiple types of pasta and lots of olive oil. Heading back to my apartment, I rattled off an answer to a confused Italian tourist who was trying to figure out the Sienese bus system (which was not exactly designed with the convenience of outsiders in mind), and I was very impressed with both my Italian and my knowledge of bus schedules and routes. Then, on the bus, the dialogue I overheard was incredibly Sienese. One man talked about Aqua Calda, a neighborhood right next to mine, and he pronounced his c’s like h’s. Then, getting off the bus, a woman said, “Noi, si va,” which technically translates to “We one goes” but is used to mean “Let’s go!” My host father says, “Si mangia” (one eats) nearly every night instead of “Mangiamo” (let’s eat).
The train to Pisa was also incredibly typical. It was filled with Belgian tourists and small, badly-behaved Italian children, one of whom practically ran into me with my four bags then looked up and me and said, in Italian, “You’re in the way, stupid.” Once in Pisa, I took a cab to the campground, not wanting to navigate an only partially familiar bus system with my possessions. The cab driver had, I kid you not, a tiny TV in the cab playing (what else) world news. Italians love their news. In just about every Italian house or apartment I have ever been in, the TV is constantly on, playing either a game show (the Italian ones are harder than their American counterparts), the news (always depressing), or a talk show (inane and often terrifying). On the cab ride, I passed a condom vending machine just hanging out on the side of the street that was labeled, I kid you not, “Enjoy Box.” The sketchy streetside condom machine is an Italian staple. I even saw one in a quaint little fishing village in Cinqueterre. Generally, though, they are labeled, “Control.” Arriving at the campground, I got through several interchanges in nearly perfect Italian just to have the receptionist switch to English (my Italian was better than her English, by the way).
And the single most Italian thing to happen to me today: when I first arrived in Italy, I had to apply for a Permesso di Soggiorno, basically a formal permission to stay in Siena from the police. Well, they finally sorted through all the paperwork at whatever Sienese office was responsible for it, and I received my permission to stay in Italy . . . today . . . my last day in Italy.
I will miss this country.
It has been a charmingly Italian day. Everything that is typical about this temporary home of mine has stuck out in stark contrast today. This morning, I got on the bus to the center city for a farewell lunch that lasted three hours and involved multiple types of pasta and lots of olive oil. Heading back to my apartment, I rattled off an answer to a confused Italian tourist who was trying to figure out the Sienese bus system (which was not exactly designed with the convenience of outsiders in mind), and I was very impressed with both my Italian and my knowledge of bus schedules and routes. Then, on the bus, the dialogue I overheard was incredibly Sienese. One man talked about Aqua Calda, a neighborhood right next to mine, and he pronounced his c’s like h’s. Then, getting off the bus, a woman said, “Noi, si va,” which technically translates to “We one goes” but is used to mean “Let’s go!” My host father says, “Si mangia” (one eats) nearly every night instead of “Mangiamo” (let’s eat).
The train to Pisa was also incredibly typical. It was filled with Belgian tourists and small, badly-behaved Italian children, one of whom practically ran into me with my four bags then looked up and me and said, in Italian, “You’re in the way, stupid.” Once in Pisa, I took a cab to the campground, not wanting to navigate an only partially familiar bus system with my possessions. The cab driver had, I kid you not, a tiny TV in the cab playing (what else) world news. Italians love their news. In just about every Italian house or apartment I have ever been in, the TV is constantly on, playing either a game show (the Italian ones are harder than their American counterparts), the news (always depressing), or a talk show (inane and often terrifying). On the cab ride, I passed a condom vending machine just hanging out on the side of the street that was labeled, I kid you not, “Enjoy Box.” The sketchy streetside condom machine is an Italian staple. I even saw one in a quaint little fishing village in Cinqueterre. Generally, though, they are labeled, “Control.” Arriving at the campground, I got through several interchanges in nearly perfect Italian just to have the receptionist switch to English (my Italian was better than her English, by the way).
And the single most Italian thing to happen to me today: when I first arrived in Italy, I had to apply for a Permesso di Soggiorno, basically a formal permission to stay in Siena from the police. Well, they finally sorted through all the paperwork at whatever Sienese office was responsible for it, and I received my permission to stay in Italy . . . today . . . my last day in Italy.
I will miss this country.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Another Giulio and Giuliana Story
For two weeks in a row recently, my host mother came into my room while I was at school, opened my window, and placed my gorgeous, expensive, well-loved Italian leather boots outside of the window on the second-story windowsill. The first time this happened, I was horrified, but Flannery assured me that Giuliana did that to her boots every day, as well, so I just got in the habit of taking them off the windowsill every evening when I got home, because, with Giuliana, it's frankly best to just roll with some things. She is a self-proclamed doctor with incredibly strong opinions. For example, Flannery once stayed in a hotel room that turned out to be kind of gross. There were crumbs in the sheets, but it was so late by the time she got in that she just slept on top of the covers and didn't bother making someone change her sheets. When she told Giuliana about this, you would have thought that she had walked down a dark alley along at night with a sign on her back that said, "Kidnap me." Giuliana just kept saying, "Hai fatto male! (you've done wrong!)" I got a similar reaction the time I told her that at college I shared a bathroom with *gasp* men because, apparently, sharing a bathroom is a surefire way to spread STD's. She gave me a whole talk about how I didn't know what kind of women those men consorted with. I even got a similar reaction the time she caught me walking barefoot in the house. At any rate, I digress. I decided to just take in my boots every evening and leave it at that.
However, a couple of weeks later, Giuliana called Flannery into my room when I wasn't at home and said, "I know Micaya is getting annoyed that I put her boots outside." Giuliana then asked Flannery to smell the room. She asked her if she could smell leather then went on to explain how very unhealthy it is to be around the smell of leather. Flannery, mind you, could smell nothing. It is true, my boots do have a lovely, leathery scent, but only if you stick your nose right up against them. At any rate, I started putting my boots in my closet after Flannery told me about that.
However, a couple of weeks later, Giuliana called Flannery into my room when I wasn't at home and said, "I know Micaya is getting annoyed that I put her boots outside." Giuliana then asked Flannery to smell the room. She asked her if she could smell leather then went on to explain how very unhealthy it is to be around the smell of leather. Flannery, mind you, could smell nothing. It is true, my boots do have a lovely, leathery scent, but only if you stick your nose right up against them. At any rate, I started putting my boots in my closet after Flannery told me about that.
What I'm Up To/ A Little Bit of Barcelona
Coming to Barcelona is like stepping into a slightly different world. Everything is ever-so-slightly askew. Garbage trucks arrive every night at midnight, and when Alan and I, bleary-eyed and suitcased, trundled towards the train station at five in the morning, the streets were crowded with late-night revelers stumbling home and gypsies selling single cans of beer from six-packs. During the day, the main drag, La Rambla, is filled with a peculiar brand of street performers. There are the usual jugglers and human statues, but most people simply stand about in fabulous costumes. There was a man dressed as Edward Scissorhands who had taken off his scissor-hand gloves and was calmly smoking a cigarette and staring into the distance as people threw coins into his hat on the ground. Another person of indeterminate gender (Alan and I argued about it nearly every day) was dressed as a tree, twigs strapped to his or her fingers, making subtle movements and poses or rolling one of those contact juggling balls up and down his or her arm. Just down the street is the sea. You cross a dock and arrive in a mid-water upscale mall. Everything is expensive, the architecture is a startling combination of old, new, and absurd, paella comes with all shells and legs and eyes still attached and ten o'clock in the evening is a perfectly reasonable time to eat dinner. Alan and I finished eating around eleven or midnight most nights. I will be working next summer at a university just outside of Barcelona, and I am looking forward to further exploring this city. It is enormous. Alan and I, made lazy by the almost constant rain, mostly just walked up and down the streets and ate long meals, but there are museums and churches and clubs to last a person for years. Here are a few photos I took the one completely sunny day in Barcelona:
Monday, April 30, 2007
Shamefully Late Update
Friends, family, I know it has been a shamefully long time since I have updated. Here is a short peek at what I have been up to in the last week, copied from an email I wrote to David.
I went to the most amazing production of La Traviata last night. It was gorgeous, and the soprano was a total diva, but with good reason. The staging was simply heartbreakingly beautiful. My favorite scenes were those with just Violetta. She had an amazing stage presence and sense of her body and its relation to the set and her clothing. When she sang, every hair, every crease of her dress, were so perfectly and elegantly placed that she seemed more like a painting than a woman. Even dead, her hands and face were heartbreakingly expressive. We were in a box right next to the stage, and the four girls in my box and I were all crying by the end.
Also, Alyssa was taking a picture of the orchestra when two of the violinists, probably in their late thirties or early forties, starting posing and motioning for us to take their picture. So she did. She got a picture of them flashing really cheesy peace signs. Then, during intermission, they came up to our box! They just hung out there, asking us about where we were from, how long we would be in Rome, what we were studying. Then, during the next intermission, they were gesticulating wildly and holding up a piece of paper. After the opera, we pretty much jogged out of the opera hall, and one of the violinists was already waiting outside the hall for us, changed into his jeans. He must have sprinted! Anyway, he gave the piece of paper (a napkin, actually) to Alyssa, which turned out to have his email written on it. Anyway, she is sending him the picture. That one was actually kinda cute, if a bit on the older man side. We decided it was one of those "only in Italy" stories. While the violinists were in our booth, our teacher, who was in a box on the other side of the opera house, was freaking out and making that Italian hand gesture with the thumb and index finger together, trying to figure out what they were doingn there. It was pretty adorable.
We also went to a carnivale on Saturday night. A bunch of my friends, with a couple of drinks in them, decided to play some of the carnivale games and ended up winning goldfish in a game that resembled beer pong, so now our school office has several goldfish mascots. When we were heading back to our bus stop with the fish, guys kept yelling, "Pesce! Pesce!" and one even said, in the thickest Italian accent, "I like-a your feesh." Flannery commented, "Who knew that fish were such a guy magnet?" and this Italian guy in front of us turned around and said, also in a thick Italian accent, "What?" Hehe. Also, I was taking a picture of the girls with their fish, and this random dude with a huge, professional-looking camera walked by and took a picture of them. It's been a surreal few days . . .
I went to the most amazing production of La Traviata last night. It was gorgeous, and the soprano was a total diva, but with good reason. The staging was simply heartbreakingly beautiful. My favorite scenes were those with just Violetta. She had an amazing stage presence and sense of her body and its relation to the set and her clothing. When she sang, every hair, every crease of her dress, were so perfectly and elegantly placed that she seemed more like a painting than a woman. Even dead, her hands and face were heartbreakingly expressive. We were in a box right next to the stage, and the four girls in my box and I were all crying by the end.
Also, Alyssa was taking a picture of the orchestra when two of the violinists, probably in their late thirties or early forties, starting posing and motioning for us to take their picture. So she did. She got a picture of them flashing really cheesy peace signs. Then, during intermission, they came up to our box! They just hung out there, asking us about where we were from, how long we would be in Rome, what we were studying. Then, during the next intermission, they were gesticulating wildly and holding up a piece of paper. After the opera, we pretty much jogged out of the opera hall, and one of the violinists was already waiting outside the hall for us, changed into his jeans. He must have sprinted! Anyway, he gave the piece of paper (a napkin, actually) to Alyssa, which turned out to have his email written on it. Anyway, she is sending him the picture. That one was actually kinda cute, if a bit on the older man side. We decided it was one of those "only in Italy" stories. While the violinists were in our booth, our teacher, who was in a box on the other side of the opera house, was freaking out and making that Italian hand gesture with the thumb and index finger together, trying to figure out what they were doingn there. It was pretty adorable.
We also went to a carnivale on Saturday night. A bunch of my friends, with a couple of drinks in them, decided to play some of the carnivale games and ended up winning goldfish in a game that resembled beer pong, so now our school office has several goldfish mascots. When we were heading back to our bus stop with the fish, guys kept yelling, "Pesce! Pesce!" and one even said, in the thickest Italian accent, "I like-a your feesh." Flannery commented, "Who knew that fish were such a guy magnet?" and this Italian guy in front of us turned around and said, also in a thick Italian accent, "What?" Hehe. Also, I was taking a picture of the girls with their fish, and this random dude with a huge, professional-looking camera walked by and took a picture of them. It's been a surreal few days . . .
Thursday, April 12, 2007
London!
Here are some pictures of London, for your viewing pleasure. Tomorrow, Barcelona!
Alan and I took so many pictures of Westminster Abbey. I was shocked by how beatiful it is. This is my favorite of the pictures, I think.
Alan and I took so many pictures of Westminster Abbey. I was shocked by how beatiful it is. This is my favorite of the pictures, I think.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
A Trip!
So I apologise for not posting about Bologna. I am taking of for London on Saturday, so I shall try to post a couple of times from the trail. I will be in London for three days, then Barcelona for five and Rome for two, all in the company of Alan, who is flying in from the states and meeting me in London. I feel so cosmopolitan being able to say, oh-so-casually, "Why, yes, Alan is flying in Saturday, and we are meeting up in London." There will be many pictures and, I am sure, good stories.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Cinqueterre
So I went for three days to Cinqueterre with BDan (a friend from the States) and Andrea, from our program. It was a lovely, sunny few days before the recent cold weather set in. Cinqueterre, literally meaning "five lands," is a group of five little, Italian fishing villages scattered along a protected strip of coastland. During the high season, the villages are over-run and not quite so quaint, but this time, only Vernazza, the swankiest of them, was unduly crowded. We stayed in the smallest, Rio Maggiore, which was all but empty at certain times of day. It's the one with the most youth hostels, so we stayed in a suite with a few other college students. I think the pictures of Cinqueterre pretty well speak for themselves, so here they are:
We hiked up into the hills, which were all terraced and lovely.
Cinqueterre is famous for its cats. They are everywhere and the friendliest semi-stray cats you will ever meet. Not to mention the sleekest. These cats, we met along a trail, but there was a pile of fish-heads a little behind the wall that seemed to suggest someone had hiked out to feed them.
I took a lot of pictures of rocks and water.
Rocks and water. This is the view from a promontory in Rio Maggiore.
Rio Maggiore itself.
Andrea and I being thrilled to be in the sun and near the sea.
Rocks and water.
We hiked up into the hills, which were all terraced and lovely.
Cinqueterre is famous for its cats. They are everywhere and the friendliest semi-stray cats you will ever meet. Not to mention the sleekest. These cats, we met along a trail, but there was a pile of fish-heads a little behind the wall that seemed to suggest someone had hiked out to feed them.
I took a lot of pictures of rocks and water.
Rocks and water. This is the view from a promontory in Rio Maggiore.
Rio Maggiore itself.
Andrea and I being thrilled to be in the sun and near the sea.
Rocks and water.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Florence with David
Another trip in pictures! Though I realized that I only got one picture with David actually in it, and he looked kind of bothered because a gypsy was trying to sell him something he didn't want.
This is the view from the Ponte Vecchio, the bridge on the Arno that is famous for selling gorgeous jewelry (that is waaay out of my price range).
The Ponte Vecchio by night. I love how all the shops closed up look like treasure chests.
The duomo of Florence. I believe Rick Steves said something along the lines of, "It looks like a duomo in pyjamas" (because it's so ornately decorated and colorful). It's a little loud for my tastes, but also very impressive.
All in all, Dave and I had a wonderful visit. He even consented to go to museums with me! We saw an amazing exhibit called "Cezanne in Tuscany," which was one of the biggest exhibits of his paintings ever. It also had paintings and sculpture by his admirers and the people he influenced, including artists as diverse as John Singer Sargent and Vincent van Gogh.
We also made it to the Galleria Academia to see the original David (plus a really neat musical instrument museum and some lovely paintings), which was as amazing as I remember it being. Nothing prepares you for seeing the actual thing, not the little plaster models they sell all over the city or even the copy that's still outside. The sheer . . . vitality of it astounds. Also, a few other ladies in the program and I have agreed that David (the stone one by Michelangelo) may be the most beautiful man alive. I must admit that David (the Turkish one not by Michelangelo) is definitely also in the running. I miss him already.
This is the view from the Ponte Vecchio, the bridge on the Arno that is famous for selling gorgeous jewelry (that is waaay out of my price range).
The Ponte Vecchio by night. I love how all the shops closed up look like treasure chests.
The duomo of Florence. I believe Rick Steves said something along the lines of, "It looks like a duomo in pyjamas" (because it's so ornately decorated and colorful). It's a little loud for my tastes, but also very impressive.
All in all, Dave and I had a wonderful visit. He even consented to go to museums with me! We saw an amazing exhibit called "Cezanne in Tuscany," which was one of the biggest exhibits of his paintings ever. It also had paintings and sculpture by his admirers and the people he influenced, including artists as diverse as John Singer Sargent and Vincent van Gogh.
We also made it to the Galleria Academia to see the original David (plus a really neat musical instrument museum and some lovely paintings), which was as amazing as I remember it being. Nothing prepares you for seeing the actual thing, not the little plaster models they sell all over the city or even the copy that's still outside. The sheer . . . vitality of it astounds. Also, a few other ladies in the program and I have agreed that David (the stone one by Michelangelo) may be the most beautiful man alive. I must admit that David (the Turkish one not by Michelangelo) is definitely also in the running. I miss him already.
Beating Up Little Old Ladies on the Bus
I have lovely stories about visiting Florence with David (still glowing from seeing him) and visiting Cinqueterre with BDan and Andrea, but I don't want to crush them all together. Today, I shall post Florence, so you guys will have to wait for later in the week to see pictures of waves and rocks.
But, first, a serious topic . . .
My bus has gotten out of control. I made the mistake of taking it at 6:30 the other evening, and it was so crowded I was pushed against the door the entire time. Then, the bus driver took off from one stop without closing the doors! I was clinging to my handrail, my heavy laptop case pulling me back, while we shouted "Chuide la porta!" and "Dietro!" Finally he closed it. A similarly harrowing experience happened when I made the mistake of taking the last bus home on a weekend. As I walked calmly towards the bus, an entire wave of high schoolers surged towards it. Flannery and I shamelessly outran them and jumped into free seats. The bus was so full that, even though I was in the seat right next to the door, it took me so long to get out that the bus driver started closing the door. I yelled "Aspetta!" and the (loud and strangely well-groomed) Italian boys yelled "Aprire!" and I was able to get out of the bus.
However, the greatest danger in taking the bus is not the crowdedness. It's not even the speed with which drivers takes the curvy, hilly, narrow streets or the fact that they are often engaged in distracting activities such as talking to people or (I'm not even kidding) listening to an iPod. No, the most dangerous factor is . . .
Women over 65.
I don't want to be at all ageist, but I swear, these ladies are vicious. They come onto the bus, and shoulder their way past everyone with ease. In the hands of these women, a purse is a weapon, and their purses are big enough to make one wonder what on earth they are carrying. Flannery had gotten hit on the backs of the knees with one of these bags. This morning, one hit my arm and said "permesso!" with the biggest glare after I made the horrible mistake of not realizing she was behind me. Fortunately, the same people take my bus every day, so we are starting recognize some of the more vicious ladies.
For those of you who suspect exaggeration on my part, one girl brought up the subject of older Italian ladies after getting pushed in the market, and a couple of my program directors (one of them Italian) said that Italian women get vicious. It's as if, once they can take the title of matriarch, they claim it and make it theirs. They figure that society owes them one.
Anyway, I generally attempt to avoid stereotyping, so I will say that the majority of Italians of any age or sex that I have met have been delightful, but some of these ladies . . .
But, first, a serious topic . . .
My bus has gotten out of control. I made the mistake of taking it at 6:30 the other evening, and it was so crowded I was pushed against the door the entire time. Then, the bus driver took off from one stop without closing the doors! I was clinging to my handrail, my heavy laptop case pulling me back, while we shouted "Chuide la porta!" and "Dietro!" Finally he closed it. A similarly harrowing experience happened when I made the mistake of taking the last bus home on a weekend. As I walked calmly towards the bus, an entire wave of high schoolers surged towards it. Flannery and I shamelessly outran them and jumped into free seats. The bus was so full that, even though I was in the seat right next to the door, it took me so long to get out that the bus driver started closing the door. I yelled "Aspetta!" and the (loud and strangely well-groomed) Italian boys yelled "Aprire!" and I was able to get out of the bus.
However, the greatest danger in taking the bus is not the crowdedness. It's not even the speed with which drivers takes the curvy, hilly, narrow streets or the fact that they are often engaged in distracting activities such as talking to people or (I'm not even kidding) listening to an iPod. No, the most dangerous factor is . . .
Women over 65.
I don't want to be at all ageist, but I swear, these ladies are vicious. They come onto the bus, and shoulder their way past everyone with ease. In the hands of these women, a purse is a weapon, and their purses are big enough to make one wonder what on earth they are carrying. Flannery had gotten hit on the backs of the knees with one of these bags. This morning, one hit my arm and said "permesso!" with the biggest glare after I made the horrible mistake of not realizing she was behind me. Fortunately, the same people take my bus every day, so we are starting recognize some of the more vicious ladies.
For those of you who suspect exaggeration on my part, one girl brought up the subject of older Italian ladies after getting pushed in the market, and a couple of my program directors (one of them Italian) said that Italian women get vicious. It's as if, once they can take the title of matriarch, they claim it and make it theirs. They figure that society owes them one.
Anyway, I generally attempt to avoid stereotyping, so I will say that the majority of Italians of any age or sex that I have met have been delightful, but some of these ladies . . .
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Another Italian Mixup
My host parents asked the other night, when David was over, which religion it was that didn't eat pig. After having established that Jews are the group in question, I went on to attempt to say that David was Jewish, but he still ate pork. However, I miss-spoke. I tried to say "David e ebreo, e lui mangia maiale." However, I instead said " . . . e lui mangia maialone." Technically, I said that he is Jewish but still eats big pigs. However, in Italian slang, "big pig" means "pimp." My host parents laughed so hard they practically cried. They will probably tell stories about my Turkish, pimp-eating boyfriend.
Oh, Those Italian Men
Apparently Italian men start being flirts early in life. This morning, one of my five-year-olds leaned out of the door of the classroom, grinned, and said, "Ciao, pupa." Now, I had heard the word pupa used on a talk show to describe this leggy, ex-model type, so I didn't know whether it had connotations of rather loose morals. I asked my Italian teacher, and she said that "pupo" means marionette. In Sicily, marionette shows are very popular and act out the songs of troubadours and scenes from Medieval courts. The word pupo, or its female equivalent, pupa, has come to be slang, however, for an especially cute person. Lorenzo is going to be quite the ladies' man when he grows up, I think.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
Italian Mix-Ups
For anyone who's planning on going to Italy, here are a couple of Italian errors made by yours truly:
The other night, I was eating a kiwi after dinner. When attempting to say "Passami un cucchiaino," which means, "Pass me a small spoon," I accidentally said, "Passami un cocaina," which means, "Pass me some cocaine." My host brother was most amused. He kept making snorting motions, and his wife said, "No, he finished it all this morning for breakfast."
So, when one looks up the word, "excited," in an English to Italian dictionary, one of the first words one finds is "eccitato." However, as I have found out, "eccitato" refers to a slightly different type of excitement, if you catch my drift.
Ah, well, they make for good stories, eh?
The other night, I was eating a kiwi after dinner. When attempting to say "Passami un cucchiaino," which means, "Pass me a small spoon," I accidentally said, "Passami un cocaina," which means, "Pass me some cocaine." My host brother was most amused. He kept making snorting motions, and his wife said, "No, he finished it all this morning for breakfast."
So, when one looks up the word, "excited," in an English to Italian dictionary, one of the first words one finds is "eccitato." However, as I have found out, "eccitato" refers to a slightly different type of excitement, if you catch my drift.
Ah, well, they make for good stories, eh?
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Tales from the Homefront
Greetings!
I have promised an account of Lucca. We went during Carnivale, and there was a celebration in the main piazza. Small children dressed as superheroes, princesses, and animals ran around, throwing handfulls of confetti on each other's heads and spraying silly string and some mysterious substance that appeared to be styrofoam bits in an aerosol can. On the stage, a poor magician performed his heart out, calling for audience participation, while the children ran around or stared into space. There were a few parents with their toddlers strapped into front carriers on those wonderfully ancient bicycles that everyone rides around Lucca in lieu of cars (I think, perhaps, the most picturesquely Italian sight I've seen so far was a nun in dress and wimple riding an old-fashioned bicycle down between the medieval stone buildings in Lucca). Scattered about the town was an antique market with everything from books to furniture.
Later that evening, we returned to the piazza on our way from a night of opera (Puccini, sine Lucca was his home) to a wonderful dinner (I had ravioli and tiramisu), and we heard noises coming up behind us. Preceded by a cop car was a procession of people in medieval garb playing drums and carrying flags. They marched in a rather haphazard fashion around the piazza, causing us to keep dodging out of their way. The Italians just joined the procession. Then, they stopped, and young men came out to demonstrate their flag-throwing prowess. One man had five enormous flags at one time. One or two were always aloft, and one was always clutched in the crook of his leg. In the middle of the performance, a high school marching band complete with majorettes came up behind us and starting playing, drowning out the sound of the medieval drumming. Then, onstage, a woman dressed as catwoman started testing the microphone and talking about what was going on. It was utter chaos and utterly Italian.
This is a picture of the antiques market in Lucca.
I snuck a picture of some of the revelers. Note the baby in the bicycle basket.
A confetti-strewn piazza in Lucca.
The other morning, I woke up to the sounds of, I kid you not, a swim team match. Groggily, I opened the shutters and light spilled into my bedroom. The pool behind my apartment was filled, at 8:30 am, with people in swimsuits, sunbathing. I spent the entire day in the daisy-filled lawn behind my apartment, studying in the sun in my short sleeves and skirt.
My host mother is cooking dinner for David when he comes to Siena next week, and she has been stressing about the menu for a week. She is making him lamb, because he is Turkish, and Turks eat lamb. Also, she is making beef ragu, because Turks eat lots and lots of meat. Dinner will also include an antipasti, dessert, fruit, cheese, wine, and a vegetable course. I don't think I'll be able to adjust to living in the states again. The care given to food here is really incredible. Everything I eat is organic, local (all of the veggies are grown by my host father) and cooked in the very best olive oil. Until last year, Giulio and Giuliana even picked the olives to make their olive oil themselves to ensure they had only the best. I drink chianti (actually from Chianti) every night. At any rate, they are quite excited about meeting David. Giulio says he will be the judge of "quello turcho" (that Turk, his name for David).
I am very busy but well-pleased.
I have promised an account of Lucca. We went during Carnivale, and there was a celebration in the main piazza. Small children dressed as superheroes, princesses, and animals ran around, throwing handfulls of confetti on each other's heads and spraying silly string and some mysterious substance that appeared to be styrofoam bits in an aerosol can. On the stage, a poor magician performed his heart out, calling for audience participation, while the children ran around or stared into space. There were a few parents with their toddlers strapped into front carriers on those wonderfully ancient bicycles that everyone rides around Lucca in lieu of cars (I think, perhaps, the most picturesquely Italian sight I've seen so far was a nun in dress and wimple riding an old-fashioned bicycle down between the medieval stone buildings in Lucca). Scattered about the town was an antique market with everything from books to furniture.
Later that evening, we returned to the piazza on our way from a night of opera (Puccini, sine Lucca was his home) to a wonderful dinner (I had ravioli and tiramisu), and we heard noises coming up behind us. Preceded by a cop car was a procession of people in medieval garb playing drums and carrying flags. They marched in a rather haphazard fashion around the piazza, causing us to keep dodging out of their way. The Italians just joined the procession. Then, they stopped, and young men came out to demonstrate their flag-throwing prowess. One man had five enormous flags at one time. One or two were always aloft, and one was always clutched in the crook of his leg. In the middle of the performance, a high school marching band complete with majorettes came up behind us and starting playing, drowning out the sound of the medieval drumming. Then, onstage, a woman dressed as catwoman started testing the microphone and talking about what was going on. It was utter chaos and utterly Italian.
This is a picture of the antiques market in Lucca.
I snuck a picture of some of the revelers. Note the baby in the bicycle basket.
A confetti-strewn piazza in Lucca.The other morning, I woke up to the sounds of, I kid you not, a swim team match. Groggily, I opened the shutters and light spilled into my bedroom. The pool behind my apartment was filled, at 8:30 am, with people in swimsuits, sunbathing. I spent the entire day in the daisy-filled lawn behind my apartment, studying in the sun in my short sleeves and skirt.
My host mother is cooking dinner for David when he comes to Siena next week, and she has been stressing about the menu for a week. She is making him lamb, because he is Turkish, and Turks eat lamb. Also, she is making beef ragu, because Turks eat lots and lots of meat. Dinner will also include an antipasti, dessert, fruit, cheese, wine, and a vegetable course. I don't think I'll be able to adjust to living in the states again. The care given to food here is really incredible. Everything I eat is organic, local (all of the veggies are grown by my host father) and cooked in the very best olive oil. Until last year, Giulio and Giuliana even picked the olives to make their olive oil themselves to ensure they had only the best. I drink chianti (actually from Chianti) every night. At any rate, they are quite excited about meeting David. Giulio says he will be the judge of "quello turcho" (that Turk, his name for David).
I am very busy but well-pleased.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Moonbows, Racism, and Alternative Families
Last night when we were walking towards the bus stop, there was a hazy, muted rainbow all the way around the moon with all of the colors, red through violet. It was like those rare circular daytime rainbows except whited and ethereal. We risked life and limb by walking up the hill by the school offices (frequently populated by whizzing motorcycles and buses that barely fit in the narrow street) with our heads craned up, and, about halfway up the hill, the clouds receded, dragging the moonbow off with them until it was gone.
There's a little bit of beauty to balance out the rest of this post. My host family, I have been continually realizing, is, like much of Siena, firmly rooted in the past. I mean, our host mother has talked to us about premarital sex and abortion and all manner of rather modern topics, but, in some ways, she and Giulio may as well be living in the first half of the last century. For example, there has been a recent and rather large immigration of Albanians into the area, and the natives are dead set against them. Giuliana has told us the Albanians are always getting pregnant and leaving their babies with the state and that Siena is safe except for the Albanians. Apparently large groups of them gather in the Campo at night and we are to avoid them or travel in pairs when they are around. I have, by the way, seen no such large groups, and our program directors assure us that anywhere in the city walls (especially in the Campo), we are perfectly safe. Apparently, it has also become something of a habit to say of anything shabby or poorly made that it is Albanian or made by Albanians. This makes Flannery and I pretty uncomfortable, but there is a certain line we don't feel like we can cross with them.
Along the same lines, I am convinced that there are no gay people in Siena or, at least, no openly gay people. All of the women are as feminine as feminine can be and the men as manly as manly can be, and they all exude heterosexuality. The only places I have seen homosexuality even mentioned are American MTV (dubbed into Italian) and a rather cultured (not exactly a blockbuster) movie. I feel like I am back in Kansas times ten, and I don't like it one bit.
Anyway, that is it for now. Tomorrow, I shall write about Lucca and my thesis.
There's a little bit of beauty to balance out the rest of this post. My host family, I have been continually realizing, is, like much of Siena, firmly rooted in the past. I mean, our host mother has talked to us about premarital sex and abortion and all manner of rather modern topics, but, in some ways, she and Giulio may as well be living in the first half of the last century. For example, there has been a recent and rather large immigration of Albanians into the area, and the natives are dead set against them. Giuliana has told us the Albanians are always getting pregnant and leaving their babies with the state and that Siena is safe except for the Albanians. Apparently large groups of them gather in the Campo at night and we are to avoid them or travel in pairs when they are around. I have, by the way, seen no such large groups, and our program directors assure us that anywhere in the city walls (especially in the Campo), we are perfectly safe. Apparently, it has also become something of a habit to say of anything shabby or poorly made that it is Albanian or made by Albanians. This makes Flannery and I pretty uncomfortable, but there is a certain line we don't feel like we can cross with them.
Along the same lines, I am convinced that there are no gay people in Siena or, at least, no openly gay people. All of the women are as feminine as feminine can be and the men as manly as manly can be, and they all exude heterosexuality. The only places I have seen homosexuality even mentioned are American MTV (dubbed into Italian) and a rather cultured (not exactly a blockbuster) movie. I feel like I am back in Kansas times ten, and I don't like it one bit.
Anyway, that is it for now. Tomorrow, I shall write about Lucca and my thesis.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Oggi è veramente la primavera.
The title of this post is what my host mom said to me yesterday morning, and it turns out she is right; it is well and truly springtime. Behind my apartment, a solitary tree is blooming pink against the green and rolling Tuscan hills. The sun has been shining warm enough to make me shed my jacket, and I have even broken out my springiest of dresses.
I apologise, by the way, for not posting recently. I got caught up in applying for summer stipends to cover this amazing internship I have been offered in Spain, and I have been figuring out my senior thesis and planning visits and trips and all manner of things. I shall post more details tomorrow, but suffice to say, I am falling ever more in love with linguistics. I shall also post, by the way, some photos from a lovely trip to Lucca, which has an antiques market and a carnivale celebration to be reckoned with.
For now, I have been in this office all day and am looking forward to the soccer game this evening. Other students and even some of the program directors get together once a week for a scrimmage, and this is the first time I have been able to go. Ciao, amici!
I apologise, by the way, for not posting recently. I got caught up in applying for summer stipends to cover this amazing internship I have been offered in Spain, and I have been figuring out my senior thesis and planning visits and trips and all manner of things. I shall post more details tomorrow, but suffice to say, I am falling ever more in love with linguistics. I shall also post, by the way, some photos from a lovely trip to Lucca, which has an antiques market and a carnivale celebration to be reckoned with.
For now, I have been in this office all day and am looking forward to the soccer game this evening. Other students and even some of the program directors get together once a week for a scrimmage, and this is the first time I have been able to go. Ciao, amici!
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
A Trip in Pictures
We left Siena Friday afternoon and arrived at about 10:30 in Sessa Aurunca, the home of Albert's great-grandfather. It is a sleepy, tiny town with wrought-iron balconies and cracking plaster. It was damn near empty when we arrived, and we had to ask people until we found the single trattoria (restaurant) that rented rooms. It was actually a bit frightening since the town is tiny, and outside of the town is only rundown buildings and roads that peter off into dirt paths and barbed wire fences. The owner of the trattoria seemed to be making prices up on the spot, but it cost about the same as a hostel, and there was nowhere else to stay, so we settled ourselves into our rooms. Below is a view from the balcony of one of the rooms:
We had a surprisingly fun time that night, listening to music and enjoying surprisingly strong wine that our hostess mixed with sparkling water and sent up to us in a plastic bottle. If any of you are planning on traveling in the South of Italy, let me warn you: the wine is generally home-made and strong as all get-out; basically, it's the moonshine equivalent of wine.
When we woke up, we discovered that the town that seemed slightly eery by night was actually quaint and lovely. It is smoother than Siena, with less rough stone and more plaster. The churches have these lovely Byzantine domes, a little architectural reminder of distant history. Below is a picture of a church just outside of homes. It isn't as lovely as the duomo, but I adore that red color.
Just outside of town, we happened upon the ruins of a Roman amphitheater. I still find it remarkable that, in Italy, one can just happen upon such things.
After a few hours exploring Sessa Aurunca, we took off for Pompeii. 'Twas a beatiful drive, except when we passed by Naples, which is rundown, though in a way that was more indifferent than sad.
Pompeii was incredible. For much of our time there, we hardly passed any other tourists, so we wandered the ancient streets in an eery silence, never knowing whether we were allowed into the rooms and courtyards that we wandered into. It was large enough to be overwhelming, and all I remember clearly are the frescos and the faces of the frozen people.
This picture of myself in Pompeii I stole from Flannery. It captures the mood of our visit well, I think.
After Pompeii, we had a rainy drive to Sorrento, a coast town where we spent the night in a rather severe hostel that had pages of rules posted everywhere. We snuck in one euro bottles of cabernet sauvignon after our dinner out (gnocchi, pizza, lemoncello, and a sampler of traditional, alcohol-soaked cakes from the region that were really to die for. Seriously, they put tiramisu to shame, and that's saying a lot for me) and chilled in our room for a bit before taking a walk through the city. It was all lit up for Carnivale, and there were tons of people out and about, as opposed to when we had arrived at seven or so and the place was near empty.
We woke up the next morning to a beautiful day. Below is a picture of the Sorrento harbor:
We decided to spend the day (which was also, coincidentally, Albert's birthday) in Capri. All of the swank shops were closed for the season, and there were only two resolute tour guides trying to convince people to pay a ridiculous amount of money to take a boat ride into the blue grotto (a cave that has really blue water). Below is a picture Flannery took of me on Capri (note how warm it was!):
Here's a picture of all three of the girls:
Really, Capri is intensely gorgeous. I am so glad we went when there weren't any tourists. We hiked all the way up the hill and around the island on completely empty back streets and stopped for drinks at a mostly-empty cafe. We ended up misreading the schedule (Italian dates are written day-month-year, not month-day-year) and missing our ferry, but we didn't actually mind spending an extra three hours on the island.
We decided to save ourselves the cost of another hostel room and drove all the way home on Sunday, stopping a couple of times so our driver could nap and get some food. We arrived home late at night, and I collapsed into bed and slept long and well. All in all, it was a thoroughly successful trip. The perfect road trip, in fact.
We had a surprisingly fun time that night, listening to music and enjoying surprisingly strong wine that our hostess mixed with sparkling water and sent up to us in a plastic bottle. If any of you are planning on traveling in the South of Italy, let me warn you: the wine is generally home-made and strong as all get-out; basically, it's the moonshine equivalent of wine.
When we woke up, we discovered that the town that seemed slightly eery by night was actually quaint and lovely. It is smoother than Siena, with less rough stone and more plaster. The churches have these lovely Byzantine domes, a little architectural reminder of distant history. Below is a picture of a church just outside of homes. It isn't as lovely as the duomo, but I adore that red color.
Just outside of town, we happened upon the ruins of a Roman amphitheater. I still find it remarkable that, in Italy, one can just happen upon such things.
After a few hours exploring Sessa Aurunca, we took off for Pompeii. 'Twas a beatiful drive, except when we passed by Naples, which is rundown, though in a way that was more indifferent than sad.
Pompeii was incredible. For much of our time there, we hardly passed any other tourists, so we wandered the ancient streets in an eery silence, never knowing whether we were allowed into the rooms and courtyards that we wandered into. It was large enough to be overwhelming, and all I remember clearly are the frescos and the faces of the frozen people.
This picture of myself in Pompeii I stole from Flannery. It captures the mood of our visit well, I think.
After Pompeii, we had a rainy drive to Sorrento, a coast town where we spent the night in a rather severe hostel that had pages of rules posted everywhere. We snuck in one euro bottles of cabernet sauvignon after our dinner out (gnocchi, pizza, lemoncello, and a sampler of traditional, alcohol-soaked cakes from the region that were really to die for. Seriously, they put tiramisu to shame, and that's saying a lot for me) and chilled in our room for a bit before taking a walk through the city. It was all lit up for Carnivale, and there were tons of people out and about, as opposed to when we had arrived at seven or so and the place was near empty.
We woke up the next morning to a beautiful day. Below is a picture of the Sorrento harbor:
We decided to spend the day (which was also, coincidentally, Albert's birthday) in Capri. All of the swank shops were closed for the season, and there were only two resolute tour guides trying to convince people to pay a ridiculous amount of money to take a boat ride into the blue grotto (a cave that has really blue water). Below is a picture Flannery took of me on Capri (note how warm it was!):
Here's a picture of all three of the girls:
Really, Capri is intensely gorgeous. I am so glad we went when there weren't any tourists. We hiked all the way up the hill and around the island on completely empty back streets and stopped for drinks at a mostly-empty cafe. We ended up misreading the schedule (Italian dates are written day-month-year, not month-day-year) and missing our ferry, but we didn't actually mind spending an extra three hours on the island.
We decided to save ourselves the cost of another hostel room and drove all the way home on Sunday, stopping a couple of times so our driver could nap and get some food. We arrived home late at night, and I collapsed into bed and slept long and well. All in all, it was a thoroughly successful trip. The perfect road trip, in fact.
Friday, February 9, 2007
Food and Travel
Greetings, Friends,
I am taking off today on a road trip to Pompeii (and then . . . the world!!), so I shall post when I get back with stories and pictures.
So the other day, Giuliana asked Flannery and I if we liked hamburgers. A little confused, we said that, yes, we did like hamburgers, and she said that night we would have them for dinner. Flannery and I waited all day, with some trepidation, to see what her version of hamburgers would be (she even asked us if we preferred hamburgers or cheeseburgers!). As it turns out, it was the most delicious thing I have possibly ever tasted. She served us hamburger patties covered with this amazing sauce made with olives and tomatoes (she makes her own tomato paste and canned tomatoes and jars her own olives, all from the garden her husband keeps).
Ciao
I am taking off today on a road trip to Pompeii (and then . . . the world!!), so I shall post when I get back with stories and pictures.
So the other day, Giuliana asked Flannery and I if we liked hamburgers. A little confused, we said that, yes, we did like hamburgers, and she said that night we would have them for dinner. Flannery and I waited all day, with some trepidation, to see what her version of hamburgers would be (she even asked us if we preferred hamburgers or cheeseburgers!). As it turns out, it was the most delicious thing I have possibly ever tasted. She served us hamburger patties covered with this amazing sauce made with olives and tomatoes (she makes her own tomato paste and canned tomatoes and jars her own olives, all from the garden her husband keeps).
Ciao
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
Bambini and Boots
I love my children. And I get to see them every week this semester! I took off to go to the Scuola Materna yesterday morning half an hour ahead of time, since I knew my directional sense (or lack thereof) was likely to get me in trouble. As it turns out, that was good. I got halfway to the city before I was sure I'd missed my turn, but I managed to find my way to the correct school via three Italians (an little old lady, a newspaper deliverer, and a young woman) who didn't really know quite where it was but knew there were a couple of Scuola Materne somwhere close by. As it turns out, I got there right on time, but it took me five minutes to get through the rather complex security (you have to get buzzed into two separate doors). The children, though, were adorable. I taught them the Good Morning song, how to introduce themselves, the names of their family members, and the colors. Classroom discipline being not quite the same here as in the states, all the children had to show me their pictures individually before we could proceed to a new activity.
They were also pretty cute while learning colors. The Italian word for yellow is giallo (pronounced with a g like the one in "gym"). They were so excited that the English word for yellow is similar to the Italian one that our color learning went something like this:
Micaya: In English, this color is yellow. Can you say yellow?
Bambini: Giallo!!
Micaya: No, listen: yellow.
Bambini: Giallo!!
Micaya: Yellow
Bambini: Giallo!!
Sigh.
So my other exciting news from yesterday was: my boots. I have never understood women's obsession with shoes. I mean, they're just things that go on your feet so they don't get hurt, right? What's the big deal? Well, now I understand. I love these boots. I adore these boots. And buying them was fate . . . fate, I tell you. I decided to walk down a new street yesterday, and I walked past a tiny shoe shop. In the window were these boots, just sitting there all innocently looking gorgeous and sexy at me. They were a little above the price range I'd been looking for, even at half off (Everything in Italy is currently on sale since it's carnivale). However, the shop was closed for its mid-day break, so I told myself I should just go study and leave the boots be. Well, I then proceeded to get horridly lost. Sienese streets don't ever go in a straight line, and I got completely disoriented. By the time I got back to the piazza, it was an hour later, which was when the shop opened. So I told myself I'd just go and try them on. Well, as it turns out, there was only one pair of these boots left in the entire store, and they were my size. So I bought them. I bought them and walked out of the store with an enormous carrier bag, and I've been basking in the purchase ever since. Last night, Flannery and I literally just sat on my bed staring at my boots where they were propped against my desk talking about how lovely they are. They're made from this rich, dark brown leather that is incredibly smooth. They lace all the way up my calves. Anyway, I have never been so in love with a thing . . . I know it's very unQuaker of me, but I really love these boots.
Ciao, amici!
They were also pretty cute while learning colors. The Italian word for yellow is giallo (pronounced with a g like the one in "gym"). They were so excited that the English word for yellow is similar to the Italian one that our color learning went something like this:
Micaya: In English, this color is yellow. Can you say yellow?
Bambini: Giallo!!
Micaya: No, listen: yellow.
Bambini: Giallo!!
Micaya: Yellow
Bambini: Giallo!!
Sigh.
So my other exciting news from yesterday was: my boots. I have never understood women's obsession with shoes. I mean, they're just things that go on your feet so they don't get hurt, right? What's the big deal? Well, now I understand. I love these boots. I adore these boots. And buying them was fate . . . fate, I tell you. I decided to walk down a new street yesterday, and I walked past a tiny shoe shop. In the window were these boots, just sitting there all innocently looking gorgeous and sexy at me. They were a little above the price range I'd been looking for, even at half off (Everything in Italy is currently on sale since it's carnivale). However, the shop was closed for its mid-day break, so I told myself I should just go study and leave the boots be. Well, I then proceeded to get horridly lost. Sienese streets don't ever go in a straight line, and I got completely disoriented. By the time I got back to the piazza, it was an hour later, which was when the shop opened. So I told myself I'd just go and try them on. Well, as it turns out, there was only one pair of these boots left in the entire store, and they were my size. So I bought them. I bought them and walked out of the store with an enormous carrier bag, and I've been basking in the purchase ever since. Last night, Flannery and I literally just sat on my bed staring at my boots where they were propped against my desk talking about how lovely they are. They're made from this rich, dark brown leather that is incredibly smooth. They lace all the way up my calves. Anyway, I have never been so in love with a thing . . . I know it's very unQuaker of me, but I really love these boots.
Ciao, amici!
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
They Cancelled Soccer and I Can't Believe my Host Father
There was a riot after a national soccer game in Sicily this weekend during which many people were injured and one police officer was killed. As a result, all national soccer games in Italy have been put on hold indefinitely. I was actually kind of proud of myself that I could understand the report on TV (TV journalists here speak really, really, really quickly), but I'm disappointed that I won't be able to go to my soccer game tomorrow (and also kind of embarrassed to be disappointed about such a thing).
And now, the most recent incident involving Giulio, my host father. Below is a paraphrased and translated dialogue involving Giulio, his wife, Giuliana, Flannery, and myself. Without further ado . . .
The Most Embarrassing Dinner Conversation Ever
Guilio: So, Micaya, where do you and your boyfriend like to go?
Micaya: (confused look)
Flannery: Well, they're poor college students, so they probably can't afford to travel much.
Micaya: Well, we go into the city for dinner sometimes.
Giulio: So you spend all your time in his room, do you? You know . . .
Giuliana: Giulio!
Giulio: . . . as I was saying . . .
Giuliana: GIULIO!
Giulio: GIULIANA!
Giuliana: GIULIO!
Giulio: GIULIANA!
Giulia: That was true of our times but not now.
Giulio: Sex before marriage is a mortal sin!
Giuliana: Not anymore . . . people live together before marriage all the time and no one cares.
Giulio: I waited six years for you! In Italy, it's a sin! You girls can make love when you go back to America. You know girls, when you go to confession . . .
Giuliana: Giulio! That was only in our time, not now.
Giulio: . . . the priest used to make you say everything you'd done with your significant other. You had to say, "Then I held her hand; then I touched her leg; then I touched her . . . "
Giuliana: Giulio!
Giulio: Really, the priests are just jealous because they can't go to bed with a woman.
Micaya and Flannery: (become suddenly fascinated with the tablecloth)
Giulio: I speak only the truth.
Flannery: Because, you know, not telling the truth is also a sin . . .
(everyone laughs and the conversation moves on to other things)
So Flannery and I are pretty sure Giulio is generally kidding when he has these sorts of conversations, but he seems so earnest. Mostly, I think he just likes to rile his wife. Anyway, Flannery and I were highly embarrassed.
And now, the most recent incident involving Giulio, my host father. Below is a paraphrased and translated dialogue involving Giulio, his wife, Giuliana, Flannery, and myself. Without further ado . . .
The Most Embarrassing Dinner Conversation Ever
Guilio: So, Micaya, where do you and your boyfriend like to go?
Micaya: (confused look)
Flannery: Well, they're poor college students, so they probably can't afford to travel much.
Micaya: Well, we go into the city for dinner sometimes.
Giulio: So you spend all your time in his room, do you? You know . . .
Giuliana: Giulio!
Giulio: . . . as I was saying . . .
Giuliana: GIULIO!
Giulio: GIULIANA!
Giuliana: GIULIO!
Giulio: GIULIANA!
Giulia: That was true of our times but not now.
Giulio: Sex before marriage is a mortal sin!
Giuliana: Not anymore . . . people live together before marriage all the time and no one cares.
Giulio: I waited six years for you! In Italy, it's a sin! You girls can make love when you go back to America. You know girls, when you go to confession . . .
Giuliana: Giulio! That was only in our time, not now.
Giulio: . . . the priest used to make you say everything you'd done with your significant other. You had to say, "Then I held her hand; then I touched her leg; then I touched her . . . "
Giuliana: Giulio!
Giulio: Really, the priests are just jealous because they can't go to bed with a woman.
Micaya and Flannery: (become suddenly fascinated with the tablecloth)
Giulio: I speak only the truth.
Flannery: Because, you know, not telling the truth is also a sin . . .
(everyone laughs and the conversation moves on to other things)
So Flannery and I are pretty sure Giulio is generally kidding when he has these sorts of conversations, but he seems so earnest. Mostly, I think he just likes to rile his wife. Anyway, Flannery and I were highly embarrassed.
A Day in the Life
So apparently certain parties (hi Herbert! *waves*) have been complaining about the lack of details in this blog. Therefore, here’s a “my typical day” post.
I wake up most days at about 7,30 or 8,00 and brush my teeth, get dressed, etc. I also tend to clean up my room a bit, since if I, for example, leave a pair of shoes out, my host mother will just put them away when she comes in to dust, and, frankly, that makes me a little uncomfortable. I only shower every other day and then only for about ten minutes because it’s a miserable affair. Water pressure is miserable, the water is so soft that it takes minutes to wash the soap off, and there’s not really a shower, per se, only a hand-held thingy, meaning that I generally just give up and sit in the darn tub. Flannery says it’s practically degrading. At the very least, it’s cold and doesn’t particularly make me feel clean after.
Breakfast is also somewhat different. Italians tend to just have coffee and a pastry for breakfast, which would make me rather sick. Mentioning eggs as a breakfast food tends to provoke a certain amount of skepticism. I mentioned the first morning I was here that I liked to drink tea. Now, every morning when I come to breakfast, I have “tea” waiting for me. I use the quotations because it’s not exactly the tea I’m used to. First of all, Italians seem to be rather fond of the lukewarm. Water comes without ice, and milk is served warm. At any rate, my host mother puts a teabag and a lemon in a cup of water and then heats it on a burner until it’s not quite boiling. The end result is that the Twining’s English Breakfast she serves me every morning is unrecognizable. I’m actually getting rather fond of it, actually. I drink my tea and have yogurt (also inexplicably different) and sometimes a tangerine (I eat about five of those a day; we always have fruit after every meal).
I take a bus to class, since my host family lives outside the city walls, as do most Sienese people. I actually don’t mind so much. I have a lovely hilly view from my window (see below), and the bus ride isn’t too long. I’d always rather admired the way Alan (who’s been in Boston his whole life) can stay standing on subway cars. Well, after a few months here, I’ll be able to give him a run for his money. Seats are in short supply on these buses, and during busy times, people pack in like sardines.
Thusfar, I only have intensive Italian classes (five hours a day of Italian!). The hours change daily, so I’m always having to check where I am when. Similarly, deadlines seem to be more suggestions than anything else, and my teachers very often forget what homework they assigned or whether they assigned any at all. At any rate, there are two offices in the city, one right by the campo (the main piazza) and the other at the base of an enormous hill (seriously, this city puts San Francisco to shame). Between classes and wandering around Siena (I’ve already bought two incredibly lovely scarves during my long walks and am in search of the perfect pair of lovely leather boots) I spend the entire day in the city.
I always get back for dinner, though. Dinner, you understand, is the most important part of my day. I mean, I’ve always loved food, but now I think about it all the time. Dinner last at least an hour, often two and is always a mutliple-course affair. We start with pasta or soup, which is my favorite part. In the two weeks I’ve been here, we’ve only once repeated a type of pasta. I never knew there were that many kinds, actually. After pasta, we have our meat and vegetable courses. Tuscan cooking favors thin slices of meat, and I’ve had some really quite interesting veggies. My favorites have been the stems of the artichoke plant, which tastes like artichoke but more bitter, and fennel. After dinner, we eat a slice or two of cheese (I am officially in love with pecorino, which is Italian sheep cheese). After cheese, we have dessert (cake or chocolate or a Sienese specialty called panforte) and then fruit. I have also gotten used to drinking rather potent red table wine with lunch and dinner. My host father is very insistent that it’s good for me and that I should always drink it.
Okay, that’s enough of that. Sorry if that was rather boring. My next post will be stories about my host father (he’s quite a joker, that one).
Italian Lesson o’ the Day:
If you want to say someone is courageous in Italian, you can say:
Ha palle quarati (literally translates to “has square testicles”)
And now, for your viewing pleasure, some views from my bedroom window:
I wake up most days at about 7,30 or 8,00 and brush my teeth, get dressed, etc. I also tend to clean up my room a bit, since if I, for example, leave a pair of shoes out, my host mother will just put them away when she comes in to dust, and, frankly, that makes me a little uncomfortable. I only shower every other day and then only for about ten minutes because it’s a miserable affair. Water pressure is miserable, the water is so soft that it takes minutes to wash the soap off, and there’s not really a shower, per se, only a hand-held thingy, meaning that I generally just give up and sit in the darn tub. Flannery says it’s practically degrading. At the very least, it’s cold and doesn’t particularly make me feel clean after.
Breakfast is also somewhat different. Italians tend to just have coffee and a pastry for breakfast, which would make me rather sick. Mentioning eggs as a breakfast food tends to provoke a certain amount of skepticism. I mentioned the first morning I was here that I liked to drink tea. Now, every morning when I come to breakfast, I have “tea” waiting for me. I use the quotations because it’s not exactly the tea I’m used to. First of all, Italians seem to be rather fond of the lukewarm. Water comes without ice, and milk is served warm. At any rate, my host mother puts a teabag and a lemon in a cup of water and then heats it on a burner until it’s not quite boiling. The end result is that the Twining’s English Breakfast she serves me every morning is unrecognizable. I’m actually getting rather fond of it, actually. I drink my tea and have yogurt (also inexplicably different) and sometimes a tangerine (I eat about five of those a day; we always have fruit after every meal).
I take a bus to class, since my host family lives outside the city walls, as do most Sienese people. I actually don’t mind so much. I have a lovely hilly view from my window (see below), and the bus ride isn’t too long. I’d always rather admired the way Alan (who’s been in Boston his whole life) can stay standing on subway cars. Well, after a few months here, I’ll be able to give him a run for his money. Seats are in short supply on these buses, and during busy times, people pack in like sardines.
Thusfar, I only have intensive Italian classes (five hours a day of Italian!). The hours change daily, so I’m always having to check where I am when. Similarly, deadlines seem to be more suggestions than anything else, and my teachers very often forget what homework they assigned or whether they assigned any at all. At any rate, there are two offices in the city, one right by the campo (the main piazza) and the other at the base of an enormous hill (seriously, this city puts San Francisco to shame). Between classes and wandering around Siena (I’ve already bought two incredibly lovely scarves during my long walks and am in search of the perfect pair of lovely leather boots) I spend the entire day in the city.
I always get back for dinner, though. Dinner, you understand, is the most important part of my day. I mean, I’ve always loved food, but now I think about it all the time. Dinner last at least an hour, often two and is always a mutliple-course affair. We start with pasta or soup, which is my favorite part. In the two weeks I’ve been here, we’ve only once repeated a type of pasta. I never knew there were that many kinds, actually. After pasta, we have our meat and vegetable courses. Tuscan cooking favors thin slices of meat, and I’ve had some really quite interesting veggies. My favorites have been the stems of the artichoke plant, which tastes like artichoke but more bitter, and fennel. After dinner, we eat a slice or two of cheese (I am officially in love with pecorino, which is Italian sheep cheese). After cheese, we have dessert (cake or chocolate or a Sienese specialty called panforte) and then fruit. I have also gotten used to drinking rather potent red table wine with lunch and dinner. My host father is very insistent that it’s good for me and that I should always drink it.
Okay, that’s enough of that. Sorry if that was rather boring. My next post will be stories about my host father (he’s quite a joker, that one).
Italian Lesson o’ the Day:
If you want to say someone is courageous in Italian, you can say:
Ha palle quarati (literally translates to “has square testicles”)
And now, for your viewing pleasure, some views from my bedroom window:
Friday, February 2, 2007
Italian Bureaucracy and Other Musings
I was supposed to teach English to my tiny Italians (five-year-olds!) Wednesday morning at 10am. However, this being Italy, plans changed. The service director called at 9,00 (I’m getting to like the 24-hour clock; it saves some confusion) to say he’d talked to the teacher who had said, no, it was actually 11,00 that I was teaching. We arrived, therefore at about ten till eleven. We first went to the door of the preschool and tried to get the attention of the teacher to ask where the entrance to the kindergarten was. While she made her way over, there was a whole posse of two-year-olds with their hands and faces pressed against the glass, staring up incredulously at the blond lady in the garish red coat (Italians tend to dress in more somber colors) and the incredibly tall man (Mike, our service director, is 6’5’’). I wish I could teach them, instead . . . not that they’d actually learn, but playing with small children counts as service, right? So we finally found the door to the scuola materna, and the teacher came to meet us to say that, actually, it was Monday, and at 10,30, and, besides, she had to check with the students’ parents and let them know they were starting to study English first. This explanation actually took about 10 minutes of incredibly fast Italian, after which she shook my hand and asked if that would work, and all I think of to say was “Sì.” I swear Italians must think my language skills are none too grand because I don’t quite have the quick response thing down. I can understand what they’re saying darn near perfectly, and all I have to say in response is “sì” or “no” or “va benne,” which means okay. At any rate, this sort of organizational difficulty is apparently typical and perhaps the reason why no two clocks in any home or office will give the same time and the buses are always arriving early or late. Not that I’m complaining. A relaxed sense of punctuality actually suits me quite well.
Now, for your viewing pleasure, a couple of pictures of what this lovely city looks like in the winter.
Also, a short Italian lesson o’ the day:
When in a shop or restaurant, to be more polite and avoid directly demanding something, you can use, of course, the conditional:
Vorrei la pane con olive. I would like the break with olives.
Or, as we talked about in class today and I’ve heard a few times, you can use the imperfect:
Volevo la pizza margherita. I was wanting the pizza margherita
Now, for your viewing pleasure, a couple of pictures of what this lovely city looks like in the winter.
Also, a short Italian lesson o’ the day:
When in a shop or restaurant, to be more polite and avoid directly demanding something, you can use, of course, the conditional:
Vorrei la pane con olive. I would like the break with olives.
Or, as we talked about in class today and I’ve heard a few times, you can use the imperfect:
Volevo la pizza margherita. I was wanting the pizza margherita
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
A Short Italian Lesson
Today’s entry is short, since I’m exhausted and am going out for Lindsay’s birthday tonight and have to teach English to kindergarteners tomorrow morning. I have been learning all sorts of Italian over the last week, but perhaps the most important have been two words that my professor uses perhaps more than any others. These are “allora” and “boh.” Both, as far as I can tell, have the following meanings:
allora – so, then, thus, at any rate
boh – I have absolutely no idea, who really cares, anyway?, could be, beats me, I’m so full, um
One could almost make an intelligible conversation by stringing together such words. Tomorrow I’ll post some pictures of Siena and talk about teaching my bambini. In Italian, kindergarten is “scuola materna,” which I think gives a pleasant, nurturing image. I’ve been warned already, though, that Italian classrooms are just different than American ones . . . there’s less discipline and less of a divide between teacher and students. First-hand observations are forthcoming.
allora – so, then, thus, at any rate
boh – I have absolutely no idea, who really cares, anyway?, could be, beats me, I’m so full, um
One could almost make an intelligible conversation by stringing together such words. Tomorrow I’ll post some pictures of Siena and talk about teaching my bambini. In Italian, kindergarten is “scuola materna,” which I think gives a pleasant, nurturing image. I’ve been warned already, though, that Italian classrooms are just different than American ones . . . there’s less discipline and less of a divide between teacher and students. First-hand observations are forthcoming.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Details, my Friends
And now, my friends, a more detailed account . . .
I arrived in Italy after a surreal and very long plane trip. I was sitting behind an Italian family during the trip and was rather disheartened by the fact that I could understand very little of what they said. Stepping off the plane, though, was exhilarating. It still seemed strange (still does, in fact) that after five years of planning, I was actually in Italy, with a place to go and things to do. Customs was a breeze. There were two women dressed entirely in white in the line beside me. I’m not sure whether they were nuns. On carried a black staff, wore a large and ornate gold vessel around her neck, and carried her suitcase on her head, without even lifting a hand to balance it. I waited for 6 hours in the airport before my group was all there and ready to go home, nervously crocheting most of the time. In the end, we had to head off early because there was a hurricane, of all things, in Europe, and we were without three of our members until the next day.
Rome, I can sum up in a few pictures. Suffice to say, I was charmed by the juxtaposition of ancient, crumbling stone temples and spas and industrial buildings. Also, I threw a penny over my shoulder into the Trevi fountain, wishing for my own Rossano Brazzi (for those of you who has seen Three Coins in a Fountain).
After a whirlwind two days of antiquity and jetlag, we arrived in Siena, which is as beautiful and medieval as I remember (pictures forthcoming). Today, I had five hours of intensive Italian lessons, ate a panino on il Campo (the main square), and successfully maneuvered the Sienese bus system and got everywhere I needed to go.
I think that’s enough of random Italian musings for one entry. No fear, I shall try to paint a bit of a picture of my life in each entry, but to conclude, I’d like to share a funny (and somewhat inappropriate) story about speaking Italian as a second language, courtesy of Flannery. One of her Italian teachers used to work in a rather posh perfume shop in Italy. One day, a beautiful, elegant, and wealthy American came into the shop to buy a distinctive perfume for a party. She tested one and loved it. She, being perhaps more confident of her Italian than she should have been, struck up a conversation with this teacher about the perfume. She was particularly charmed by the fact that it smelled like figs and went on and on about this characteristic. Now, in Italian, fig is “fico,” but this lady got a little confused and instead said “fica,” which is a particularly rude word that refers to female genitalia. My host mother had a similar story about an unfortunate German woman who was describing her husband’s favorite foods. She also warned us that if we learned any words from our host father, who has something of a wicked sense of humor, we should never, ever repeat them in public.
Ciao!
Micaya
I arrived in Italy after a surreal and very long plane trip. I was sitting behind an Italian family during the trip and was rather disheartened by the fact that I could understand very little of what they said. Stepping off the plane, though, was exhilarating. It still seemed strange (still does, in fact) that after five years of planning, I was actually in Italy, with a place to go and things to do. Customs was a breeze. There were two women dressed entirely in white in the line beside me. I’m not sure whether they were nuns. On carried a black staff, wore a large and ornate gold vessel around her neck, and carried her suitcase on her head, without even lifting a hand to balance it. I waited for 6 hours in the airport before my group was all there and ready to go home, nervously crocheting most of the time. In the end, we had to head off early because there was a hurricane, of all things, in Europe, and we were without three of our members until the next day.
Rome, I can sum up in a few pictures. Suffice to say, I was charmed by the juxtaposition of ancient, crumbling stone temples and spas and industrial buildings. Also, I threw a penny over my shoulder into the Trevi fountain, wishing for my own Rossano Brazzi (for those of you who has seen Three Coins in a Fountain).
After a whirlwind two days of antiquity and jetlag, we arrived in Siena, which is as beautiful and medieval as I remember (pictures forthcoming). Today, I had five hours of intensive Italian lessons, ate a panino on il Campo (the main square), and successfully maneuvered the Sienese bus system and got everywhere I needed to go.
I think that’s enough of random Italian musings for one entry. No fear, I shall try to paint a bit of a picture of my life in each entry, but to conclude, I’d like to share a funny (and somewhat inappropriate) story about speaking Italian as a second language, courtesy of Flannery. One of her Italian teachers used to work in a rather posh perfume shop in Italy. One day, a beautiful, elegant, and wealthy American came into the shop to buy a distinctive perfume for a party. She tested one and loved it. She, being perhaps more confident of her Italian than she should have been, struck up a conversation with this teacher about the perfume. She was particularly charmed by the fact that it smelled like figs and went on and on about this characteristic. Now, in Italian, fig is “fico,” but this lady got a little confused and instead said “fica,” which is a particularly rude word that refers to female genitalia. My host mother had a similar story about an unfortunate German woman who was describing her husband’s favorite foods. She also warned us that if we learned any words from our host father, who has something of a wicked sense of humor, we should never, ever repeat them in public.
Ciao!
Micaya
Monday, January 22, 2007
I am in Italy and Full!!
Dearest Family, Friends, Assorted Loved Ones,
I am in Italy and, as the title says, full. Italian mothers put Jewish ones to shame. Seriously, these women are downright agressive. My host family tells me at least five times for every course that I should eat! eat! (mangia!), and they already serve me twice as much as they serve themselves. Also, my host mother calls me "baby" or "treasure," gets upset if I have wet hair, and was shocked that Flannery (the other American in our apartment) and I made our beds. Apparently Italian children often live with their parents until they are about 30, so we are hopelessly young.
I arrived, to backtrack, in Siena after a whirlwind tour of Rome . . . pictures of really old buildings forthcoming. I am with, as I said, one other girl in my apartment, which actually relieves some anxiety. My host mother an father are an older couple named, confusingly enough, Giulio and Giulianna. They also have a posse of children and the cutest grandbaby and a tomcat who are around often.
I got placed into the highest level of Italian, and I can understand a fair amount, but the Sienese accent is very strange. They cannot pronounce either a hard or a soft c. Thus, my name is now Mee-hai-ah. Also, they drop all sorts of endings. However, despite the language barrier, I have already managed to discuss immigration issues, the democratic presidential hopefuls, the universality of religion, and the main tenets of Quakerism . . . all supremely inelegantly.
There is only one public computer that currently has internet in our offices, so I shall leave it at that for now. Tomorrow I shall give a longer post, with pictures. Oh, and I am getting a cell phone, so anyone who wants the number can leave a comment and I shall email them.
Micaya
I am in Italy and, as the title says, full. Italian mothers put Jewish ones to shame. Seriously, these women are downright agressive. My host family tells me at least five times for every course that I should eat! eat! (mangia!), and they already serve me twice as much as they serve themselves. Also, my host mother calls me "baby" or "treasure," gets upset if I have wet hair, and was shocked that Flannery (the other American in our apartment) and I made our beds. Apparently Italian children often live with their parents until they are about 30, so we are hopelessly young.
I arrived, to backtrack, in Siena after a whirlwind tour of Rome . . . pictures of really old buildings forthcoming. I am with, as I said, one other girl in my apartment, which actually relieves some anxiety. My host mother an father are an older couple named, confusingly enough, Giulio and Giulianna. They also have a posse of children and the cutest grandbaby and a tomcat who are around often.
I got placed into the highest level of Italian, and I can understand a fair amount, but the Sienese accent is very strange. They cannot pronounce either a hard or a soft c. Thus, my name is now Mee-hai-ah. Also, they drop all sorts of endings. However, despite the language barrier, I have already managed to discuss immigration issues, the democratic presidential hopefuls, the universality of religion, and the main tenets of Quakerism . . . all supremely inelegantly.
There is only one public computer that currently has internet in our offices, so I shall leave it at that for now. Tomorrow I shall give a longer post, with pictures. Oh, and I am getting a cell phone, so anyone who wants the number can leave a comment and I shall email them.
Micaya
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