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.

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 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