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
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