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:
No comments:
Post a Comment