Notes from day 1: observations and anecdotes
Italian TV is at once Americanized (e.g. we watch Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, the Italian version, of course) and yet so Italian. On the news today there was a rundown of the upcoming men’s trends according to a recent fashion show in Milan, and there was a commercial for a da Vinci that is visiting Rome from the Louvre.
In Italy, electricity is imported.
College costs about €800 a year, but people also have to pay for transportation and food, etc., because they usually live at home. My host mom felt like this was a lot, but when I told her that Scripps is about $50K a year (about €40,000) she felt a little better.
Upon getting home yesterday, I talked to my host mom for about two hours before I remembered that I should probably tell my parents that I arrived safely. Oops. On the plus side, this means that we were able to converse smoothly and solidly for a few hours. The first time we had real trouble was when we were talking about snowmen and I didn’t know the word for pinecone. No amount of gesture or poetic description sufficed, not even ‘the thing from which pine trees grow,’ which I thought might solve it. At long last, my host mom suggested I draw it, and then we got it quite quickly. (The word is pigna, if you’re curious.) After speaking in Italian for several hours last night, going to class today and interacting with people in English felt very strange. Even coming down to my room and trying to read something written in English last night took a bit of mental adjusting. My host sister asked me how long I have been studying Italian, and when I said two years, everyone’s mouths literally fell open. So, I’ll take that as a good sign. It’s always tricky when people ask you if you speak Italian well. If you say you do, and then you don’t understand them, you seem like an overconfident liar. If you say you don’t, but you do, then you seem like an overly modest liar. I generally opt for the latter of the two.
Italian/European keyboards are a little different. It’s not too tricky, but the left shift key is half as long, so I tend to end up with about a million < when I think I’m holding shift before pressing the letter I want to capitalize. Similarly, the return key is short, and instead you end up with ù. That one I’ve already gotten pretty good at adjusting for. At first, when I tried to log into things I would sit and wait for the computer (which is a bit slow) and eventually realized that I had never pressed enter, instead adding a ù to the end of my password. The trickiest was yesterday when I tried to type an @. This is located on our semicolon key, which here has four different potential character outputs (none of which is a colon or semicolon), and it took me a while of pressing different combinations of that key and others to get it right. (Not Fn, Ctrl, or Alt, instead it is Alt Gr, whatever that is.)
Jody, the dog, is some kind of Swiss mountain dog almost as tall as the table. Jody is the kind of dog whose wagging tail one should beware; getting in its way is like getting beaten by a stick. I have decided that I smell like America, and she is not quite used to it. I had resolved to avoid wearing sweaters until we got along better, but seeing as how it is below freezing every day, that is not a very realistic resolution. Instead, I have taken to slipping her bits of food under the table, as everyone else does, in hopes that I will win her over that way until I smell more like Parma. Anyway, she’s getting used to me.
I had real Parmesan cheese today off of a hunk of cheese bigger than a brick and about as hard. Another hard cheese emerged from the fridge like a slab of meat: on a styrofoam tray and wrapped in plastic.
It is funny to hear the way we are perceived as Americans. Even the program director, who has had many years of experience interacting with us, had some funny notions. She said that Italians are not like Americans when it comes to bathing, because we shower several times a day. When we tried to object, she insisted, ‘well at least once or twice a day.’
Printer paper has different dimensions. The toilet seat is rectangular; the toilet paper squares are rectangles, and the distance between the faucet and the drain in my bathroom is at least two feet. People use washing machines but hardly anyone has a drier.
I can now justify eavesdropping and TV watching as educational endeavors.
I had my first Italian coffee today, homemade. I’ve never been much for coffee, but I figured I should try it. I did like the locals, and after two spoonfuls of sugar, my thimble of coffee tasted delightfully less like coffee and more like warm if slightly bitter sugar.
In an earlier post I said I didn’t know the word for spoon (or any silverware), so today while helping empty the dishwasher, I asked
Knife: coltello
Spoon: cucchiaio
Fork: forchette
And while we have small forks and small spoons, Italians only seem to have normal-sized ones and tiny spoons (mostly for their tiny coffees and for doling out grated Parmesan, it seems), called cucchiaini.
Every time I do something, I wonder whether there might be some underlying significance to it that I’m not aware of. Last night, while eating, I noticed that my elbows were on the table. I noticed that other people’s were as well, but just to be safe I moved mine. Today, I found out that it’s polite or even complimentary (?) to have your forearms on the table, and having your hands in your lap is less good. But I’ve also noticed that some things they teach us are not quite as universal as we are told. For example, when giving flowers, you are never supposed to give an even number unless it is a dozen. When I mentioned this to my host mom, she seemed surprised to hear it, but my dad said it was indeed true. Also, here, the unlucky number is 17, not thirteen, and just as we allegedly fear Friday the 13th, the Italians ‘fear’ Friday the 17th.
I took the bus for the first time this afternoon. Here, it is the (quickly fading) norm to return home for several hours for lunch, and then return to school/work. So, while my host mom was kind enough to drive me to school this morning, on the way back she showed me where the bus stops were so that I could take them in the afternoon. Of course, I was about two minutes late for the bus, so I had to wait a bit and was a little late to class. I think Italy is going to give me motive to improve or at least suppress my bad habits: staying up too late/sleeping in and being late. Anyway, all went well. Fast-forward three hours. The thing about the buses to and from school is that they face counterintuitive directions. The bus home faces away from it, and vice versa. So also of course, I forget this crucial illogical detail, and get on the bus that faces home, and takes me far far away from it. I go several stops before I remember that this is the case, and several more before I decide that the route probably is not circular and that I should get off, and then one more before I see a woman at the stop whom I feel comfortable asking for help. She shows me where the stop is for the buses going in the opposite direction, and off I go to wait. At least when I have to swallow my pride and overcome my shyness, I also get to practice my Italian. While waiting at the stop, I get to observe some local teens, who look like angsty teenagers from anywhere, complete with heavy eyeliner, vans, and whiteout inscriptions on their backpacks. I get on the bus and sit for what seems like forever, but at least I get a good view of the city at night. Finally, I make it to where I started. Then it is time to figure out when to get off. I press the stop button a little pre-emptively, and fear the wrath of the bus driver when no one gets off, but nobody cares. As I walk back, now in the very much dark of night, albeit only 18h30, I wonder whether my host mom is panicking. I walk; I arrive; no panic. So, an adventure for today, and some lessons learned.
Dinner, delicious as always. Every meal, we eat one thing first, and I think it is all we will eat, so I eat and eat. Then, more and more dishes keep appearing, so I eat and eat and eat. Tonight was the first meal with wine, the first time we had pasta, and the first meal with the whole family. I am about 90% sure my brother had wheat flavoured yogurt ??? It was the color of hummus. My mom made an apple tart that was like something between a pizza and an apple pie, just in the sense that it was like a shallow crust dish with baked apple slices, but without an upper crust or all the gooey stuff we have in ours.
Word of the day: schermo = screen.
27 January 2010
26 January 2010
On the way
1. I made it to Parma.
2. A transcription of what I wrote in my journal while on the train from Milan to Parma. It is a little unorganized, but it is stream of consciousness, so so it is. Additional commentary in parentheses.
I am torn between wanting to take a picture of everything and not wanting to take outmy camera and mark myself as a tourist. All of the self-satisfaction I felt for packing 'light' -- gone. Anything more than a purse feels like way too much when you are trekking through Heathrow and then later the Milanese train station (not to mention trying to lift it onto the overhead shelf on the train. Later, when my host mom and I were carrying my bag up and down stairs, she asked whether I had brought all of America.) I can't tell you how strange and exciting it is to hear no English. I heard so many languages while in security at Heathrow, and some I had notions about and some were inscrutable. I probably seemed like a total creeper trying to peer at the passports around me and figure out where people were from. Ghana, Finland, India, Russia, Switzerland... On my flight to London, I almost didn't want to talk. I wanted to be Italian already, and my American English seemed to pale in comparison to that of the British flight attendants.
No matter how big, how small, or how many duty free shopes there are, ultimately an airport is still an airport and they are kind of all the same, so reality didn't start to hit me until we disembarked. There was a giant Emporio Armani sign over one hangar...? I got my bags; I got my visa stamped, and then where was the bus to the train station? I was lucky to have met up with a fellow student who had actually read the 'before you go' booklet. With her awareness and my Italian we would be ok. Where were we supposed to find this bus? Everything becomes much more complicated when the reality of your life unfolding is flooding your brain. Taxi drivers kept approaching us, 'no, grazie.' As we wandered confusedly and coatless in the zero degree Celcius weather, several called out to us, 'you must be hot, because it's really cold!' My new friend, not knowing any Italian, was oblivious. Though I managed to successfully convrese with several people, and inquire as to the whereabouts of this train, they were not much help. One woman had no idea; a bus driver said it was 'back there.' Finally, I spoke Italian to a cabbie who spoke Portuguese and broken English and we figured things out.
A while later, on the bus, I was struck by how much Milan looked like so many places and yet obviously it was its own place. It reminded me of Guatemala, of Newark, and more logically of Rome. Of course, the sky is as gray as can be, and the plants and fields and bare trees on the side of the road are sugarcoated in frost. At the train station, it was time for food. After standing before a five-foot tall display of sandwiches and waiting to be attended to, I tried to order and was told I needed to pay first. I couldn't really figure out what anything was -- a variety of combinations of meat and cheese -- but I figured I couldn't go wrong since it was all Italian. I ordered the Panini Party, which I thought was one with meat and cheese and some kind of greenery. Instead, what I got was something that looked like a giant, flat chicken nugget between two pieces of bread. Apparently, it was cotoletta alla Milanese, a common regional food, which was in fact not chicken, but rather what seemed to me a really unfortunate attempt at a chicken fried steak sandwich. At least the bread was good ... here's hoping to a better next meal. As it is, it can only go up from here. I learned that being able to speak Italian and being able to function in Italy are two very different things, especially if you're too proud to admit that you have no idea what you are doing or what you are supposed to be doing. Now we're hustling through the countryside, which with its fields and tractors and powerlines could almost be Texas, except for the bone and ochre and sapote colored buildings with tile roofs and vines and graffiti, and the heavy gray fog that makes it feel like I'm still in the sky. It is weird to see graffiti on parts of what would otherwise seem to be an idyllic landscape. I imagine it is because it all borders the train tracks.
After about half an hour of people watching at the train station, I saw a man with science-class type goggles on his head. Being in Milan, I thought it was a fashion statement--until I realized he was on a work crew.
2. A transcription of what I wrote in my journal while on the train from Milan to Parma. It is a little unorganized, but it is stream of consciousness, so so it is. Additional commentary in parentheses.
I am torn between wanting to take a picture of everything and not wanting to take outmy camera and mark myself as a tourist. All of the self-satisfaction I felt for packing 'light' -- gone. Anything more than a purse feels like way too much when you are trekking through Heathrow and then later the Milanese train station (not to mention trying to lift it onto the overhead shelf on the train. Later, when my host mom and I were carrying my bag up and down stairs, she asked whether I had brought all of America.) I can't tell you how strange and exciting it is to hear no English. I heard so many languages while in security at Heathrow, and some I had notions about and some were inscrutable. I probably seemed like a total creeper trying to peer at the passports around me and figure out where people were from. Ghana, Finland, India, Russia, Switzerland... On my flight to London, I almost didn't want to talk. I wanted to be Italian already, and my American English seemed to pale in comparison to that of the British flight attendants.
No matter how big, how small, or how many duty free shopes there are, ultimately an airport is still an airport and they are kind of all the same, so reality didn't start to hit me until we disembarked. There was a giant Emporio Armani sign over one hangar...? I got my bags; I got my visa stamped, and then where was the bus to the train station? I was lucky to have met up with a fellow student who had actually read the 'before you go' booklet. With her awareness and my Italian we would be ok. Where were we supposed to find this bus? Everything becomes much more complicated when the reality of your life unfolding is flooding your brain. Taxi drivers kept approaching us, 'no, grazie.' As we wandered confusedly and coatless in the zero degree Celcius weather, several called out to us, 'you must be hot, because it's really cold!' My new friend, not knowing any Italian, was oblivious. Though I managed to successfully convrese with several people, and inquire as to the whereabouts of this train, they were not much help. One woman had no idea; a bus driver said it was 'back there.' Finally, I spoke Italian to a cabbie who spoke Portuguese and broken English and we figured things out.
A while later, on the bus, I was struck by how much Milan looked like so many places and yet obviously it was its own place. It reminded me of Guatemala, of Newark, and more logically of Rome. Of course, the sky is as gray as can be, and the plants and fields and bare trees on the side of the road are sugarcoated in frost. At the train station, it was time for food. After standing before a five-foot tall display of sandwiches and waiting to be attended to, I tried to order and was told I needed to pay first. I couldn't really figure out what anything was -- a variety of combinations of meat and cheese -- but I figured I couldn't go wrong since it was all Italian. I ordered the Panini Party, which I thought was one with meat and cheese and some kind of greenery. Instead, what I got was something that looked like a giant, flat chicken nugget between two pieces of bread. Apparently, it was cotoletta alla Milanese, a common regional food, which was in fact not chicken, but rather what seemed to me a really unfortunate attempt at a chicken fried steak sandwich. At least the bread was good ... here's hoping to a better next meal. As it is, it can only go up from here. I learned that being able to speak Italian and being able to function in Italy are two very different things, especially if you're too proud to admit that you have no idea what you are doing or what you are supposed to be doing. Now we're hustling through the countryside, which with its fields and tractors and powerlines could almost be Texas, except for the bone and ochre and sapote colored buildings with tile roofs and vines and graffiti, and the heavy gray fog that makes it feel like I'm still in the sky. It is weird to see graffiti on parts of what would otherwise seem to be an idyllic landscape. I imagine it is because it all borders the train tracks.
After about half an hour of people watching at the train station, I saw a man with science-class type goggles on his head. Being in Milan, I thought it was a fashion statement--until I realized he was on a work crew.
19 January 2010
Onward and upward
So I'm leaving today. I went on one last drive for the last last minute things. I drove past the 'Giggling Marlin' scuba store, which I had never noticed before, despite the fact that it's on the way to many of the places I go. I saw a once purple car that looked like it had been covered in leopard print wallpaper that was now rebelling and peeling off. I took a long look at my favorite flag, which I won't be seeing in a while. I wonder whether the gifts from home that I'm taking to my host family will serve me and my potential homesickness more than they will serve them. I went to the bank for what seems like the 20th time this week. I feel like I know almost every banker/teller at at least five different branches. I'm almost done packing and I managed to limit myself to 6 pairs of shoes. An accomplishment, to be sure. My current guesstimate is that my suitcase weighs 52 pounds, so I'll try to do some shuffling into my carry-on, but I'm half tempted to leave it as is just to be able to see how close my guess is; I've gotten pretty good at this kind of gauging. This morning I discovered that reggae is great for pre-flight jitters. Bob Marley and his three little birds keep reminding me that 'every little thing is going to be alright,' and so it will be.
My next post will be coming to you from across the ocean. It's not real to me yet, but it's about to get real real, real fast.
My next post will be coming to you from across the ocean. It's not real to me yet, but it's about to get real real, real fast.
15 January 2010
Disappearing act
Soon you will see me where I am not
You will see that place where we first met
and you will think of me
You will think of me but I will not be there
Still
that space place will be different
because I was there
and in your heart
in your mind
in your memory
I am there
That place where we talked for hours
That place where we changed
That place where I took you
That place where we once lived
In all these places
I am there
and I am not
You will see some bug some artist some something
and I will appear to you
but not
Now I
I will have no such places
for I go to a new place
A new place without memories yet
A new place without you without us
Still
I am sure that somehow
I will find you there
in the mountains in the snow
in the museums
in the opera house
on the back of the vespas
I will find you
but I will not
A fruitless game of marco polo hide and seek
always almost but never
until we meet again
1. 365blanc 2. and 3. Fred Lebain
14 January 2010
Grump grump grump
Apparently banks and I are not made to be friends. I do not intend to use this blog to gripe, but I do think that at present, my misadventures are more interesting than my 'adventures,' which consist mostly of laundry and folding clothes.
Today, I went to the bank to get Euros. I knew they'd have to be ordered, but I figured they'd be ready by tomorrow or Saturday at the latest. Instead, because the banks are closed Monday, it turns out they might not be ready until Tuesday. Doable, but a little tight. So, the teller suggests that I go to the downtown branch, on the corner of Main and Travis, where they keep Euros in stock. Fair enough. I set out on my way, and as I decide to get onto Main, I cross Travis. What? Yeah, it turns out that they're parallel, and there's no such thing as the corner of Main and Travis. Luckily, the teller also decided to give me the branch's actual address and phone number, and after driving in zigzags and circles through downtown's beloved one-way streets, I manage to find it. Of course, finding it is not the same thing as finding where to park. Not wanting to drive in more circles, I call the bank to ask where they suggest that I park. Here's how our conversation went:
Teller: asdlkfjdflks
Me: Hello?
T: Is this a branch?
M: Hello?
T: Is this a branch?
M: I called a branch...?
T: Oh, I must have picked up before I dialed.
...
M: I found your branch, but I was wondering where to park.
T: Well, I don't know... hang on...
(hold music)
T: Ok,
...
By the time she told me where to park, I ended up pulling into the nearest parking lot, which was actually the one she ended up telling me not to park in, but was actually cheaper than the one she suggested. I then proceeded to spend the next 15-20 minutes driving around and around the parking lot, looking for an open, unreserved spot. I didn't find one until I got to the 10th level. I have to say, there is something disconcerting about driving around in a packed parking lot and not seeing a single other moving car. Anyway, I headed down and across the street and into the bank. Five minutes later I was done and back. I considered taking a little downtown tunnel detour just for fun, but decided not to increase my parking expenses and headed back to the car. If it was nigh impossible to find a parking spot, getting out of the parking lot should be a Mensa qualifying exam. Luckily I had paid attention on my way in, because apparently someone decided that by the time you get past the 7th or 8th level, exit signage is extraneous. On the fourth level, a flashing sign halfway down indicated that, as a visitor, I would have to turn left, instead of making yet another right turn, as I had been doing since I began my attempt to escape. I made the turn at the end of the pass, and halfway down the next I was confronted with another flashing sign telling me to turn right. Judging from the previous sign, I assumed that I would turn right when I got to the end. Wrong. All of a sudden I was back on the fifth level and had to resume my descent, this time turning right immediately upon arriving at the second flashing sign. A few turns and dollars later, and at long last I saw the light of day once more. Freedom!
In other news, I dreamed in Italian last night.
Today, I went to the bank to get Euros. I knew they'd have to be ordered, but I figured they'd be ready by tomorrow or Saturday at the latest. Instead, because the banks are closed Monday, it turns out they might not be ready until Tuesday. Doable, but a little tight. So, the teller suggests that I go to the downtown branch, on the corner of Main and Travis, where they keep Euros in stock. Fair enough. I set out on my way, and as I decide to get onto Main, I cross Travis. What? Yeah, it turns out that they're parallel, and there's no such thing as the corner of Main and Travis. Luckily, the teller also decided to give me the branch's actual address and phone number, and after driving in zigzags and circles through downtown's beloved one-way streets, I manage to find it. Of course, finding it is not the same thing as finding where to park. Not wanting to drive in more circles, I call the bank to ask where they suggest that I park. Here's how our conversation went:
Teller: asdlkfjdflks
Me: Hello?
T: Is this a branch?
M: Hello?
T: Is this a branch?
M: I called a branch...?
T: Oh, I must have picked up before I dialed.
...
M: I found your branch, but I was wondering where to park.
T: Well, I don't know... hang on...
(hold music)
T: Ok,
...
By the time she told me where to park, I ended up pulling into the nearest parking lot, which was actually the one she ended up telling me not to park in, but was actually cheaper than the one she suggested. I then proceeded to spend the next 15-20 minutes driving around and around the parking lot, looking for an open, unreserved spot. I didn't find one until I got to the 10th level. I have to say, there is something disconcerting about driving around in a packed parking lot and not seeing a single other moving car. Anyway, I headed down and across the street and into the bank. Five minutes later I was done and back. I considered taking a little downtown tunnel detour just for fun, but decided not to increase my parking expenses and headed back to the car. If it was nigh impossible to find a parking spot, getting out of the parking lot should be a Mensa qualifying exam. Luckily I had paid attention on my way in, because apparently someone decided that by the time you get past the 7th or 8th level, exit signage is extraneous. On the fourth level, a flashing sign halfway down indicated that, as a visitor, I would have to turn left, instead of making yet another right turn, as I had been doing since I began my attempt to escape. I made the turn at the end of the pass, and halfway down the next I was confronted with another flashing sign telling me to turn right. Judging from the previous sign, I assumed that I would turn right when I got to the end. Wrong. All of a sudden I was back on the fifth level and had to resume my descent, this time turning right immediately upon arriving at the second flashing sign. A few turns and dollars later, and at long last I saw the light of day once more. Freedom!
In other news, I dreamed in Italian last night.
13 January 2010
And then some
Things are happening. I have crocheted four hats and my hands are cramping. I have gone shopping -- despite my resolve not to do so. I have started reading my book. 30 pages down, 270 to go. That's really not so bad considering I'll be reading about Italy's history starting in the year 400 and ending with 'The Republic.' I have to admit, while it is not quite scintillating, it is also not as bad as it looked at first glance. I got an email from my host sister, and she sent me a picture of the family's dog, Jody. I have started to start packing, or at least am doing pre-packing gathering. Packing spreadsheets are soon to follow.
Today, I went on a small money saga that was a lot more stressful than I could possibly make it sound, and more stressful than it reasonably should have been. I went to a Capital One bank to ask about applying for a credit card, because they cover the international transaction fees levied by credit card companies. After waiting in line, I am told I can only apply for a credit card online, but if I want to talk to someone anyway I can sign in on the clipboard and wait some more. So, I wait for a banker to be available to meet with me. In the meantime, I listen to a woman who is meeting with a banker because she lost her card. I am thankful not to be in her shoes, which, incidentally, are a lethal-looking pair of black platform stilettos. Speaking of shoes, while I continue to wait, I watch another banker ask all the women where they got their shoes. Finally, it is my turn. Mario the banker correctly guesses my age, and when I tell him I'm surprised because people usually think I'm younger, he replies that I do indeed look young, but I am also very mature. I tell him I'm going to Italy, and he tells me a story about not believing his gangster-film-loving-brother's claim that they were part Italian, but then he went to Italy and it just so happened that the phone booth he used had his last name in it. I tell him I'm a linguist, and he asks if I know what 'ni hao' means. He is shocked when I correctly translate it as 'hello.' He tells me he impresses Chinese clients that way. He also tells me I kind of look like Angelina Jolie. Umm, thanks. Long story short, I leave the bank sans card, and head home to apply online. Well, not quite. After much mental tossing and turning, I realize that it's way too complicated and probably not that worth it. The odds of getting it in time, seeing as how I have one week left, are slim to none. Who even knows whether I'd get a useful limit. So, crossed off the list but not completed. Is that an accomplishment?
Vocabulary: Familial terms
famiglia - family
parenti - relatives
genitori - parents
figlio/figlia - son/daughter
fratello - brother
sorella - sister
madre - mother
padre - father
nonno/nonna - grandfather/grandmother
zio/zia - uncle/aunt
cugino/cugina - cousin (m./f.)
This is a good segue into the pluralizing process, which is a lot more complicated in Itaian than in English or Spanish.
For masculine words, usually ending with an o, the o becomes an i.
Fratello --> fratelli zio --> zii
If the word is masculine but ends with an a, often the case with words of Greek origin, it still becomes an i.
Tema --> temi
For feminine words, which usually end with an a, the a becomes an e.
Sorella --> sorelle zia --> zie
Articles and relatives are tricky. For blood relatives/nuclear family, you only use the possessive article:
mio fratello, mia sorella
For extended family, or if you're talking about multiple relatives, you use both the determinate article and the possessive article:
il mio cugino, le mie sorelle
Lastly, even though parents are part of the nuclear family, if you use the more affectionate/informal forms, you have to use both articles as well:
mio padre OR il mio papa mia madre OR la mia mamma
Today, I went on a small money saga that was a lot more stressful than I could possibly make it sound, and more stressful than it reasonably should have been. I went to a Capital One bank to ask about applying for a credit card, because they cover the international transaction fees levied by credit card companies. After waiting in line, I am told I can only apply for a credit card online, but if I want to talk to someone anyway I can sign in on the clipboard and wait some more. So, I wait for a banker to be available to meet with me. In the meantime, I listen to a woman who is meeting with a banker because she lost her card. I am thankful not to be in her shoes, which, incidentally, are a lethal-looking pair of black platform stilettos. Speaking of shoes, while I continue to wait, I watch another banker ask all the women where they got their shoes. Finally, it is my turn. Mario the banker correctly guesses my age, and when I tell him I'm surprised because people usually think I'm younger, he replies that I do indeed look young, but I am also very mature. I tell him I'm going to Italy, and he tells me a story about not believing his gangster-film-loving-brother's claim that they were part Italian, but then he went to Italy and it just so happened that the phone booth he used had his last name in it. I tell him I'm a linguist, and he asks if I know what 'ni hao' means. He is shocked when I correctly translate it as 'hello.' He tells me he impresses Chinese clients that way. He also tells me I kind of look like Angelina Jolie. Umm, thanks. Long story short, I leave the bank sans card, and head home to apply online. Well, not quite. After much mental tossing and turning, I realize that it's way too complicated and probably not that worth it. The odds of getting it in time, seeing as how I have one week left, are slim to none. Who even knows whether I'd get a useful limit. So, crossed off the list but not completed. Is that an accomplishment?
Vocabulary: Familial terms
famiglia - family
parenti - relatives
genitori - parents
figlio/figlia - son/daughter
fratello - brother
sorella - sister
madre - mother
padre - father
nonno/nonna - grandfather/grandmother
zio/zia - uncle/aunt
cugino/cugina - cousin (m./f.)
This is a good segue into the pluralizing process, which is a lot more complicated in Itaian than in English or Spanish.
For masculine words, usually ending with an o, the o becomes an i.
Fratello --> fratelli zio --> zii
If the word is masculine but ends with an a, often the case with words of Greek origin, it still becomes an i.
Tema --> temi
For feminine words, which usually end with an a, the a becomes an e.
Sorella --> sorelle zia --> zie
Articles and relatives are tricky. For blood relatives/nuclear family, you only use the possessive article:
mio fratello, mia sorella
For extended family, or if you're talking about multiple relatives, you use both the determinate article and the possessive article:
il mio cugino, le mie sorelle
Lastly, even though parents are part of the nuclear family, if you use the more affectionate/informal forms, you have to use both articles as well:
mio padre OR il mio papa mia madre OR la mia mamma
09 January 2010
Not horseshoes or hand grenades
The more days that go by, the more real this all becomes. I oscillate between unmitigated enthusiasm and borderline panic. I just said goodbye to Vicky less than an hour ago; that was a big step. She'll be on her way to Ireland, and I am ten days away from my own new I-country. My visit to the consulate on Thursday proved both mercifully swift and mercifully fruitful, and I now have my visa and one more reason to exhale. Though I would still have a bit of a time cushion, it's nice to know that's one thing I don't need to worry about.
Somehow, the closer I get to leaving, the more I keep trying to speak Italian. The thing is, that's about as useful as trying to communicate with people using Morse code. With my family, I can push it a little, but eventually the dissimilarities pile up and there's a communication breakdown. Instead, I settle for pointing at things and saying their names in Italian. 'Cielo,' 'oceano,' 'tartaruga.' Sky, ocean, turtle. I guess it's better than nothing, but it's certainly not conversation. What's weird is that I'm not consciously choosing to switch to Italian, but words and thoughts come in that way. It's like my brain is trying to transition, but it can't yet because no one here can understand me. For now, I can just hope that this will serve me well by the time I get to Parma. Still, I have the somewhat irrational fear that I will in fact be able to say nothing at all, say everything wrong, or inadvertently say it in the wrong language. Sometimes a word comes to me quickly, but then I'm not sure what language it is in, and I have to go through its manifestations in Spanish, French, and Italian to be sure that I'm saying it in the right one. My game of vocabulary proclamations is also a little disquieting at times, because it reveals to me the gaps in my vocabulary. As I was explaining to a friend, it is those everyday things that you might mention daily but would never have a conversation about that I find myself not knowing -- things like spoon and socks. I am more equipped for literary or linguistic discussions than I am for dinner-table exchanges. But, that's the point of all of this: to learn. So, I'll just have to hitch up my britches and get to it.
Also, in an un-Italian vein, I found this listing of Texas words, phrases, and such. Several of the phrases and sayings are unfamiliar to me, though amusing, but almost all of the definitions ring true. Actually, they are so right that it's strange to think that they might not be so clear to a non-Texan. The comments are pretty good too, and of course, "you never have to ask a man if he’s from Texas. If he is, he’ll tell you on his own. If he ain’t, well, there’s no need to embarrass him."
Somehow, the closer I get to leaving, the more I keep trying to speak Italian. The thing is, that's about as useful as trying to communicate with people using Morse code. With my family, I can push it a little, but eventually the dissimilarities pile up and there's a communication breakdown. Instead, I settle for pointing at things and saying their names in Italian. 'Cielo,' 'oceano,' 'tartaruga.' Sky, ocean, turtle. I guess it's better than nothing, but it's certainly not conversation. What's weird is that I'm not consciously choosing to switch to Italian, but words and thoughts come in that way. It's like my brain is trying to transition, but it can't yet because no one here can understand me. For now, I can just hope that this will serve me well by the time I get to Parma. Still, I have the somewhat irrational fear that I will in fact be able to say nothing at all, say everything wrong, or inadvertently say it in the wrong language. Sometimes a word comes to me quickly, but then I'm not sure what language it is in, and I have to go through its manifestations in Spanish, French, and Italian to be sure that I'm saying it in the right one. My game of vocabulary proclamations is also a little disquieting at times, because it reveals to me the gaps in my vocabulary. As I was explaining to a friend, it is those everyday things that you might mention daily but would never have a conversation about that I find myself not knowing -- things like spoon and socks. I am more equipped for literary or linguistic discussions than I am for dinner-table exchanges. But, that's the point of all of this: to learn. So, I'll just have to hitch up my britches and get to it.
Also, in an un-Italian vein, I found this listing of Texas words, phrases, and such. Several of the phrases and sayings are unfamiliar to me, though amusing, but almost all of the definitions ring true. Actually, they are so right that it's strange to think that they might not be so clear to a non-Texan. The comments are pretty good too, and of course, "you never have to ask a man if he’s from Texas. If he is, he’ll tell you on his own. If he ain’t, well, there’s no need to embarrass him."
07 January 2010
Making progress
Followers already! I feel like I should start being interesting. Alas I have nothing with which to entertain you save a growing and shrinking checklist.
winter coat - acquired! Now I just need to waterproof it, perhaps
Concise History of Italy - acquired! (unfortunately the text looks about as dry as a rusty nail)
visa - still pending (!!!). I plan on going to the consulate tomorrow to check progress, seeing as how their phone is not exactly useful (they only answer the phone when they're open but not open to the public, but didn't answer when I called, anyway, and the recording before you leave a message says please call back later (so why are you letting me leave you a message?))
money matters - pending
host family - identities revealed! Hooray! In my case, family really means family. I'll have two parents and two older siblings and a dog! (ok, cutting back on the exclamation mark overload) Also, they're apparently very athletic. So much for not packing athletic shoes... unless I can convert them all into yoginis...
Lastly, to 'keep it educational,' some more trivia, quoted from my old Italian textbook.
winter coat - acquired! Now I just need to waterproof it, perhaps
Concise History of Italy - acquired! (unfortunately the text looks about as dry as a rusty nail)
visa - still pending (!!!). I plan on going to the consulate tomorrow to check progress, seeing as how their phone is not exactly useful (they only answer the phone when they're open but not open to the public, but didn't answer when I called, anyway, and the recording before you leave a message says please call back later (so why are you letting me leave you a message?))
money matters - pending
host family - identities revealed! Hooray! In my case, family really means family. I'll have two parents and two older siblings and a dog! (ok, cutting back on the exclamation mark overload) Also, they're apparently very athletic. So much for not packing athletic shoes... unless I can convert them all into yoginis...
Lastly, to 'keep it educational,' some more trivia, quoted from my old Italian textbook.
Italian students consider it bad luck to wish someone good luck (buona fortuna!) on an exam or a paper. Instead, they use the expression 'In bocca al lupo!' (literally, 'In the mouth of the wolf!'). The appropriate response is not 'grazie' (thanks) but 'Crepi!' (May the wolf drop dead!)Try that one on someone one of these days.
05 January 2010
It's official
My departure date is now two weeks away. Count-downs are now officially legit. So, 14 days! It doesn't seem real yet. I promise I'll try to keep the pre-Italy posts to a minimum. Emphasis on 'try.'
While I get ready, so can you.
First, everyone asks where Parma is.
1. It is in Italy.
2. It is in northern Italy, as I like to say, in the lacy stocking part of the boot.
3. It is in the region of Emilia-Romagna (like a state).
Want to know more? Here's the wikipedia page (as if you couldn't find that yourself, but that and a John Grisham novel compose the majority of my knowledge about the city, sooo lots to learn!) and a Google map.
Some other notes:
It is the home of Parmesan cheese (smack yourself on the forehead now if you hadn't put two and two together until now).
I have been told it is 'the capital of stuffed pasta.' My palate eagerly anticipates.
Mildly relevant trivia:
There is a Parma, Idaho that is just a few minutes off from being at the same latitude as Parma, E-R, Italia. I can thank Google Maps' indecision for revealing that nugget to me.
Now, some Italiano.
I can't help but start with phonology. It's almost the same as Spanish, vowel-wise. Consonants, lucky for us, are also pretty consistent between English, Spanish, and Italian, with a few orthographical exceptions.
You are now ready to go forth and read Italian out loud and perhaps sound like you know what you're saying.
P. S. This would have been infinitely easier if everyone knew the International Phonetic Alphabet. Perhaps you should go learn that, as well.
While I get ready, so can you.
First, everyone asks where Parma is.
1. It is in Italy.
2. It is in northern Italy, as I like to say, in the lacy stocking part of the boot.
3. It is in the region of Emilia-Romagna (like a state).
Want to know more? Here's the wikipedia page (as if you couldn't find that yourself, but that and a John Grisham novel compose the majority of my knowledge about the city, sooo lots to learn!) and a Google map.
Some other notes:
It is the home of Parmesan cheese (smack yourself on the forehead now if you hadn't put two and two together until now).
I have been told it is 'the capital of stuffed pasta.' My palate eagerly anticipates.
Mildly relevant trivia:
There is a Parma, Idaho that is just a few minutes off from being at the same latitude as Parma, E-R, Italia. I can thank Google Maps' indecision for revealing that nugget to me.
Now, some Italiano.
I can't help but start with phonology. It's almost the same as Spanish, vowel-wise. Consonants, lucky for us, are also pretty consistent between English, Spanish, and Italian, with a few orthographical exceptions.
- ce or ci: pronounced che or chi, otherwise it's a hard c, like cat
- (c)che or (c)chi: a hard c, like kilt
- qu: pronounced like the English qu, like in QUeen
- gue or gui: the u is pronounced
- Double vowels are held longer. Imagine 'ecco' like eck-co and 'ucello' like ucelllllo. Of course, in real speech the distinction is more subtle, but that's the theory anyway.
- s: pronounced like z before a vowel
- ss: pronounced like super
- z: pronounced more like a tz, easy reference, pizza!
You are now ready to go forth and read Italian out loud and perhaps sound like you know what you're saying.
P. S. This would have been infinitely easier if everyone knew the International Phonetic Alphabet. Perhaps you should go learn that, as well.
04 January 2010
The standard
It seems that every travel blog must start with a 'getting ready' kind of post. Here's mine, or perhaps the first of a few. I'll try to avoid the 'I can't believe it's so close!' 'I'm not ready yet!' kind of thing. We know that's true. So I'm getting ready. I'm not really sure what that means. Crocheting hats? I hope so, because that's what I've been up to. Right now, getting ready is mostly just trying to see people before I go, and doing a lot of mental packing. Sometimes, I wish I could just set out my suitcase and put things in whenever I think of them, but that's a little excessive when I have just over two weeks to go before my departure. I settle for lists on digital sticky-notes. I'm kind of addicted to lists and sticky-notes, as it is.
It's weird to me that I'm not nervous about being there. I'm a little anxious about getting everything ready right and on time, but I feel like once I get there, everything will fall into place. If it doesn't quite turn out that way, well at that point I'll just have to make due. Probably, sillily, what most concerns me - more than the 'language barrier,' which I am in fact thrilled to throw myself against - is braving the cold. I've always said I like cold weather, but that's easy to say when a high in the 30s is the lowest temperature you see maybe once or twice every couple of years.
Preparatory challenges to be faced:
packing 5 months into a single suitcase and leaving room to grow
acquiring and reading A Concise History of Italy
finding suitable gifts for host family
getting my visa in time!
...
It's weird to me that I'm not nervous about being there. I'm a little anxious about getting everything ready right and on time, but I feel like once I get there, everything will fall into place. If it doesn't quite turn out that way, well at that point I'll just have to make due. Probably, sillily, what most concerns me - more than the 'language barrier,' which I am in fact thrilled to throw myself against - is braving the cold. I've always said I like cold weather, but that's easy to say when a high in the 30s is the lowest temperature you see maybe once or twice every couple of years.
Preparatory challenges to be faced:
packing 5 months into a single suitcase and leaving room to grow
acquiring and reading A Concise History of Italy
finding suitable gifts for host family
getting my visa in time!
...
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