Matt came by after lunch to pick up his Venetian postcards, which I had stored in my purse for safekeeping. We chatted a bit outside my house, and then someone else walked outside. It was Paloschi! The soccer player who lives in our building! I recognized his barely post-pubescent facial hair and the limp he acquired thanks to Saturday’s game. I was very excited. When I told my family about it, they all wanted to know how I had recognized him, and whether I spoke to him. I recognized him because I saw his face on TV and paid attention; I did not speak to him because I had nothing to say (somehow I don’t think, ‘hey I hear you’re afraid of my dog’ would have been appropriate) and was already talking to Matt. Let me segue a little into my perceptions of soccer. I don’t quite get it yet. The sport itself is fine. I have played it; it is fun; etc. It is the attitude I can’t quite figure out. Every love tap requires crocodile tears, and I might say it goes against American stereotypes of masculinity, so often deeply couched in physical displays, but ultimately players get up and keep playing no matter how many times they get beat down. Every missed goal requires an over-exaggerated display of the agony of failure. I might say this goes against American stereotypes of masculinity proscribing emotional displays, but I think I’m just not used to seeing athletes emote anything other than anger at other players or referees or the exhilaration of success. Seeing as how I have only seen two goals so far, I haven't seen much of the latter, though they are usually just as intense. I might say it seems over the top, but that is what America is all about. So, what, then? I’m not sure yet.
First day of class! We get walked to class by Claudio, and feel like kindergarteners, or maybe more like middle schoolers who wish their ‘parent’ would disappear. He introduces us to the professor and makes us sit in the second row. Awesome. And then it actually gets awesome. I wasn’t sure whether to fear being overwhelmed or overwhelmingly bored, but I was neither. Class is totally different from any of my experiences in the US, though. It is a huge, though flat, lecture hall. The professor uses a microphone. There is a small crucifix on the wall, easy to not notice, but definitely there. Happily, I was actually able to follow pretty much everything the professor said. Taking notes is a little trickier, though. You have to simultaneously listen, process, remember, write/reword (no way I’m wasting time with translating), while still listening and processing as he keeps speaking. Remembering long enough to write it down can be a bit of a challenge. I found it kind of hilarious when he would discuss a Russian film theorist’s views, written in German, about American cinema, all discussed in Italian.
2. 16. 10
I saw Abrazos Rotos in Spanish tonight at the movie theater. Leonardo was supposed to meet me there, but apparently his Dracula costume (today was Fat Tuesday, the last day of Carnevale) ‘was taking longer than expected’ so I went by myself. I tried to contact a few other people but I let it be. I realized it was the first time I had been to a movie by myself. I am always half-hoping to strike up conversation with random people at events and therefore get to know locals (or people who speak Spanish, in this case), but of course I don’t and no one does with me. That is not one of my gifts. Anyway, I really enjoyed the movie, and I really enjoyed seeing it by myself. I even had my own row. I could bask and baste in Spanish. I could keep it all inside myself, without having to discuss or confer or explain with someone else. This was also the first time I managed to largely ignore the subtitles, which usually suck up all of my attention. Not something you want, especially when you don’t need them or are watching a visually lavish film, both of which applied tonight. When you can understand something, you don’t have to stop and think about why. So, even when I would glance at the subtitles, I might inadvertently interpret them as being in Spanish or English instead of Italian, but it didn’t really matter because what was in my ears was enough to override the discrepancies found by my eyes. There was one scene in which the characters were watching a movie in Italian, and I didn’t notice until it was almost over that it was in a language I ‘don’t’ understand.
By the time I got home, dinner was waiting for me but everyone else had already eaten. There was the usual pasta, but also something I can only describe like a chicken meatloaf. Usually when I encounter new foods, I wait to observe how the family approaches it. There was the friendly squeeze tube of mayonnaise next to the plate, but no way was I going that route. The taste was fine; it was just a little disconcerting. I tried it with some olive oil, which in this house always seems like an acceptable approach. There was also more of what we had at lunch, which is some kind of beef cold-cut that I can’t describe. I’m not sure if it is raw-ish, but it is a dark red and definitely nothing like roast beef. Maybe more like corned beef, but also not. Anyway, with rucola and olive oil, it is delicious. An aside:
Looking over my journal entries, the word delicious comes up every time a food item is described. I feel like I should invest in diversifying my vocabulary. Instead, every time you see the word delicious, take your pick from the following word bank, or get creative for me.
scrumptious
yummy
savory
mouth-watering
papillary-pleasuring
Afterward I had to start getting ready. There was an Erasmus Carnevale party tonight, and after much arranging, since it was rather far, we agreed to go. It’s been a long time since I pulled the ‘try on all of your clothes’ but I did. Not like I hadn’t already spent all day doing that in my head. Finally ready, I went outside to wait for the bus. Somehow, probably because I kept misreading my watch and freaking out, I managed to meet my goal of being ten minutes early; I did not want to get left behind. I waited. I waited. A car pulled up to me and rolled down the window. I guy in a bright blue bob wig cooed ‘ciao ragazza’ in a falsetto voice. Should I respond? I halfheartedly mumbled ciao. I tried to get a look at the other people in the car, but couldn’t. He rolled a little further forward and asked where I was going, still in the same voice. Um. I briefly wondered whether they might be going the same place as me, and then my brain turned back on and I remembered that it doesn’t matter what country you are in, you shouldn’t take rides from randos. I think I just stared at them confusedly, wondering whether to laugh and play along, ignore them, or be serious. They drove off to whatever corner of the night awaited them. Where was my bus? It was ten minutes late, but eventually it showed up. Off we went. I was the only passenger. He pulled over and told me this was my stop, where was I going? The Positiva? Well the stop was here but I would have to walk way back there. Umm, ok. Slight problem, I didn’t know where I was going. Couldn’t you just take me? Well buses can’t go there, but ok. He drove me around three sides of a long sketchy block, and I was glad not to be making a trek to an unknown destination at night and in heels. Sometimes it’s nice to have the damsel in distress card at your disposal.
I meet up with the rest of the girls and we are literally the first people to arrive. A pharaoh asks me if I am an Arab. I’m not sure whether he means me myself or my costume, but I am not wearing a costume anyway, so either answer is no. I am collecting quite the interesting array of perceived nationalities. People present didn't seem to interested in mingling, so we didn't really get to know anyone, but it was still a fun night, and we did meet a few people from Boston College.
2. 17. 10
I felt like a bottomless pit at lunch, and ate like one. Pasta, two steaks, salad, bread and cheese, and two kiwis. Class in the evening brought us up to the present in Italian history. A couple thousand years in four classes? Not bad. I learned not to ask questions. During ‘the 68,’ the year of sociopolitical change for Italy and much of Europe, students occupied the universities. I was curious as to what their objective was, and my asking led to a fifteen minute tangent about how the educational system here is different from the American system, with details about our professor’s personal experiences. That might have been interesting if I hadn’t already heard most of it, or at least worthwhile if it had eventually ended up leading to an answer for my question. Unfortunately, it was neither. I did learn that:
Strikes must be announced ahead of time. A ‘wild’ strike has a publicized start date and time, but an unknown end date and time. Bus drivers will be striking Friday afternoon, which means that I will hopefully manage to do my homework before post-midnight Monday morning, my usual approach.
In Italy, it is considered the teacher’s job to prevent cheating. There is no such thing as the honor code. If the teacher doesn’t catch you immediately and do something about it, it is his own fault and you cannot be penalized.
I stayed home in the evening and was treated to Grappa, a very intense alcohol made from plants that grow in the mountains. I do not recommend trying to inhale while drinking it.
2. 18. 10
Language class in the morning. Our last class in the Centro Linguistico, which means it is the last time I have to get up at eight to spend about 30 to 45 minutes waiting for buses and commuting. Even better, it will significantly reduce the frequency with which I have to rely on the unreliable six. Yay! A quick lunch of horse before going to a guided tour of the art museum. I had been excited about the opportunity to know more about the exhibit, but it was not what I had hoped for. First of all, my purse was too heavy, which was not good for my disposition. The curator had another engagement, so she rushed us through the exhibit. While I kind of appreciated not being quagmired for eons in each room, it ended up being pretty uninformative. Also, we were with a huge group of Erasmus students, which made it hard to see anything. You had to choose between being close enough to hear or staying behind to be able to see what she had been talking about. Had I not already seen the exhibit, it would have been quite frustrating. I ended up entertaining myself by trying to guess which country everyone was from. I enjoyed the fact that for the most part I could understand any and every conversation taking place. We got to leave early, and I decided to take the opportunity to do a little shopping. Every Thursday, no cars are allowed to drive in the center of town (except for people who live there) to reduce smog. According to my family, it does nothing for smog but it gets Parma a stipend from the EU, which is the real reason it is done. Maybe for this reason, most of the stores seemed to be closed. I did finally get my workbook for class, though. The sales are wrapping up, and stores here literally get rid of everything. I went to a department store and everything and everyone was crammed into the first floor, with only two dressing rooms and two checkouts and about two million women. Can you say mayhem? I get home and afterwards and eat way too much. Pasta, an egg and cheese frittata, and what might be the best spinach I have ever had. It was amazing.
Alice (a-lee-che) and I had agreed to meet up tonight to go to XXL. It seems like I always misinterpret the plans she proposes. I figured we would go dancing, but we ended up just sitting and chatting (aka yelling over the noise) while drinking beer. Maicol recommended the franziskaner hefeweisse. Not sure if I would get it again, but it is always nice to try something new, especially when it comes recommended. I learned that you have to swirl a hefe first to release the yeasts, and I think it might have been the first time I poured beer into a glass. It was a fun night, either way.
How to appear Italian:
- Shrink five inches and lose ten pounds (obviously by eating more carbs).
- Imagine that your neck is a caterpillar, and that it intends to reemerge in the spring as a butterfly. After putting on the necessary puffy jacket, construct your cocoon by your scarf around your neck as many times as possible, preferably until it looks like you are wearing a wool tire. There are no loose scarf ends allowed. Do not bother to extricate your hair from the grips of this constrictor’s coils. For protection, keep your collar or hood between you and this unruly woolen reptile.
- Pull on your boots: heeled, fringed, studded, suede, shiny, flat, sleek, Uggs, arnkle, knee-high, distressed, wrapped, ...
OR a pair of Timberlands in the color of your choice.
Ladies, you can also choose to wear running shoes no matter what else you are wearing, or of course, heels.
Men, your alternative is to get a sweet pair of high tops. - Men: Learn the art of the sweater. The right man in the right sweater is twice as right. Put on your favorite pair of jeans. They of course have random seams and intense whiskering at the knee, otherwise they wouldn’t be your favorite. They might also have a bill in the denomination of your choice embroidered onto the back pocket (real but thus far unseen by my). Be sure to put on too much cologne when you go to a social event.
- To expand on your love for cylindrical woolen encapsulation and create an aesthetically pleasing element of repetition within your composition, here’s what you do: Get one of those hats that everyone is wearing; a knitted tube you pull onto your head that flops down in the back. This is especially useful for letting your dreads come out instead of trying to cram them all into a hat.
- If you are of the older persuasion, a fur coat would be at home around your shoulders, regardless of whether you are riding a bike in the rain.
- If you are of the younger persuasion, you probably need about three more piercings in the general vicinity of your face. Don’t worry about jeopardizing any future career opportunities. With this economy, you won’t have any; that’s why you still live at home.
nice, Adelina. I'll put those tips right to use.
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