Farewell, Finally

I guess it's about time to finish this once and for all. The start of a new semester is just a few weeks away, and I wonder whether I have been putting off this final entry because I don't want to admit that it is over or because it is so over I can't mentally take myself back. I knew this would happen, but I am still surprised by how much Parma and Europe have faded. It seems like a blip - a wonderful, amazing, life changing blip - in the EKG of my life. I still have dreams about being in Europe. Lost in Parma, trying to catch a train in Berlin. But, in my waking life, I am back, and life is back to normal.

To conclude my European loop I returned to Parma. British Airways strikers granted me the gift of a few additional days, and I made it a point to eat gelato at least once every single day. On my last day I couldn't resist and had a second right after my first, and discovered a new flavor I wished I had tried long before. I almost wanted to get a third to make up for it, but two would have to be enough. I went to Torino on my own, which was the last doable place on my to-visit list, and I simultaneously discovered the pleasures of traveling alone as well as a profound gratefulness for the company I had had during the preceding month. I spoke twice the entire day. I relished my final moments in Parma, retracing my steps and revisiting my favorite places, but also finally getting to all those places I had meant to see all along. Better late than not at all, right?

Now that I am home, my ears are thirsting for Italian, my mouth is salivating for its cuisine (one set of memories that refuse to fade), and my heart is pondering the next destination.

“The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.”
- St.  Augustine 

I think I can now say that I have turned enough pages to make several chapters, but much of this book remains to be read.

Stories to tell

I am home. Over the next few weeks I will be filling in all the blanks, perhaps doing a bit of back and forth time travel, but getting to everything. For now, though, I will tell you about how I got home.

Ever since I booked my flights back in December, I was supposed to come back on May 31st. Leave in the morning, arrive in the afternoon, thanks to the seven hour time difference. Well, about a week ago I was tipped off and looked into my flight status. Lucky for me (and that is at once sarcastic and completely sincere), British Airways was having cabin strikes. My flight from London to Houston was canceled. I had to call and rebook, and the next available flight was on June 2nd. On the plus side, I would now be departing with Matt, but on the downside I would now be taking a total of three flights, and arriving around midnight. I had a sneaking suspicion about the outcome of these three flights, but I kept it to myself and took what I could get, which came with two extra days in Europe.

The story begins, kind of, on June 1st, though time gets tricky from here on out, because of time zone shifting. Anyway, the point is really that though I woke up around 11, I only got one hour of sleep before getting up at five the following morning to prepare for my departure. It was one of those trips where you take every mode of transportation (boat, bike, helicopter, and skateboard not included), meaning Cristina drove me to the train station at 530 so I could catch a 600am train to Milan. I arrived at the platform with my 22kg suitcase, a sight lighter than it was when I arrived (thanks, Brendan), and as I prepared to hoist it up onto the train, a man appeared and took it out of my hands. He said he had seen me arrive and seen the concern on my face about being able to lift my giant suitcase. My concerned face was actually because of Matt’s conspicuous absence, but I wasn’t about to complain. Matt did arrive, about two minutes before the train left, and from there we took a bus to the airport, where we unknowingly arrived altogether too early. We went to check our bags, only to find that the baggage counter wouldn't open until nine. We passed through security only to find that they wouldn't allow access to our gate area until an hour before our 1130 flight. Eventually, we got on, and I somehow managed to properly interrupt my dozing to see the Alps and the English Channel.

We had a layover in Heathrow, where they don't post or assign gates until an hour before your plane departs, so we sat, looked at pictures, and I admired the many beguiling pumps in one of the most epic shoe stores I have ever seen. Fortunately, our diverging flights left from nearby gates, so when the time came we were able to stay together. And then the time went. Our flights were delayed. But not by so much, and we said our farewells and see you soons and were on our way.

Now it was the long flight. Eight and a half hours later, which roughly translates into an interspersed 2.75 questionable movies later, I arrived in Chicago. It was around 6pm local time, aka 1am Parma time, meaning I was closing in on the 24-hours of transit mark. I passed through customs, and started working on processing the fact that English will henceforth be the predominant language. I noticed something funny. For better or for worse, I have always been an eavesdropper. While abroad, that meant that I always had to first identify the language being spoken, then listen. Now, here, I find myself doing the same thing, except that I try non-English first. That means that I try listening to English conversations with my Italian filter on. That means that I don't understand anything until after I switch to Spanish, maybe French, and finally get to English. That means I really don't understand much of anything. The man ahead of me in line only spoke Russian, and as the employees asked around about whether anyone spoke Russian and could translate, I thought to myself, 'next semester.' (I'm taking Russian next semester!)

I don't usually ask for help, and I rarely submit to asking directions, but that was the theme of this adventure. After re-checking my bag I was given directions to the terminal shuttle, which would take me from 5 to 3, except that the directions led me not towards the shuttle. I asked a security guard. Yeah, somehow going out the doors to the taxi pickup is not the same as taking the elevator up to the inter-terminal shuttle. But I made it. My flight to Houston was supposed to leave at 855, so I waited. And waited. 8pm = 22 hours and I was feeling it. I started nodding off. At 845 we hadn't started boarding yet, and no announcements had been made. The posted departure time had not been changed. Then it got pushed back fifteen minutes. Still no news. As the clock ticked down we were told that a plane was being sent from Indianapolis, and that it should arrive around 10. Why? Where was the plane we were supposed to have taken? What happened to it? No one knew. Then we were told it would arrive at 1030, meaning we would depart about a half-hour after that. Then it was pushed back another 20 minutes. This whole time, I had been debating asking someone for a cell phone so I could call home. Minor detail about being abroad for four and a half months: zero cell phone + zero cash for payphone = zero means of communication. I finally toughened up and asked the man next to me (who had been switching back and forth between a blackberry and a flip-phone all night) if I could borrow his phone. As I opened the flip-phone bestowed upon me, an announcement was made. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I regretfully inform you that the flight to Houston has been canceled. Please line up and we will rebook you.' Well, not much point in making that phone call now. At least not for a while.

I finally made it to the front of the line and I was tired and frustrated and not thinking straight. The woman told me my option, printed my ticket, and I hadn't agreed to anything yet. I asked if there was any way I could contact my family, and I received the supervisor's cell phone. What to do? I had been given an 1130am flight to Dallas, where I would have to take yet another flight to make it to Houston. At that point I couldn't even do the math for how high that would make my total hours of travel. I guess the supervisor was a multilingual eavesdropper as well, and after my phone call he spoke to me in Spanish, and offered me a 530am flight with a different airline. Ok. Better. Sucky, but better. But I had to wait until he finished helping someone else. Ok. Meanwhile, the person next to me was having some language troubles. It was that Russian man, and again, no one spoke Russian. But he spoke French. I told the woman I spoke some French; she gave me a cursory glance, and asked whether any of her coworkers spoke French. No one responded. She tried speaking loud English to the man. 'I don't understand,' he replied. Strangely assertive, I asked what the snafoo was, to see whether it was within the scope of my French. He wanted to call his son, and had given her a phone number, but with no area code. In what I admit was a terrible pidgin of French and Italian, I tried to explain to him that three numbers were missing, but while he understood what I was saying, didn't know what those numbers might be. Hmm. I suggested to the woman that they work their way through the three area codes. I wrote them down for her, and suddenly the man decisively proclaimed that it was 281. So, it turns out, it was not so much French that was necessary as a knowledge of Houston area codes, but I had enough of both and the man was grateful and he reached his son. Then it was my turn. I got the 530 flight. Now, I could pay to stay in a hotel and have to come back at three in the morning and go through security yet again, or I could sleep in the airport. Hmm. My decision-making skills had long since left me, but I opted to avoid more airport nonsense by spending more time in the airport. Time to find tomorrow morning’s gate.

Terminal 2, they said. I set out, and found myself behind a young airport employee pushing an elderly woman in her wheelchair, accompanied by her husband. I assumed that, given the emptiness of the airport, they were probably going the same place as me, and I followed. That could have been a bad idea, but thankfully it wasn’t – mostly. We got to Terminal 2 and realized that Continental was probably not there, despite our instructions. The boy pushing the wheelchair turned to ask me and I said yes, that was what I was looking for but no, I didn’t really know where it was. He asked around and we were redirected to Terminal 1. On our way there, we saw a sign that seemed to indicate that Continental was back the way we came, so we turned back. But it wasn’t. We turned back back to Terminal 1. There it was, at last. Having now seen all of O'Hare's terminals (it goes 1, 2, 3, 5), I hunkered down and tried to get some sleep amidst the sounds of the night crew’s vacuums and construction. Luckily, I was now well-past 24 hours and only supplied with about four hours of sleep, so neither noise nor discomfort could keep me from the shores of slumber. I woke every now and then, once to find the elderly man covering me up with one of his wife’s shawls. I tried to be appreciative, but in my semi-slumber I think at best I managed a sleepy smile. At 330 he woke me up, and then I was able to express my gratitude.

This third and final plane ride went off without a hitch, other than a 20-minute in-flight delay due to having to circumvent a nasty weather pattern. But, this story is not over yet. My suitcase stayed with American Airlines, my original intended carrier, and was supposed to come to Houston on their first available flight. So, once at the airport, I had to go to their office to make sure it would be mailed to me. After taking the unidirectional airport shuttle all the way around the airport just to get to the adjacent terminal, I found out that American Airlines would give my suitcase to Continental, who would then send it to me. So back to where I started. Continental and I worked it out, and the suitcase would be on its way.

So now, 36 hours after leaving Parma home, I am home home. I am getting used to the taste of real milk, which is at once familiar and yet strange. I am having to remember that toilets don’t flush via button on the top, anymore. I am readjusting to the idea of having a functional cell phone, with all the pros and cons that that entails. I am getting back into the nitty-gritty of Texas, with cheesy grits, local beer, Blue Bell ice cream, and Guatemalan home cooking. Houston gave me its humid hug the second I got off the airplane, and I smiled because there is nothing like it. Adelina is home, with pictures to share and stories to tell.

Onion fingers

Did you know: The discerning Parmesan palate can tell the difference between hand-grated and machine-grated Parmigiano-Reggiano.

For a city full of people who rarely make it to a nearby city, much less a neighboring country, a remarkable number of them profess to ‘♥ NY.’ Today, a cynic bore a different message on his chest. ‘NY doesn’t ♥ U.’ Well proclaimed, sir.

The weekend saw:
Going for gelato with Cristina and Jody. Definitely the best gelato I've had so far in Parma. Jody got some too. Seriously, this dog lives the good life. 
Liberation Day on the 25th with an outdoor concert and another exciting Panthers victory, this time against the Bologna Warriors. I sought the perfect pre-game busride music and, in the absence of 'Are you ready for some football?', I opted for CCR and the Black Keys. I needed some hearty American sounds. 

Dinner Monday was risotto… with strawberries. It was… pink. I don’t know how I feel about cooked strawberries, but if I avoided the chunks and seasoned it with the recommended black pepper instead of the usual Parmesan cheese, it was totally edible. After cleansing my palate with a copious amount of carrots and celery, it was apron time. A few days earlier I had gotten platanos (plantains) to make for the family (/myself if no one liked them, not that I would complain too much about that; more for me) and it was finally the moment of truth. Leti said it ‘had an effect on her’ to see me there, apron-clad, at her usual post before the stove. Washing, squeezing, peeling, slicing, and lots of frying later, it was actually the moment of truth. And… delicious. I was a little worried that no one else would like them, or perhaps worse, that they would feel obligated to pretend that they did like them, but it was pretty clear that the appreciation was sincere. Leti plans on making them in the future, perhaps as a novelty potluck item. I’m just glad to have been able to leave a bit of Guatemala in Parma, and a way for the family to keep me in mind and heart and stomach after I’m gone. Later, we added mangos to the fruity mix of the evening.
Up next is avocados and black beans.
I also got a new giant citrus, a honey pomelo, which lasted me several sittings. It was definitely more edible than the cedro.

I have now seen everyone’s bare feet except for Davide’s (but I think I would have to stay here at least another two months to see him as much as I have now seen everyone else. So statistically it would have happened by now.). No one has tried to apologize for their unseemly and unhygienic state. I am starting to wonder whether this was overhyped and I could have been blissfully barefoot all along.

I heard some serious revving today and turned around just in time to see a guy popping a wheelie. Purty cool.

A couple nights ago I had a dream of a not-unusual structure. Within some context or another, I am driving a car, and then the brakes don’t work. Sometimes, I can slow down but never fully stop, and sometimes they have no effect whatsoever. Despite red lights and other cars, I never crash, but I never stop. This time, I kid you not, I looked down at my speedometer and it said I was going 1000 miles (or perhaps kilometers!) (or whatever unit of distance) per hour. I remember thinking, wow, I didn’t think I was going that fast. Anyway, this one is easy to read. Time is going by too quickly, and I want it to slow down. Six days. Read that again. Less than a week. Until I leave Parma. Until I leave home. What?

I finally started doing what I meant to be doing all along. Tonight, I learned how to make pasta and tomato sauce, the Italian way. With some mysterious brown on the outside, purple on the inside, white on the inner inside, tear-shaped onions. It turned out well, and Leti actually let me do everything, instead of just showing me and having me watch. Everyone said they were good, and I guess I am not the most confident chef, because I wasn’t sure whether to believe them. But, Cri is a very particular eater, and she seemed earnest when she said it was good. Leti wanted more and gave me a thumbs up when she discovered that there was still some left in the pot. So, either they’re good actors; I’m gullible, or, as I choose to believe, it really was good. I mean, obviously I ate it too, but coming from people who claim to be able to taste the difference between hand-grated and machine-grated cheese, they would be more likely to take up issue with any of my cooking flaws. Paolo did say it tasted different, somehow, and I agreed and was ok with that. I have noticed that no two people can make the same dish really the same. It’s like the flavor of the person goes into the food.

Alina arrived on Monday! That afternoon we got her acclimated and oriented and had some gelato. Tuesday I was free all day so we had plenty of time to spend together. I practiced my tour guide routine, in Italian this time. We went to a panini place and I had a horse sandwich so she could close her eyes and hold her breath and have a taste.
I think at some point early on in the blog I mentioned that I had the desire to go an entire day without speaking English. Alina made my dream come true, or as close to true as I think I will get. We did use the occasional English word, but we definitely did not have any English conversations. We went to the movie theater and saw an Italian movie, but for some reason there was one random character who kept switching back and forth from Italian and English, though he was obviously not a native English speaker. Last week I watched a movie on TV solely because the blurb said it took place in Houston, and I hoped that I would be able to show my family some scenes of Houston. Instead, the ‘Texanest’ things in the movie were a cow phone that mooed, a mailbox painted like a jersey cow, a couple of Texas license plates, and maybe some Tecate. There were also lots of guns involved, but that was relevant to the plot, not Texas. They didn’t even bother to throw in a Houston skyline for good measure. Instead, I later found out, the whole thing was filmed in Los Angeles. I have no idea why they bothered to set it in ‘Houston,’ or felt that that was relevant enough to be included in the synopsis. So, imagine my surprise when, all of a sudden in the midst of this Italian movie yesterday, there appeared a pair of ‘Texan’ characters.
Today Alina did some touring on her own and came to watch my final presentation (I’m (mostly) done with classes and classwork!) and I was fortunate to have her and Leti’s smiling faces offering me silent support. We had lunch at home and took pictures on the infamous Six on the way to her departure.

Kicking and screaming

This football game included many more graying heads and receding hairlines than they normally do. Players’ birth years ranged from 1966 to 1991. Jeering at the team’s Old Man Winter would turn several heads – if any of them understood you. This game included some slightly unusual cheers, like De-Fense, Go! and Of-Fense, Go! Only one of the teams had a cheerleading squad, whom the announcer thanked after every cheer. Some of these ladies, in their turtlenecks, could have used a couple more rehearsals before the game. With a final score of 47-44, and way way more two-point conversions than normal, it included a lot more points than many games. Conclude what you will about the quality of the defense. This field was shorter than standard, with ten yards between the two forty-yard lines. It included some really low punts and some barely-made extra points. In sum, this was the best football game ever.

On this perfectly sunny day in March – with more flowers and fewer people than football usually sees, too – the Parma Panthers triumphed over neighboring rivals, the Reggio Hogs. The game started with a low wobbly kick and if this seemed to portend the quality of the game to come, the assumption was at once accurate and erroneous. The offense charged forward, converting after almost every play. The Hogs squeezed in a field goal and in no time at all the Panthers responded with seven. Speaking of time and scores, that was up to you to keep track of. When asked where the scoreboard was, I joked that it is in your head. Shouldn’t be too hard, right? Well, when each team flies across the field, Parma with its golden-handed receivers and “tiny but swift” running backs, and Reggio with its unstoppable giant of a quarterback, the numbers start to become a blur. At the third quarter, Parma was maintaining a comfortable cushion, closing at 24 to 16.

With the start of the fourth quarter, however, Reggio’s dreaded dreaded quarterback, charged the Hogs forward, dreads flying, to a score of 32-31, moving Panthers fans to start yelling to the hapless defenders, “grab him by the ponytail!” Suddenly, this game that at the start seemed like it would be one of those games where the fans get to calmly love their team was one where you couldn’t look away. If there were an electric current running through the seats, no one would have noticed; they were jumping to their feet with every play. Even worse than the impossibility of remembering the score, whose ambiguous closeness only added to the suspense, was trying to keep track of game time. How are you supposed to avoid delay of game penalties when you don’t have a play clock? How long can fans gnaw their nails when they know the fourth quarter is drawing to a close but have no idea by how much? Maybe Parma could at least invest in a sundial, provided you could convince the sun to stop at the right times. And why wouldn't the sun cooperate? This is football, after all.

A smattering of Hogs fans, seated in the midst of a larger smattering of Parma fans, would not be out-yelled. Mostly, one particular Hogs fan would not be out-yelled. Fortunately, a Panthers-loving young lady brought her drum, with which she rallied her fellow fans – or at least the ones who weren’t busy chain smoking. Other grizzled Panthers fans cheered on their balding buddies, perhaps co-workers, who gave their aged sweat to the team. All kinds of colorful expressions were flying through the air. Spectator mothers gave their benched sons thumbs up. A player ejected from the game earlier on alternated between smoking, pacing, and rattling the fence. Voices were giving out, right and left. Anxious fans were yelling at the announcer’s booth to reveal how much time was left. How much longer did we have to hold our breath? An impossibly long three minutes after five minutes was announced, there were two minutes left on the clock and Parma had the ball. Fans started high-fiving anyone in their vicinity after every successful play. The Panthers locked it down with a touchdown, which put them a point up. The man in front of me did a jig. The Panthers went for the two-point conversion and, after their success, the man in front of us grabbed my dad’s stomach and gave it a celebratory jiggle, before commencing the high-fives all around. It was over! We had won!
Oh wait, it wasn’t. There was still a still unknown but surely small amount of time left on the invisible clock. With a few spiked balls and some solid Hail Marys, the Hogs might still have a chance. The game came down to the wire, and the lackadaisical springtime feelings of the early afternoon were long forgotten. Parma’s defense remembered that they had feet and should run with them and bodies that they should tackle with, and the Hogs were held at bay. Panthers received the ball, spiked, and celebrated. It was a storybook finish, a book come to life. What year is better than one in which I get to have two football seasons?



Infinite thanks to John Grisham's Playing for Pizza for making this possible in my life. For once in my Italian life, I didn't care about being loud and invasively American. This was football!
For more game details visit the Panthers' website
Good luck understanding the botched translation.

Mixellaneous

When I got gelato with Vicky I had a rather amusing and gratifying experience. Thanks to the perpetual confusion about the proper order of things, when we tried to place our order, we were sent to the end of the line because we were supposed to have paid first (though I'm pretty sure the last time I was there I paid second). Anyway, probably because of our confusion, she assumed that we were not Italian, and so when we approached a second time, receipts in hand, she tried to inquire about our cup/cone preference in English. I responded in Italian, and her face underwent about five transformations of shock. Oh! She never explained it, but it was clear that all of a sudden she realized that this 'silly tourist' actually spoke 'perfect Italian.'
Success.

Graduations happen three times a year here, and when you graduate, you wear a crown of laurels. You spend the day at bars with your friends, who find ways to good-naturedly humiliate you all day long. For example, when my sister's friend graduated, they dressed him up in a giant diaper made of a bedsheet, put him in a grocery cart, and pushed him all around town and the main square. If you don't know about this, you may be confused by the leafy crowns and tomfoolery you seem to find everywhere. We inadvertently found ourselves in the middle of a private graduation party, but no one seemed to care. They were too busy lofting the grad onto their shoulders, blocking the exit we were subtly trying to approach, and taking pictures.

Dear Six,
Really? Really? I was writing you a love letter on my way to meeting you, to say how glad I was that we had finally figured each other out, that I might be willing to call you more than a friend, that I appreciate you. Even if you have now been truncated and don't take me exactly where I want to go anymore, I know that's not your fault. And then you had to go and mess with what we had going for us. I was early, but you were earlier, and I got stood up. You're always playing games with me and I'm tired of it. If my train hadn't been delayed, I would have missed out on a lot, all thanks to you. At this point, the only thing I can say in your favor is that, while you toy with my emotions, you haven't made any attempts on my life. I love Five, but two accidents is two too many.
Peace.

Despite the fact that 'I Gotta Feeling' is practically mandatory at every party and everyone sings along, apparently it is not mandatory to know what you are singing. I have now been asked several times what the song is about.
Lady Gaga or, more specifically, Bad Romance, is so popular everyone hates it. It seems like marketing executives show up at meetings and say, 'Hey, what's that song that is on all those other commercials?' 'Oh, Bad Romance? Yeah, that's a great song.' 'Why don't we use that in our commercial, too. It's popular, so our product will be popular.' 'Great idea! Let's go for it!' So good luck going a day without hearing the lilting strains of 'Ra ra ah ah ah. Ro ma ro ma ma...'. If ad execs aren't using this, they're using some seriously arbitrary or misguided American music, cutting it off right before it gets weird, not that many people here would notice. An ING commercial has snippets from the Gorillaz's Clint Eastwood, which may or may not have drug references in lyrics that manage to still be heard as the music and commercial fades out. An Audi commercial features the song, The Cat Came Back, which my tandem partner liked so much she put it onto a CD. I never knew how gruesome the song's lyrics really are.

If I have understood correctly, it is now illegal to use 'gay' or 'woman' as a derogatory term. Ergo, you can't say things like, 'you drive like a woman' or 'that's so gay.' Punishable by fine? Don't ask me for more specifics; I don't know them.

One of my students says his grandfather is one of the people responsible for bringing baseball to Parma (Italy?). When I asked him whether he likes any American teams, his response, of course, was the Yankees. But he also likes the Patriots, so what can I do?

There doesn't seem to be a taboo about talking about money. I have been asked how much my house cost, to share with the class how much my cellphone plan in the US costs, and the price of pretty much anything else I have bought here. Other friends of mine have been asked about their parents' incomes.

Zodiac signs are somewhat more relevant here than in the US. My host mom asked me mine on the first day here. Your horoscope is part of the morning news, right before the weather report (which usually only includes today and tomorrow, not the whole week.) People are always asking you your sign, and not in the cheesy pickup line kind of way. I can't figure out why, though, because it doesn't seem like they put particular stock in any of the expected traits associated with them.

A few posts ago I mentioned that I saw a da Vinci in Parma's museum. What I did not mention in my hurried conclusion was that it is the selfsame Portrait of a Woman that is at the center of the movie Ever After. Just thought I should put that out there, for the many of us who loved that movie back in the day.

A weekend of Vicktry

03. 12. 10
Toschi again this morning for two English classes. The first one was with  teacher who was new to me, and she wanted me to ‘help her’ aka teach/lead some exercises. Again, students obviously couldn’t have cared less, and pretty much no one had done the homework we were supposed to be going over. She wanted me to help them review ‘the first form of the conditional.’ (If this is as unfamiliar to you as it was to me, an example would be: ‘if it rains today, I will stay inside.’) Some of the kids could not get what they were supposed to be doing, and most of them were just completely disengaged. I had to reach into my teacherly bag o’ tricks. I finally got the ball rolling a little by having one student make up the first half of the sentence and then pick a classmate to complete it with the second clause. Then this person got to start the next sentence. This broadened the participation and kept me from having to call on people, which is hard to do when you don’t know people’s names and can’t point because students won’t look at you. My technique worked well enough, but students were either not motivated enough or they weren’t able to come up with clauses on the fly, so it was a little stilted.

My next class was with my now-favorite teacher. As I stood in the front of the class, waiting for the teacher to show up, a girl walked by and said to her friend, ‘esta chica no la conozco’ (I don’t know this girl). Shortly thereafter she and her friend came over to say hi and ask whether I was on ‘interculture,’ essentially an exchange student, and I explained. I also asked her, in Spanish, whether she spoke Spanish, not so much to call her out on her previous comment, to which I had not taken any offense, but to start up conversation in Spanish. Nonetheless, she felt very embarrassed about her offhanded comment that had been made assuming that I wouldn’t understand her. She turned out to be Chilean, and we had a rapid-fire conversation switching back and forth between Spanish and Italian and maybe even a little English, as needed, which would have made my head spin had I taken the time to think about it. Anyway, this class went by quickly, and was small enough and had enough interested people to keep it lively. The teacher asked me to read them an article about the birth of hip-hop culture, and then make up some comprehension questions to ask them.

Throughout the week, I have found myself in several situations that make me feel like I know nothing about the mechanics of my language or the structure of my country. If somebody said, ‘explain your educational system,’ how would you respond? It’s not that I know nothing about it, it’s just that it is such an insanely broad question. Now factor in the fact that the people listening have the ability to understand maybe half of the words that come out of your mouth. I can’t just say, ‘I don’t know;’ I have to answer something. I have this scenario that flashes into my mind when I face a question I feel unprepared to answer:
I rattle off my logic-based assumptions and generalizations as though they were certain truths. Some time later, one of the students encounters someone else and has a conversation regarding this topic. The other person says something different than what I taught. My listener authoritatively counters that ‘an American told him so’ and therefore he must be right. Further research uncovers a very different answer than what I gave. It is concluded that that crazy American girl had no idea what she was talking about.

Anyway, home for lunch and all that. I actually managed to start my paper probably around way too late o’clock.


03. 13. 10
I wake up at a decent time and actually manage to do some work and cleaning before the big moment. Around three I head to the train station and shortly after my arrival a one Miss Victoria Fantastic rounds the bend and the sun breaks out from behind the clouds and angels sing. But really. It was hard to believe that three short days ago I was wading through snow. The sun had come and melted most of it away, such that save for a few dirty white patches you wouldn’t know Parma wasn’t in the throes of glorious spring. After some arbitrary wandering I passed off as sightseeing, we arrived at Café Chagall. It was the first place I went in Parma, and I suggested an Italian-style hot chocolate to Vicky. Cappuccino for me (shocking!) and a mug full of melted chocolate topped with whipped cream and cocoa powder for Vicky. And then the talking commenced. Needless to say, we had a lot of catching up to do, and catch up we did. We spent at least as many hours there as I put sugar packets in my coffee. Eventually we decided it was time to head home, but swung by the grocery store to grab some 'thank you for hosting me' wine and some drinks of our own. On the bus, Vicky gets the pleasure of experiencing fifteen minutes in the life of a sardine. Even better, we get to ride around next to the wide-open rear door. I’d seen it happen before, but I’d never been the one watching the pavement zip by, inches from my feet. We arrive home just in time to see everyone leaving. We cook for ourselves, meaning Vicky cooks, and she falls in love with the kitchen. We have leftover pasta, fresh pasta, scrambled eggs and pancetta, leftover spinach, and my contribution of sliced mozzarella and tomatoes with oregano and olive oil. We then met Matt for a night out. Vicky and I got dolled up and I finally wore the dress I bought during my first week here. For the irony of it, we went to Irish, a – you guessed it – Irish pub. There, after enjoying a Guinness, I had the pleasure (?) of being called upon to defend Houston and America as a whole to a drunken Italian fellow. Even if we never made it to anything close to an agreement, I got to practice several of the argumentative Italian gestures I have acquired so far.


03. 14. 10
Vicky and I woke up reasonably early and went to the modern church west of my house. It is a big gray cement spiral that could almost look like a prison were it not for the cross cut out of one side, and it has held my curiosity for quite a while. The interior had some beautiful paintings and some interesting lighting effects from the windows, but left much to be desired after the intriguing exterior. Also, the acoustics were really not optimal.

Afterward, we decided to head into town on a quest for horse. Unfortunately, afternoons in Parma, especially Sunday afternoons, tend to mean everything is closed. After wandering around looking for a place whose exact location I did not know, we caved and went to a pizza place. Because things weren’t open yet, we decided to go shopping. Whoopee! A successful endeavor for the both of us. Next, I took Vicky on ‘the tour,’ and gave her a condensed regurgitation of our lectures regarding the Duomo/cathedral, the Baptistery, two other churches, and the plazas and their namesakes. Maybe I should get a job as a multilingual tour guide. We saw a street performer and were treated to an impressive yet creepy accordion rendition of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. We freshened up with some heavenly gelato: pepper chocolate and berry for me and orange chocolate and mango for Vicky. Sunday ended up being full of the most stereotypical Italian/Italian touring activities: pizza, gelato, churches, and shopping. Italian indeed.

When we came home, Vicky took a nap and I finally finished off my paper. Tonight, we would be having dinner with the family, and Letizia went all out. Risotto alla Milanese, peas and carrots, a pork roast, bread and cheese, and an Easter cake shaped like a dove (colomba). The wine we brought, a Parmesan Lambrusco, was well received. With gestures, miming, and my translations, a successful conversation accompanied our splendid feast.


03. 15. 10
I had morning classes at Toschi, so I left my darling Vicky bright and early. First I had two periods of graphic design, but people were still finishing up their projects, so I was left to my own devices. I had been instructed to bring my laptop, so I fiddled around on photoshop, developing some ideas for what I ultimately want to do in this class. Near the end of class the teacher came over and said, ‘oh tell me what this beautiful thing is that you are doing!’ So began several minutes of ego inflating. I told him I wanted to work with some of my pictures and make either an alphabet using my pictures of Italy or maybe make illuminated letters or something like that. He asked to see my pictures and marveled and cooed over all of them. What an eye! What good taste! What strong images! Excellent! And so on. Yay me.

Next was English class, and I sat in the back with a handful of advanced students. We talked some, but the problem with a conversation is that only one person can talk at a time, which means that everyone else disengages. I get more and more respect for teachers every day, but at the same time I feel like on some level it is the teachers’ behavior that has taught students that their behavior is acceptable.

After class I met Vicky in the main plaza. Quest for horsemeat, take two. Due to the limited time available and the fact that I still didn’t know the exact location of the restaurant that serves horse sandwiches, we opted for the horse butcher. We got a neat little pack of ground meat and, on our way back, spotted some irresistible strawberries. Vicky has now gotten to experience some of the several examples of what to Americans seems like bizarre Italian behavior. Sometimes, you order and pay first, then get your food. Sometimes you order first, then sit and eat, and then pay. Good luck trying to figure out which one to do, when. At this little grocer’s shop, like at most others, you stand there until somebody offers to help, and they come over from the cash wrap to grab the tub of strawberries that are right next to you, and take them back to where they were so they can wrap them and charge you. The strawberries were fantastic. We arrive back home to lunch, which was pasta and a quiche-like tart and our horsemeat and more colomba. With that, it is time to go, alas. We take Vicky to the airport and say our goodbyes.

Afterward, I had a little time to catch up on my homework before heading to class. Apparently, I was more tired than I knew. We were to watch Roma Città Aperta, the quintessential Italian neorealist film, but as the lights dimmed so did my consciousness. I managed to stay awake long enough to appreciate the fact that I could now understand pretty much everything, unlike the first time I watched it several years ago, and I coincidentally found myself awake for many of the major scenes, but other than that I was out like the lights.

Stories of snow and students

3. 08. 10
Just a couple of weeks and I’m out of practice with getting up bright and early. To be fair, bright and early was never as early as seven thirty. Time to discover what the Toschi fates had in store for me. Apparently, good things. Despite my least favorite introduction as The American (or in fact, probably because of it), all the kids seemed delighted to have me in their class. I made a friend in Chiara, who proceeded to offer to show me the ropes of the class and gave me a list of places to go and things to do in Parma. She told me she was going to New York and I recommended some museums and stores to her. My previous apprehensive predictions of moody, ‘too cool for school’ teens was unfounded. After two hours of sitting around in the graphic design class, I finally discovered the true nature of my term at Toschi. Other than those two hours, all of my other shifts will be spent helping to teach English. Today, to a bunch of first years. I was kind of shocked by how the class was allowed to behave. Students made no efforts to be dissembling in their disrespectfulness, and were constantly chattering amongst themselves. The teacher suggested that they would all probably have questions for me, and encouraged them to each ask me a question. She also asked me to draw a map of the US on the board, demarcating Texas and Houston, so that everyone would know where it was.  After a while, it became apparent which students bore the winning combination of good English skills and outgoingness, one girl in particular. From there, the class quickly became an exchange between her, me, and the teacher. The rest of the students did their own thing.

We started watching Stagecoach in my cinema history class, and the dubbed Italian tried to emulate the hokeyness of the original English, much to my amusement and slight confusion.

Today is the International Women’s Day which, even though it started because of events in the US, is celebrated much more in other countries. Here, it is traditional for men to give women a certain yellow flower and then for the women to go out for a girl’s night. This might just be dinner with your mom or your friends, or going to a male strip show, which happens at pretty much every bar/club in town.


3. 09. 10
Take two at Toschi. This time it was an older group of kids. I redrew my map and answered more of the same sort of questions. This time, though, the kids were way more uninterested. When the teacher asked one student if there was anything he was interested in asking, he looked at her point blank and said, ‘honestly, I have no interest whatsoever.’ Ouch. Ok.

We finished Stagecoach today, watching the rest in English, and it turns out the characters spoke so funnily that for a while I had to use the Italian subtitles as a crutch to understand the English before I got used to it.

Tonight we saw that Hurt Locker was on, and since it was so awarded we decided to watch it. I realized that the only best picture nominated films I saw for this Oscar season I have seen in Italian (this and Avatar).

I am constantly amazed by Italian language and regional identity. Please allow me a (hopefully brief) linguistic foray. Despite Italy’s really long history, a unified Italy and the Italian language have not even existed for two hundred years. Every region has its own dialect, which is still spoken, and southern dialects are completely incomprehensible to northerners. (A great example of how the distinction between dialect and language is more often politically based rather than linguistically based.) Anyway, in addition to this, there are also, naturally, various accents detectable in spoken ‘standard’ Italian. Here, it amazes me that my host parents can identify the exact region or even city of origin of a speaker within a minute after they start speaking. We have accents too in the US too, though our speech is much more homogenized thanks to the prevalence of TV and ‘neutral’ pronunciation, but while I may be able to tell that someone speaks differently, it is rare that I can so confidently ascertain someone’s origins so precisely. While part of this is that there is a more definite distinction, it also requires being familiar with which differences correlate to which region.


3. 10. 10
Yesterday, I thought I might have earned my snow legs, since as I saw that snow was starting to fall, I had no reaction whatsoever (other than reiterating to myself that it was probably a bad idea have wet hair while standing outside for 15 minutes waiting for the bus). I figured that once you lose a sense of excitement about snow, you’ve been around it long enough. Having seen this light swirling sprinkle that didn’t even stick, it was hard for me to believe the woman who later told me that there was an expected snowfall of 40cm. Snow is sneaky like that. As we watched Hurt Locker last night, we could see the snow starting pile up on the leaves outside. So far, with the light ‘rain’ we had been having, invisible until you’re in it, my window was only useful for determining whether it is sunny. Now, I have discovered that it is also useful for determining whether it is snowing and/or whether it has snowed.

Today, I can no longer say that I felt no excitement in regards to the snow. I wondered whether I might have my first real snow day. I kind of hoped that class wouldn’t be secretly cancelled, since I was already on my way. Parma was like a white ghost town, and I was the only passenger on my bus. Things were so backed up it took almost twice as long to make it to class and we actually caught up with the bus that left before ours, ten minutes prior. There were fewer than 25 of us in a class that easily tops a hundred, but the professor lauded us for being here today and for showing up in general, since attendance is not in the least bit mandatory, though surely advantageous.

This morning I had the presence of mind to bring my camera with me, for once, and I took several pictures. (Link under the photo album listing on the right, also pictures of my citrus fruit.) I wandered through the park taking pictures on the way back to my stop, and I was lucky enough to make it there just as the bus was pulling up, so I didn’t even have to wait.

When it is snowing:
Have you ever wanted to see how an iceberg forms? Watch a car with a foot of snow in it’s roof brake, and you’ll have a pretty good idea, though lacking the splash.
In need of a good boot polishing? After crunching through 35 centimeters of snow, they will emerge as clean and shiny as new. Also, after crunching through so much snow, thigh-high boots suddenly seem almost practical, and tales of people skiing around town seem quite logical. 
Don’t stand under trees heavily laden with snow.

For the record, our wintry weather patterns come to us from Siberia. Sweet. This is the biggest/longest/worst blizzard in several years. They defined blizzard as ‘those things that usually happen in Canada.’ I guess they don’t happen very often in Italy, but our entire region (state) is blanketed, and Ravenna is flooded by a swollen sea (when I told this to someone earlier today, I called it the ocean and was told very vehemently that it is the SEA; there is no ocean).

A few hours later: I have now seen yellow snow, courtesy of dogs. All of my shoes are wet inside.

We had a really interesting strange curious lecture on immigration today, complete with an immigrant to interview! (please note the presence of sarcasm) Olga, from Moldova, somehow managed to exist on both poles of perspectives regarding immigration issues, and consequently I couldn’t decide whether to agree with her or completely disagree. ‘Americans don’t understand what it’s like. It might be difficult or expensive to move to another country, but for people from a poor country it is practically impossible.’ ‘If immigrants weren’t criminals, Italians wouldn’t think so lowly of them. It is their own fault that they are marginalized by society.’ I am looking forward to the completely uncontroversial lecture we will be having tomorrow, on Parmesan food.

I have a paper due ‘today’/by the end of this week, and I keep telling myself I will work on it. Instead, I got a call from my host sister asking whether I wanted to see Alice in Wonderland with her. I weigh the likelihood of me doing any work or just ending up sitting at home wasting time and decide to go for it. In retrospect, it may or may not be the best idea to try to watch a dubbed movie that is mostly gibberish in its original language. Also, ciciarampa (chicharampa) ≠ jabberwocky. Still, it was fun.


3. 11. 10
Snow was not so much fun today. It decided to be sunny, which meant that the world was drippy and soggy and the crisp white snow was brown and gross. As much as I appreciate snowplows, I wish that they could do their duty without obliterating sidewalks and making it so inconvenient to transition from sidewalk to street. I do not like plunging into knee-deep brown barriers of snow. I also do not like being splashed by cars. Never in my life until twice today. Thanks guys.

Today was the day of all days. Early start and back and forth across town all day long. I woke up at 645 (!) so that I could be at Toschi by eight. I was to teach English with a different teacher, and she decided to sit back and relax after introducing me. She suggested that they ask me questions, but pretty much left it at that. Luckily, I had been warned by other American students that this sometimes happens, otherwise I might have been quite taken aback. Instead I took charge. For some reason, the classroom is really deep, and of course all of the students were sitting as far away as possible. I knew that I would never succeed in engaging them if I stayed behind the teacher’s desk. So, I walked over and joined them. If you had to guess two topics that I can talk about endlessly, what would they be? If you guessed Texas and Linguistics, you would be right. (Football would also be a good guess, but is probably less interesting and requires more explanation and confusing visualization.) Anyway, I was pretty proud of myself for being able to hold their interest and talk about things that drew questions from students. Several more participated than usual. I also asked them questions to get everyone to participate at least every now and then. If I have to be up so early, I am glad to be with a class like this one. They asked why I had chosen to work at an art school instead of doing something more relevant to my linguistic interests. Umm, because I didn’t have much of a choice. No, not what I said. I said that every time I talk to someone in Italian, they are helping me learn, and I want to return the favor. Furthermore, hearing the mistakes Italians make when speaking English reveals differences in grammatical structure that in turn help me learn about Italian. All true.

My next class was a bunch of youngsters. I wondered whether this teacher would have me draw the map for a third time, but instead she culled a group of students to go with me and practice conversation in another room. These kids were a little harder to get involved, even if they were good at English. Again, one girl who spoke and understood best seemed to dominate. I was happy to practice with her, but I didn’t want the other kids to sit around for an hour. I came up with what I thought were fairly interesting questions, but they mostly stuck to basic answers. At the very least, I imagined that asking about their favorite and least favorite classes might yield some useful complaining, but alas not much. Since they were all architecture students, I asked what they would build if they could build anything anywhere. My house. A skyscraper. A soccer stadium. In New York City. In Milan. Next. Oh well, at least I got them all to talk.

Then I rushed over to the opposite side of town for the food lecture, after which I rushed home for a quick lunch. Horse again! I won’t be able to finish a whole horse while here, but maybe a leg?

Then back to Toschi. More helping with the kids preparing for the test. One guy sat next to me and pretty much asked me to check each answer before he submitted it. How do you explain to someone how or why something is wrong without giving the answer. Also, you try doing these exercises. Do you know what the present perfect simple tense is, or what the present perfect continuous is? Can you explain them? Try a sample question:

They knew he ________ at his computer because there were crumbs all over his desk. Use the verb ‘to eat.’

Would you say ‘had been eating,’ ‘had eaten,’ or ‘ate?’ It doesn’t help that they are learning British English, which means that there are arbitrary things that don’t make any sense to me.

One guy kept looking over and I thought he might be having trouble. When I went over to check on him, it turned out he is really good at English and was in fact just super bored and hoping to do some conversation instead of exercises on the computer. Also, he much prefers the American accent to the British accent. So, even though at first it seemed like Sky and I would be pointlessly sitting in the computer lab ‘in case anyone had any questions’ it was not as dull as I expected.

In Italian, instead of saying something is nice, literally, people say something is pretty. So, when we were asking these students about school during last week's English class, one boy replied that he thought it was not so pretty to talk about school, and that it would be prettier to discuss Saturday night activities. In Italian, as far as I know, there isn’t a single word that means the same thing as ‘funny.’ Consequently, when I told someone that I thought the exercises they were doing were a little funny to me because of the differences between British and American English, he thought I was saying that they were fun, with which he disagreed. Just some little observations that amuse me.

Today, I met three (male) Andreas and two Fabios. I also had an epic three hour nap.

America in four questions

3. 02. 10
Having no class in the morning, Matt and Ellie and I met up to study for our test on Thursday. After our meeting that resulted in little studying but in my acquiring of Matt’s notes, I swung by a store I had seen several times and wanted to visit. Lover of fruits and lover of culinary exploration that I am, I had been longing to try a cedro, a mysterious, gigantic, lemon-looking fruit. The most expensive piece of fruit I have ever bought, at 4.8 €/kg, which this weighed. I got home and Lety thought it was hilarious. She asked if I paid 20 for it. She also couldn’t believe how big it was. Subsequent wikipedia research has revealed that it is what we call a citron in English, and it may or may not actually be pleasantly edible in it’s current form. Never fear, one way or another, I will prevail. They are originally from Asia but also grow in Calabria, Italy. What I do know is that for now it is rock hard and rather daunting. We will wait a while and see what happens.


3. 04. 10
After my test and a swift lunch of horse, I was off to Toschi for my first day of CBSL. Sky and I were to help teach an English class. Toschi is an art high school, and I had to laugh because apparently art kids are art kids no matter where you are. Plaid, combat boots, piercings, and crazy hair.  One girl, aptly named Azzurra (Azure) had short dark hair on one side of her head, long bleached dreads, and faded blue hair on top. All that was missing was a smattering of goths. They seemed like a happy bunch, and we had fun chatting for ‘five minutes’ that turned out to be an hour, while their teacher went to set up their CD in the computer lab. I explained y’all to them, and they asked about Texas and whether it is a big desert. I’m not quite sure where that conception comes from (tumbleweeds?) but it comes up a lot.

Then home for just over an hour and a nap and a nightmare and then on to class. It occurred to me that I might be able to actually get of one stop after I usually do and be closer to my destination, so I gave it a try. Note to self: don’t experiment with new routes when you are already running late. In my defense, I thought it might be a shortcut, but I turned out to be wrong.

My next stint home got me an unexpected ride to Leonardo’s house for the dinner he was hosting. There, I had my first real ‘you are American let me interview you on everything I think is American’ experience. The questions I faced:
So NASA is in Houston. What else is there? Is that it?
(follow-up questions included, what is the population of NYC?)
Is it true that in the US if you don’t have health insurance they won’t treat you? If you are taken to the hospital after a car accident and it turns out you don’t have it will they send you back to the scene of the accident to die?
How does your car insurance work?
And most importantly:
Where does Brittney Spears live?



As a side note, I have happily expanded my knowledge of Italian to include some sign language. Elections are coming up so every day there is a long instructional thing on tv that also has an interpreter. My host mom thinks I am fascinated with their electoral procedures, but in fact I am busy trying to figure out signs. I now know ‘candidate,’ ‘elect/choose,’ and ‘name’ and ‘surname.’ The last two are of particular interest because I know their ASL equivalent and can compare them.


3. 05. 10
This evening, Ellie and Matt and I met up with Richard, who helped pair us with our tandem partners, and went to a wine place, an enoteca. There was a thousand-euro bottle of champagne on the menu. Richard told us about some of his favorite places around town, and we looked forward to trying out his recommendations. Originally, the plan had been to meet up at this place and hang out for a while before going to a club or something. Instead, we ended up staying until past one thirty.


3. 06. 10
I met went to the library to meet Matt for lunch after his stint reading to children, and to renew my lease on my two books. As I stood before the front desk, I realized I didn’t know how to say renew or check out, but luckily the woman ahead of me wanted to do the same, so I was able to pick up the necessary vocab just in time. Matt had never had horsemeat, so we set out in search of Richard’s favorite equine butcher. First we went to a place that serves these great artichoke panini and ended up getting two for the price of one. Next all the way down to the bottom of Farini for two etti (hundred grams) of ground horsemeat. On our way back I was struck by a desire for beer, what better to go with raw meat? And so I picked up another Moretti at the grocery store next to Matt’s house. He liked the horse, even if there was a nagging little part of his brain that was not so cool with him eating raw meat. Matt had really been wanting to go to the Citadel, and I was curious so I was game to go a-hunting for it. We overshot it on the bus and even though I still fail to be properly oriented in Parma at all times, I do know how to read a map and memorize a trajectory, so I successfully led the way. It ended up being, essentially, a really large park enclosed by ancient walls. It was a beautifully sunny, crisp day, and it was nice to be able to just sit outside and do some people- and dog-watching.

Richard invited several of us to go out for dinner, but I was the only one who didn't have pre-existing plans. He and Nikki picked me up and we went to Twickenham, a vast pub and pool hall, where we met up with several friends of his. I was famished and it was time to give in and be American. I got a hamburger with an egg on top and, unexpectedly, four little French fries in the midst of the ketchup under the bun. I also went with the recommended beer pairing – this place had three beer menus, too many to choose from – and was pleasantly surprised. I guess you know a beer’s got to be good if its name is so German it sounds like not one but four sneezes and includes the word Oktoberfest. Even better, when it arrived, I discovered that I would be drinking beer out of a proper stein. After this I was still hankering for some grub, so I got a piadina, and unlike the one in Ravenna this one had a much thinner bread. I’ve been told it differs from place to place. We watched the Roma v. Milan game, and had a good time just chatting it up and hanging out.


3. 07. 10
Today I went to mass at Maria Annunziata. You would think that after a while churches would all start to look the same, and maybe they would if you saw all sixty of Parma’s in one day, but as it is this church was still quite beautiful, despite how many I have seen. Certainly more modest than the cathedrals, but resplendent nonetheless. Home for lunch and Cristina asked whether I would be interested in going to Milan to do some shopping. Sure!

On the way we stopped by an AutoGrill, which as my sister said, if you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all. It’s true. An AutoGrill is like a super-sized Stop and Go. It is a gas station and has multiple stories that include a shop and a restaurant and such, like an über rest-stop. Also, they are structured so that you have to go through the entire store before you can exit. Until we went in, I had forgotten that I had been in one seven years prior on my first stint in Italy. Despite my best efforts, I fell asleep afterward until we arrived in Milan. The only way I can describe Milan is like New York City, or New York City plus Paris, because it has the city hustle and bustle I associate with NYC but of course with a very European inflection. The Duomo was breathtaking, though our visit was brief. Out in front, there was a piano installation on an underground stairway, and I made music with my feet. Despite the description of the invitation, we didn’t do much shopping. Still, I got to see a) the overwhelmingly expensive window displays and b) a couple of overwhelmingly large multi-story stores. As I say every time, I hope to be able to return, and really see Milan. We stayed for aperitivo, which was a huge buffet of everything from marshmallows to meatballs to baked pasta to bacon.

Unfortunately no pictures from Milan because I forgot my camera/was only expecting to be shopping.