How to learn a language

It is amazing how much information is conveyed metalinguistically, that is to say, aside from the words. You could have next to no idea what someone is saying to you, but know exactly how to react. Be shocked, surprised, impressed, concerned, or congratulatory. For the most part, you'll know. The one thing I had trouble with was questions. 'Are you asking me or telling me' was an unexpectedly common refrain of mine. My host mom also got really good at identifying my 'I have no idea what you are saying but I don't want to let on that I don't understand' face, and finding a way to re-explain.

Sometime between some time and another, I became almost fluent in Italian. I remember watching Italian films in Claremont and relying heavily on the subtitles, but days after I got here I was watching movies with no problem. How?

A friend of mine told me that one of the more frustrating things about using a language that is not your own is the fact that it hinders wordplay. It is a lot harder to be witty when you don't fully know how words interact, or when you don't have the quickness necessary for proper comedic timing.

I learn new words Every Day. Every Day. Sometimes I forget those words when I want to say them, but the next time I hear them, I can slowly sift through my mental files and remember what they mean. Yesterday I learned that a 'sunny side up' egg is called 'occhio di bue,' or 'ox's' eye.' I hear new expressions every day, and that's the beauty of immersion. I could study Italian all my life, but never learn how to speak it like An Italian. Here, I hear how it's really done; we all know that we start to talk like the people around us, and this is no exception.

I have adamantly resisted dictionaries for my entire stay. I still don't have an Italian/English dictionary, and I'd like to keep it that way (besides, there's always the internet). I look up words when I am writing papers, and that's about it. It doesn't matter how many times I look up the Italian equivalent of some word I want, I won't remember it until I figure it out for myself. When I do acquire a new word, it's like suddenly everyone is saying it. I always wonder whether people had been saying it all along and my incomprehension would gloss over it, or whether the stars align to help me cement it in my head.  So, instead of using a dictionary, I use my family. Remember when I tried to explain the word 'wiggly' and ended up with 'drunk walking'? Sometimes it doesn't quite work. But most of the time, I find the process fascinating. Last night there was an unfamiliar word to me that I found out meant 'crack' (the verb) (incrinare). My host mom started with 'something that is broken but isn't.' Hmm. I got it with 'when you drop a glass.' Another one that didn't work was when I was trying to understand 'lucertola.' 'Those little animals with four legs that like the sunshine.' Had to turn to the dictionary to find out it was a lizard. So yes, I did sometimes use the dictionary.

It is as though the Italian language were one big pixelated image, and every day the resolution on some part of it increased. Gradually, more and more of the image was becoming clear, and so were more and more conversations. I still find myself talking my way into a dead end, be it grammatical or 'vocabularical,' but like I've always said, a dead end is just a place to turn around and try again. Rebuild that sentence in a way you can finish it. Channel your inner poet and figure out how to describe the essence of the word you don't know. Get your certification as a mime and combine the powers of gesture and facial expression. Eventually, people will get it. And you'll get some laughs along the way, too.

Respirational

It's about time I finish up with the Spring Break stuff. So much to tell, so much already forgotten.

I went to Ferrara with my host sister and seven of her friends on the Monday after Easter, a holiday. We saw medieval dancing, by which I mean I saw the backs of a lot of people’s heads and some flags flying up over them every now and then. We had an incredible lunch (after the eternal wait necessary to seat nine people) and I had tomino al tartuffo (a potent cheese melted over truffles and other vegetables) and cappeletti di zucco con ragu (pumpkin-stuffed pasta with meat sauce) and sampled the salumella, all of course, with wine. We stepped into the church right as it was closing, wandered the outdoor craft market, and saw a great art exhibit, 'From Braque to Kandinsky to Chagall: Aimé Maeght and His Artists.' There was some grumbling within the group about the fact that they had dared make Kandinsky a headliner while only displaying two of his pieces, but I enjoyed the show. Other featured artists included Calder and Miró, and so on. Lots of bigwigs and a lot about how they all came together and drew upon each other, artistically. I loved a quote by Duchamp about Calder, "Calder's art is the sublimation of a tree in the wind." At the end of the exhibit they featured photos from the opening of Maeght's Foundation, and it was like a who's who of the arts. He was friends with Duke Ellington and Ella Fitzgerald, and Merce Cunningham, who choreographed dances on Miró's sculptures. Talk about artistic collaboration. All in all, it was a fun, very Italian day.

On Thursday Leti asked me if I wanted to join her in walking Jody. Considering that I had been sitting in my room deriding myself for not being outside enjoying the incredible weather, I said yes of course. What I assumed would be a fifteen or twenty minute sidewalk meander ended up being a fantastic three hours in a beautiful park right around the corner from our house, which I didn't eve know existed. I got to meet Jody's dog friends and see her romping in flowery fields, and realized that she doesn’t seem quite so big when she’s not wreaking havoc in a contained area. I also got to meet some of Leti's human friends and later we had a nice long chat, just enjoying the outdoors. It really was lovely.


Pause for musical interlude. May I recommend Cream's Tales of Brave Ulysses in preparation for or accompaniment of the next part of this post. It's time for the story of Cinque Terre.

"...And you see a girl's brown body dancing through the turquoise,
And her footprints make you follow where the sky loves the sea..."

Imagine the most idyllic outdoor vacation day and this was it. You've already seen some of the pictures. As seems to be the inescapable trend, I stayed up late and woke up early and was not well rested for my early morning departure. Ellie and I both made it just in time to catch the 7:48 train to paradise. About two and a half hours later we found ourselves stopped in a tunnel. Time to get off, though it didn’t seem like it. Let the fun begin.

We were in Riomaggiore, and after acquiring a map we started on our way. Not too long after, we arrived in the next town, Monarola, the next ‘terra’ of the five. The ocean was irresistible. We walked down the path just to sit on the rocks. That turned into wanting to dip my toes in. That turned into an hour of floating and treading and swimming in the colder than chilly water. We watched the tide rush over the rocks, getting pulled in along with the water. We swam over to a jetty, where we saw the irony of ironies. In this haven, someone had decided to make sure everyone knew it, taking a thick black marker to the white rock face, labeling it a ‘natural beauty.’ Eventually we made it back to the original rocks and lay out to get dry and catch some rays. By now, several other people had arrived, though few were besotted or thick-skinned enough to breach the waves.

Lunchtime. I opted for pesto, native to this region, on trofi, a traditional pasta shape. Delicious. Next we went for gelato, and were rewarded with an extremely bizarre and awkward conversation that none of the participants fully understood. It went something like this:
Ellie: Can I try the mint please?
Man working at the gelateria: Mint? Mint is mint. I mean, mint is mint! (continuously grumbling as he prepared the sample)
Me, to Ellie: Look, there’s green apple.
Me, to Man: Can I try the green apple, please?
Man: Apple? Apple is apple! (more grumbling)
We ordered. He asked if I wanted a cone and I said yes. He didn’t ask Ellie what she wanted and he served her a cone, but she wanted a cup.
Ellie: Oh, I wanted a cup. Can I have one please?
Man: Yeah, yeah. (But does not actually give her a cup)
Then something strange happened that I can’t quite remember anymore. People came in behind us and said hello. The man responded with something that Ellie misunderstood and thought was directed towards us. Somehow, Ellie responded in a way that made him ask
Man: Oh, do you like me?
Ellie: What? No. Wait, I thought you were talking to us.
Man: You like me?
Ellie: No, I thought –
Man: You think I’m cute?
Ellie: Ok, yes, fine.
Man: Ah! In that case, come by at seven.
Ellie (misunderstanding): Oh no, we just ate.
Man: I’ll help you digest, then.
At this point, I decided it was high time to exit, and I said thank you goodbye and made an about face. On to the next town.

Beautiful cliffside paths. The water is so clear it takes on the blue of thick glass, through which you can see down to the rocks. The botanical array was fascinating, featuring everything from cacti, succulents, and aloes, to pine trees. By this point, the number of tourists had thinned out quite a bit. 382 stairs and as many pictures later, we made it to the top of the meticulously and compulsively numbered switch-backing stairway and arrive in Corniglia, ‘the heart of Cinque Terre.’ Because of the direction we chose, each leg of the trip got longer and steeper and more difficult, though that isn’t necessarily saying a whole lot. Regardless, the trek to Vernazza took about an hour and a half. Right before we started this next chapter, I spied a French car with a TX sticker on the bumper. Can you say good omen?

The mountainsides were dotted with houses and terraced for vineyards and olive cultivation, two of the region’s main products. While we were making the climb up to Corniglia, we kept passing and being passed by another couple. It happened so much that we started to chat and joke with each other each time. When one pair was taking a rest, we would joke that we were waiting for the bus to take us the rest of the way. Now, headed to Vernazza, we had a real chat, and found out that he was Milanese and she was Greek. Both spoke incredible English, though apparently she spoke no Italian. At one point, Ellie and I stopped to rest in the shade and a little ways behind us they encountered a pair of Frenchmen, and I had a good time eavesdropping and practicing my French comprehension. (Granted, the conversation was mostly questions like ‘what time is it’ and ‘how much farther.’) Anyway, eventually, we made it to the beautiful Vernazza. We had been told that it and Monterosso were the most beautiful, but that the hike was easier coming from the other direction. I don’t think anyone expected us to walk the whole way; most people just do the first one and then take the train the rest of the way. Vernazza was indeed beautiful, but also very touristy. It feels strange to call it touristy when the whole of Cinque Terre seems to be about tourism, but there is a difference between a town with English/Italian menus and a town full of postcard and t-shirt shops.

I had a couple of ego boosts here. When buying postcards, the shop owner kept speaking to me in English despite the fact that I kept responding in Italian. Finally, when she asked if I wanted a bag and I replied ‘si perfavore,’ she exclaimed ‘Oh! I’m sorry. I thought you were American!’ Later, at a jewelry store, I started talking to the shop owner. The woman marveled at my Italian, showering me with praise, and told me that with all the languages I speak, I should come back and get a job at Cinque Terre after I finish school. Sounds like a plan to me.

You know what’s been missing on my blog for a while? Some kind of public transportation misadventure. Don’t worry, I’m about to tell you a great one that’ll make up for lost time. Because we definitely wanted to make it to the last town but didn’t have the two hours necessary to make the hike (alas! I would have loved to be able to say I walked the whole of the Via Dell'Amore) we opted for the train. So not wanting to miss this train, we cut my ego-inflating session short and rush to the station, arriving maybe seven minutes early, and stand at the platform in wait. The train arrives and we rush on with the masses. Guess who sits next to us? The couple we had met on the trail. I guess we all finally did manage to catch the train. Guess which way the train starts moving, though? In the opposite direction from where we want to go. Umm, what? Luckily, we can ask our new friends where they are going, and confirm that indeed, we jumped on a train back to Corniglia. Apparently, when you have so few platforms, trains arrive at the same one just a few minutes apart. Less than five minutes later we are back to where we started, farther from our destination and with more time to wait for the next train that will actually take us in the right direction. No biggie, really, except that when we get to Monterosso we have less than an hour before the train departs to Parma, which means that we don’t have time for a big delicious seafood-y meal. Still, we watch the sunset and see the towns light up across the water.

Did you think the train folly was finished? Guess again. We realize that instead of taking a train that would require us to change trains twice at unknown stops and times, we could take a direct train to Parma. Perfect. We get on (after serving as travel information for several other people trying to figure out their train situation and watching the bags of a woman wearing blue suede shoes) and go for about half an hour. And then we stop. And sit. For over an hour. I pass out completely thanks to having gotten less than five hours of sleep the night before and spending the day swimming and hiking in the sun, so I don’t even notice. I might even appreciate it. However, it turns out that a new conductor was supposed to take over at this stop, but he never showed up. So we just sat in the station at La Spezia, waiting. Ultimately, we made it home, and the prontobus, which has recently decided to embrace logic, takes me home first instead of passing my intersection and going way south of town before coming back and dropping me off last.


More than anything, I felt like (other than finally really experiencing warmth and sunshine) I finally really had a chance to breathe. To just sit and be. To marvel at nature, and be a part of it. Lastly, in closing, a poem for the linguistically endowed.
[no sé si el mar es, hoy]

No sé si el mar es, hoy
--adornado su azul de innumerables espumas--,
mi corazón; si mi corazón, hoy
--adrnada su grana de incontables espumas--,
es el mar.
    Entran, salen
uno de otro, plenos e infinitos,
como dos todos únicos.
A veces, me ahoga el mar el corazón,
hasta los cielos mismos.
Mi corazón ahoga el mar, a veces,
hasta los mismos cielos.

19 de junio
Juan Ramón Jiménez

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.

Soccer, school, Spanish, and 'ssimilating

2. 15. 10
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:

1. Shrink five inches and lose ten pounds (obviously by eating more carbs).
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. 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.
5. 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.
6. 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.
7. 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.

***When in doubt, the more purple items you put on, the better. Hat, scarf, jacket, gloves, pants, sweater, tights, shoes: it’s all good. Perhaps the only exception would be your fur coat. Purple man Uggs, however, are not an exception. If your bike is purple, too, you are the coolest cat around.