Wee week

2. 19. 10
Quite possible the most useless day day of all time. No class, no buses, no nothing. I got up ridiculously late and had trout for lunch. I think this might be the first time I have eaten a fish that still had a face. Then nothing. I was supposed to go out with Alice and Ellie, but my phone was being insanely useless (aka refusing to send texts) and I was getting fed up. Then I hit the slump. We are all supposed to go through this elaborate acculturation process, part of which is the downward curve of life sucks and I just want to go home. That’s what happened to me Friday night. I had been toeing the line a few nights before, but it was in the dark of lonely night, so it didn’t seem that unusual. Suddenly, I was tired of everything. Tired of having to speak in grunts and gestures, tired of not understanding things that were said to me, tired of useless cellphones, tired of wearing the same shoes and jacket every day, tired of not being able to be with or even regularly communicate with people I care about… my list of grievances was growing rapidly. Then Matt invited me to meet up at a free concert. At this rate, I was never going to be able to communicate with Alice in order to make it to the club, and I was no longer in any mood to go, so I met up with Matt. I wondered whether this would manage to revive my spirits, or whether I would just bring him down into my funk. I showed up, timelyly, at intermission. It was, in fact, a great concert. It has been a long time since I had been to an orchestra concert, and it reminded me of a lot of good times. I played my usual game of finding interesting things to observe so I could occupy my wavering attention span and keep enjoying the music. I was very impressed by the fact that not a single person tried to clap between movements. My cloud turned a little less dark gray. The concert ended and we started wandering. We walked over to Garibaldi, looking for a café or some such place. We had no real destination, and consequently ended up doing a lot of walking. We ended up at the main square and went into one of the few places that seemed open. I had pistachios for the first time. An employee came upstairs to smoke, and then turned to us and said Ciao. Ciao, we replied. No, no, no, they were closing. Oh, ciao as in go away. Good night.

2. 20. 10
I met Matt around three, first stop, gelato. Next, second museum site. I tried avoiding the main streets I am walking a rut into, and while we took a lovely detour, it inevitably led to the usual paths. This part of the exhibit was a collection of fashion drawings and pieces, and for the most part I found it unremarkable. There were some drawings by Armani and other big names, and some small-scale dresses made by someone named Adelina. There was also a DIY-type video, essentially about making clothing out of squares of fabric, and one such iteration managed to make it into my dream. Other than that, not much of note, in my opinion. We took a little break and sat outside and did some people watching in the sun. Sun! It was the first time I have been outside in only one layer, and comfortably so. We headed to the third and final exhibition site. This one was all about architecture and design. Sound dry? It was probably my favorite. While the main exhibit, which I saw a few weeks ago, was presented in a thought provoking way, this was just fulfilling. There were some architectural drawings for fantastical buildings I doubt were ever realized, but I could have stood in front of them forever. I just wanted to breathe them in. They made me want to get my fingers charcoal-black again. There were these silly objects like ‘portable’ TVs and crazy ashtrays. There were design plans for things like silverware and pots and pans, things we don’t often think about thinking about making. Also, the exhibition space had a great character, interesting in a way that added to the feel of the exhibition without distracting from it. After dinner we were supposed to go to Veronica’s, a small club where my host brother DJs, but prontobus was not having any of it. I got hung up on twice and the third time they said, nothing we can do for you, good luck. So we just stayed in and hung out.

Also, today I put my own advice to good use, and tried wrapping my scarf Italian-style. Interesting. I usually go for maximum coverage, but this was also definitely quite warm.

2. 21. 10
The kind of day I had been needing. I woke up early to catch the train to Colorno, but apparently I didn’t wake up early enough. Or rather, I forgot that my time of arrival depended on the esoteric schedule of the six, which today was once every half hour. There was no way I would make it in time. Maybe I had the right music in my ears, maybe it was the sun that was warming my back, but I didn’t even worry about it. I would take the next train, whenever that might be, and catch up with the group when I could. So the six came and I got on, thinking I was headed to the train station. Instead, as we traversed Parma down streets I rarely travel, I saw some people going into a church. Could it be that mass was starting? I got off on the next stop and headed back to investigate. I briefly wondered whether I might inadvertently be going to a non-Catholic service, and then I remembered that I was in Italy. I have yet to see any place of worship other than a Catholic church. I can’t remember the exact number anymore, but there are over 50 churches in Parma. So, finally, I was in a church and it was for mass, not for tourism. Finally, I was in a church full of people who wanted to be there and understood what it meant. With the train gone and no one waiting for me, I felt no hesitation about being an extra hour late. I have sometimes tried to imagine the translations of certain prayers, but now I would finally know how they really go in Italian. I couldn’t always understand anything, but I could recognize the scriptures and I followed the sermon, and of course I know the order of mass well enough to know what was going on even if I were unfamiliar with some of the words. Mass! Sun! What a wonderful start to my day. Mass ended and off I went to the train station. I debated waiting for the illusory six, got on the one, realized that it wasn’t really going where I ultimately wanted to go but got off a few stops closer and continued on my way. At the train station, I learned that the next train wasn’t for another hour, but that it was only fifteen minutes from Parma to Colorno. Fair enough. My iPod and people watching made the time go quickly.

Incidentally, I have been sighting much ridiculous hair of late. The other night I saw a guy with a short, wide mohawk, or maybe just a fat racing stripe, shaved sides of his head, and sideburns. Another guy, a redhead, had a buzz cut and a crop of dreads shooting out from the back of his head, a good seven or eight inches long but seemingly immune to the effects of gravity. I saw a girl with bangs cut at a severe diagonal to cover one eye but allow her to see through the other. At the train station, I saw a guy with a rat-tail gone mullet; all of his hair was normally short, and only the bottom edge of his hair wound wavily down his back. I gagged while imagining a transposition of this look onto an assortment of my guy friends. I also saw several men who appeared to be on some kind of sports team, muscles straining under their clothes and heavy duffel bags in tow. I saw a ton of people whose Milanese-ness would have been unmistakable even without the impending departure of a train thence bound. Call them stylish, call them metro, call them frou frou, but they were Milanese indeed. In the midst of all of these people, I spied some familiar faces. Two girls fro Boston College and more of their cohorts were getting tickets. It turned out we were all going to Colorno for the rugby game. I had been looking forward to a train ride alone, albeit a 15 minute one, but it was nice to feel like I had a safety net.
In Colorno we met with Giulia and Matt and Isabella and Sky, who had finished a tour of the Reggio palace and a subsequent lunch. How timely. We walked across town to the ‘stadium.’ Field with bleachers would be more accurate. I got a huge meaty sandwich and feasted. Meat. I was happy. The game started and I realized I knew absolutely nothing about rugby, and considering the number of friends I have who play, this seemed like a small crime. I managed to figure several things out, but much remained that I couldn’t quite work out. Regardless, t was really fun. I might say it is my new second favorite sport, or maybe that while nothing can replace football, my life is certainly better with rugby on the horizon than with neither.

After the game, seeing as how there is in fact nothing to do in Colorno (though there is a forested park I hope to come visit one day), we went back to the train station. I overheard some students voicing a desire to at least go back via a different route and, secretly agreeing, I voiced this suggestion to Giulia. A lovely little detour. The thing was, we still had almost an hour to wait before the next train. Matt suggested a game and it was really fun, even if some of the people were cranky incompetent bad sports (to put it nicely). Either way, the time passed quickly and soon it was time for our short little jaunt home.

Ellie had been in Imola all day, so she messaged me and Matt to see whether we wanted to hang out tonight. We did, so after dinner with our respective families, I took the 4N and we all meet up at Garibaldi. Ellie’s host sister came too, and suggested Mastiff, a nearby pub. I tried a ‘red’ Belgian beer, Leffe, that came in a goblet. Interesting, worth trying, but I still haven’t found a favorite here.
All in all, a good day.

...
2. 26. 10
This is the first time I have been a week behind in my journaling. It would seem that as I settle into the routine (but never boring) life here, I feel less compelled to write every single thing down. Here are some snippets and highlights:

My accomplishments after a month in Italy:
Learning how to cut bread such that the soft bread in the middle is not mushed together and leaves a hole in my slice.
Pouring milk slowly enough that it doesn’t come out in dollops and splash everywhere. (Of course, as soon as I wrote this, I jinxed myself and have been dolloping and splashing worse than ever. But I did learn how to open a carton the right way.)
Occasionally understanding speech whose clarity is impeded by food, yawning, or other such things.

Words I learned watching millionaire:
Seppia - cuttlefish
Struzzo - ostritch

Apparently I was starting to get a little complacent in my bus travel, and needed to be reminded that it is never quite so simple. The other day, already hustling to catch a bus that would get me to class a little late, I saw a little bus coming to my stop from the opposite direction it normally does. Since there is only one bus line that comes to this stop, I thought it was weird, but didn't think much of it. I got on and waited for us to get going, debating whether I should ask the driver where he was headed. As a larger bus pulled up behind it, I wondered whether I should get on that one instead, but figured I would stick with this one. We start going and we start going away from my intended direction. Crap. What now? I push the stop request button and get off on the first possible stop, now farther away than where I started. I walk back to my stop, and as I am arriving I see the little bus returning to the stop as well. What? Too embarrassed to stand there and have him see that I got on the wrong bus, despite what now felt like glaringly obvious indicators, I continue walking until the next stop, which is around the corner, and catch the right bus in the right direction.

Sights and activities:
The unexpectedly beautiful interior of the baptistery, art history lectures in three churches, the National Art Gallery, an amazing wooden theater

I learned that Italy's best forensics team/lab is housed in the police station in the Parco Ducale, and they get called out to go all over the country to solve crimes.

If I recounted my days as the words that I learned or tried to learn, this week would be:
finocchi - fennel
liquorizio - licorice (I learned this courtesy of sampling a licorice moonshine from southern Italy)
??? (coccinella, but I cheated and looked it up) - ladybug (I saw one, and apparently they bring good luck)
snaturare - distort
barbabietola - beet
tuorlo - yolk
albumen - albumen (white part of the egg)
picchiare - fight/hit
incubo - nightmare
luce?? (lucertola, but more cheating) - lizard
anice - anise
fango - mud
lische - fish spines

Today, I saw a da Vinci at the museum, learned how to de-bone a fish, and am headed to the park in Colorno to enjoy my afternoon off.

The eyes have it

The Italy I show you is not the world I live in.
You do not see the city
the traffic lights and cars
the stop signs that say STOP
the paved streets and honking cars.
You don't see the city that could be any city.

You see what I choose
what I love
and it looks like I am living in a colorful world
a world of decay and graffiti and laundry and rust
of bare branches and magnificence
of picturesque alleys and ornate doors.

And I am
but also
I am not.

 

 

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.

and then it was Carnevale

2. 10. 10
Pesto for lunch! Mostly an uneventful day. The only main point is that we discover that a) university classes start on the 15th, not the 22nd, as we had been told from day 1, and b) I have been put in the critical cinema class. I am annoyed both about the misinformation and that my decision has been made for me, but there doesn’t seem to be much I can do, or I am not willing to do much about it. (This has since become much more positive!)

After dinner was a big soccer game, which had been postponed from last week because of the snow, between Parma and Milan Inter. This was the first time I have watched soccer on tv for an extended amount of time. It was… interesting. For a while I was the only one watching with Paolo, and I think he was glad for the company because no one else in the family cares a stitch about soccer, so he would talk to me about the players and team politics/gossip during lulls. He said it was a terrible game that made it seem like the objective of soccer was to not score, as the ball stayed in the midfield for the majority of the game. Parma finally had an exciting goal, but Milan Inter responded a few minutes later. It is funny how, in any sport, both teams can be struggling for so long, and as soon as one team breaks through the other team is suddenly able to as well. Anyway, while I am used to hearing yelling at the tv during sports, and often do so myself during football, this was my first time seeing/hearing real outbursts that involve getting up and stomping around and such. Even funnier to me was that mom would good-naturedly argue back. Who argues with someone yelling about the injustices their team is suffering?

After the game, a 1-1 tie, they interviewed the coach, who is Portuguese. Apparently, his Italian was pretty bad (even though it sounded fine to me), and my parents thought it was quite hilarious, and had a ball correcting him throughout his interview. My only consolation (?), as this was making me rather self-conscious, was that they crowed, ‘Adelina’s Italian is better than his!’

2. 11. 10
Class was a walking tour of certain historical sites in Parma: the bridge, which is from Roman time and the only/oldest part of it left; Piazza Garbialdi; and Il Duomo, the church. Because we were finally going to get to spend time outside, it was drizzling. Because we were having a lecture outside, a car alarm felt the need to blare for several minutes and our professor felt no need to desist from speaking. I admit I did not learn very much. I do remember that I learned about Parma Yellow, the color of many buildings here, and that the statue of Parmigianino is one of a local painter. How did I not notice he was holding a palette? I was pleased to finally get to go into the Duomo, which is beautifully painted inside. A once in a blue moon experience, class got out early. We decided to take advantage of this and our central location to spend some time warming up in a café. I had been feeling under the weather all day (ha, how appropriate), so the tea was at least well appreciated. Next we went to get our tickets to Venice. Hooray!

Dinner is risotto alla Milanese, aka risotto with saffron and delicious.
The food sins of Italians: Philadelphia cream cheese and mayo.
I have nothing against cream cheese, but it is inconceivable to me to prefer it over the array of savory goodness that we have on the table every night. My family thinks that Americans put ketchup on everything, but they put mayo on fishsticks and mix it into their paella and squirt it with gusto onto slices of turkey. Would you like some more turkey for your mayo?

I discovered that my mom thought that Americans can buy their way out of jail. She mentioned bond to me, but said it is not like in the US; you actually have to go to jail. What? No get out of jail for (not)free card. It might sometimes end up working that way, but officially, that’s not the system.

Have I mentioned that every time I mention Houston, people shout ‘Houston! We have a problem!’? At least people know it exists. Italians’ sense of US geography is about as bad as my sense of Italian geography, though I am making strides towards improving it. My host dad asked what was above Texas, and after I replied Oklahoma he asked if Canada was above that. Someone asked me whether Houston was near Miami. My host dad said it was funny that in Europe the West is on the left but in America… oh wait, what? People here know San Francisco, Los Angeles, Houston, Chicago, and New York. Other than that, it’s a crapshoot. It’s like when you meet someone from another state and reference places in your own, assuming they will know what you’re talking about. You do; why wouldn’t they?

I have been seeing HappyBuses since I got here and had been rather curious about them. I have now discovered that they are the school buses for elementary students. Like short little red airport shuttles, I see children sitting in rows of seats that look like our plastic classroom chairs. Would your outlook on school be any different if you arrived in something called a HappyBus instead of a graffiti-ed, jostling contraption with no seatbelts?

I watched an Italian movie tonight on TV. Aside from the simple but slightly bizarre plotline (37 year old man and 17 year old girl fall in love after he hits her while she’s on her vespa) my previous theory has definitely proven true. Understanding Italian Italian is way harder than understanding translated English Italian. When it is translated, there is a certain limitation on the pace, and there is little room for colloquialisms or turns of phrase that muddle the meaning for me. I could still understand what was going on, but it was much more idea-based and gisty than dialogue-detail-based.

2. 12. 10
Lunch included sliced tomato and seasoned buffalo mozzarella. Yum yum yum.

Today was the chocolate festival, and we had agreed to meet up in the afternoon to go scope it out.  For some reason I thought I wouldn’t want to use my camera, so I have no pictures. However, even if the festival was smallish, it was still more than enough chocolate. Dark chocolate, slabs of chocolate, metallic chocolate, chocolate-covered fruit, pralines, chocolate animals, white chocolate, hot chocolate, chocolate liqueurs, and on and on and on. Me being my usual me, I decided to look at everything before I decided what I wanted. Of course there were samples, but also of course it was of the basics, plain light, plain dark chocolate, nutty chocolate. I started out with a truffle, simple, classic. Then I got a mirtillo, which I at first thought was like a blackberry truffle but turned out to be filled with some kind of liqueur. Either way, delicious. I took an errand break and returned to meet Matt and Ellie, this time getting another liqueur, this time with Grappa, an Italian alcohol, and the woman recommended that I get a little brick of a certain dark chocolate. Both were quite good. We went around again and I got another mirtillo.

What to do for the rest of the night? We went to Matt’s house because his mom had already made him dinner, and Ellie and I played vulture and swooped in on tidbits of his delicious meal. Tortellini in beef broth = scrumptious. I have a secret (not so secret, anymore!) goal to get to see everyone’s house at some point or another, just because I think it is nice to know people’s home base. In Italy it is much more common to go out than to have people over, so this might prove difficult to accomplish. Still, two down, six to go. Afterward, Isabella’s family, members of an environmentalist group was hosting a candlelight aperitivo party at a nearby restaurant in honor of Low Energy (usage) Day. We decided to drop by and make an appearance. I intended to mingle and work on my Italian, but I ended up socializing with people I already knew, which was just as fun if more bilingual. Afterwards I was going to go home for dinner, but I got talked into going out with Giuliano, Liam, Leonardo, and Isabella. I was leaving for Venice early the next morning, so I didn’t want to get home too late, but I figured that since it was barely nine it would be fine. Ha. We managed to take an hour to walk up Azeglio to the center (normally maybe a 15-minute walk), where we found a pizzeria, La Duchessa. I admit I was pleasantly surprised. I have been advised against centrally-located establishments, but the food was really good and reasonably priced. Of course, after the Italian interpretation of going dutch (splitting bills mathematically instead of by what you order), I ended up having to pay way more. Over dinner, we took turns trying to explain and translate and find equivalents for our respective phrasings of things, for example the proper use of ‘oh snap.’ We eventually started heading back down Azeglio to the car. I walk too fast for most people, and I walk way too too fast for southern Italians. They were physically holding on to me to keep me from leaving them in the dusty dark. I really hate walking slowly. We finally made it to the car and then to my house at the lovely hour of 130am. How did our quick little dinner turn into a four hour adventure?

2. 13 and 14. 10: Venice and back
Wow wow wow. Venice. Venice. Four hours after falling into bed I woke up at 545 and couldn’t get back to sleep. The advantage of having missed dinner at home last night was that there was plenty of food waiting for me in the kitchen. Hard-boiled eggs, which no one would ever eat for breakfast but are perfectly acceptable at dinner, plus a slew of other things, gave me a good start to my morning. There was also a pile of homemade potato chips that were perfect for a travel snack; I knew snack breaks in Venice would be expensive and far between. I debated waiting it out for the nefarious 6, but opted to take the 5 to Corridoni and walk over to the station with Matt and Morgan. Well, by the time I arrived that walk turned into a bit of a stilted sprint, but we made it fine and got onto our first train to Bologna. I was happy to eavesdrop on a bunch of raucous Spaniards. This would become a recurring experience on this trip. About an hour later we changed trains. Clearly, Venice was the place to be this weekend. If we thought the cars were packed when we got on, it was nothing compared to how it was by the time we arrived. I managed to get a seat with three British girls, and I wondered whether they knew I understood them, since I had only spoken to them in Italian when I asked whether the seat was available. It didn’t matter too much anyway, because I fell asleep for most of the two hours of the ride. Every now and then I would feel people touching my hair as they placed their hands on my headrest while walking by. I don’t know what the maximum car capacity is, but we seemed to be quite close. People were standing in the aisles and clumping in the areas between cars. As we got close to the last stop, I watched my seatmates reapply enough makeup to open their own makeup store.

Venice. What? As soon as we got off the train, there were masks and hats and wigs and masks and masks for sale at the station. After making purchases and a restroom break on a train to avoid paying and getting our return tickets, we eventually made it outside, and it was Venice. Venice! Canals, churches, boats: Venice. More masks and face-painting available. Resourceful Matt found a hotel and a map, which would serve us well for the rest of the trip. The thing about the way Venice is laid out is that when everyone wants to get to the same place and there are only limited ways to get there, everything is one big bottleneck. The good news is that as long as you follow the crowd, you can be pretty sure that you’ll get to where you want to go. We take a lunch break for some, a photo adventure break for others. I find my photo-passion of the day in the form of laundry drying on clotheslines. I sometimes feel like take the same pictures everywhere I go, but it is how I find myself and what I love wherever I am. It is really nice to get a taste of what I might call the Real Venice, or the common Venice, what Venice really is for the people who live there. We get back ‘on the road,’ and it is nice to not be sardined into alleyways now that we have been briefly left behind by the crowds. We follow the signs to Rialto bridge (originally the only bridge over the Grand Canal) and San Marco (labeled S. Marco and henceforth referred to as Smarco). Eventually we find people again. We become one with the surge, and are bombarded by the languages of affluent countries. This is the first time during my stay that I hear almost as much English as Italian being spoken on the streets. I mentioned earlier that I had started inadvertently speaking French; today German found its way out of my mouth as well. We stop at a gelateria and I get fiordilatte, literally milk-flower but I think more accurately translated as sweet cream. It might be the best gelato I have had yet. It was exactly what I was craving. There seems to be a popular local flavor, sometimes called Doge, composed of some kind of liquor and berry, a white and purplish swirl. At some point we pass by the fish market, right before Rialto. No fish left, but other produce is out and I also see a horsemeat store. Rialto is a) huge b) crowded c) all of the above. Had I been wearing roller-skates and not been going up and down stairs, I could have just stood, and I would have arrived on the other side. Walk walk walk. We briefly wonder whether we are going the right way, and in that instant I see a sliver of a lavish façade over the heads of the crowd. We get to the end of the alleyway and it opens up onto a square over which looms a wall of Smarco. Is this big? Not compared to what we see when we get to its corner. The entire piazza, vast in the blinding sun and black under the swarms of people, is before us. Time to breathe a little bit. Where do we go? Who knows. By this time (actually long before this time but by now I can’t remember when or where exactly) I have acquired my mask. We are one with the tourists and inferior to the locals, the real partygoers, whose extravagant ensembles can’t be described as anything but Venetian. We are awed by the mosaics of Smarco; we are squeezed through the capillaries of space that exist in the crowds (and realize that if you ever find a reasonably sized opening it is probably because you are walking through someone’s photo-op); we are in Venice during Carnevale.

Everyone here speaks everything. Is this where I should have grown up? Venetians know that they rely on tourism, so it seems like anyone who wants to get business speaks Italian, English, Spanish, and French, if not also German and more. I hear one woman make the same announcement in all of these languages, and I am a little jealous. We make it to the Canal and look over the waters and see the gondoliers waiting for customers. What now? We try to go see whether we can get into the tower that towers (ha) over the square. Everyone but Matt and I decides that they want to go sit and drink. We wait a bit and move not a step. I reason that the tower will only be worth it when and if we make it to the top, whereas the church behind us will start yielding as soon as we manage to make it inside. Matt wonders whether churches are just churches, ultimately, but he accepts my logic and we shift endeavors. After more crushing and pressing and squishing we pop in through the doorway and our mouths fall open. Not a church forgettable amidst the mass of churches we will see.  Of all the churches I have ever seen, this is in the top two with St. Peter’s as far as wow-factor goes. The ceiling is entirely Byzantine and post-byzantine mosaic. The floor is as intricate, huge patterns of porphyry and marble swirling and spiraling and tessellating throughout the Basilica. The walls have slabs of stone sliced thin so that each slab bears the same veining pattern, creating a tapestry-like pattern on the walls. It is a testament to the awesomeness of nature as much as the creativity and skill with which man has been endowed. I could have sat and gaped all day. I sit and say thank you. As usual, photos are not allowed inside, though that does not stop most people from flashing away, often right next to the signs that insist otherwise. We go to the upstairs museum and terrace, so even though we didn’t make it up to the tower, we do get some nice elevated views of the square and of the people who surround us. It is all, to put it simply, breathtaking. We make our way down just as they start to close, and meet up with the rest of the group. It is decided that we will take a gondola ride. Is it a little exorbitant? Is it touristy? Is it fun? Yes. As we say, when in (insert name of relevant Italian city), … Our gondolier, whose name I unfortunately either never knew or have completely forgotten, takes us around and answers all of our questions. We go by the Doge’s palace and the prison, from which Casanova escaped. I admit that upon arriving, my first thought went to that movie. We pass Casanova’s last residence (apparently he never had a home; he always slept ‘wherever he could find lodging,’ to put it euphemistically) and Marco Polo’s family’s house , the latter of which bore an Italian inscription: the house of the family of Marco Polo, who traveled to faraway Asian lands and described them. I was sitting closest to the front, and every time we rounded a close corner I held my breath, expecting to scrape up against it. We never did, even if we were less than a centimeter away. Nameless Gondolier won my admiration. We passed by another gondola being serenaded with Venetian ballads and accordion. Our gondolier said he was not much of a fan of such music, and later broke into a spontaneous rendition of the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Under the Bridge, and we all joined in. It was a rather surreal experience.

Dinner time. Where to? We wandered and wandered some more and ended up somewhere whose name I have forgotten. More surreality. We finally pick our restaurant, and as we try to enter we are preemptively met outside by the head waiter, who asks if we have reservations. No. Ok, well you can eat here, but you have to eat upstairs. Ok… You will be in a room by yourselves. Ok… So because we didn’t make a reservation we get to eat in a private room. Sounds good. Dinner for me was spaghetti alla carbonara, a creamy egg-based sauce and pancetta (the Italian version of bacon). I had had it before in the US, but it was too rich for me. Here, it was just right. I tried Lauren’s lasagna and it was incredible. Eventually other people were seated at the other tables in our private room, but it is funny to think that this dilapidated bunch of kids got a private room in a swanky restaurant, if only briefly.

After dinner, it was definitely slump time. We would all have been happy to settle into our wicker chairs for a nap, but it was all too clear that the waiters were ready for us to be on our way. Back out into the night, and Matt was happy to point out that there was still half of our ‘day’ to go before we would get on the train home. We sat on a bridge that dead-ended into the now-closed glass factory and talked. We were treated to people peeing nearby, tried to say hi to grumpy water-taxi-ists who ignored us, and were accosted by a group of drunken Italians from Siena. They asked if I was Spanish and I went with it, even though they ascertained that everyone else in the group was American. After a while we decided to try and find one of the parties we had heard about. We saw an illuminated, giant, mechanized praying mantis, spider, and ant, make their way through the crowd, spraying who knows what onto onlookers. We wandered west of the square, which seemed to be the general direction of ‘the people.’ We found ourselves in a fancy shopping center, and I saw gem-encrusted shoes for 1000+ € and some crazy Gucci pumps for 1480€. The night was still young. We found an Italian ska band performing, and a very good-natured mosh pit. After a bit we moved on. We found another piazza and another and another church and we sat for a while. We watched a rat scamper. We kept going and found a crepe stand. Nutella crepe for me! Quite good. More wandering and then sitting. I finally made it to a white domed structure behind which the sun had set; my desired destination for much of the evening. We wandered; we sat. We started heading back in the general direction of the train station. We made it to Rialto quickly and easily. After that, not so much. All the signs were for Piazzale Roma, which was west of our destination, so we tried to compensate. We ended up there anyway. The only good thing was that the scale on the map was such that things were much closer than they seemed. When all seemed lost, by which I mean when my navigating senses were numbed and we had reached not where we wanted, we took a few turns and suddenly there we were. Venice is like that. We later figured out we went over a bridge that wasn’t even on the map, a very modern and somewhat out-of-place-seeming, sleek and illuminated Calatrava.

Even though we were over an hour early, our train was there. It was a good thing we got on then, because several of the cars were already packed. I felt like I would never be warm again. We waited; we talked; we snoozed; we arrived in Veneto. Now onto the train to Parma. Home sweet home at 9 am. I thought I was doing pretty well as I waited for the bus. Then I got on the bus. I couldn’t sit without my eyes closing. Lucky I am the last stop, otherwise who knows where I would have ended up. Home, hi, good night, thought I would sleep until 1; slept until 430 and could have kept going.

Travel lesson that I should have learned by now:
Bring extra batteries, because ones that say ‘lasts as long as Duracel’ don’t.

P. S. Did you know that Venice is shaped like a fish?

After my post-Venice sleep, there wasn’t much left of the day. Pizza for dinner, which never gets old. Then Cristina and Antonio showed up with Indian takeout, and I ended up having a second dinner. Fantastic. Even if they got things they totally didn’t order, it was pretty good, and if I ever feel like I need a break from Italian food (not like that’s ever going to happen) now I know where to go. It was pretty funny to observe their reactions to the food. I guess the color of tandoori chicken can be pretty shocking if you have never seen it before. There was a soccer game tonight, and little Pietro and his dad came over to watch it with us. It was even less exciting than the previous game, with a final score of 0-0, but still fun. Also fun to hear a child’s commentary on the game. Milan Inter was playing Napoli, and I learned that when a law was passed requiring that everyone wear seatbelts while driving, people in Napoli started selling shirts with a thick black diagonal stripe. That's how they roll, there.

M is for Mantova and More

2. 06. 10 
Cristina and I went to the art museum. It turns out the museum is not where I thought it was. Or, rather, it turns out that there are three sites for different parts of this exhibition. Good to know. I had been seeing billboards for this exhibit all around town, and was at once excited but also admittedly not expecting much. First of all, the museum was way bigger than I thought.  It turned out to be a great exhibit, if more for the thinking it induced than for the works themselves. From what I could tell, all the pieces were by Italian artists or artists of Italian descent/identity, and the collection was entirely from the 1900’s (it is called NOVE100).

I ended up thinking a lot about curatorial distinctions between this and American museums I have been to, and thought about how this might influence me if I were a curator at present. In the US it is normal to have one piece per wall, especially if they are large pieces; one way or another, every piece tends to get a lot of personal space. Each piece has its own little description, sometimes more elaborate than others. Most people at a museum might as well be at a funeral; other than footsteps and sneezes, it is as quiet as the crypt. Here, in the rooms of earlier work (it was chronologically organized), pieces were almost tessellated onto the walls, only a few inches apart. Throughout the exhibit, though each piece had a little placard that identified the artist, time, etc. (but not the medium. Why?), there was one large description of what each room contained, and how or why the pieces went together stylistically and historically. People were not boisterous, but there was banter and chatter and an air of liveliness in the museum. I thought it was particularly interesting that pieces were only clumped together in the chronologically early rooms. At first, I felt like it created a more intimate, gallery-like feel, but then it occurred to me that this might also be to evoke the way that art was originally hung in the galleries of the time.

Another thing I found interesting was just the general idea of modern Italian art. We are used to thinking of Italy as a place of art, but usually that translates into renaissance and the like. What happened next? How did Italy adapt to and adopt subsequent art movements that originated elsewhere in the world? Did it have its own unique art movements? The answers to these questions are unlikely to be found in the typical American art museum, but here they stood before me.

As always, everything is a lesson in Italian. For quite a while I made the effort to read the descriptors for each room, which were of course in Italian. Eventually it got somewhat tiring, but at the same time it is hard to turn down more information. Anyway, indeed, life in Italy is practice, practice, practice. I eventually deduced that the s.t. under several pieces stands for senza titolo, or untitled.

After painting and sculpture there was historic photography upstairs. Then, time was running out, and that’s when I find the prints. Bah. Luckily, we find out that you have unlimited admissions with your ticket. What? Parma’s museums must not be struggling as much as ours. I will certainly be going back, and going to the other two sites to see the rest of the show. (I have since discovered that we will be going on a tour guided by a curator!)

I met up with the rest of the group for aperitivo and Cristina headed back home. She taught us that chapstick is burrocacao, aka cocoa butter. She also found the word chapstick very strange, especially since at first she thought I was saying chopstick. We walked down to l’aquolinea, which Cri had recommended. My host mom had recommended caffè d’orzo to me, a decaffeinated ‘coffee’ made from a grain that isn’t coffee (everyone here translates grain as cereal, which tends to confuse English-speakers), but I didn’t see the point of getting an approximation of coffee when I don’t like it to begin with, but Matt decided to get it. I tasted it, and the only way I can describe it is like rice coffee. Most of the rest of us got Sprizz, and it was met with mixed reviews. The aperitivo offerings were pretty good, some pizzas and paninis; the usual fare but abundant enough. On our way there Ellie had run into her mom, who said she would be out and suggested that Ellie invite us over. So, when we left we made what we thought would be a quick stop at the grocery store to pick up some beverages before heading to her house. This was my first time in an Italian supermarket. Right before we walked in, a security guard chased and seized a guy who had been trying to sneak a bottle of Bacardi out in his pants. What kind of omen was this? We discover that beer comes in 66cL or three-packs of 33s? Weird. Also, they are not in a refrigerated section. Now to pay and leave. Oh. Two unnecessarily slow-moving lines snaked into the aisles. I still don’t know what made them so slow, but I am learning that I generally need to budget more time for things in Italy. We finally get through the lines and realize we have ten minutes before the buses stop and perhaps negative minutes until the last bus goes to Ellie’s house, and she lives the farthest away from the center of town. Thank you, thank you the suspense is the extent of our bus misadventure, and we manage to catch the last bus.

At Ellie’s house we first try to cool the beers just by putting them outside, which is certainly colder than the fridge, but I get impatient and we put them in the freezer. What did we do at Ellie's house? Who knows. Laugh. Margerite tries to call the prontobus for our ride home, but either they keep hanging up or the phone keeps dying. Finally, it gets worked out… we think. Eventually we make our way to the bus stop, and see it rounding the bend. Matt and Margerite run towards where they think is the stop, but it isn’t. I walk to the right place and see the people on the bus laughing. We get taken to the station where we change buses, and eventually eventually we all make it home.

2. 7. 10
Goodness gracious. Getting up at 630 is not easy when you went to bed past one and tossed and turned all night. I did it anyway. I eat a banana and leftover pasta, stash an apple and an orange, and head to the bus stop. I wait. While I wait, though, I am treated to some lovely birdsong. Listening to it kind of makes me feel like a Disney princess, and I wonder whether I should teach the birds a new song or inspire them to gather bits of this and that and build me a car I can drive to the station, instead. I wait. I am supposed to be at the train station at 730 to catch the 754 train to Mantova, and it is 730 when the bus decides to mosy over to my stop, on its own unofficial schedule, as usual. It usually takes about 15+ minutes to make it to the center from my stop, and the station is past that. I am trying really really hard not to panic. Pointless. It turns out that when you aren’t stopping at every block and there are not cars on the road, it takes about seven minutes to get to the station. After that rough start, all goes smoothly. It is a pretty gray day, so I go with my usual mellow travel music. Then, something strikes me, and I shift gears completely. I have enough self-control to not start singing on the train, but that’s where it maxes out, and I spend the ride bopping around in my seat. As the songs grew lighter, so did the sky, and soon the sun was out in full force. My old friend! Where have you been? It turned into the perfect weather for a day trip.

Train to Piadena, change trains, arrive in Mantova around 10. The day is ready for filling when you start so early. We are all a little sleepy or just hungry, and we find a café recommended in Matt’s guidebook. I am usually happy to wander into whatever strikes my fancy, but I decide to go with the predetermined flow. As soon as I walk in I see someone eating a chocolate croissant, and know that that is what I want. I debate getting a cappuccino, but go with water instead. Everyone’s everything is delicious, and as usual Ellie’s adventurous experimentation goes slightly awry. I do learn the word for pomegranate, which I have now forgotten, which Maicol (Michael, Ellie’s Italian tandem partner) tries to describe as an apple filled with grapes. Language barriers make us all think of the world in new ways.

We go to the big church in the center of town. Mass has just gotten out. There is a relic (much contested, my guidebook feels the need to emphasize) in this church. The soldier who pierced Jesus in the side scooped up handfuls of the dirt soaked by his blood and put it in chalices. Those are kept in an underground reliquary at the center of the church, and are brought out once a year. The inscription at the site reads something like ‘come and worship the price of your redemption,’ which I found to be a very interesting and thought-provoking wording.

Next we try to go to the Palazzo Ducale and unknowingly end up going under it and into a garden. On our way, though, we pass through a market and check out some shoe stores and get some delicious local cookies that we are still way too stuffed to eat but unable to turn down because Maicol bought them for us. We find an archaeological museum, and then to the lake. Mantova is mostly surrounded by a system of three lakes. After a bit of tomfoolery we head back and find the house upon which Verdi based the staging of several of his operas. There is a courtyard with a statue of Rigoletto, but we walk inside and it turns out that it is still a real house. With people living in it. So no tours. We  find the Palazzo this time, and go inside. They refuse to give us the student price because we are American/not from the EU, but we get in for free thanks to our student IDs, which claim we are art-history majors. I only wish I could have taken pictures, but then I would probably have 500. Grandeur after grandeur. Frescoes after frescoes. Sculpture after painting after tapestry after grand hall. I can’t even imagine living in that space. Holding courtly events and doing whatever nobles do, yes, but having breakfast, playing, no. It was vast. Look up pictures on the internet. I will say that it made me really appreciate knowing the things that I know (even if this statement makes it seem like I don’t know how to be articulate). Really, the whole day did. If I didn’t know as much art history, mythology, biblical content, and church history, I feel like I would not have been as equipped to appreciate everything I saw. Yes of course I can say it is beautiful, but I wouldn’t know the stories behind the images depicted, or know what was superficially being described by the information provided by the museum, or understand the terminology being used. It is funny that seeing ceilings with Icarus or the Trojan horse remind me of being a little kid.

After all of this it was past three and past stomach-grumbling time. The local food is tortelli di zucco, pumpkin-stuffed pasta. Yum. Interesting almost to the point of strange, but nevertheless good. Sweet almost to the point of being a dessert pasta, but cheesy enough to be right. At this point, we had intercepted Mauro, a local Ellie contacted via CouchSurfing, who offered to show us around.
We tried to go to the local theater where a 14-year-old Mozart had his debut, but it was full of fancy-looking people and our Italian companions advised we not go inside. So, I stood outside of where Mozart once played. Guidebooks are getting the squinty eye from me, right now. Next, the Palazzo Te, perhaps where I most wanted to go, after having read about the incredible frescoed dome it has. It was on the opposite side of town, so we started the long walk. We passed the stadium, where a motocross race was underway. I’m telling you, getting to this palazzo was like accomplishing Hercules’ 12 tasks. Just walking there was lengthy enough. Then, when we think we are close, we are confronted by the glittering and whirling of carnival rides. Apparently, in addition to having Oktoberfest on the third weekend of Every month, Mantova has a yearly carnival, and we of course had to get through it. As with so many things here, it was a curious mix of cultures. What is Italian carnival food? Fried things of course, but different. It is like being in a parallel universe, where everything seems the same until you get a closer look. Funnel cakes, but not. French fries on skewers. Things priced by the kilo. A goal-kicking game to win soccer jerseys next to a hoops-shooting game to win basketball jerseys. People in fur coats at the carnival.

At last we made it through and… the Palazzo Te was closed. Three minutes too long amidst the scents and lights and we missed the 30-minute admission cutoff prior to closing time. Alas. Another time?
We walked to the train station to get our tickets back, all the while plagued by indecision about when to return. We decide; we buy. Now what. More indecision. Hungry me + indecisive everyone else = grumpy me + assertive me. I set out on a quest for food and everyone follows. Where should we go? Here? There? No one seems willing to have a definitive opinion. I lead us into a kebab place, and the glow of slowly rotating golden chickens hypnotizes me. That. I want that. Ellie and I split a chicken. At first I try to be civilized, but with a plastic fork and no knife, I quickly toss my fork aside and go in for the kill – figuratively speaking. We end up talking about food qualms, and I say I mostly don’t have conceptual problems with food. By which I mean, just because it is supposed to be weird or gross does not keep me from being willing to try it and enjoying it. People throw about the idea of eating meats like dog or cat, and of course someone asks about humans. Would you?

We take the train back and I take the bus back and it goes everywhere past and around my stop except for my stop, but I make it home and there is more dinner waiting for me and I am happy. When I unlock the main gate, around the corner from our own gate, Jody barks. She has been alone all day and comes to corral me into the house. She circles me and sniffs me and ushers me in, repeatedly turning back to see if I am still there. She wants to follow me downstairs again. She sits at my feet while I eat. Jody missed me.

I am exhausted and planning on going to sleep early, but I get SuperBowl updates via Skype (thank you!) until the half, whereupon I actually go to sleep. At 2. This may very well be the first time I have not seen the superbowl. Can I guess how it ended? I would like to be wrong. (I was!)

Travel playlist excerpts:
Leftovers – Johnny Flynn
My Girls –  :Kinema:
Horchata – Vampire Weekend
Boy Lillikoi – Jónsi
Bulletproof – La Roux
Je Veux Te Voir – Yelle
Jarhand – Immaculate Machine
Starstruck – Lady GaGa and Flo Rida
Heavy Cross – Gossip
Houses – Great Northern
From Africa to Málaga – JJ
Find a new favorite song.

2. 8. 10
I had a meeting this morning but was really not motivated to get up. After pressing snooze the first time I put the alarm clock under the covers with me so as not to disturb the rest of the family. Well, that plan worked too well; it didn’t disturb me either. Luckily, I woke up 40 minutes later and not two hours later. I walked all the way to class for the first time, and it was a nice fifteen minutes or so. This optional meeting turned out to be a mostly pointless endeavor, so I didn’t feel too too bad about being late. Then I had about an hour and a half to have lunch and get to the university. I should have just brought my stuff with me and not gone home, but I was not quite so forward thinking (and hadn’t done my homework yet) so I went home. I scarfed down something delicious and fried and nameless and went to catch the bus. The thing about buses is that even if you are early, that won’t change what time they arrive; it just decreases your likelihood of missing them. The other thing about buses is that sometimes you have to take one away from your destination to be able to get on one that goes towards it. Still another thing about buses is that if your first bus is late, your lateness will be exacerbated by the fact that you will now probably be late for your next bus. The only upside to all of this lateness is that it gave me time to do my homework while at the bus stop. At least I can’t stress too much about trying to get there faster, because all I can do is sit. I make it to class a half hour late, fearing that I will stick out like a sore thumb delinquent, since I am the only ‘Pitzer’ student in my class. I am preparing my apologies, and wondering whether it is better to be brief or try to redeem myself by demonstrating a mastery of Italian via an eloquent explanation.

It turns out I am the first to arrive. I chat with the professor, and she shows me Carnevale recipes while we wait. She tells me fried foods (because essentially everything is some kind of fried donut, cookie, funnel cake pastry) are only eaten during the winter, when we want to be fat and warm, and that they are too heavy to be eaten during the summer, which would just be weird. I do not tell her that in America we eat fried food when it is over 100 degrees outside, and that it seems just right. People trickle in and we go over homework and such. We play a ‘game’ of matching verbs with nouns to create compound nouns (e.g. aspirapolvera, vacuum cleaner, literally 'dust-sucker'). I learn that they always become one word, not like the English hanky-panky of sometimes joined, sometimes just together, and sometimes hyphenated, and they are almost always masculine and don’t change from singular to plural. Vocab. This is something I am happy to learn. We bleed into the beginners’ class time and do an irregular pluralizing crossword puzzle with them. Forming plurals is complicated enough without crazy things like masculine singular nouns whose plural forms become feminine but have a singular ending. Either I learned a bunch of new rules or I was reminded of them, but it sure seemed like news to me. I almost wish I could sit in on their class, but I guess at this point I am mostly moving away from thinking about rules and just talking. Still, it was nice to be in class with my friends.

A few classes ago, I learned the word for the @, chiocciola, which is also the word for snail. Looks like one, doesn’t it?

I headed back, spent the usual unpredictable but long time waiting for the autonomous six, and finally made it home. Dinner was an experiment that seemed like it should have been really good but didn’t quite measure up: spinach and ricotta mash on a pizza crust. Ok, that description doesn’t sound that great, but the ingredients are all things I like. There was also another beautiful pineapple cake thing that I wish I could take a picture of, but the idea of taking picture of dinners at home always seems a little odd to me. Davide and Cristina discussed econ/accounting principles over dessert because Davide is studying for a final. Listening to that was like simultaneously listening to two foreign languages that you kind of understand. I was processing the fact that it was in Italian, as well as the jargon and concepts of their conversational content. It’s like brain yoga, or just contortionism.

I had been doing pretty well with the cold weather. I was dressing well and staying warm. It has been ‘warm’ enough that pretty much all of the snow and ice are gone, except for the dregs of a few large mounds. The problem is that I am entering the stubborn phase. I decide that it should not be cold anymore, and I start dressing as if this were true. But, obviously, this doesn’t make it any warmer; in fact, it makes me colder. But I am tired of wearing the same things over and over again. I feel like I should have brought more, but at the time it seemed like too much. What all was it that I brought?

2. 09. 10
My memory is getting confused. I remember snippets of dialogue from Italian TV in English, and I remember pieces of English conversations in Italian. At this point I am not even sure what language I am dreaming in. French tries to make a comeback at inappropriate moments.

Lots of thinking under the surface today. We had to go to the immigration office to do I’m still not sure what. We got there shortly before our 11 am appointment only to discover that people with a 9am appointment were still waiting. No real surprise, there. We sat. We waited. The waiting area was enclosed but for some reason outside. Fun. We ended up next to a Philippino man who spoke incredible English (which he learned while working in an airport, I think?) and I got to witness Ellie-the-people-meeter in action. I learned that he is a tenor and studies music in Parma; he has been here since 1998, and that his whole family, cousins, nieces, etc lives in Parma. And more. This is the first time during my stay that I have been around so many ‘foreigners.’ I see them on the bus every day, but we are certainly never the majority. A side note: When you are surrounded by your native language, it is easy to notice when someone is speaking a different one. When you are already always hearing a language you pseudo understand, it often takes a while to ascertain whether you are just really not succeeding at understanding Italian in that moment, or whether a different language is being spoken.

We started playing charades to distract ourselves from the cold and help the time pass. Well, playing charades while in an Italian line (aka clump/mass) is interesting to say the least.  It was finally my (first) turn, and I walked into the office. I got my fingerprints taken, and had a little chat with the finger-placer-woman, dressed in a purple sweater, about why I was in Italy. I think she was pleased with my Italian. It felt strange, though. It was surreal to be in a place that I don’t doubt incurs anxiety and fear in many who visit it. Here I am, a privileged American, with absolutely no concern or sense of consequence of this meeting, having a jolly chat with this woman. I think about what it would mean to be in an immigration office in the US. It’s just a little weird.

Being here in Italy, it is sometimes easy to forget that people don’t speak English (it shouldn’t be, but it is), and I find myself chatting away on the bus and then realizing that I am blatantly ‘otherizing’ myself. I wonder what kind of language stigmas there are, as much for me as for the African men I heard talking the other day, as for the innumerable other languages I hear but can’t identify.
Anyway, after my turn is over we resume the wait and resume charades. Time passes quickly enough, if coldly. We get our second call in, and have to sign something, to which our picture is affixed. Turns out my picture is unacceptable. I am thinking about emailing Scripps to tell them the pictures they provided are useless; every time one has been required and I have tried to use theirs, I have been told I need to acquire another one, pronto. So, I have to go to the photobooth outside and pay 10€ for a 5€ service from a machine that doesn’t give change. Grump grump. At least it’s kind of a nice picture.

Anyway, we leave and it is decision time. Home for lunch? Out for lunch? Straight to class, which has already begun? Skip class? We opt for gelato and being late to class. I get blackberry(?) and cream, and it is a delectable combination. Margerite and I set out for the University, and I discover a new potential way to get to there that does not involve my nemesis, the six. We arrive about an hour before class ends, but all the doors are locked. The building is kind of like a beta-fish tank embedded in your typical yellow Italian tile-roofed building, in that the three classrooms have glass walls separating them, and the outermost wall is glass as well. So, we are able to go around and get someone’s attention and we get let in. Class is class. We stay for a while in the next class, which to some degree I seem to enjoy more than my own. It’s the beginner class, so I don’t know if what I am learning is things I forgot or things I was never taught. Either way, Margerite and I head back and as soon as I get home I get to scarfing. Pasta, and a fish that somehow tasted like popcorn. And more pasta.

Dinner is a particularly good minestrone (rice in a vegetable broth) and this mysterious breaded thing. It is shaped like a semicircle and I wonder whether it is just a different shape of fishstick. It turns out to be full of cheese. So it seems it is kind of like fried mozzarella but with a different kind of cheese inside. Apparently some of them also had prosciutto inside, but none of mine did.

It turns out Leonardo lives near me, so he offered me a ride to XXL tonight. We pick up his other friend, whose name I can’t remember but I think she must be a nurse because they start talking about ambulances and blood and injections. Ook. We get to the club and I see a giant sign that says XXL. My first thought jumps to the Super Bowl I missed, and I wonder whether they showed it here. Then I remember that SuperBowl XXL was a while ago, and that that is just the name of the club. Alas.

Once inside, Leonardo and I start dancing, and he seems much more game to play teacher with me, perhaps because fewer of is female friends are around. He is in a salsa class, and usually they all come together to practice and have fun. I spend most of the night dancing with various people. I get asked whether I am Cambodian. It is interesting to dance with different people, because you start to get a sense of their style, and each person tends to favor certain moves and ‘tricks.’ The thing is just to not start trying to predict, where you will be led, and just feel it when you are directed. I manage to take a break before the switch to reggaeton. I often tend to assimilate other people’s dance moves into my repertoire, but to be honest I hope I do not start dancing like Italians. My style feels a little out of place in the midst of theirs.

Salsa recommences and Leonardo says he will dance the last bachata with me, but in the meantime I wait. A really really short guy, and I say this not to be mean but to be accurate – in heels I was about a head taller than him, asks me to dance. While there is an array of tall people, mostly standing around the walls, I am definitely in the average height of the people dancing, men and women included. After this I sit for a bit and try to watch people’s feet. Some other guy asks me to dance and I figure why not? That’s what I’m here for. He is obviously a really good dancer, even if he is not the best lead. I spend so much time spinning I haven’t figured out what dance we are doing. Eventually I realize that it is another salsa. I tell him to take it easy because I am still learning, and he kind of does but kind of doesn’t, which is fine. He likes to lead with just one hand, which is a little trickier. After this song I sit and see him dancing with someone else, who at least looks as slightly lost as I felt, and this makes me feel better. I also realize that this guy is the guy I noticed earlier with forearm tattoos in Old English lettering. While dance I hear Johnny Castle’s voice in my head (aka Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing) and try to be aware of my frame and avoid ‘spaghetti arms.’ It kind of makes a difference, when I can remember. A really big sweaty guy who is one of the people working the event, with whom I also danced last time, asks me to dance. He is the firmest lead on the face of the earth. It is impossible to do anything but what he wants you to do, and that is fine with me. The last bachata commences and Leonardo appears and we dance. I think it turns out to be two songs. Other than the guy before him, he is definitely the best lead I dance with. Last song, the night is over. Oh wait, there’s one more one more song and this guy appears asking me to dance. Right away he asks me where I am from, but everybody does that. As always, I am never quite sure what to say, but I tell him I am from the US. Oh, he says, I thought you were South American. Well, I am, kind of; I am Guatemalan. Oh! He is Colombian, and thought I might be as well. We switch to Spanish and after my brain’s brief linguistic confusion it is so refreshing to be speaking a language I don’t have to fumble around and rephrase in. I get a pues in there and it is even better.

Now the night ends for real and we head home. I am ready to get out of my heels and into my bed.

..... Photos from Mantova ......

F-f-f-febbraio

2. 1. 10
Mystery solved! So, this whole time, I have been noticing that some people pronounce their r’s in what we might consider ‘the French way.’ I figured it was a regional dialect or something, and I wanted to ask about it, but I was always forgetting. Anyway, today in class we listened to a song, and the teachers asked whether we detected anything unusual in the singer’s articulation. No one said anything, but it was that French r popping up. They explained that it is indeed a French-esque r, from the days when Maria Luigia (Marie Louise?), Napoleon’s second wife, lived here in Parma. It became, from what I understand, the popular, classier way to speak, and many people still speak that way.

I had nutella for the first time yesterday. At first, after the many years I have heard it being talked up, it seemed lacking. Also, weirdling that I am that does not care for peanut butter, it was a little too peanut-y. However, I have had it a few more times since then, and each time I like it more and more.

In the afternoon, we met up with Claudio, one of our teachers, to discuss course selection at the university. I had been really excited about the opportunity to challenge myself and get to know other Italians and expand the scope of my Italian, but the session left me a little deflated. Since I am unlikely to get linguistics credit for any of my classes, I figured I would just take whatever sounded interesting and doable. Somehow, all of the course descriptions managed to sound either heinously dreary or heinously difficult or both, and the options seemed rather limited. This 24-page booklet sharply contrasted with our several almanac-sized course catalogues, where you always find too many classes that you would like to take. The only linguistics class was semantics (NO), but with some sort of philosophical component including Locke and Marxist linguistics. There was a didactics of language class that sounded interesting, but it was only offered last semester. There was a Spanish translation class that I briefly considered (learning how to translate Italian writing into Spanish), but Claudio pointed out that my taking a class to learn how to do that would probably be pretty pointless and boring. So what is left? Claudio had suggested a History of the Italian Language class. From its description it sounded really not thrilling, but from his own description, it sounded like it might be something I would find interesting. The question is whether/how much I can trust his description. If I don’t do that, there is a critical film class that everyone else will probably take, which would probably be doable but would also kind of feel like a cop-out. Big sigh. We will see.

Tonight, dinner was hilarious. It was all five of us for once, and we had risotto and ‘italian hamburgers,’ aka wraps with cheese and salumi (assorted deli meats) and greenery. They have this bread from some region, and it was pretty much just like a tortilla. I tried to explain this, and had to settle for describing tortiallas as the thing you make tacos with, but that seemed like a really shallow description, especially when the brother said, yeah like Taco Bell. Anyway, the neighbors have this tiny, deaf, seventeen year old dog that makes this really weird sound when it breathes. If you have heard the sound a turtle makes, it is like a really loud version of that. So, our dad was saying how he and the neighbor had been walking their dogs, which people often do sans leash, and the dog had tottered out into the middle of the street. A car started zooming up, but the dog couldn’t hear that they were calling it back or hear the car coming. The car braked and the owner ran into the middle of the street to scoop up the dog, but as soon as he grabbed it he slid on the ice and consequently threw the dog up into the air. Meanwhile, Jody interpreted this as an attempted attack, and started barking furiously in attempts to protect this little dog. Then we discovered that the dog’s name was Wiggly. Wiggly? What kind of name is that? I said it was in English. English? Well, it is an English word, not particularly an English name. So what does it mean? How do you explain wiggly? First I tried wiggling, but that didn’t work. Then I said it was a kind of movement, like how a worm moves. Stretchy? Then I said it was like a zigzag, but curvy. So moving like a drunkard? Hmm. I think we kind of figured it out eventually. Then, for some reason, Cristina, who is reading Alice in Wonderland and yesterday learned the word walrus, said they should have named Jody, Walrus. Well, it turns out that Cristina is the only person in the family who can say walrus. Davide, was next best, but often said warlus. He did, however, recognize it from the Beatles song, and now that he knew what walrus meant, he found it rather silly. Parents, however, were hilarious. Something about the Italian phonology/accent makes it end up sounding like wawlwrs, or just wawwwwws. Dad Paolo kept saying it over and over and we were exploding with giggles.

2. 2. 10
Apparently, it was -15 yesterday at the university. Not in the middle of the night, but at eight in the morning. That’s five degrees Fahrenheit. At eight in the morning. What has my world become such that I consider 7 degrees a pleasantly warm change?

Italian trend update: Old women with red hair
Not red as in I used to be a redhead, red as in I passed out in a vat of kool-aid.

This afternoon we went to Piazza Corridoni to go to register at the computer lab, ‘the best in Parma.’ Of computers I saw few, but I finally found out where all the young and attractive Italians have been hiding. Sixty to seventy percent would have been perfectly at home on a magazine cover. I thought we would be doing something there, but after 15 minutes we were done and had an hour to kill before remeeting at the library. Well, going home seemed like a waste. Me, Lauren, Margerite, and Morgan decided to wander around and run errands. Morgan, having just recently arrived, needed to get a phone plan. Score #2 for my Italian.* The guy at the phone store didn’t speak any English, and I managed to intermediate everything and understand all the ‘deals’ he was trying to push on us. In the meantime, Lauren and Marguerite’s tandem partners invited them to go to XXL (ics ics el), a local pub/club, that was having a salsa night tonight. From the two of them it rapidly expanded to a plan for the entire group. But what to wear?

The class re-met at Garibaldi to head over to the international library for its first birthday party. It was really nice to see whole sections for Spanish literature, as well as French, German, Portuguese, English, and more. There was also a large section of Italian children’s books that looked inviting (I always have and always will have a thing for kid’s books). Equally exciting was the discovery that they offer free wireless if you get a free membership. Some us of stayed for the celebratory speeches and sparkling wine (it seems like wine is almost always sparkling here) and snacks: pizza, foccacia, and cookies. They also had a really fascinating looking selection of juice cartons, whose ingredients were color-based:
Green fruits: apples, kiwi, lime
White fruits: bananas, apple, pear
Blue fruits: plums, cherries, berries
and such. There was poetry reading and a small choir, as well.

Later that night: on the bus and over to XXL. Sky and Isabella had described it as mostly sitting and talking and a little bit of dancing. Well, maybe it was because it was salsa night, but it was pretty much all dancing. I danced with Leonardo first, and I was definitely rusty. I told him I needed to warm up a bit. He said something to the extent of yeah, go warm up and I’ll dance with you again later. I wasn’t sure whether to be offended. Regardless, I was quickly asked to dance by some oldish guy, but now it was bachata. I said I didn’t know how, but he offered to teach me. Sure, why not. It was pretty easy to pick up. Next came a new guy and merengue, which I also learned on the fly. Then bachata again, with a guy I’m pretty sure worked there. Somebody asked me if I was Asian. Next guy. We salsa-ed to two songs, and I learned some more steps. For some reason this guy decided I didn’t speak Italian, but told me he spoke Spanish. After a while he asked what I thought of his Spanish, but I hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t speaking Italian. After those two songs, I needed a break. After a bit, the music changed from salsa, etc. to reggaeton. Oh Yes. Back to the dance floor until people started having to head home.

In short, it was a fantastic night.

*I realize I don’t think I ever documented Score #1. When we went to the post office to do some legal paperwork, there was a woman there who had applied for a visa in the US and wasn’t sure what the contents were of the letter she had received. I was summoned and managed to verbally translate on the fly from English to Italian, and she understood me, which was obviously key. So yes, that was score #1.

2. 3. 10
Went to the weekly market in the morning with Margerite. New boots that have beads that jangle when I walk and make people think I am a dog or rain. I hate making noise when I walk, but I love these boots. New hoodie that, when it is even negligibly warmer, gives me an alternative to my black coat aka daily uniform. I did not realize how much I love hoodies until having spent two weeks without the option of wearing one.

2. 4. 10
I learned something useful today. I always used to say forse for maybe, but when I got here it seemed like everyone was saying magari. I switched, or tried to start mixing it up, but I had been wondering if there was criteria to determine when to use one or the other. We were talking about how the future tense is used to express doubt or a hypothesis, so I took the opportunity to ask about the two maybes. It turns out that forse is always right, but magari is more specific. Magari includes a sense of desire, kind of like saying ‘I hope we will go out tonight.’ Class might be boring, but if I find a way to start asking the questions daily life makes me collect, I will get something out of it, yet.

I am used to living in two languages, but it used to be that I spoke two languages, one at home and one pretty much everywhere else. Here I still mostly speak two languages, and with a similar distribution. The difference is that now, the language I hear around me all the time is my ‘home’ language. Italian at home, English with my friends, but always Italian in my ears.

Every day, as predicted, I learn new words. Slowly but surely, those agnizzirinipetti nonsense-words reveal themselves to be real words, so whenever I learn a new word it seems like suddenly pops up everywhere.  Is it that it was always being said and I never noticed, or that the stars are aligning? So, I admit that I am learning things in class. And useful, if boring, things. Monday we learned Italian regions, and today my mom told me that the bread we were having was pugliese. Were it not for that class, I would probably not been able to identify that as meaning ‘from Puglia,’ a region in Italy. (I would say that this is what we typically think of as 'Italian bread' in America: a round, crunchy-crusted loaf that is just a little bit yellow inside.) Today, we learned household furniture and such. I now know the correct word with which to describe my room: seminterrato (‘semi-buried’, aka I have a window but about half of the height of my room is underground, not an unusual housing style here, apparently), and the word for box/can: scatola. Today at lunch, my dad talked about the scatola of pineapple slices, and thanks to class I knew what he was saying.

When I use Word on the family computer, after a while of red-squiggling everything, it realizes that I am not writing in Italian and correctly adjusts the language of the spell-checker. (Except that it is British English, so it does not like it when I type things like ‘color’ and ‘favor'.) I wish my computer did the same. Also, whenever I mouse over an English word while on the internet, a translation shows up next to the cursor. I wish my computer could do that too.

All my grand illusions are out the window. I had great plans. I was going to go to the library, where there is free wireless, and finally update my blog and put up all my pictures. I get here and it seems like the entire staff is standing in front of the door, on a cigarette break. Yay. I make sure I have a membership, and I do. But, it turns out you have to subscribe separately to get internet. I also find out that you are only allowed one hour of free internet per day. Fine. I don’t ask what happens if you want more than an hour. I pay 30 cents to print out my password, and hold my breath because now that everyone is back from their break, the air is shall we say quite perfumed. I am unaware at the time that there are other reasons I should be holding my breath. I settle in to a cozy-ish red armchair and start unpacking. Like I said, I had great plans and lots of hardware. Well, hahaha. No internet connection. I am not even given the option to try and enter my username and password. I ask someone and all she says is that nobody else has had any problems, so it is probably my computer. She suggests that I try restarting. Yeah, that would also explain why my iPod can’t get a wireless connection either. I restart anyway. No luck. Perhaps nobody else has had any problems because I am the only person around with a laptop. I tinker around in all of the settings and control panels. No luck. All the while, five-foot tall men in sagging skinny jeans and leather jackets swagger around looking tiny but somehow menacing, and I imagined getting jumped in the library. I think having a laptop makes me paranoid. On the bus, I kept expecting the old woman standing next to me and staring at my backpack to grab it and make a break for it. I was totally ready to take out whomever necessary, however necessary. My grand plans weren’t even limited to internet-usage. I was going to check out a book in Spanish to have something to do when everyone is out or nothing is happening. Now I am so disillusioned I think not so much. Baaaaaaa. I consider going to Web ‘n’ Wine, a café with wi-fi, but it is 3 some euro per 42 minutes. Baaaaaaaaa. The whole point was to not spend money and to get stuff done. The biggest problem with all of this is that I was reluctant enough as it was to go traipsing around, laptop in tow, and now that it didn’t work I am unlikely to feel inclined to try again. The only reason I came out today was because I had grand visions of myself camping out here for hours and finally getting my life up to date. Grump, grump, grump. I think I will go home and try to avoid the rush-hour sardine-like bus ride home.

Ok, so after typing my rant, I hitched up my britches and examined the section of books in Spanish. Let me just tell you, I have absolutely no idea how they were organized. All I know is that it was neither alphabetical by author nor by title. First, aha! I found a book of Guatemalan legends. A good start. Next, a book of short stories that seemed promising. Lastly, on the last shelf, what I had really been looking for, subconsciously: Cien Años de Soledad. I don’t know why I decided that I should read this book, but this past summer it got into my head that I should, but I could never find it in Spanish. Huzzah. I thought about checking out all three, but I figured I should start slow. I got the first two books to warm up, and will later return for my crown jewel. Now, I do not want to call Parma backwards, and I do not want to call it antiquated, so I won’t call it anything. Instead, I will tell you that I received a shining new library card. It came out of a drawer, as did the blue circular sticker that was placed on it, where the librarian wrote my new ID number in pen. High tech, no?

I was headed back when I saw Upim’s giant SALE posters. I decided to go inside for a take 2 of the lotion acquiring. Last time, I ended up with shower gel (even though I tested it on my skin first…), which I already had. This time, I am pretty sure I got it right, and even better, it was unexpectedly 30% off.

Foreignness is different in Italy. Where are my people? Are there none of us, or do we become one within the ambiguous brown population of Africans, Indians, Middle Easterners, and Southern Italians? I am almost positive I saw two women speaking Spanish at a bus stop, but almost all of the words they said are essentially the same in Italian and in Spanish. On the bus, I ended up in a row between two African men who were having a conversation and conducting a cell phone tutorial across me. I at least managed to figure out that one was from Cameroon, and pick up on the frenchier words they were saying. Numbers were quite interesting.

Fashion update for the young ladies:
Errbody’s sporting thick, bright, metallic eyeliner in loud colors. Electric blue, hot pink, potent periwinkle, and the like. Jump on it.

Every meal is a scene from your favorite shark movie, except that this shark is black and white and brown and furry and has imploring eyes. This shark out of water is Jody. She circles the table, providing her own suspenseful soundtrack as her wagging tail thumps against cabinet doors. She circles. There is no menacing fin; instead she gazes expectantly when she pauses beside you. She might place a paw on your lap as if to say, ‘I am still here, perhaps you’d like to feed me,’ or she might wedge her head between you and the table, now more firmly asserting, ‘I’m not leaving until you give me something.’ We chastise and deprive her and she spanks us into submission, wagging tail thwacking everyone on the behind as she passes by. She circles and disappears as she goes around the bend. Someone decides to indulge her, and cavernous jaws emerge from the depths, snapping shut around whatever tidbit has been tossed her way. Film it in slow motion and the footage would not be out of place during shark week. She circles. She makes her rounds until everyone has paid the table-toll, or until someone decides to send her outside. Is this a holdover from a past life, or is she practicing for her next role?

Tonight we met up at Jamaica, a (Jamaica-themed, duh) bar that my sister took me to the day after I arrived. It seems like it has been so much longer than two weeks since I was there last. We got another piñata, a mixed drink that comes in a clay pot and is topped with crushed ice and an impressive array of tropical fruit, and everyone really enjoyed it. Mr. Quiz, the weekly trivia game was a little moot; I among the few who could understand the questions. After a while we mostly stopped paying attention. Still, somehow, by answering about three or four out of 12 questions each round, we managed to stay in the upper half of the scores. Coincidentally, several of the tandem partners and their friends were there, and they joined us. Overall we just had a really great time, and lots of hysterical laughter.

2. 5. 10
Today was, on most counts, a great day. I have been watching Jody, the natural-born yogini, doing downward dog several times a day, and I was starting to feel a little jealous. I woke up at 11:30 and decided to do a couple of sun salutations. Well, I discovered that I was so terribly stiff that I kept going, and ended up doing yoga for an hour. It is the first time I have done that much on my own, but it is something I often intend to do, so hopefully I will be able to keep it up on the mornings when I don’t have class. It was really great to get in touch with myself again, and to be able to touch my toes again (and see my feet again; yoga in socks just wouldn’t do it for me, so I crossed my fingers that no one would come downstairs and be offended by my barefootness), and to exert effort in something other than walking or staying warm. After all of that, showering was mandatory, and when I finally made it upstairs I found a plateful of surprise waiting for me.

Parma has a very particular regional food, and I had heard about it and expressed a desire to try it, but did not know to expect it today for lunch. Horsemeat. Raw. So good. I would apologize to anyone who wanted a pony growing up, but I am not sorry at all. In fact, I am looking forward to having it again. It was ground and pre-seasoned, and perfect with a side of salty foccacia. The only thing that was lacking was more. Also, another pleasant surprise was kiwi. I love fruit, and I love all fruit, but you can only eat so many oranges and apples. It was nice to introduce a bit of variety.

After lunch, I curled up with the first of the books I got yesterday, Desencuentros by Chilean author Sepúlveda. I read three stories! Ok, so maybe not a huge accomplishment, but I was a little worried that I would end up just checking out the books and never reading them. No longer true.

I left to meet the group in Garibaldi and discuss plans for the weekend. Somehow, I managed to be right on time for once. We decided to go down Via Farini and look for a café where we could sit and talk. It was not that I didn’t want to go to Venice; I definitely do; it is just that it seemed really last minute and the conditions seemed bad. Heavy rain in a city prone to flooding does not seem like the most festive atmosphere, in my opinion. So we are going next weekend. Of course, this took about an hour to decide. But I did have a delicious pastry at the café. Next we went to the train station to see when and where we might want to go tomorrow. The problem was, we didn’t know what there was to do at any of the places. So, everyone went home, and Matt and I went to the computer lab to do some research. It was hot, and somebody nearby definitely had not showered for a while. Fun. Eventually, we came to a conclusion, and then spent way too long composing an email to the rest of the group, so by the time we got out the buses had stopped running and I had to wait for the 4N. It had been drizzling lightly all day, but now it had turned into big wet heavy slushy ‘snow.’ The 4N, a night bus, only goes around every 30 minutes, and that is about how long we had to wait. I started to seriously wonder what conditions are necessary for frostbite. Despite the cold in my feet, the rest of me was fine, which means that my jacket was definitely a good buy. We had fun, and I regaled Matt with random linguistic stuff, as everyone knows I am wont to do. Finally finally the bus came. Luckily I regained feeling in my toes before having to get off. I made it home and there was pizza waiting for me in the oven. Being outside in the cold really makes me appreciate warm food like never before. This time it was cheese pizza and the usual optional prosciutto, but also with an herb called rucola that they put on it sometimes, and it was all very good. Mom and dad were watching Defiance, which I had already seen, but I sat and watched it with them anyway.

Always when I come home I take my shoes off and put on my slippers. Because Italians find bare feet to be dirty and offensive, I pretty much only see my feet when I change my socks in the morning and when I take a shower. Anyway, when I got home tonight Jody followed me downstairs. She went straight towards my boots. But next to my boots were my slippers (aka TOMS). As I took my shoes off, she passed my slippers to me. We get closer every day.

It really amazes me that I can watch movies in Italian and pretty much understand everything. I wonder whether the fact that most of the things I see in Italian were once in English is in any way a factor. I also wonder whether things like coughs and laughs and breathing gets dubbed. For some reason, the only thing I still often have trouble understanding is commercials. Still, like I think I keep saying, being able to understand and being able to speak is not quite the same thing. I keep painting myself into grammatical corners that I don’t know how to handle, and I have to find ways to restructure my statement to be able to say it. It turns out that watching Millionaire is a really great way to build vocabulary. You see things written down, you get a context, and you have time to think about it and ask someone and show them the word.
Portafortuna = lucky charm
Ovino = animal with a cloven hoof
Also, the word for soft, morbido, still kind of weirds me out when it is (often) used to describe food.