I have been here for a month!
And it took until today to tell Margherita that I have a boyfriend.
Let me give you some background on the recent weeks of my host siblings. Starting school knocked something loose in their heads. The concept of attending this place is too much for them to even fathom. This is the second full week for them and they are still completely shocked when it is time to turn off Friends (on DVD, not syndication, and ALL Italian) and get ready for bed. There is usually alot of crying, alot of coaxing, and alot of me sitting with the baby and whispering to her, "What am I supposed to do?" It is amazing how rarely she gives me any sound advice. Sometimes, though, she throws up on my jeans, which is nice.
Since the girls know that bed time is quickly approaching by the time I get home from school, they intend to make every second with me count. The only thing that usually stops them is the notion that I am tired or if I am actually asleep. On Saturday when I was in my day long coma, I was half conscious in bed when Margherita busted in. She looked at me, considered jumping on me, then decided that she should let me sleep. Good girl. Well, guess what? I have found one other form of kryptonite. I thought for sure that telling them I have homework would work but they actually laugh at me when they see me writing in a notebook and pull me into the other room to play or watch tv. Usually Friends. And I like that. But they love playing school and restaurant and doing card tricks and coloring and endless little kid activities. The newest obsession is watching Mamma Mia songs on youtube on my laptop. This is especially hilarious because of my personal (and heated) aversion to Mamma Mia. But I do it to appease them. Because I'm a pleaser, you know? Especially when it is my host sibs who have to live with me for another 3 months. Anyway, I was on the internet today, chatting up some of my pals, and Margh came in and plopped herself on my lap. She moved my hands off of the keyboard and just said "Mamma Mia!" over and over again. When this happenened before, absolutely nothing would settle her. I would tell her I had homework, or simply, or "THIS IS NOT YOURS THIS IS MINE" which is what I yelled at her when she started deleting a story I was writing. So after timidly saying no a few times I finally said, "Parlo a mia amica, Emilia." I talk to my friend Emily. She did NOT care. Emily? Big deal. MAMMA MIA.
I thought about this.
"Parlo a mio....ragazzo." That literally means I talk to my boy., which I was doing so it was not a lie. As soon as she heard this she slowly slid off of my lap and looked at me. The expression on her face was not what I expected. I assumed that she would react in typical Margh fashion: jumping, teasing, demanding to see pictures, etc. Instead, all of her 8 year old wisdom took over and she simply nodded. I can't help but think that there was a hint of a smile. Like, she got it. "Yes," she seemed to say, "I can totally relate to you right now," Then she picked up my camera, located a picture of said boy, and showed it to me. I nodded. She sized up the picture, realized that her assumptions about this boy had been correct, and then left my room.
There is a fairly good chance that this subdued nature will not last for long. In fact, she ran into my room about 10 minutes later and covered my arms and hands in butterflies and stars using oil crayons. That's ok, though, because I like to come up from behind her, cover her cheeks with my hands and yell "FREDO." That means cold. And then I tickle her and have a good hearty laugh at my defeat over the 8 year old.
What is Arianna up to? The other night she came into the living room to say good night. I was looking away so I only heard her voice. "Buona Notte!" Her voice sounded sweet-too sweet. What does this kid want? I turned to respond. "Buona No-OH GOD." Sweet Ari had blown her nose with her face. Seriously. It was everywhere. I quote Suzie Graham when I say "It looked like her face got caught under the glaze machine at the donut shop." Snot. Snot. Snot. Everywhere. This was her best joke. Her crowning achievement. And I reacted just as she wanted me to. And then she coyly asked me....oh, is there something on my face? Perhaps this is payback for when I pointed out that she had Nutella on her cheeks a few Saturdays ago. But probably not, because snot jokes are super funny when you're 5. "Che scifo. Oh, Jesus, scifo. Just-yeah-(pointing) go. Uh, va. Ari, just, oh my, just, va. Scifo." That is basically a verbatum re-enactment. It surely didn't help that Ari had just recently started eating spoonfuls of mayonnaise at dinner every night. Italian mayo. Have you SEEN that stuff? So that image plus the snot....che scifo. Che fucking scifo.
Jokes aside, the girls are great and so is the family. I am pretty constantly entertained and sometimes when I think I need to just brood and be by myself they remind me that it is much more fun to brood while watching Friends in Italian. Also, Margh does a pretty spot on Janice impression. She kind of cocks her hip, one hand on and the other snapping at the wrist as she whines, "OH! MIO! DIO!" It's hilarious and we love watching episodes with Janice. One time Fabio was watching with us. It was an episode in which Chandler woke up with Janice and he totally regretted it. Needless to say, I could tell by ol' Fab's face that he could perhaps relate to this situation. His simple response: "Janice. She is....horrible."
Lesson: Italian mayonnaise makes me want to die. I don't want to talk about it anymore. Of all the things I have legitimately learned in Italy, I can honestly say that so much as seeing myself write about it makes me want to take some Tums and try to think of any other image but Italian mayo.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
I am not Stupid; I am just American
I have an important and heartbreaking message that I wish to share with all of you: I was lied to. Before coming to Italy, I received an eclectic collection of tips and advice from a multitude of people, all of which intending to let me in on the "insider information" pertaining to Italy. They are all liars. Yes, I'm sure there were truths in the mix, but for the sake of being dramatic, I will commit to saying that everything I was told was folklore.
I think you know what I'm talking about: "Italy? Everyone speaks English there anyway."
Guess what? FALSE. That. Is. False. Some people speak a little English, true. But not everyone speaks beautiful, fluent English. A shocking concept, right? I have to admit that my hopeful naivity got the better of me in the weeks before my trip because speaking English is so easy, right? And anyone who is reading this might think, "Katie, that was a really stupid assumption to make." And it totally was! I wasn't completely dependent on it, and I knew I would have to bust out the Italian every once in awhile, but I've started speaking Italian. No, I take that back. Out of necessity and survival, I've started speaking Italian. Here's another fun fact: High School language is a joke. I am sorry, High School language teacher. You are a very nice lady and you were very patient with me. But the whole concept of sitting in a desk and learning a language 42 minutes a day for 5 days a week now makes no sense to me. I sit in a desk, learn Italian for 3 hours a day for 5 days a week, and then leave class and try to speak Italian in the city and at home. Guess what? I'm still not good at it. I'm not even ok at it. My 6 month old host sister speaks better Italian than I do, and she just drools all the time. I get by. And as my host dad, Fabio, told me: "We do not care about tenses or grammar. Just say some words and we will get the point." Fantastic!
So I took French for what seemed like forever and by the time I graduated high school I was mediocre at best. I've been in Italy for 2 weeks and though I am nowhere near mediocre, I find it a million times easier to learn it by just sucking it up and doing it. There have been a few times in which I have had to tell my host mom, Barbara, certain pieces of information such as "I won't be home for dinner tonight" or "I am going to the beach tomorrow." First I pace around in my room for awhile, giving myself a pep talk and tirelessly rehearsing what I am going to say to her. Then I sneak out into the hallway, trying to hear where she is and how many additional seconds I have to prepare. Finally, I nonchalantly wander into the living room, see that she is breastfeeding, and turn around and go back in my room. I have used her breastfeeding as a sort of crutch; a reason not to talk to her, ask her questions, present her with gifts that were sent from America. I think, "Well, I don't want to bother her." Well guess what? She is already being bothered, she is breastfeeding a child! My attempts at telling her pertinent information usually take 2 or 3 times of pacing, pep talks, and repeat. It's pathetic, but I promise I am getting better. I think she can even vouch for that.
The best part about having host siblings is that they have no filter and do not hesitate to call you out when you say something incorrectly or do not undestand. A few nights ago I was sitting in the den with Margherita (8) and Arianna (4). While Margherita understands that I speak English and not Italian, Arianna doesn't even recognize that as an option. She thinks I am a quiet Italian girl who does not talk. After a lengthy rant, she looked at me and said "copisci?" I said "no." She turned her head and mumbled, mostly words I did not understand, but I definitely caught "stupida." Do you speak Italian? You don't? That means "stupid." Margherita flashed her most sympathetic eyes at me and patiently explained, "Ari, she's not stupid; she's just American." I don't think I need to say anything more than that.
Not everyone thinks I'm stupid, though, and that is a huge comfort. That has been one of my biggest concerns actually. Oh, God. They think that the school sent them a moron. They talk about me in front of me because they know I can't understand them anyway. Totally not. Last Wednesday I ate dinner with just Fabio. I explained as best I could that sometimes I understand things very very clearly; other times, I am completely lost. He then comforted me by saying that he is 42 years old and his English is still bad. (Not true-his English is better than my Italian. In fact, it will probably remain better than my Italian for the next 3 1/2 months.) He was explaining that he learned alot of his English by listening to music at the discotech (lol) and then, the most fantastic moment of my entire life happened. He said, "You know 'Take on Me'? Aha?" I squealed with delight and said "Of course! Certe! Yes! Take on Me! Si! Yes! Mi piaci Take on Me! On my laptop!" He did not believe me at all, saying that I am much too young and it came out in 1982 so there is no way I know that song. At the same moment, he and I looked at eachother and began singing the song, starting with the intro and transitioning into the organ solo. We played air organ together. This actually happened to me. We were the only two people in the house, sharing a gorganzola and hot dog pizza (don't get me started on the Italian obsession with hot dogs) and singing Take on Me. Needless to say, we bonded. I am in with the family. This is a great relief to me.
Lesson: Learn 80s music before you go abroad. Odds are, it will be the only thing you have in common for awhile.
Some day I will put pictures on this blog. But probably not. Here's a description: Everything is really pretty. I have painted you a picture, I know.
I think you know what I'm talking about: "Italy? Everyone speaks English there anyway."
Guess what? FALSE. That. Is. False. Some people speak a little English, true. But not everyone speaks beautiful, fluent English. A shocking concept, right? I have to admit that my hopeful naivity got the better of me in the weeks before my trip because speaking English is so easy, right? And anyone who is reading this might think, "Katie, that was a really stupid assumption to make." And it totally was! I wasn't completely dependent on it, and I knew I would have to bust out the Italian every once in awhile, but I've started speaking Italian. No, I take that back. Out of necessity and survival, I've started speaking Italian. Here's another fun fact: High School language is a joke. I am sorry, High School language teacher. You are a very nice lady and you were very patient with me. But the whole concept of sitting in a desk and learning a language 42 minutes a day for 5 days a week now makes no sense to me. I sit in a desk, learn Italian for 3 hours a day for 5 days a week, and then leave class and try to speak Italian in the city and at home. Guess what? I'm still not good at it. I'm not even ok at it. My 6 month old host sister speaks better Italian than I do, and she just drools all the time. I get by. And as my host dad, Fabio, told me: "We do not care about tenses or grammar. Just say some words and we will get the point." Fantastic!
So I took French for what seemed like forever and by the time I graduated high school I was mediocre at best. I've been in Italy for 2 weeks and though I am nowhere near mediocre, I find it a million times easier to learn it by just sucking it up and doing it. There have been a few times in which I have had to tell my host mom, Barbara, certain pieces of information such as "I won't be home for dinner tonight" or "I am going to the beach tomorrow." First I pace around in my room for awhile, giving myself a pep talk and tirelessly rehearsing what I am going to say to her. Then I sneak out into the hallway, trying to hear where she is and how many additional seconds I have to prepare. Finally, I nonchalantly wander into the living room, see that she is breastfeeding, and turn around and go back in my room. I have used her breastfeeding as a sort of crutch; a reason not to talk to her, ask her questions, present her with gifts that were sent from America. I think, "Well, I don't want to bother her." Well guess what? She is already being bothered, she is breastfeeding a child! My attempts at telling her pertinent information usually take 2 or 3 times of pacing, pep talks, and repeat. It's pathetic, but I promise I am getting better. I think she can even vouch for that.
The best part about having host siblings is that they have no filter and do not hesitate to call you out when you say something incorrectly or do not undestand. A few nights ago I was sitting in the den with Margherita (8) and Arianna (4). While Margherita understands that I speak English and not Italian, Arianna doesn't even recognize that as an option. She thinks I am a quiet Italian girl who does not talk. After a lengthy rant, she looked at me and said "copisci?" I said "no." She turned her head and mumbled, mostly words I did not understand, but I definitely caught "stupida." Do you speak Italian? You don't? That means "stupid." Margherita flashed her most sympathetic eyes at me and patiently explained, "Ari, she's not stupid; she's just American." I don't think I need to say anything more than that.
Not everyone thinks I'm stupid, though, and that is a huge comfort. That has been one of my biggest concerns actually. Oh, God. They think that the school sent them a moron. They talk about me in front of me because they know I can't understand them anyway. Totally not. Last Wednesday I ate dinner with just Fabio. I explained as best I could that sometimes I understand things very very clearly; other times, I am completely lost. He then comforted me by saying that he is 42 years old and his English is still bad. (Not true-his English is better than my Italian. In fact, it will probably remain better than my Italian for the next 3 1/2 months.) He was explaining that he learned alot of his English by listening to music at the discotech (lol) and then, the most fantastic moment of my entire life happened. He said, "You know 'Take on Me'? Aha?" I squealed with delight and said "Of course! Certe! Yes! Take on Me! Si! Yes! Mi piaci Take on Me! On my laptop!" He did not believe me at all, saying that I am much too young and it came out in 1982 so there is no way I know that song. At the same moment, he and I looked at eachother and began singing the song, starting with the intro and transitioning into the organ solo. We played air organ together. This actually happened to me. We were the only two people in the house, sharing a gorganzola and hot dog pizza (don't get me started on the Italian obsession with hot dogs) and singing Take on Me. Needless to say, we bonded. I am in with the family. This is a great relief to me.
Lesson: Learn 80s music before you go abroad. Odds are, it will be the only thing you have in common for awhile.
Some day I will put pictures on this blog. But probably not. Here's a description: Everything is really pretty. I have painted you a picture, I know.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Half Showers
I just took half a shower. In both space, water pressure and all around temperature, I'd say it was all at about half mast. I am a small person. I actually never knew I was short until people started mentioning it all the time, but as it turns out it is true. Even at this height, I still struggle to fit completely in my shower, and I end up contorting my body in ways that are simply not natural. The shower is actually just a bathtub with a hand held shower head, one that does not stay in its little wall holder, mind you. So I have choreographed a kind of dance in which I hold the hose in one hand, at an extremely awkward angle none the less, and try to splash water as well as pour body wash with the other. It's charming. I have often heard that one of the biggest stereotypes of Americans is that we use too much water. You're damn straight, we do. My last two showers have been taken at mach speed, giving myself just enough hot water to rinse my body once and then get about half way through washing my hair. I usually condition in an icy tundra. And then after shivering for awhile, I put on my robe and dance around my bathroom, wondering if my host parents think it weird that I am showering so late.
I had planned on telling two anecdotes this evening but I find that I only have the energy for one. The ommitted anecdote happened at the Cleveland airport and it's about a bitchy mom who cried when her son bought Pop-tarts. Ask me about it-I'll be happy to talk about it.
The second, and now only, anecdote is from Sunday. Barbara and Fabio (my host parents) told me at breakfast that morning that they would be going to church at 11:00. Barbera mentioned that they would be back at 12:30 and I was free to walk around the neighborhood and get to know the city a little better. I thought this was an excellent idea! Afterall, Margherita had presented me with a smart leather keychain the night before and I was super excited to have my own set of keys. Once the family had left, I puttered around my new room for a bit before I decided I would be adventurous and venture off into the city by myself. When I left, I locked the door and went on my way. If you've looked at my Italy pictures, then you've seen the Piaza del Campo and how beautiful it is. I took lots of pictures, became acquainted with my surroundings and felt pretty independent and adventurous by the time I made my way home. You have to understand that I am fairly independent but negative adventurous, so being out in a foreign land was very exciting.
I got back to the apartment at probably 12:15. Good, I thought. I had wanted to make it back before they were home. I unlocked the main door at the street level and it worked perfectly fine. Then I climbed the 5 flights of stairs to the top floor where I live and I casually put my key in the keyhole. Nothing happened. Huh, that's weird, I thought. Maybe I did it wrong. (Whatever that means) I tried the key again but still no luck. Then I went through a seemingly long period of not being able to remember which way the door opened, which is ridiculous because doors generally open in. Unless it is my bathroom door at home. I inspected the hinges and the door frame, wondering why nothing would work. I continued with the key and immediately realized that a neighbor definitely could NOT catch me struggling with this stupid key. The clock was ticking and there was no way in hell that I was going to allow my family to find me on their front stoop, dripping in sweat, and clearly waiting for them to let me in. My initial plan was to wait until they got home and then perform a series of flustered "where did those keys go!?!" gestures that would illustrate to them that I had JUST gotten there moments before and was in the act of finding my keys! Everytime I heard the door open, I began this act of contrived fumbling. Then it dawned on me that I just needed to break the damn thing down and get in the house no matter what it took. So I got a running start and slammed myself into the door. Nothing happened. I considered climbing in through the window, or just leaving and coming back again. And in a fit of sweat and frustration I put the key in one last time, turned it, and the door simply opened as though there had never been a struggle.
Lesson? I don't know. Don't forget to switch the voltage on your keys, I guess.
But seriously-Italy is awesome and someday I will find time to write about classes and my host family and the atrocious amount of food I've been eating. You'd rather hear about some Italian misadventures though, right?
I had planned on telling two anecdotes this evening but I find that I only have the energy for one. The ommitted anecdote happened at the Cleveland airport and it's about a bitchy mom who cried when her son bought Pop-tarts. Ask me about it-I'll be happy to talk about it.
The second, and now only, anecdote is from Sunday. Barbara and Fabio (my host parents) told me at breakfast that morning that they would be going to church at 11:00. Barbera mentioned that they would be back at 12:30 and I was free to walk around the neighborhood and get to know the city a little better. I thought this was an excellent idea! Afterall, Margherita had presented me with a smart leather keychain the night before and I was super excited to have my own set of keys. Once the family had left, I puttered around my new room for a bit before I decided I would be adventurous and venture off into the city by myself. When I left, I locked the door and went on my way. If you've looked at my Italy pictures, then you've seen the Piaza del Campo and how beautiful it is. I took lots of pictures, became acquainted with my surroundings and felt pretty independent and adventurous by the time I made my way home. You have to understand that I am fairly independent but negative adventurous, so being out in a foreign land was very exciting.
I got back to the apartment at probably 12:15. Good, I thought. I had wanted to make it back before they were home. I unlocked the main door at the street level and it worked perfectly fine. Then I climbed the 5 flights of stairs to the top floor where I live and I casually put my key in the keyhole. Nothing happened. Huh, that's weird, I thought. Maybe I did it wrong. (Whatever that means) I tried the key again but still no luck. Then I went through a seemingly long period of not being able to remember which way the door opened, which is ridiculous because doors generally open in. Unless it is my bathroom door at home. I inspected the hinges and the door frame, wondering why nothing would work. I continued with the key and immediately realized that a neighbor definitely could NOT catch me struggling with this stupid key. The clock was ticking and there was no way in hell that I was going to allow my family to find me on their front stoop, dripping in sweat, and clearly waiting for them to let me in. My initial plan was to wait until they got home and then perform a series of flustered "where did those keys go!?!" gestures that would illustrate to them that I had JUST gotten there moments before and was in the act of finding my keys! Everytime I heard the door open, I began this act of contrived fumbling. Then it dawned on me that I just needed to break the damn thing down and get in the house no matter what it took. So I got a running start and slammed myself into the door. Nothing happened. I considered climbing in through the window, or just leaving and coming back again. And in a fit of sweat and frustration I put the key in one last time, turned it, and the door simply opened as though there had never been a struggle.
Lesson? I don't know. Don't forget to switch the voltage on your keys, I guess.
But seriously-Italy is awesome and someday I will find time to write about classes and my host family and the atrocious amount of food I've been eating. You'd rather hear about some Italian misadventures though, right?
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