Christmas In Sciarborasca

Most of my Christmas was spent eating. Eating some of the best food I have ever eaten: Lasagna, Rabbit, Gnochi, Tortalini, Antipasta, and so much more. Christmas was a festivity that started the 24^th and ended the 26^th. We ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate, and then, we ate. I would go to bed way too full, and wake up only to be fed another huge lunch. In short, my ski pants fit before I left Bologna, but now they don’t really button. Oh well, the food is worth the inability to button my pants.

On Christmas eve, after Virginia, Tommaso, and I attempted to see a Nativity Scene near Aranzano, only to discover it was closed until midnight, we came back to eat and eat and eat. Dinner was delicious. Caterina is a fabulous cook. I ate way too much and felt way too full. Ricky ate so much he fell asleep at about 10pm. Luckily it was after the two Babi Natale (Santa Clauses) came to deliver a ginormous bag of toys to Ariana. We all exchanged gifts, laughed at the fact that two Santa Clauses had shown up, explained to Ariana that there were two because one was dad and the other was son. Poor Ariana was so surprised and quite preoccupied. She really did not know how to respond to the first Santa Claus, let alone two. After the Santa Clauses and elves had eaten their share of cookies and milk they went on their way.

Andrea had Ariana open her gifts faster than I have ever seen a child open gifts. After tearing the last piece of paper off of a gift, she was immediately handed another one to open with the same speed. She hardly had time to look at what she got. It was really comical actually. She got a lot of dolls, but most interestingly, a miniature kit to clean floors. Apparently she loves cleaning floors. She was so excited to set it up and use it. Then she, Chiara, and Francesca went to mass at 10:30.

I called Mom and skyped with her. Then she went out horseback riding.

Then, with much exhaustion, and an overly full tummy, I went to bed. Ricardo slept on the couch. He kept saying he would go home to his house, but he never did.

When I got up late the next morning, they told me to get ready because we were going over to eat lunch at Tommaso and Virginia’s. I looked at them with gorggy eyes, incredulous, and still full. But, I got dressed, and prepared myself for another amazingly filling but delicious lunch.

Ricky, Tommaso, Virginia and I took the horses out for a nice walk up the hill. Prince, the young horse, was a little wild and made me nervous. I just kept thinking about how the year before I had fallen off a horse at Christmas, and was not willing to carry on the tradition and get trampled by one this year. The older horse, Piolla, was the one that ended up escaping, and from Ricardo. It was pretty funny to watch him hobble along after the horse, who had seen the lovely green grass and was not going to let the opportunity to feast pass him by. Ricardo was yelling at Virginia because he couldn’t run; he had a bad bike incident a month or two ago and so running hurts his knee too much. I was not about to chase the horse, one that I don’t know. I have learned my lesson in dealing with horses I don’t know; better that I don’t.

When we got back, we sat around trying to figure out what we would do. I was still bursting from lunch. Tommaso disappeared, then Ricardo, which left just Virgina, Chiara, and I. We decided to play cards for a few hours. I learned Scopa and another game similar to Pidro but also very different. I found myself wanting to count fives as points.

After that, still incredibly full from lunch, we had dinner. It was just leftovers, and so I ate what I could not eat at lunch. But, still, I was incredibly full, and eating more just made me fuller.

That night, I went to Maria’s house with Robby. Maria is his secret girlfriend. She is older than him and so Caterina would not be happy to know that she is his girlfriend. So, we went to wish her a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. They are going to Istanbul for New Years. But, as far as Robby’s parents are concerned he is going by himself. It is strange to be privy to so many secrets, and to know that my cousins feel my Italian is strong enough to understand what I am aloud to talk about with their parents and what I’m not supposed to mention.

Maria is incredibly nice, friendly, and fun to talk to. She is would fit in quite well at Kresgy or Porter college at Santa Cruz (as would Robby). We sat around and talked about Christmas, about plans for Istanbul, about life. In general, many pleasant conversations. Her cousins from Sicily had come to visit her. He was thoroughly pleased to learn about the US and kept asking me millions of questions. It was fun to talk to an Italian so in love with the US.

The next day was very much the same routine, wake up, eat too much food, go about in cars, drive the Panda with Tommaso. Tommaso and Virginia drive now. Slightly terrifying, but they are pretty good. They still need some practice: Virginia needs to not hit sidewalks and Tommaso needs to drive a little slower.

We tried to see “Tangled” at the theater in Genova. 1. The machine that gives tickets decided to not accept the money, or at least not the last 40 cents, and so we missed the train. 2. We sat around in the cold (it was almost snowing) for about 45 minutes waiting for the next train. 3. We got to the movie theater and could not even get into the entryway in order to buy the tickets. 4. We turned around, walked into the mall, could hardly stand the number of people, and so walked back to the train station. 5. Got back to Cogoleto, drove home, and ate more food. We decided that Tommaso, Virginia, and I do not have much luck. Every time we try to go do something, we never actually end up getting to do it.

I have been out with Ricky and Robby and their friends. Robby left today for Istanbul. Dario, Calca, and another friend left today for Edinburg. Tommaso and Virginia left for the mountains to celebrate New Years at a friend’s house. (I was going to go with them, but tomorrow I’m going skiing with Andrea and Ricky.) So, that leaves Ricky and I to celebrate New Years with a few of his friends. I’m sure it will be fun.

This time I have gone out the most with Tommaso and Virginia. It is fun and their friends are fun. But I know Ricky and Robby’s friends better. Also, I feel a little old going out with Tommaso and Virginia and their friends, because they are all about 18 or so. I’m used to my friend in Bologna who are between 20 and 30 years old. But, it is fun nonetheless.

I have also been skiing with Antoinette and Stefano. They took me to Pidmonte where we spent most of the day on mountain. It was absolutely beautiful. The sun was shinning all day (I sang the sun song after all… “oh Mr. Sun, Sun Mr. Golden Sun, hiding behind a tree or a cloud…”).

Well, it was a completely different experience to go skiing at this place then at Dodge or Badger in California. Perhaps, if I was one of those people who traveled to go skiing then I would have been more prepared for the spectacle that awaited me. First, they do not use stickers for ski passes. They use a little plastic magnetic chip. Then, every time you want to go on the lift, it is like waiting in line at Disney land—you have to pass through those turnstiles, make sure the thing reads the chip in your pocket, and then rotate the bars (which are bellow your knees).

The strangeness does NOT stop there. When you get to the front of the line, you are filed into little stalls, as though we were horses in a derby, which only open when it is your turn to go. The chairs held between four and six people. To get on the chairs, you do not hobble you way out there, however. Oh no, the system is much more entertaining that this. You get on a moving sidewalk that takes you along as the chair comes swing at you.

Once you have made it through the turnstile, out the gate, on the moving sidewalk, and onto the chair, there is one last surprise—the footrest. It consists of a large bar that you pull down over your head, which then has a few bars on the bottom where you can rest your feet, and a bar that acts a lot like a seat belt.  Unfortunately, this is much more convenient for skiers than for snowboarders, especially if you have to sit on the end where you can barely angel your foot onto the footrest. I took two different kinds of chair lifts: 1. Shoots you up the hill and then slows down when it hits the get on and off points 2. Picks you up pretty fast, but goes up the hill at the same speed it picks you up, so is rather slow.

The actual runs are about the same length as the ones at Dodge or at Badger. There were quite a few runs, because there were a large number of mountains (yes more than one). The really amazing thing is that you can see all the mountains. And when you get to the top, you can see a huge valley, and Torino, surrounded by mountains. It was absolutely beautiful. The runs were rather narrow in respect to those I am used to, which always makes me nervous because I like to zig-zag to avoid going too fast. It also gives you less space to avoid others. Also, because I prefer the slightly easier runs, and the slightly wider ones, I was stuck avoiding beginners, in minimal space, which gave me little room to practice in order to feel comfortable enough to go down the more difficult hills.

I did a pretty decent job, however, and was pleased to see my improvement. I was using a faster, lighter board, which changed the dynamics a lot. The only near dangerous accident I had was when I almost took out a kid. It was not totally my fault though. His parents should have use more common sense; their small six or seven year old should have been dress in a more noticeable color than white. I already have to wear my goggles over my glasses, which then sometimes fog up. On top of that, my ability to distinguish the white of a jacket from the white of snow is poor. Thankfully, I was not going fast. I did not and could not see the kid until I had almost hit him. I managed to avoid him, fell hard, and then got yelled at by his parents for going too fast. Funny thing was, I was going really slow, I just looked like I was going fast because when I fell I had to do a strange maneuver to avoid the kid, which made it look like a nasty wipe out (and felt like one too). I was annoyed with the parent for yelling at me like I was some evil, out-of-control snowboarder, out to get all the little children. I just wanted to tell them to put their kid in a different color than white. He looked more like a lump of snow than a child. Oh well, no one was hurt, and I paid more attention to the strange white objects as well, just in case one might be a kid instead of a lump of snow.

As the sun went down, the people started to disappear, and I had more room to use more of the mountain to do what I felt comfortable with. Antoinette and Stefano had turned in, so I put on my headphones and got into a good grove. I was able to go faster because I had more room to slow down and more room to wipeout. The last run I did, I wipedout hard, enough that I felt like I had jarred every bone in my body. It made it hard to sit the car ride home.

In good skiing tradition, we got a tasty hot chocolate (similar to hot pudding) and then snacked on cookies on the way home. I ended up falling asleep.

I half slept as I ate my dinner that night, and then, Virgina and Tommaso took me out for a little “giro” in Cogoleto. But no one else was out, so we didn’t stay down for long. Then I got home and slept quite soundly.

I woke up, stiffer than I would have imagined, and almost incapable of crawling out of bed. I took a nice long walk to warm my muscles up, ate very little all day in hopes of being able to button my pants when I go snowboarding the next time. However, seeing as that will be in only a few days, I doubt it. Darn Caterina and her amazing cooking!

My Three Thanksgivings

1^st Thanksgiving dinner: Thursday with my school

I sat at the “cool kids” table. Katie, Michael (who never fails to surprise me with how friendly he is despite how handsome he is) and Luke (who is the directors son and who is incredibly friendly) were those I sat closest too. The dinner and company was splendid. The conversation was definitely the kind I prefer: Pokémon, Harry Potter, D and D, Settlers of Catan, school, languages, why languages rock… playing soccer like an Italina vs. like an American. In general, the types of things we would talk about at Thanksgiving in my family.  

I also sat near Peggy and Maiju so I was able to talk with them. They are the ladies who help make the whole program work. It made me feel like I was at home with family—adults, people my age, and “kids.”

Dinner was alla Bolognese and absolutely fabulous.

1. Bread and wine

2. Potato and mushroom soup (a lot like mashed potatoes)

3. Fish risotto (which I was initially weary about but was delicious)

4. Turkey with blueberry dressing (surprisingly tasty and not too heavy) and some mashed potatoes (which were like cement)

5. Pumpkin cake with marscapone yummmmm

6.my apple pie. We were told that if we felt like preparing a pie, then we should. So, I made an apple pie thinking other people would bring some pies too. But they didn’t. Everyone had a small piece of the pie and greatly enjoyed it. I was pleased, but it was funny cause it was certainly not one of my better pies.

Every one I sat around explained their Thanksgiving traditions. It was great fun learning what others do for Thanksgiving: green bean casserole actually does exist. There was wonderful live entertainment provided by fellow classmates. A few played the piano. I did not bother to mention I was capable of palying the piano, because I have not practiced in months and thus I would make a fool out of myself trying to play anything. I got back home full and happy as could be.  

2^nd Thanksgiving: Friday at my house

We were a significant number of people: Sara, Hanna, Keyleah (Stacy in photos), Maja, Leo, then Katy, and me… oh and Fred the huge TURKEY!!!

I picked up Fred the day before. He was easily about 7 kg. I almost broke my arm trying to carry him home. The next day I was getting ready to cook him but did not have a big enough pan. The lack of a pan lead to me ringing bells in my apartment complex asking for pans, but with no success. After ten minutes of hunting I gave up, went back up the stairs, and began preparing Fred. I finished de-feathering the monstrous bird, which took at least half an hour. Then, I gave Fred his first, and last, bath. Just carrying him to the sink nearly broke my back. The monster in my sink was actually not really in the sink. Only about half of Fred fit in the sink, the rest was protruding out rather unceremoniously. I was laughing so hard I could hardly bathe him. Then I had to stop to take a few photos of the absurdity taking place in my kitchen sink. After I had successfully bathed Fred and placed him back on the table, I had to go out pan-hunting.

I found a huge tinfoil pan and decided with three, it might just hold all of Fred without breaking. I grabbed the meat thermometer the pans and headed back home to finish preparing the monster sitting on my table.

I dressed the monstrosity in butter, salt, and pepper; stuffed him with apples, onions and lemons; finally, I put a tent of tinfoil over Fred. When all was done, he was the same size as my oven, which I was NOT prepared for. I had the rack in the middle of the oven, like the directions said, but Fred did not fit. He was so enormous that I could not put Fred in the oven, and so as I attempted to abort the mission, without burning myself or the bird, I almost made the oven fall over. I put a 7kg. bird on the door of the oven and almost ended up pulling the oven on top of me and toppling Fred onto the floor.

I was yelping and laughing with surprise. I yelled for Hanna to come help me. I left he bird on the door and just held the oven in place, which was a lot easier. Hanna came to the rescue, helped me move the monster back to the table move the pan, and then together we finally got Fred in the oven. He just barely fit. The legs, which we had tied together rather “artfully” (another way of saying ridiculously) with string, were smashed up against the door of the oven.

After the near disaster of loosing the bird and almost the oven, I ended up burning my fingers and a few parts of my hands. But, with the ice water that comes out of our faucet, I managed to stop most of the swelling.

While Fred cooked (four hours) I made the stuffing.

I had to look up about 3 different recipes in an attempt to figure out what I could do with the ingredients I had. I also wanted to find a recipe for a stovetop stuffing that were not simply the directions to the classic “stovetop stuffing” you can buy at the store. After reading the various things I might need, the various ways I could cook it, I proceeded with my own interpretation of how to turn an “in-oven” stuffing into a “stove-top” one. It turned out to be absolutely delicious. I made two because I needed one with meet and one without.

Meet:

First, I sautéed onions, garlic, and parsley in a large pan. Then I added some pork sausage, which in Bologna is the best kind. Once the sausage was cooked, I added at least three cups of corn bread and one of normal bread, followed by 2 eggs (well mixed), some salt pepper, oregano, basil, and a cup, or a little more, of vegetable stock. Lastly I added some apples. Sara stirred it for about fifteen minutes. It turned out amazing. If you are looking for a tasty homemade stovetop stuffing that is not too soggy and not too dry, then I guarantee this will be a tasty success.

Vegetarian:

If, perchance, you have a vegetarian in the family, or you just prefer your stuffing meatless, then you can make the exact same stuffing as above, just without the meat. It tastes even better if you add raisins and walnuts. Again, it will be just perfect.

With the help of Sara, Hanna, and Keyleah the potatoes were pealed, cooked, and mashed.

While the three of them worked on that, I made pasta for Keyleah. As usual, I forgot she was a vegetarian until after I had dressed the ravioli in Nonna sauce (which is a pork sauce). In order to make sure she would have enough to eat, and get to enjoy some pasta herself, I made some home-made pasta. I have now officially made pasta and ravioli in about every way possible. I do not have a pasta maker in Italy (ironic I know) and so I had to use a rolling pin. When I made the ravioli, I had to use my fingers to make the pillows and then I cut them with a very poor ravioli cutter. The pasta I rolled as thin as I could. Then, I cut it the way I learned at my cooking lesson in Siena—roll it up, and then take a sharp knife and cut the pasta roll to make beautiful pasta. Then when I cooked up the pasta, I put some pesto on it. Turned out tasty.

Finally, I made another apple pie (I had made the one for the Thanksgiving with my school already so I knew the recipe well). The night before I was up late making pumpkin pies. It is hard to make the perfect crust however, because I do not have the perfect recipe (I left it at home) and I do not have the utensils to measure everything out properly; so, even if I had the perfect recipe it would not help much because I have not way to properly measure everything. None the less, the crust was tasty.

The entire cooking process was obviously greatly enjoyed. We laughed, talked, laughed, sang, talked, danced, and had a jolly good time.

We decided that we were in need of more people to share our Thanksgiving feast so we called Maja, who brought along Leo, and Katy.

Pietro and his family could not come because his mom, Silvia, was not feeling well. I was bummed but glad that everyone else was able to make it.

We finally took the monster out of the oven. Fred was beautiful. Golden-brown, juicy, and ready to be eaten. I made gravy, but I it turned out a little strange. We finally ate around 9pm. We did not finish eating until at least 11pm. We started with the ravioli/pasta. Then we ate turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and gravy. By the time we had had a little of everything we were ready to burst.

Around 11 we ate dessert. Hanna was begging me to serve desert about fifteen minutes after I had finished my plate. I looked at her and told her she was crazy. We had to wait at least an hour. There was no way I could eat anything for a while, and the oven needed a brake. It had been working non-stop for the last four hours. When we got around to dessert, we had the pies with gelato to put over hot apple pie from the gelateria next to my house. It was absolutely delicious.

After we had gorged ourselves to the max, I taught them Pidro and we played two games (Sara, Maja, and Leo left… tired and full, and Pidro is hard to learn in another language. Besides it is only for 4 people)

We had good games and we played for hours. Then Katie and Keyleah went home at around three or four. Hanna who is the cleanest and tidiest housemate you could ask for cleaned up the rest. Then, we showered and went to bed around 6am. An entirely fulfilling and filling evening.

3^rd “Thanksgiving”: Leftovers and birthday party

Obviously, with Fred being so fat, we had way too many leftovers that we had ANOTHER Thanksgiving.

Hanna, Katy, and I went to the ciaccoshow (chocolate fest) and got free samples of incredibly tasty chocolate. It was all too festive and amazing. All the Christmas lights were up and on, booths of chocolate everywhere, people everywhere. It was a lot like going to the lighting ceremony in Turlock, the day after Thanksgiving. The only that that made it better was the amazing presence of CHOCOLATE! There were also street performers everywhere. The first band we found was a real band and they were performing “O When the Saints” quite well and with great enthusiasm. There was a group of Spaniards on the other side of the crescent circle of spectators, who were singing and dancing just as much as Hanna, Katy, and I were. So we ended up having a little sing/dance off. They would sing one verse and dance, while the three of us would bounce up and down in rhythm; then we would sing and dance to the verses we could remember. The band played all the while, looking at them, playing to us. It was all together way too splendid. The next group we found was performing The Beatles and also lively. At one point the bassist (stand up bass) stood on his bass and played at the same time. It was crazy. As usual, Hanna, Katy, and I were the only ones dancing, clapping, singing and cheering. Italians will stand and happily watch the musicians, but rarely will they show enthusiasm, appreciation, or involvement. It is up to the foreigners to be involved and enthusiastic, then the Italians, occasionally, will slowly join in the festivities.

Unfortunately, I had only had apple/pumpkin pie with coffee for breakfast followed by all the free samples of chocolate, which meant I ended up with a rather painful tummy ache.

We got home around 9:30pm and began preparing the leftovers, of which we managed to eat very little.

Maja came over with Leo (her BF) and 2 incredibly handsome Polish boys who were visiting her from Poland (she is Polish). I mean, wow these guys were the definition of manly: Tall, buff, good eaters. They also had beautiful blond hair, strong face features. Polite and friendly, though shy. They did not speak Italian, and were afraid of speaking in English. But they were both quite adept at using English.

We used them as a way to get rid of more of Fred. They ate well and loved my food; which is always a plus when trying to make a good impression with me. Maja was so cute. She kept telling them they had to eat this, and that be cause I had made it by had and it is amazingly delicious! Then she would explain how you had to eat certain things, and some of the traditions. She was so involved and it made me feel like my cooking was more than a success.

Then, because I was standing there asking if they wanted more, if I could give them anything, eat eat eat, and in general keeping their plates full of tasty turkey, one of the boys said at the same time as Katy “I think I need to marry you! Can I?” I laughed, seeing as they had said it at the both time and because Maria, my housemate had already asked me a week or two before. I told them there was a long line.

From there we went to Daniel’s birthday. It was a lot of fun, but because it was a joint birthday it was really crowded. I talked to Artur (one of the polish boys) and then to Marcin (the other and by far my favorite). They were happy to practice English with me. They were nervous and embarrassed I guess, because they thought their English was not particularly good. In fact it was great. I understood them and we had long conversations. They just kept apologizing for their poor English. It made me feel like I should apologize for MY poor English, because in relation to theirs, mine was about the same.

After about an hour at Daniel’s party we went to Soda Pops, a fun, but always crowded place to go dancing. And that is where I fell in love with Marcin.

Marcin could dance! He could dance Salsa. Not to say the music was Salsa music, but we did not care. It is fun to dance Salsa, even when the music is not truly Salsa. And, as most people know, if you can dance Salsa, you gain at least a million awesome points in my book. I told him he was an amazing dancer even though he denied it. Then at one point, he told me he liked dancing with me. I got so many butterflies in my tummy and a silly smile on my face. He taught me a few moves and I taught him a few as well.

We literally danced all night long. I had not smiled that much while dancing since dancing Salsa in Santa Cruz. So obviously because Marcin could dance Salsa, he danced it with me all night, he loved my cooking (he asked me to marry him because of it) I fell hopelessly in love with him. But, it was a doomed love, because the next day he left to go back to Poland. Oh well, è la vita. I guess I’ll just go to Poland to dance with them.

 

Such wonderful thanksgivings.

Fred is still sitting in the freezer, one last Tupperware container. I don’t know how we will ever finish him!!!

My Italian Semester

I started my semester at the University of Bologna in October. I felt as though I had nothing to do, and so I took three different courses for the full credits. This was still not consuming enough time, and I was determined to find at least one job, to take up time and to make some money. So, as the weeks passed, I continued to add more to my plate.

Perhaps you have played the game “aroschtisha” where you begin, first by saying, “thumbs up, thumbs up, aroschitsha aroschtisha aroschtisha-sha” and by the end you have your knees together, your tongue out, your thumbs up, and you are hopping on one foot, all while saying “aroschitsha aroschtisha aroschtisha-sha.” My semester was much like this game, the only difference between my semester and the game was that after two minutes of the game, you can stop playing. Not quite so true for my semester.

I started with three classes; I added a job—English conversation/teaching with Pietro; I added a language “tandem” with Matteo; I added an internship—Flashgiovani; I added a translation job here and there; I had a guest or two visit; I added another job—English lessons for one of the guys I work with at Flashgiovani; and then, I had exams… aroschitsha aroschtisha aroschtisha-sha.

Just as at the end of the game, everyone is laughing and enjoying their time together, I found myself enjoying every minute of every day. Even if it was hectic and I was often all over the place, I would not have done it any other way.

I took three different courses: Etruscologia, Archeologia dell’Emilia Romagna, and Dantesco. My favorite of all the classes was by far Dante. Prof. Ledda is absolutely an amazing instructor.

Ledda is a short, petite, bald man, with spindly spectacles that sit on his rather large, hooked nose. He wears slacks, a dress shirt, a vest, tie, and jacket every day. His leather briefcase is always bursting with books and papers on Dante or by Dante. When he writes on the board he usually writes about in the middle of the board because he cannot reach the top. Throughout lecture his voice is clear and projects well. His use of language is that of an educated man. He does not speak too slow as to cause you to fall asleep, and he does not speak too fast as to make it impossible to follow lessons: in one word, perfect. There was nothing incredibly intimidating about him. I often felt comfortable enough to ask him a question or two after class. I only felt nervous because I wanted to use the formal when speaking to him. Of all my professors I felt he deserved it. But, as usual I would be able to consistently speak with the formal for only about a quarter of the time, which is not consistent at all. When I did ask him a question, he would look up at me with kind, inquiring eyes. Even as I had trouble articulating what it was I wanted to ask, he would be patient enough to riddle through what I was struggling to say, always encouraging me to work through my thoughts, followed by a clear answer. He was a distinctly Italian man, what with his loafers, proper dress, and way he carried himself. Surprisingly, his mode of teaching was infinitely different from any other Italian professor I had. Of all the professors I took classes from, he reminded me most of a UCSC literature professor.

Archeologia was a whole other world. My professoressa was intimidating, occasionally condescending, and rather difficult to follow. Her hair was dyed blond, styled perfectly, her old, wrinkly eyes meticulously lined and lashes painted, and she wore her fashionable Italian sweaters every day. She had a way about her that often reminded me of Meryl Streep in “The Devil Wears Prada.” When she did not like what you were saying, did not understand you, or could not believe you were mutilating Italian with your foreign accent, she would look at you with tightly pursed lips, penetrating, cruel eyes, and do a little head shake the way a horse might shake its head in irritation with a fly. If she asked us a question, a class full of foreign students terrified of this woman, and we did not respond, she would flick her head about in irritation, purse her lips, and then half yell at us to respond to her. And then, the brave soul willing to venture a guess, would either be told “correct” in an irritate voice with a statement along the lines of “FINALLY!” or ignored because the answer would be incorrect. What was most difficult was that if she stopped to ask a question you could never be sure fast enough if she was actually asking a question she wanted a response to or if she was simply being rhetorical; there was no questioning tone in her voice. It was only after the long pause followed by the expectantly raised eyebrows that any of us knew she was actually expecting an answer. Then she would become angry and demand that someone say something, at which point no one was willing to risk the wrong answer. If the right answer was stated, but in the wrong accent, she would then become frustrated. Her patience was akin to a mother's explaining for the hundredth time to her two-year-old child that you do not draw with crayon on the walls. She was our sixty-year old mother and we were were her little two-year-old foreign children who could get nothing right.  Unfortunately for us her class, with the exception of one student, was entirely composed of foreign students. Some days, however, she was in a more affable mood, and if her questions were answered within a few seconds, wrong or right, she would begin to tell stories. Many of the stories were interesting and pertaining to her adventures studying churches in the Emilia-Romagna. But, those days were few and far between. Most days she was just terrifying.

Etruscologia was yet again, another type of class. The professore for this class exemplified my expectations of an Italian teacher. He was probably in his sixties and spoke in a low, fast voice as though he was having a discussion with himself about something pertaining to Etruscologia. He wore various shades of green every day to class, and had a distinct tweed jacket. Occasionally he would write on the chalkboard and I would feel as though I had suddenly been transported into the Twenties. Sometimes he would take his glasses off, rub his eyes, and describe this or that image in his power point. Sometimes he would put his hands over his mouth while talking, as if to rub a beard he did not have. On these occasions, I could not understand a word he was saying and so I would sit there confused until he removed his hands from his lips and continued on in the same fast, quiet voice as before. He was not rude, inapproachable, or intolerant. He seemed only to be rather indifferent. And then, when the second module of the course began, he no longer taught the course, and various grad students or incredibly young professors (from what I understood) began teaching and I no longer found it possible to follow what was happening in class. Some days I could understand the person giving the lectures, some days I could not. Some days it would take me half the class period to fall into the rhythm of the lecture, and then, I still would not be able to take notes because they would simply be describing image after image that I did not have time to draw. So, many days, I sat there wide eyed, ever so slightly lost, and frustrated on some occasions with the definitiveness of the discussion on the Etruscan symbology.

One thing that I constantly found interesting was the general time frame for classes. We were given a two hour time block in which classes would be conducted. When the professor showed up is when class started, usually about fifteen minutes after the “start time” of class (called the academic 15 minute). Then, class ended usually around fifteen minutes before the end time. With some professors, like Ledda, it would end at the end time, or another five minutes after. With some professors, like Etruscologia, it would end as early as twenty to thirty minutes before the designated end time. In this way, classes could start and end at the same time without ever overlapping.

And so passed an entire quarter, busy as can be, usually as happy as can be, and oh so quickly. Aroschtisha aroschtisha aroschtisha-sha.

My trip to Rome

I woke up early Saturday morning. The sky was dark and the snow was still on the ground. Yep, that’s right, it snows in Bologna, and it snows a lot. I pulled my pants on over my pajamas. I put one four pairs of socks. I layered up my jackets—three in total. Pulled on my rain boots, which unfortunately DO NOT fit with that many socks on, and thus create massive foot cramps (in fact, I could easily understand why the Grinch would be so grinchy if his shoes were two sizes too small). Then with my hat, my gloves, my scarf, my exceedingly full backpack, and my two bags, I began my journey to the train station.

 I wanted to catch a train to Siena at 6:45am. I was hoping to get my Permesso di Soggiorno and the office of immigration closes at 11am, which meant that I had to get there early! Last time I got there in time, but I accidently forgot the important information, such as the recite, and so they turned me away. I did not even get the chance to be turned away this time. I missed the train. But, that turned out to be all for the better, because if I had made the train, I would have had less time in Rome and Katy, who was going to go with me, would have missed her appointment. Well, I bought a ticket to Rome. I was in the station at 7am and my train was supposed to leave at 9:18. To avoid waiting in the cold, I went back to Katy’s place, napped, and then hauled all my stuff back to the station. Remember, this was in the snow, though not up-hill, and in incredibly cold weather. 

When I got back to the station, the trains were all delayed. SNOW. All the fast trains were slowed down to normal speeds. Well, my friend in Rome was expecting me to arrive around 1:30 that afternoon, and so was I. After about five minutes waiting I realized that the station in Florence had been inaccessible for a good portion of the morning, so all trains were delayed, mine by about twenty-five minutes. I was prepared to stand in the cold, though it was a beautiful cold, as the sun was coming up, the snow was shinning, and families were standing around getting ready to travel for Christmas. As I stood on the platform awaiting my train, I marveled at the fact that I had passed an entire half year in Italy. I also realized how glad I was that I was staying for a year. There was no way I could have been getting on a plane to go back to California that day, not even if I missed my family that much. I was (and am still not) read to end this journey. It feels as though it has barely begun. 

As I stood there musing, it occurred to me that my train was arriving, and luckily it was not quite as late as I had anticipated. Perhaps, if I had been listening to the announcements instead of musing, I might have understood what was going on. But I was not listening to the announcements. So, I climbed on the train, deposited my bags of luggage, and found an empty seat. The train was completely full of people and energy. I put on my headphones, and for the next hour or so tuned in and out of life around me. I had not slept much for the last week and so my ability to stay awake on such a warm, relaxing train, was minimal.

The parts of the trip I did see were fascinating. I looked out the window to see my train zooming past winter wonderlands: trees covered in snow; houses with snow on the roofs; little towns with Christmas lights glowing; the Florence train station at least a foot deep in snow. We would enter a tunnel and each time come out upon a new landscape, filled with snow—sometimes foggy, sometimes snowing, sometimes sunny—but always SNOW. And then, we came out of a tunnel, and it was obvious that we had passed into the South. The snow was gone. There was not even a hint of it. It was almost as though we had taken a train into spring—rolling hills of trees with green leaves, green grass, some blue skies. Nothing really looked dead. It even looked pleasantly warm outside. 

As we came out of the last tunnel, I realized that people were picking up their items and chattering with energy. I looked around confused, asked the girl next to me where we were: “almost in Rome,” she said. I looked at my watch—11. How could this possibly be? I was certain the trains were supposed to be behind schedule, not two hours ahead. 

The way I figure it, I probably ended up on one of the fast trains to Rome that was supposed to leave at about 8am. Well, I think what they decided to do, seeing as all the trains were behind schedule, was to just put people on the trains, even if it was not necessarily their train, because it was the one that came in and the one that was leaving closest to their trains departure time. That, or I just got lucky and the person checking tickets never came by (or was instructed not to worry due to the confusion likely to be caused by delayed trains) and so I was never told that I was on the wrong train. Whatever the case may be, I woke up in Rome at 11am, drowsy and bewildered. 

I called Marcello to tell him I had arrived. Needless to say he was as shocked as I was. He was not at the station yet, he had not even left his house. He was rather flustered. I told him not to worry. I would happily wait. He gave me directions as to where to meet him. I hopped on the metro and headed out to the end of the line. His family lives out in Tivoli, which is a ways out of the center of Rome, but beautiful and worth seeing.

After getting of the metro at the end of the line, I headed up the stairs and found myself, quite happily, bathed in a warm, Roman afternoon. Marcello had not yet arrived, so I found a piece of wall to sit on, turned my face to the sun—rather like a sunflower might—unbuttoned my overcoat, and began to solar charge my spent batteries. I am pretty sure that after about ten minutes, if you had been sitting next to me, you would have heard a “bing” signifying that I had recharged. This did not stop me from soaking up as much sun as I possibly could. The warmth was wonderful and sorely missed. 

Marcello showed up maybe twenty minutes after I had arrived. We walked over to the bus stop, and took a much too crowded bus up the hill to Tivoli. Then, we walked up a hill, one that could easily rival the Merrill hill, and back to his family’s house. I had asked him if we could stop at a store so I could grab something to bring his family. I had obviously not had time that morning and could not find anything at the train station that I thought would be suitable. He told me not to worry, but I said that I felt rude not bringing something. He told me that he would take me past a market on the way to his place. Well, he lied.

Before I knew it, we were walking up the stairs to his home. I was rather disgruntled, walking into his home, meeting his family, and having nothing to offer them. But Marcello was already explaining the trick he had played one me and they were chuckling about it.

I was pleasantly surprised to find his mother and father so friendly. His father was home for just a short period before going back to work. In fact, when I walked in, if I had not been walking in with Marcello, I would have guessed that the person sitting on the make-shift coach was Marcello: same laugh lines, same smile lines, same hair cut, same height, same dynamic personality. I was quite surprised. His mother was getting lunch ready. Her hair was long, strait and pulled back in a tight pony tail, only a few wisps of hair escaping here and there. Her smile was kind and her eyes welcoming.

I put my things down and was summoned to lunch.

Lunch was interesting. First I was warned that there would be no pasta. I said that there was no problem. They told me lunch would be very Romanian, which I took to mean entirely composed of meat and bread, because that is what we ate. They, as all good hosts do, offered me more than I could ever eat and were continually preoccupied that I did not have enough or that I did not have enough water, juice, or anything else my taste-buds desired. Marcello’s mom did not eat. She just served. Marcello and I ate meat. His father ate a fish head soup (which he offered me some of and I, as politely as I could, declined). Anything Marcello’s father desired, his mother brought him. It was such an interesting “house wife” kind of dynamic. It was clear who was head of the family the entirety of my stay. The language most used was Romanian, but when they addressed me they used Italian, or asked Marcello to help explain. It was pleasant, but distinctly different from any family I have lived in or stayed with thus far. 

Another peculiar thing about Marcello’s family, in particular his father, is the fact that he has a mistress. It is not that I ever saw her at the house, but when we were walking through town one day Marcello said “see that lady there, that is my dad’s mistress.” I looked at him so shocked and confused. Fist I did not know the word in Italian, and then when he explained it to me, I just gaped at him. All I could think was that if he and everyone else in his family knew this, how on earth did it continue. He told me that it was not normal and that the few times his father had been out with this “other woman” his mother had given him a what for. But, after seeing the eating dynamics, it became a lot more plausible that, though not accepted by his mother, it was also unwilling put up with. An incredibly different way of living life, with different standards of tolerance from those in an American family. 

While I was with Marcello, his friends, and his family, I practiced my Italian (my main form of communication) and I learned a few Romanian words: Multsumesk (thank you, an obviously helpful word), how to pronounce the names of a few friends and family, Buona Ziwa (good day, which I believe is spelled this way), manomesck (my name is, spelled the way I pronounce it), and a few others that at this time I cannot recall.

Marcello greatly loves to play tour guide. This means that I grab my camera and my purse and then follow him through all the places he thinks would be fun to show me—and naturally they are all beautiful and amazing. This time, we tried to see the fountains at Tivoli, but unfortunately, they were already closed. So, we walked about this Roman hill town, admiring the Christmas lights and cheer. He pointed out a cross on the top of the hill and told me that the next day he would take me up there to see all of Tivoli and Rome, and the cross up close. Of course, the next day we did just that. He, his younger brother Denuz, his friend Cucoasch who drove, and another older woman whose name I never really learned. We stayed up there in the wind and cold for at least an hour, romping and running around. We took photos and videos, enjoyed the view, collected rocks, climbed on rocks, turned cartwheels, and in general wrecked havoc. In all it was a beautiful afternoon. He showed me the fountains from afar and told me the next time I was there to see him, he would take me in to actually see the fountains up close. 

Marcello’s brother, Denuz, is probably one of the sweetest and cutest 14 year old boys you will ever meet. Aside from getting me a stuffed frog with a big heart that says “love you” on it as a Christmas gift, he was incredibly charming, kind, and welcoming. He enjoyed hanging out with Marcello and I and wanted to tell me all about his school, how he was learning English, the movies he liked, the games he played, the things he did. He was incredibly friendly. He was not shy and not judgmental. That is probably what I like most about tweens—they have a tendency to enjoy lively, funny, friendly people who want to listen to what they have to say and are often a lot less judgmental than people I meet who are my age. Granted, not all tweens are like this, but the ones I have met seem to be. For this reason, I can always relax and be me around them. I can laugh more freely, joke more easily, and not feel like an idiot when I do something a little too happily or a little too crazy, because someone like Denuz will just laugh and move on, where someone my age my become embarrassed. So, needless to say, Denuz and I connected well. We shared many stories, played a few games, had a few tag/tickle wars, and watched a few tv shows together. In general, he became an adopted little cousin for the weekend. From what I could tell, he greatly enjoyed being able to hang with Marcello and I, and enjoyed that I was more than willing to talk with him about life and things he liked to talk about. Of course, as all younger siblings do best, he annoyed Marcello a little, because Marcello felt as though his little brother was encroaching on some” hanging with his best friend” time. Obviously, I could understand this emotion of not wanting to share your friends with your younger siblings, because I too have a younger sibling, who on many occasions wanted to “steal” my best friends.   

Then, as many of you know, I got up much earlier than I am ever fain to get up, in order to call those I love most and sing a few Christmas carols with them. Then, much to my pleasure, despite the unholy hour, I talked with two wonderful friends and planned our travels through Europe with them! As you can imagine, much excitement.

Later that day, Marcello, his brother, and I went to the market, and I got yet another sweater to add to my collection. Also, I got another pair of boots, this time black, to help keep my feet warm, and in Italian fashion, in the cold months to come. Rain boots, as noted above, do not keep me warm, nor can I wear enough socks to do so. 

Also, later that day, I played a round of Rummycube (is that how this game is spelled?). But I played it the Romanian way. So, all the strategies I am used to using, well only about a quarter of them work. I had to mix the card game version with the tile version in order to serve the round we played. Good thing Marcello was there helping. In all, it was great fun. 

Then, after the round, we headed up the hill to romp around and admire the cross and the view.

On Monday, I headed back up Italy, through the rain and snow, and wound up in Cogoleto to stay with my cousins. Which is where I will spend Christmas, though I was asked many times by Marcello’s family to stay and celebrate Christmas the Romanian way. However, I already had plans, and I want to celebrate Christmas in Italy, the ITALIAN way.  

UCSC described to foreigners

This is the site I work for as an internship in Bologna. I wrote this basic article the other day. Now all I have to do is really expand on all the themes. If you have time take a look (it is the article in English about CA). 

http://flashgiovani.it/notiziedalmondo/news/

I have a “theory” about why Italians in Bologna are always so cold.

In Bologna when fall season hits, so does fall fashion. This means, excessively warm jackets, scarves, pants, boots—the whole deal. Italians are fashionable. The general mentality of Italians—from observation of the people, the clothing in stores, and mannequins—is “the season is changing therefore I must dress to the fashions of the new season.” If the mode is wear the big winter jacket with the long sleeve sweater, a scarf, and boots, then they do it. The mannequins usually have about five different layers, as do the people in the stores, along the streets, and in my classes. When these twenty-or-so-year-old students get to class they have to take off about two jackets, and yet, as I watch my classmates sit down, I notice that they are still wearing two more shirts and a sweater.

The fall fashion, however, does not necessarily match the actual temperature. For example, today was probably in the higher 70s. In California, I would probably still wear shorts, flip flops, and a sweatshirt; the temperature usually warms up, and walking up and down hills all day is enough to make your body temperature rise and the sweat start dripping. Here in Bologna, everyone was dressed like it was 40 or 50 degrees outside. It was ridiculous. I felt like I stood out more than usual by not having on my boots and jacket. Instead I had dressed practically: jeans and a T. But in Italy, dressing is a fashion, not a practicality.

So I figure, these Italian who all tell me how cold it gets in Bologna, all get so cold in the winter because they are excessively warm and overdressed in the fall.

................

I must say, as the temperature is finally dropping, I am beginning to understand the concept and necessity of layers. Though I often feel that some days are still too warm for long sleeves. One of my classes, Dante actually, resembles an inferno more than a classroom. It is nice to take off my jacket or sweater and just have on a t-shirt. But, I am pretty sure I am the only non-mannequin in class—where everyone else looks like they could be the display in a store window, I look like the person who is pondering which of these displays I will choose to create my new look. However, when I step outside, liberated from the heat and humidity of so many bodies packed together, it is nice to have the sweater and the jacket on, and maybe even a scarf. Well, at least I can say I understand my studies better than I understand fashion.  

The Crazy Roman Taxi Driver

       Rome 25 July 2010

Janneth and I were at the Vatican late Saturday night because we wanted to see the Vatican glowing: St. Peter’s Basilica, the fountains, the columns, the statues. We had arrived taking the subway. It was probably about midnight, and the subway crowd was less than savory. We did not feel particularly at ease walking to the Vatican, but as we stood there admiring the soft glow of the Basilica our concern was forgotten as we slipped into a state of awe and peace. The square was blocked off for some event that was going to take place that Sunday—probably mass—so we could only stand at the far end of the square. After about ten minutes of reflection, we decided it would be in our best interest to get some much-needed sleep. We had spent the entire day walking around the most popular sites in Rome. Our feet were miserable, our bodies were exhausted, and our minds were way past functioning. We knew our hotel was in the vicinity, but we forgot to bring our map and we really had no desire to get lost at one in the morning, in Rome, in our present state of exhaustion. So, as we contemplated a better solution, we realized that there was a Taxi stand just behind us with a rather expectant looking Taxi sitting at it.

What a convenient solution: hop in a taxi, relax, arrive at our front door easily within five minutes. We gingerly walked over to the idling Taxi. The cab was dark inside obscuring the figure of the man behind the wheel. We asked in our ever-improving Italian if he could take us home. A sound issued from the window, resembling “Si” and so we crawled into the back seat. We handed him the card with the address of our hotel. He looked at it for a while. He seemed to have trouble reading it—this man was probably eighty years old! His face was wrinkled like that of a man who had spent his life in the sun instead of in a cab. He had a golf-ball sized wad of tobacco in his lower left lip that he chewed contemplatively as he regarded our address. Janneth and I just sat there, too tired to care much. This ancient man put the card down on the seat, mumbled something in a gruff voice and drove off. We buckled up. It was Rome after all, the Italians there are know for their driving… skills.

Well, we did not get far before he stopped. Much to our surprise he stopped next to another cab. Why would we stop to talk to another Taxi driver? How would this help us get home? The old man leaned out the window and started talking to the other Taxi driver—keep in mind that our meter was still running. We realized that he was asking this Taxi driver where our hotel was! He had not had trouble reading the card, he was trying to remember if he knew where the address was. We gathered that the other Taxi driver had no idea where the street was either. We probably would have understood what was happening sooner had the radio not been effectively overpowering the conversation between the two Taxi drivers. Instead of hearing the conversation about how to find our hotel, we learned how to prepare the perfect dish of spaghetti con pomodori.

Finally, our ancient Taxi driver drove away from the taxi stand and Janneth and I assumed that this meant he knew where he needed to take us. We were quite mistaken. He began to grumble something in Italian to us. We could barely make out what he was saying through the wad of tobacco, the thick accent, and the loud radio. It became clear that he was telling us, while driving, that he was not sure where the street of our hotel was. In fact, he was trying to ask us for directions as he was driving. We were weaving in and out of traffic, and he kept looking back at us to yell over the radio and through his wad of tobacco, asking which direction he should take us.

Janneth and I sat desperately clenching the seats in front of us, leaning forward so as to hear this old man’s gravely, raspy voice over the radio. We rarely took our eyes from the road because of the frequent oncoming traffic. He was yelling questions at us about where he should turn, where the street was, and many other things we could not make out. We realized we might have more luck if we told him the name of the Metro stop near our house. He seemed to understand because one second later I was pressed back into my seat as he threw the Taxi into third gear.

We sped down street after street. After a few minutes the old man slowed down and turned to look back at Janneth and I. From what I could tell, he was trying to ascertain if he was headed in the right direction, but I was preoccupied with the direction the car was headed at the moment. With his hand on the wheel and his eyes on us, chewing and grumbling, the Taxi driver veered into the oncoming lane. For what seemed like a minute the oncoming lights grew rounder and rounder, filling our windshield faster with every passing second. The old man was yelling at us with but I could hear nothing—I was immobilized by fear. Fortunately, the crazy old man turned back around to steer the car to momentary safety. What had felt like two seconds too many in the headlights of another car had passed. The car to which the headlights belonged honked, annoyed at our ancient taxi driver. This act of impatience frustrated our taxi driver who spat out a strain of profanities dripping in chewed tobacco.

After about ten minutes of flying past streets, slowing down only enough to turn ninety degree turns, and speeding off again, we arrived at a spot Janneth and I recognized. We were almost home! But, instead of turning towards our hotel, the crazy Taxi driver turned in the exact opposite direction. Janneth and I had had enough. We yelled at him to stop. We yelled out of urgency. We yelled because we were competing with the voice of a woman explaining how important it was to dice the tomatoes instead of slice them.

The crazy old Taxi driver pulled over, but because we were in the middle of a round about he needed to move the car out of the way of the traffic. He pulled the cab up onto the sidewalk. The car made a wretched grinding sound as its underbelly scraped the cement. A car should never make such a horrendous noise of grinding metal and cement. The old man growled some profanities and we could see he was working his wad of tobacco just to say them. He was annoyed that he was letting us off at what to him seemed a random place but to us looked like a five minute walk from our hotel and an escape from another ten minutes in the clutches of this crazy Roman Taxi driver.

We wanted to pay him the ten-euro charge with a fifty, because that was all we had. Naturally we were expecting change, but he had none. Due to some small miracle, we were in an area that apparently was one of the frequented night places of Rome. The unassuming fruit stand from which we had bought our lunch earlier that day, was surrounded by an affable crowd of laughing, chatting, and relaxing young Italians. We followed the old man to a nearby bar where he got change for our fifty. Janneth and I practically took off at a run after receiving our change, revitalized from the blood-pumping ride. As we walked back to our hotel, we could not stop laughing at the crazy old Taxi driver.

Next time, I think we will just walk to our hotel.

Nights in Bologna

Hanna and I called all the people we know and invited them all to our place to eat, drink, and then go out dancing. At 8 it seemed like nobody wanted to come at all. We were cooking some tasty food but it was beginning to look like we were the only ones who were going to be eating it. We were starting to feel down because all our friends seemed to have better things to do.

Just as we were saying that nobody was coming and maybe we should just stop cooking, Hanna's friend Maja, from Poland (who speaks English and Italian and obviously Polish) came with her friend Daniel, who was visiting from Germany.

Hanna and I were so happy. We ended up having such a great dinner. Between the four of us, we had had so many different and worldly experiences. We talked about our preconceptions of certain parts of the world and how they had been changed or confirmed. We talked about how much schools cost around the world, the different kinds of governments and the peoples’ mindsets towards these governments, about taxes and roads, and much more. But unlike many discussions I have had of this nature, it was not overly political or overly economical. We just said what we thought without feeling the need to back up our opinions with extensive facts—personal experience were evidence enough. It was nice to have a discussion that did not become a debate where everything became personal and people felt the need to defend to the death their idea and or country. Instead, people felt free to agree and disagree. It was an intriguing discussion about our views and opinions of other countries and our own countries.

After dinner two girl friends of Hanna, one from Italy (Chiara) and the other from Taiwan (Tam) met up with us. And then from there, as we were walking to a house party for a friend of the Polish girl, more people met up with us—all friends of Hanna. Apparently I have lame friends who do not want to go out, because everyone we met up with were friends of Hanna.

Anyway, there was in general a lot of English last night so that Hanna could understand, but when I got the chance, I just used Italian. Hanna was also using Spanish and German. It is one of the most mind-blowing things to go out and hear at least three different languages in one night. I absolutely love it. I have to learn more languages!

We finally finished up eating and took off. Mind you, it was raining all night, and though there are portici you still need and umbrella for certain parts of the walk. Daniel, German boy, had a big orange umbrella that Hanna and I were crowding under. It was quite comical actually, because Daniel is, as Hanna put it, quite German. He likes to keep his distance. He walks tall. He is proper and polite. He offers you his arm but in a rather manly kind of way. It was hard to not snicker the whole time. People kept joking about how lucky he was—one guy escorting approximately five girls and two were clinging to him to stay under the umbrella and out of the rain. And to top it off, his umbrella was a rather, stop-traffic, kind of orange.

We picked up another group of about four people, also all friends of Hanna.

So we finally make it to the house party. We are all substancially wet, but happy none-the-less. When we got there we realized that this house was about two rooms too small for all of us and it would be better if those of us who did not know the person just left. So we did. We wished the birthday boy a happy birthday and then left him to celebrate with friends. Well the people we met up with wanted to go to a bar before going out dancing. So we ended up at a bar that was giving out one free drink to all girls. All you needed to do was to show up with a flyer—which we had—before midnight—which we did.

As Hanna and I were walking up to the bar, this guy was blatantly staring us down. It was rather disconcerting. It turns out he wanted us to use the free pass to get him a drink. Who would blame him—ask every girl he can, and maybe one will actually use their one pass to get him a free drink. Initially Hanna and I were confused; there was a lot of "I don’t believe it" discussions and occasionally a comical language barrier. In the end, after much concern that we were buying a guy a drink instead of him buying one for us (I mean, nothing is ever free right?), we used the free passes to get this guy a rum and coke, which left Hanna and I a beer to share. It worked out perfect on all accounts.

This guy was surprisingly quite polite. Both Hanna and I thought he was going to try to hit on us, or be awkward, instead he was interested in actually talking about school and majors and such. He did not use his need for a drink as a pick up line, which was a nice change of pace. We had a reasonable conversation and then after about five minutes of talking we went our separate ways.

At this point I think there were about eight of us in this crowded bar. So we all went down stairs where there were hardly any people. We found a table. We sat down and began to drink and yell.

We did not talk. We yelled.

You could not talk. The music was so loud. I think the bar was expecting people to show up and dance, but nobody was. So we had to yell over the music to have a conversation. The Italian girl from Calabria, who I was sitting next to, was super nice and we “talked” for a while; it puts a large strain on your voice to constantly yell over music so eventually we just gave up.

After about an hour or so we took off. Our group split back up again and it was just Hanna, Chiara, Tam and me. We went to this place called Soda Pop because Hanna and I have been wanting to find a place to go out dancing for the last few weeks. We do not actually know any places in Bologna so we are always up for suggestions.

Soda Pop was fun but awkward. They call it a dancing bar because there is not really a dance floor, just a large space away from the bar where people often dance. The place was really crowded to the point that actual dancing was difficult. Mostly it was awkward because there were a lot of people dancing but there were more people just standing there, not even trying to dance—just watching you. And usually the people just watching you were guys. Also, we were crowded around a table, where we had put our stuff, trying to dance. It was totally reminiscent of Junior High dances but more crowded and there was alcohol!

We probably danced for 30-45 minutes, which was great, even if the place was kind of lame and the guys were really awkward. But as most people know, I absolutely love to dance and so, 45 minutes (which is admittedly short) in a hot, sticky, crowded, bar is better than no dancing at all.  

We left because it was so hot and well, not the greatest place to dance. Also, some of the girls did no really enjoy the music. Hanna and I loved it. A bit of Latin, loud, good beat, well mixed, and then popular songs. It was hard to leave because they kept playing a lot of songs we knew and liked, but we just could not stand the heat.

Usually when I try to make my way through a crowd at a dance, the most effective way is to dance through the crowd—people are usually more willing to let you pass. Not so true at this place. The guys will think that you are trying to dance with them and try to stop you. One guy put his hand around me to try to dance with me. I just pushed him away. I was leaving for the door and had no interest in dancing with a strange, drunk, man. He was reluctant to let go, which made it quite uncomfortable. But I guess that is what I get for dancing my way out the door. People think you are trying to dance with them.

When we finally made it out of the crowd and closer to the door, this guy who was super drunk and dancing up on his friend, was directed (by his friend) to dance up on Tam and me. This guy was tall, probably about six feet but he looks taller because most people in Italy are short. He had on a grey long-sleeved shirt. With his long sleeves, his wayward arms looked even more awkward. It was funny because if I had pushed him he would have just fallen over. All I had to do was put my hand out and move him out of the way. I was doing everything in my power to look disgusted, because really, all I wanted to do was laugh at this guy; he was ridiculous. I think he was attempting to imitate an albatross in flight. Though I suspect he would have called it dancing.

Finally we made it to the door. We put back on all of our layers because it was still raining outside. From there we walked over to Irish Pub to meet Chiara’s boyfriend and his friends. At this point Hanna and I were exhausted. We sat and talked with them for about an hour. We now know even more Italians, some with cars who are willing to go to the discotecas outside of the city. These places are supposed to be the best.

In the end, Hanna and I had an amazing night. We went out, had so much fun, spent absolutely NO money (which definitely made the night perfect!), DANCED, and met so many new people from around the world.

My first night out in Bologna

 I talked to two Italians, one a guy and another a girl. The girl was nice, but she had one of those little dogs that she used more as an accessory than as a dog. I was rather upset with this dog abuse, as I see it. Surprisingly the dog seemed used to the situation. The guy was incredibly friendly. He used a mixture of English and Italian when he was speaking to me, though I think that had mostly to do with the fact the German guy sitting with us knew English better than he knew Italian. In fact, the German guy did not seem to know any Italian. Our conversations were an interesting mixture of languages and they were quite entertaining.

At one point I got up to use the bathroom. While I was waiting in line there were two other guys. I was drunk enough that I was having a little difficulty standing, but not too much. I was using the wall to help keep myself up. The guy in front of me, rather tall, thin, curly hair, sky-blue eyes, asked me if I was bored. I thought about it for a second and then replied that I guess I was. I mean, what is interesting about standing in line to use a bathroom? Well, apparently a lot when the guy in front of you begins a conversation.

I never made it back to the table, which I had abandoned for a bathroom. I got too caught up talking with these amiable, friendly, and rather cute Dutch guys.

Egge, contrary to how it may seem, is NOT pronounced like “egg” with and “e” at the end. Oh no, it is not that simple. It is Dutch. If you are unfamiliar with Dutch, as I am, then this language is rather similar in sound to German. So, as you can imagine, the pronunciation is going to have a lot of that impossible throat, hacking sound. I think if I had to spell Egge phonetically, it would look more like eKDKCKDJCKCLKCKSKKCe.

Actually, I do not think I ever got close to pronouncing this poor guy’s name. It was easily a five minute exercise. At first my only problem was with the hacking part. Once I had figured out approximately how to get past the Dutch “gg” there was the problem of the final “e.” To me this “e” had more of a sound of an “er” making his name sound a lot like Edger with a funny hacking sound in the middle. But, every time I ended his name with the “er” sound they would laugh and ask why I was putting an “r” at the end. I kept telling them that when they said it I heard an “er” sound but they told me I was wrong. They would say his name with the “er” and then with just the “e” sound and I really heard no difference. It was quite entertaining actually.

Well we had many conversations about Italians not using English enough, being rude, and America being amazing—conversations in which I listened to them, agreed only occasionally. The boy with the locks, Robbert, was pleased that I was from America and continued to tell me all the amazing things about being American. It was quite surprising to listen to someone speak in raptures about a country I am used to defending to foreigners.

We talked about Holland and they asked me my opinion. I told them that all I really knew about Holland was that the people were supposed to be unbelievably friendly there and that the winters were unbearably cold. They laughed and told me how they hate the reputation Amsterdam gives them and how they really do not have any desire to smoke weed and yet everyone thinks that Dutch people are all potheads. I told them I had never thought that, and promised to never think of Dutch people as potheads.

They bought me a beer. Well, perhaps it would be more accurate to say they were forced on a quest to purchase me a beer. First they did not have enough cash, so they were going to use cards. The bar did not take credit and so they were annoyed. I gave them a five and they told me I was really too kind. Well that five just did not equal enough, so I was going to dig out some more coins but they told me I was not allowed to because I was a girl, it was too expensive for me (the exchange rate and all), and they needed to keep up their reputation as unbelievably friendly. So Egge went to go get some cash from and ATM about ten minutes later he was pushing his way to the bar, cash in hand. Ironically, when he finally asked for three beers, the tap was empty, so he had to wait for them to refill it. About fifteen minutes after the beginning of his quest, Egge returned, beers in hand, having earned his spoils through and through. Quite an ordeal just to get another beer.

Well, we talked and they told me I should definitely visit Holland while I was here (they were visiting Italy on Holiday only).  They said that if I flew into Amsterdam they would come pick me up and take me around Holland. I told them that sounded like a great idea.

It was probably about 1:30 or 2am at this point. My American friends had peaced and I was still hanging with my new Dutch friends. The bartender came over to tell us that we needed to move to another part of the bar so that they could start cleaning up. She was using Italian and because these Dutch guys did not speak any Italian I explained to them what was going on and talked to her. Robbert told me that it was sexy when I spoke in Italian. I just laughed. About ten minutes later we decided to take off because they really looked like they were closing.

These friendly Dutch guys, living up to their reputation, walked me home. They came in, used the bathroom. We talked, they marveled at the size of my place. We exchanged contacts and they told me that I should get in touch if I was going to go to Holland. 

Robbert is actually coming to visit for a weekend in October. It pays to socialize. 

Crazy American Lady

So, a couple in a car pulls over at the bus stop in front of my house. The lady rolls down the window and…    wow, this is starting to sound like bad joke.

Anyway, the lady starts demanding to know where the “stadio” is. She is speaking frustratedly to the kind, old Italian lady at the bus stop who is attempting to understand what this flustered woman is yelling about. Regardless of what you think, yelling words does not mean that they will suddenly make more sense. If there is a language barrier, you can scream the word into a microphone hooked up to ten different amps turned all the way up and the person attempting to understand will only end up with their hair on end and their eardrums ruptured.

Unfortunately, this woman was, you guessed it, an obnoxious American attempting to arrive to the center of Siena or at least some place where she could park her car. I knew almost immediately that she was American by the way she pronounced “stadio” and then began yelling about soccer, balls, sports, anything related to a stadium. The old, Italian lady repeated the American’s words without comprehension. I was hoping to not have to blow my cover—I hate having to use English when I am trying my best to blend in as an Italian—but this woman’s attitude was aggravating and she clearly needed someone to tell her where to go.

I intervened, and instead of being relieved, this American woman, stranded in a small town, in a country where she did not speak the language, begins to speak to me in the same rude, condescending tone of voice. She made a gesture and a comment similar to “FINALLY! Someone who can tell me something that makes sense.”

She asked me where the stadium was and I told her: “there is one in the center and there is the one behind us.” Well, this clearly was not the answer she wanted to hear. She became ornery. She did not ask but demanded where they could park the car. Well, not wanting to imitate her rude attitude I told her that there was no parking at the stadium but if she drove to the Fortezza she would find parking there. Apparently this is what she wanted to hear because she kept repeating “oh yeah, the Fortezza, that is where we want to go, the Fortezza… yes, I remember now.” I gave them directions to get to the Fortezza; mostly I told them to follow the signs to the center, described the general direction, described the Fortezza.

I barley had the chance to finish my directions before this woman was directing her husband to drive. She could not be bothered to repeat the directions back to me. She just kept repeating, “Fortezza, Fortezza, straight and right… ok! FORTEZZA!” She pointed violently ahead, reminding me of a fearless general charging into battle. The car sped off, the crazy American lady’s hair flying in the wind. I never heard a “thank you” or note any signs of gratitude. All I saw was the tale end of the car as it hit the first round about.

“Well I hope they figure it out,” I muttered to myself. I gave the old Italian lady an embarrassed smile. Perhaps they heard the part about following the signs to the center and assumed they could handle it from there. As easy as this may seem, it most certainly is not.

Italian signs are difficult, if not impossible, to follow. At one fork the center could be in either direction, one is just guaranteed to be faster. It is a crapshoot if you do not know which one is the fastest, and more often than not the difference can be as much as half an hour—so is Italy and its directions.

Chances are, those Americans are still driving around, searching desperately for the “stadio” the “Fortezza” or a place to park their car. The horrendous American woman is probably out there now, terrorizing the poor, kindly, old Italian citizens of Siena.