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. 

Speaking Italian

 August 1, 2010

            When I met up with my American friends, before going to the contrada party for Nicchio, I was with Silvia and her friend. Silvia is Italian, her friend Peruvian, and we communicate through Italian. Well, when I was standing there talking to my American classmates trying to figure out what their plan was they asked me how I spoke to them if they only spoke Italian or Spanish. Well duh, in Italian. I responded to these incredulous Americans in Italian, because I was in the mindset of using Italian—I only speak it every day after all—and I wanted them to see that I really do know how to speak Italian. They all gaped at me. They were impressed at how little I had to think before speaking; in fact, I really do not bother to think first. I usually just speak. I speak the same way I might speak to someone in English. Only occasionally, when I cannot remember a word, or am not sure how to phrase a sentence do I stop to think about how to say something.

I can do this because I have forced myself to THINK in Italian. I do not translate what I hear into English and then think up a sentence in English and translate it into Italian. I just switch my mind over to Italian. It is similar to playing the violin or piano—at a certain point you just know that that particular circle over that particular line is an E and you hold it for one count. Later, you learn to recognize that that same E always corresponds with a particular finger position. As you advance more, you learn that there are nuances to notes, irregularities, and varying finger patters that will all produce the same or similar phrases. Finally, you learn to trust your instincts, your muscle memory, and to just look at the music, know the notes, and trust your fingers to play them correctly. In fact, if you attempt to think about the notes you are playing, you will find that it slows you down, you lose the beat, and you end up lost. It works better to just THINK and REACT and SPEAK in music. Perhaps having played the violin and piano gives me this advantage. I already know how to let go and just trust myself to remember.

The way I speak Italian is the same as the way I practice for a piano or violin performance—“performance mode.” I will occasionally stop to work out the kinks, but mostly I attempt to finish the entire piece without stopping, errors and all. Naturally, there are times in which the entire rhythm of the piece is thrown off and it is necessary to start again from the top after only a moment’s pause to recall what precisely I am attempting to play. When I speak Italian, I am almost always in “performance mode.”

Nicchio contrada

July 31, 2010

My roommate Silvia, Silvia’s Peruvian friend, and I all decided to go out and dance tonight. Because it is hard to find an actual discoteca or club in which to dance in Siena, we did not bother to dress “chic” but rather put on cute but simple dresses or shorts and a T. Naturally, we spent much time deciding exactly how to wear our various outfits and how to do our hair, make up, etc. We are girls after all. I wore a white dress that I usually only wear to the pool it is somewhat see-through  I put my black shirt on over it and black leggings on underneath—needless to say I looked cute, comfortable, and fashionable by Italian standards.

           

Well, after a quick stop at the pub to grab a drink we were ready to party. We walked through the simple doors of the Nicchio commune, through the rather un-imposing hallway, and into Nicchio’s hidden garden around midnight. Every contrada has its own enormous giardino, hidden behind on of the many medieval walkways that are the streets of Siena. These walkways appear no different than the others: apartments, bars, pasticerias, doors of all shapes and sizes. If, however, you venture through the proper door and continue through the peculiar hallway and gathering room, you will suddenly find yourself over-looking an immense space full of trees, grass, chairs, tables—all the necessities for a party.

The music was blaring, lights flashing, hundreds of people standing around drinking, smoking, talking, dancing—the prefect party. We stood on the terrace of the garden admiring the scene and searching the crowd for familiar faces. We spotted some of my friends from the program in the middle of the dance floor, arms up, huge smiles, jumping, bumping, dancing away. It took us a few minutes just to get to them because we had to push and shove our way from one end of the party to the other. Naturally, as soon as we had a place we started to dance. The second I hear music I just have to dance to it. I feel like I should quote “Hairspray” because honestly “something inside of me makes me move when I hear that groove…” and you know the rest.

We danced happily as a group for some time, and then naturally, being attractive young women, Italian men came over to dance with us. Now there are two important things to know about Italian guys and dancing: 1) dancing, to them, is an open invitation to almost anything else—and if you are American they are way more likely to try to take advantage of you 2) they really do not know how to dance! And to add to these two unappealing attributes, almost every Italian is short!

A not so ugly Italian guy started dancing with me so, naturally, I was being wary and careful, ignoring the hand signals to turn and face him. The biggest problem with this guy was not that he would probably try to kiss me. No. It was that he reeked of vomit, and regardless, would still probably try to kiss me. I managed to escape the clutches of plaid covered, vomit man. I used some of my rather skilled dancing techniques to twirl and twist away and put a good three or four people between him and me. Silvia, Patty, and I did our best to avoid him, and yet he kept popping up the rest of the night.

I did, however, find myself dancing with the only Italian guy was an exception to rule number one. In fact, he managed to elude rule number two as well. He is the only Italian to this date that I have seen who really knows how to dance. This guy was dancing like Channing Tatum in Step Up!!!! But, as I said before, all Italians are short. So, though you have a beautiful image of Channing Tatum in your head, you need to shrink him, and probably make him a little more human, and vuala, you have Marcelo. He had on a black tank and jean shorts and he knew what he was doing.

I decided that 1) to escape vomit man, who had once again appeared to dance, reek and all, behind me, and 2) because I was not passing up such an opportunity to dance with someone so skilled, to make it know to Channing Tatum’s twin that I was interested. So naturally I started with the stare—you know, the catch the eyes for three seconds, no more, no less, stare—followed by the sweet smile, easy laugh, and genuine interest (thank you Cosmo). It worked. He smiled back and I danced on over. I was not about to pass up the opportunity to dance with a guy who had more in his arsenal than the “sway to the music” step. We danced all night. It most certainly made up for the general lack of good dancing venues in Siena.

            Ok, correction, he is not nearly as cute as Channing Tatum—can anyone ever really be?—however, he danced and dressed like him (and I had been watching Step Up earlier so Channing was on my mind). He actually has the facial structure more similar to that of Tom Cruise, who to me is not as handsome as Channing. Oh, and he is actually not Italian which would explain why he was an exception to the rules! So, mostly, he is not at all what I though he was… So instead of being Channing Tatum’s short Italian twin, he is more like Tom Cruise’s short Romanian cousin who dances like Channing Tatum.

The Pasta Makers

Louisa and I were walking home at o-dark-hundred from a lovely night out in Bologna when we noticed that one of the many apartment doors was open. This door, however, was not as it appeared by day—an unassuming apartment door, which upon opening leads to a hallway with stairs to other apartment doors. No. This door was wide open, florescent light streaming out onto the otherwise dimly lit street.

As we peered inside, our noses told us what our eyes could not initially understand: PASTA!

Inside this glowing room were two old men, one fat and one thin, and one handsome young man. The thin old man had a white apron covering his butcher shirt, a cigarette in his mouth, ashes falling every now and again onto his large rough hands that powerfully needed the immense roll of pasta. The fat man also wore a white apron over his striped shirt. He too was clenching a cigarette in his mouth, the end burning a slight red, smoke trailing into the air. He was taking the large mounds of pasta, running them through the glinting, stainless-steal machine, making long thin sheets of past. The handsome young man did not have on his apron, just a white shirt, sleeves rolled up into cuffs. His dark, short hair had a glistening line of sweat just underneath the bangs. He was carelessly dumping bags of flower into a large vat of what was to become pasta. The large claw spun quickly, mixing in the white trail of flower.

The men did not stop as Louisa and I gawked at their speed, precision, and determination. They simply continued working. The paused only momentarily to look up at us and scowl at our curiosity and our occasional sounds of amusement, aw, and excitement.

After only a minute of watching these fascinating men, we continued along, glancing back until we could no longer see the burning end of the cigarette butts.

What I Understood

 Family Story Through Antoinette’s Father’s Eyes:

“I remember 1924 (?) when your mother” indicating Louisa “left on the shoulders of your grandmother. They packed up their bags, walked down the dirt road, bag in hand, your mother on the shoulders of her father, and they left for America. That was the last time I saw them.”

He is almost 91 or 95 years old. He speaks only in Genovese with a low, gravelly voice—that of an old man who probably smoked for a good portion of his life. As he talks he gestures with his hands. His left hand has a constant curled shape due to the lack of the ends of his ring and index fingers. Dirt and grime are permanently grooved into his nails and stained into his cuticles. His skin is leathery from years of working in the garden under the Mediterranean sun. His wrinkled face has not lost its ability to shows great animation when describing memories. His large bushy eyebrows express his animation as his slightly glazed eyes gaze intently at your face to make sure you understand what it is he is describing to you. What remains of his hair is thin and white, sticking out in a rather unkempt manner. When he talks, his crooked, well-used, coffee-stained teeth peek out from thin, chapped lips.

“I remember when there were only FOUR cars here in Varaze! Everyone walked. People had horses, but you did not use them to move, you walked.”

“But people used bicycles?” Louis asked confused.

“No no, no one had bikes at this time… not yet. It was easier to walk. I remember I walked to your mother’s house. It would take me an hour to get there.”

Then Antoinette served us plates full of ravioli with a nocci sauce and we all began to talk about and eat the amazing lunch she had prepared for us. 

The Motorcycle Incident

10 August 2010

I walked out of a little market today. I had a pannino in my hand and was thinking about how tasty it was going to be. The old man in the store had just lectured me about how to make a proper pannino, the Italian way. His thin frame would suggest that he was not an experienced eater, but his pannini quickly convinced me of his wisdom. He told me, furrowing his brow, that I could not crowd the flavors. He explained, fervently, that American sandwiches are made in a way that crowds too many flavors together and thus you cannot taste the essential elements—the meat and the bread. I told him I would like the turkey and the pesto pannino. He smiled, pleased with my simple choice. I asked him if I could have a piece of cheese as well. He looked at me amused and replied that that was ok, but no veggies, no tomatoes, nothing else, otherwise I would ruin the flavors. This pannino connoisseur made a delicious pannino, but I almost lost the opportunity to experience these un-crowded flavors.

As I exited the market, I was admiring my sandwich and talking to my friend Angelina. We walked along the narrow, cobblestone via, characteristic of Siena. There was another via that intersected ours. A rather small though terrifyingly loud bus was laboring up the hill. We could hear it struggling to the stop and it sounded rather ferocious. Well, the bus had to turn onto our via, but I was not sure if it was going to turn towards us or away from us. Busses in Italy do not stop for pedestrians unless they absolutely have to, so I was being as wary as I could be of this intimidating bus. Though the bus was small in comparison to other Siena busses, it had to squeeze into the narrow street down which we were walking.

In order to avoid this bus, I decided it would be in my best interest to move to the other side of the street and out of its potential path. I could not hear anything other than its straining engine and so I did not think that maybe there would be other vehicles with quieter engines driving along the very road I was trying to cross. I started crossing the street and heard a “Yearrrr!”.  I stopped and actually looked in front of me. I had been keeping a close eye on the grumbling bus and so I had not realized that I had walked directly into a motorcyclist!

I had jumped a little at the sound of the yelp and the “FERMATI!”. When I jumped I smacked the guy on the shoulder. I, the pedestrian, hit the motorcyclist.

The startled motorcyclist thought he had hurt me, run over my foot or something. I was apologizing profusely to him for being oblivious and he was trying to discern if I was injured. I was embarrassed and the color of my face showed it. He gave me a look equal to “pay more attention crazy lady.” But he did not yell at me the way most Italians do when pedestrians act stupid. He was kind and accepted my apologies. He had more of an expression of pity on his face by the end of my labored apologies—probably directed at what he considered to be my insanity. He did not drive away until he was certain I was in good physical condition, though I suspect he thought I was a little “fuori di testa.” (out of my head)

I finished the rest of my walk back to class cautiously and arrived in one piece. I sat down on the floor, rather embarrassed, but pleased by the recollection that I still had a pannino that was waiting to be eaten.