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.