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.