If You Give an Italian a Horn

If you give an Italian a horn, he will want to use it.

He will want to hear its loud blaring sound echo through the congested streets and traffic filled areas.

He will like the sound so much it will remind him of how he likes to honk it impatiently at stop lights. He knows perfectly well the light will not change, but perhaps the car in front can inch just a little farther forward.

Honking the horn at a non-responsive stoplight will remind him how much fun it is to honk at pedestrians.

If he was to stop for pedestrians crossing the road he will honk at them, encouraging them to hurry up. The loud echo of his horn will resonate in the ears of all the pedestrians and all the other people not crossing. It will remind them that stepping off the sidewalk is a perilous feat.

The nervous pedestrians will remind him of the power of his horn. It will remind him of the pleasure he takes in blaring it at drivers who are too slow, or in the his way.

He likes the sounds so much, he will take a drive in the hills. He will drive excessively fast on the perilous, nearly one-way, winding, blind-curved roads. While in the hills, he will use the sweet sound of his horn to alert other drivers to his presence.

He rejoices in the thought of blaring his horn at every turn right before careening around it. He constantly expects his horn to overpower the horns of other drivers coming towards him. Their response will remind him to slow, but he will not forget to respond again, showing his desire to go first.

The horn is music to his ears and he will play it any chance he makes.

Thus, the congested city streets and narrow, winding country roads are filled with a beeping and honking symphony of Italian car horns.

Cell Phones

            I was sitting on the train back home to Bologna. The train car was small, old fashioned with bench seats, velvet crimson. It seemed as if the seats were meant to turn into beds, creating a sleeping car. I sat with two other passengers and my knees were tucked carefully into the spare space. Even so, our knees knocked when the train lurched around turns, or in and out of stations.

            After a weekend in Rome, I needed to chart out my next semester of classes. I needed to organize my week into a manageable schedule: work, class, study, fun. I sat there with my little notebook in hand, scribbling out the various classes into a haphazard weekly time chart. Generally, I prefer to do such things on paper with a pen or pencil. I tend to make mistakes, and usually the whole plan will change. A permanent copy just seems fruitless. Besides, I was sitting in a train with little space, a small notebook just seemed that much more convenient.

            I had just finished blocking in my hypothetical weekly plans into my roughly drawn chart when I glanced up and realized the irony of the situation.

            Here I was, a 20-year-old American, sitting in a train car with two middle-aged Italians. They both had their smart phones in their hands and were eagerly tapping away texts, checking information on line, checking emails, maybe even organizing their weekly calendars. The smart phones looked like they had every new gadget on the market. My train companions' fingers were agile at using the touch screens. They were clearly experts at this new technology. And here I was, the young kid from California—the center of all this technological advancement—and I was charting out my calendar with a pen and a little notebook.

            I refrained from snickering, but I most certainly smiled.

Capri

  The best spent money possibly ever. Also, more importantly, the best adventure ever.

If I were writing a teen novel, it would have gone almost exactly as today did. Start out with a little exploration of the quaint, Greek like, Capri. A stroll down the lanes full of eye-catching over-priced clothing, beautiful jewelry, and extravagant restaurants were we ogle over the prices and realize they could never be paid. Find a little giardini with a one Euro entrance fee. Enter because it is probably worth the fee to see the sweeping view and because there might be shaded lunch space.

As the two cute, albeit sweaty, girls Adriana and I are, we stopped to take photos of us in front of the awe-inspiring view. Sheer rock faces, plummeted to the water in one direction, two majestic rock spires shot out of the clear deep-blue sea in the other. We asked a kind man if he would take our picture, making sure to catch the view behind us. We got to talking and learned he was from Boston, learned that a tempting path our of the giardini lead directly to the beautiful rocks below where a few brave swimmers were rock jumping into the refreshing water. We talked to him about places worth seeing, things he had done and we had done. He highly recommended walking down the path because the ‘beaches’ were worth visiting. In the end, we took his advice, walking down to the steep switch backs until we came to the semi-secret dirt trial leading to the beautiful jumping rocks. After much stumbling down the rocky, steep, haphazard path, we finally arrived at the edge of the island and the beginning of the sea.

When we picked our jumping spot, there was a French couple that was packing up to leave. There were a few young Italian kids as well. But the most noticeable sunbather was the old, Italian man.

He was slightly overweight, browned by years of sun. He had a blue sarong tied around his waist, a large white straw hat more suitable for a woman, and sunglasses to rival the greatest movie stars. If it weren’t for the little white mustache I would have guessed he was a woman.

As Adriana and I prepared to jump into the water, he came over to show us where to jump in, and the ladder we could use to climb out of the pool like sea. After a few jumps in, he and Adriana got to talking while I swam around the warm, incredibly salty Mediterranean.

If this were my ‘teen novel’, the old man would have been a young 23-year-old built, tan, beautiful Italian with muscles modest but prominent, and shoulders of a frequent swimmer. He would have naturally dark skin, darkened more by spending a summer in the sun. His beautiful light brown eyes with ‘farfalle’ eyelashes would reflect the warmth of the sun while his rich dark hair seemed to absorb it. His friend would be much of the same build but with stunning dark blue eyes, the color of the sea surrounding us. Both would have charming smiles, slightly crooked Italian teeth with the traditional coffee staining, but charming nevertheless.

But lest not get carried away. Though I have met such wonder boys, today was not that day. Today was not my ‘teen novel’ day, but my ‘reality adventure’ day.

This old man began to explain to us that he and his friends had built themselves a cave and a ‘villa’ here on the rocks of the amazing Capri Island. We could see it from the water’s edge, an unassuming bunch of posts propped up against the cliffs face, with a thatched roof on top providing shade. It seemed pleasant and shaded, a nice hideaway from the general sun and heat of the island. He offered to take us up to see his ‘villa’. We agreed and put on our shoes, seeing as the rocks were hot, and having recently developed carpet feet, jagged to the touch.

When we got to the ‘villa’ we were immediately surprised, and yet strangely not. The piles of junk, chairs, and general disarray of the grand ‘villa’ were rather appropriate for any beach dwelling but not befitting of the name villa. Our host, Peppino, described it as a little chaotic, due to the general lazy atmosphere the heat inspires. I would say his ‘villa’ is more accurately described as a hippy shack; friends hang out, keep their beach stuff, and enjoy the rocks and sun. It is most certainly prime real estate, except for maybe during a massive storm throwing waves against the cliff face, causing the little shack to wash away into the sea.

Peppino showed us some of his photos and paintings the he worked on while down in this ‘villa’ of shade. He actually had some lovely paintings of the views Adriana and I were admiring out from under the shade of the shack.

We were soon invited to participated in on of the friend’s birthdays; cake and proseco followed by red wine were shared willingly.  The cake was divine. It was an incredibly fluffy bunt cake with a delightful lemon zang—perfect for the area, as lemons are clearly the staple of life—a sweet glaze and a dusting of powdered sugar. After a comical conversation concerting strange birth marks related to pregnant women’s habits, intermittent compliments on our splendid Italian, and silly jokes, we headed back to the rocks for some well deserved jumping and swimming.

Our new friends joined, naturally, and added their rafts and singing to the fun. After many heart stopping jumps (I’m rather afraid of heights) and even more frightening ladder climbs (the waves always sloshed the large metal ladder around) we decided to hang in the briny, refreshing but warm sea of Capri. Our new friends were all from the island of Capri and really loved it. It was wonderful to meet locals so happy to be locals.

As we floated in the water the generally placid see was beginning to have a change of heart. The easily accessible ladder became a dangerous weapon as chop and white water churned around it. Every sixth or seventh wave of the cycle would slap against the rocks creating a white salty spray. I moved farther from the rocks to avoid such chop, easily diving and resurfacing to keep from getting seasick. Adriana was getting tired and nervous. She hung onto the little mat with one of our friends, and eventfully after much white water, climbed out.

The salt water is so dense it is easy to sit or float in the water, so I was neither tired nor worried. I kept pretending to be a mermaid, swimming under the water and flipping my feet like fins. But I was making our friends nervous and so I obligingly put a hand on the raft to talk and make them feel like I was working less. But, hanging on the raft obstructed my floating patter in the waves and began to make me feel sick to my stomach. We were having an interesting conversation but I was in desperate need of sinking under the wave to keep from bobbing. Unfortunately that would have been rude, so I stayed afloat, feeling queasier and queasier.

Luckily, as I could stand the bobbing no longer, Adriana called to take a photo, but most importantly because it was time to get going. By this time, the chop was so bad I could not get near the ladder. The waves were crashing into white sloshy water sending the ladder reeling about the rocks. Treading frantically to maintain a safe distance but be close enough to grab the ladder when the time was right, I waited. It was the first time I have ever questioned my swimming skills. But, I held position well, and after what seemed like an hour, the wave cycle started over and I could scramble up the ladder. My heart was racing when I got out, my stomach churning as much s the water I had just left. My breath came in pants but it was mostly out of fear than exhaustion.

Now if this were my teen novel, the handsome Italian boy with dark eyes, certainly named Francesco, would be overly concerned about my safety and well being, anxious to make sure I was safe. The startlingly blue-eyed boy would have already done that for Adriana, and had moved on to discussing the possibility of us going dancing with them that night and maybe just staying a few more days on the island. We would sit there on the rocks, bedazzled by the beautiful scenery and handsome company, muse over the idea of missing our train the next day and just staying a few extra days in Capri. By sunset, we would be distinctly paired and maybe even kissing romantically against the backdrop of a beautiful violet-gold sky.

But again, reality was a better option than my teen novel, and a perfect day is best left at perfect.

Adriana and I packed up, thanked our wonderful new friends for everything, said goodbye, and began the steep climb up the hill and back to Capri centrale. We grabbed a granita—which was more like eating a real piece of perfect fruit on ice—and headed back to the other side of the island, and off to Sorrento.

I know that it has been a while--a long while--since I have updated. I am now back in the US and from here I will be able to write down all the stories I wrote in journals and on scraps of paper. So here we go...

Missing California

This was the last article I wrote for Flashgiovani. Can you tell I was slightly home sick?


http://www.flashgiovani.it/notiziedalmondo/news/9/2461/

A Perspective on life in Bologna by two Senegal men

Kathy and I had the fortune of meeting two polite guys from Senegal while out dancing one night. They were both nearly twice my height, one resembled a beanpole, the other the trunk of a Sycamore tree. They were both handsomely dark with trim cut black hair and profound eyes.

These two guys had kind, friendly smiles and invited us out for pizza after dancing. I was exhausted and ready to go home, but Kathy was curious. So we went to get a pizza. It turned out to be worth the forced insomnia.

We go to this pizzeria where the guys know the man who works there. They order two pizza margherita and grab a water. The keep asking if we want coke, but I am so dehydrated from dancing that the ONLY thing I want is to chug gallon after gallon of water (an impossibility in Italy as they use the metric system so I must content myself with chugging Liters). After what feels like ages our pizza arrives but not to be eaten quite yet. It is missing a key ingredient according to these guys: ketchup. I have never eaten pizza with ketchup on it. It was interesting. It gave it a kind of kick and added a little spice. Tasty. I was not quite hungry, but because there were four of us and two pizzas, it meant I had to do my part in eating. I kept trying to avoid the pizza--pretending I had eaten more pieces than I really had. It did not really convince them. I have never been force fed quite so much food by strangers before—by relatives, yes, but strangers, NO.

 As we sat there being force-feed slice after slice of ketchuped pizza and constantly asked if everything was ok, if we needed anything else, Kathy and I started to ask questions to learn more about these boys. We were all practicing our Italian in a way so hopefully we were all able to communicate what it is we wanted to say.

Q: So what do you do here in Italy and Bologna?

A: We work. I actually have been living in Italy for about two years. He (points to his friend across the table) got here just last year to join me. We have seen a lot of Italy because with our jobs we spend a lot of time traveling. We like Bologna a lot because it is fun to be here but also because it is a little easier to stay here.

--Though they never said what exactly it is they do for their work, it was often implied that they sell a variety of things, just as many of the immigrants do. It was rather sad to see how they were slightly ashamed to respond to the question of what kind of work they do. They mostly avoided giving a direct answer to the question. In fact, I think we never really asked because we did not want to make them feel uncomfortable. In Italy, those immigrants who spend their time traveling and selling are shunned by the Italian community. This makes it hard to approach them and ask them question, respond to their question, and so on. Because they are shunned, if you give approach them or show them that they are welcome to participate in a conversation with you, they can often take that opportunity to far or misinterpret your intentions. Luckily these guys were kind enough to keep their distance and just talk the whole night.

Q: Do you like Italy?

    A: Yes. But Italian’s aren’t very (pauses while he looks for the right word that perhaps is a little less vulgar than the one he would prefer to use) OPEN (he says finally). It is very difficult for those of us who immigrate here to enter their society. They are very closed, both socially and mentally. They are also prejudiced against foreigners and don’t really understand how to interact with us. But I really like the language. It is quite wonderful. It is not that hard to learn and having been here for a while, I have had no choice but to learn it.

--All the while Kathy and I were nodding and agreeing with them. We both mentioned that even for us it has been hard to truly participate in the Italian life. Many Italians still don’t know how to let us, two Californian girls, into their society. I cannot even imagine what it would be like to be such tall, dark, foreign men living in Italy and trying to live just as any other Italian and yet being so irrationally discriminated against. We also agree that the language is beautiful and absolutely wonderful to learn.

Q: Where have you been in Italy?

   A: Everywhere. We travel for our job so we have seen ALL of Italy. All the big beautiful cities, we have been there. I like Genova and Bologna a lot. They are really beautiful to visit and stay in. Also, Roma is nice because it is a little more open to foreigners.

Q: What do you think of the Italians? Like the girls?

   A: The girls are not that nice. They are not that (searches for the best word to describe the Italian woman) open (he finally decides upon. Turned out to be the key word of the night). I have not really had much of a chance to meet many women here because they don’t want to meet me.

In general all the Italians are rude and disrespectful. For example, they don’t respect the old people. Where we are from that is the most shameful thing you can do. You must respect those who are older than you. But here, they say terrible things in front of/and to their grandparents, parents, and older siblings. If I were to be rude to my older brother I would be in so much trouble. He would have the right to do many things to me for such disrespect.

Also, in our culture we respect women so much more than the Italians do. We cannot ever let a woman pay for something. We would never say anything disrespectful to them and we are not allowed to be rude or to do anything they would not appreciate. But Italians, they say what they want to women and act the way the want towards women.

--This was such an interesting response because they were many observations I had been making about Italian society in relation to that of the Californian and American society. There are some families in the US that allow their children to be disrespectful, but many will not tolerate it. I know that my family never tolerates when my sister or I are rude to our parents or grandparents, or even to each other. It is not acceptable and for such, we are punished. But here, working with Pietro, it is like the parents have just given up on disciplining their kids. And so, the kids are rude to their parents and thus to each other. I have even seen it while living with my Italian cousins. Sometimes they have absolutely no patience for their parents or their grandparents and they just start yelling at their elders to stop bothering them, to go away, to leave them alone. It is usually with harsh language and rough tones. Luckily, there is never any profanity within my Italian family when talking to parents, but it is quite uncomfortable to listen to cousins my age yell at their grandparents.

--The discussion about women is interesting, because women in Italy tend to be closed to all men. It is a defense mechanism because the men here are so straight forward and often disrespectful, sexualizing, misogynistic, and rude. Without a cold, uninterested front, a woman in Italy could be sexually harassed physically as well as the all-too-common verbally. It is tough but that is how it is. It does not help that Belusconi has openly disrespected and sexualized woman, or that every advertisement is a way to sexualize women. They are often pictured half naked in photos all over the city. And so, they are treated as if they are half naked as they walk around. This defense, paired with racial profiling and stereotyping means, that two large, potentially intimidating black guys will be avoided with the utmost care by nearly every Italian woman.

We wrapped up our conversation shortly after, mostly because I was nearly falling asleep in the pizza they were hoping to force-feed me. Luckily I was still in a state of mind to remember that wonderful conversation. 

I am curious to know what other immigrants would have to say about Italian life for them. However, in order to approach them, I absolutely have to go with another person, and usually a guy is better. Not because I want to perpetuate stereotypes, but because when all women ignore a male immigrant, the first woman that approaches him can often have her intentions be misinterpreted; this means, as a woman approaching a shunned immigrant, I have to take precautions. Frustrating, rather sad, but true.  

An Internship...

The purpose of this internship was to work with the Comune di Bologna and the office of Flashgiovani to inform the local community about the various events taking place in Bologna, help foreigners adjust to life in Italy, help students understand how to apply to UNIBO, and provide the community of Bologna with information on various schools and cultures from around the world. It also serves as a portal for various youth/school exchange programs. 

My colleagues were mostly Italians who had either graduated from UNIBO or were still working on their degree. There were a few other foreign students/interns doing similar work as myself. By working with other Italians, I learned the rhythm of an Italian work day, improved my Italian, and began to understand parts of the working culture in Italy.

One of the most important things I have learned is to be confident in my writing and my ability to translate. I am the only person who proofread my work and therefore I had to be vigilant and efficient. I have learned to meet deadlines quickly and smoothly. My communication skills have grown drastically, both with my writing in English and my speaking in Italian. When I have a question it is perfectly normal to ask and then be helped, but all of my questions must be phrased in Italian, thus enhancing my technical vocabulary and my ease in speaking.

Part of the work day involved a routine coffee break and lunch hour. The importance of a coffee break as a time to pause and relax, discuss various articles and events is important to the flow of information. Many of us attend the events about which we wrote articles and so the coffee break was a time to reflect on the various events. They were also a time to pick up flyers or discover new events we may not have been aware were taking place.

Lunch hour was also a group event. It was a way to bound as a team of writers over a tasty, Italian meal. We often discussed current politics, current events, and current articles. The time was lively and fun and a way to come together as a team so everyone was aware of what the others were writing about.

Through this internship I have really understood the relaxed atmosphere of the Italian workplace. Though there are articles to write and events to discover, the calmness of the workplace is ever-present. A coffee break is never compromised to finish an article. A lunch is never skipped to work on editing the dimensions of a photo. Keeping the stress level down, the information level high, and the productivity level at its best is the most important part of the work day at flashgiovani. I highly appreciate the sense of personal drive that is required by this job. We are not given assignments as much as a frame of reference and then we are expected to use our own presence of mind to determine whether or not we should write an article on a certain subject. In this way I have become an independent and driven worker who is able to maintain the Italian ideal of a stress-free environment.

I found the dynamics of an Italian work place much different than what I expected. I was not prepared to be working along side an already established team. In this way, I found it hard to break the boundaries of the already functioning group and include myself as a part of the whole. Often, though the Italians were friendly, they did not make the extra effort to be inclusive. It seemed to be a difficult concept for them to understand that as a foreigner, speaking Italian as a second language, it is difficult to be outgoing, to join conversations, and to participate.

There was one girl from Poland who was also participating in an internship. She and I were able to become friends and talk frequently because we both understood the difficulty of speaking another language and making friends in another country. I think that both the girl from Poland and I came off as shy simply because it was hard to formulate responses to discussion quickly enough to join the conversation. Also, because we were the only foreign people in the office most days, when one of us did join the conversation, everyone would stop to look at you and listen to your point of view, as though you were somehow representing the entire opinion of Poland or America. Obviously, my opinion was specific to me, and hers to her, but sometimes it was as though we were some sort of exotic exhibit to be awed and gawked at. Luckily, this did not occur frequently, but it was enough to make participating in conversations rather intimidating. I do feel that by the end I managed to participate in conversations and did have the success of making a number of  Italian friends.

I did notice, however, that as new Italian interns/workers joined the team, they were willing to include me in conversation and wanted to be included in conversation as much as myself. They were in as much desire to become a part of the team as I was when I first arrived. It was reassuring to see them go through the same trial that I went through. However, for them it was clearly not a language barrier as much as an already established ‘click’ that created the barrier. It was hard to leave after these new recruits came because I found it easier to participate in discussion and to communicate with the new group dynamic. This was also due to my ever-improving Italian.

When I first arrived in Bologna, I was certain I would not be able to make any Italian girl friends. The Italian women tend to be cold or aloof and thus incredibly intimidating. However, after working at Flashgiovani, I realized how utterly untrue this stereotype is. I was able to connect with the other Italian girl who was working on the English site. Though she was a type of supervisor, she was also a friend. She invited me to many group dinners, told many entertaining stories, slowed down to make sure I understood conversations, and was generally friendly. There was another girl, who unfortunately I did not get to work with frequently, who was absolutely amazingly friendly. She had no qualms explaining her studies, telling me about her past studies, her childhood—any topic was open for discussion and she welcomed the discussion with a big smile and a friendly attitude. Unfortunately, we did not have the chance to exchange contact information and so I have not had the opportunity to see her again. But, as brief as our relationship was, it was wonderful to know that there really are open Italians, and particularly open female Italians, and I was beginning to think did not exist.  

I had not realized how rather stoic the Italian populace is until working with a large and divers group. Though my colleagues laugh and do find things funny, they do not tend to laugh or joke as freely as I often though the discussion topics merited. The way that many of my colleagues would laugh was not the kind that might give you an abb work out, or cause your cheeks to hurt, or bring tears to your eyes. It was a more simple type of laughing brought on by what appears to be a certain degree of reserve. As though they are afraid to really let loose and be comfortable enough to laugh as loud as they wished. It was almost as though there was a certain code about how free you can be with your emotions. something I found rather surprising. Because I have a tendency to laugh when I think something is funny, to wear a perpetual smile, and to simply be emotionally relaxed and free, exercising this kind of reserve was a strange and rather depressing sort of task. Every once in a while, we would get a good laugh out of a strange joke or an interesting comment, but in general, stoicism was the favoured emotion.

With the help of this internship, I feel as though I saw a side of the Italian culture I would never have had a chance to experience. I was unaware how easy it can be to be a diligent worker and yet still take time to really enjoy a coffee break or a lunch break. It was to my great dismay to learn just how hard it can be to enter another culture and really feel as though you have been accepted. I do feel that at the end I had made some progress becoming a team member and being accepted less as ‘the Californian’ and more as ‘Emily.’  I did not realize that making friends would be such a difficult process, one worth going through, but most certainly trying.

Probably the most discouraging aspect of Italian culture I discovered, was the sever lack of truly expressing one’s emotions. It appears that an Italian can actually be overly happy, something I had not realized was possible until working on a daily basis with Italians my age. However, the most pleasant surprise was learning that Italian girls are really not as cold and unfeeling as they appear to be when passed on the street or sitting in cafés. When in a familiar environment with established friends, they can be just as open and friendly as any Californian girl and just as willing to joke, talk, and laugh, as long as it is within the emotional range of an Italian. Through this internship I feel that I was able really participate in an Italian life, and though not completely accepted as an Italian, I was still very much working and living within their culture.

 

A Hair Cut

I had been meaning to get my hair cut for months. Nothing exciting, I just had. The only reason I had been putting it off was because I hadn’t made the time and I had been searching for the place with the best deal.

I finally found a place out by where I work with a welcoming set-up and was boasting prices I could afford. A 17 Euro hair cut was the cheapest I had seen on my various attempts.

The day that I decided to get my hair cut was the day I left my house for work on my bike while the sun was still shinning. When I left work three hours later I still had a bike, but the sun was not shining. Yes, this is partly because it was setting and partly due to the cloud cover. All of this would have been acceptable, normal even. But on this particular evening the sun’s rays were not visible due to the presence of a cold, albeit light, rain. Naturally, the spitting drops only seemed to have any dampening affect when I was biking, which was the whole time.

Thank goodness I had a hood.

I decided that the rain was tolerable enough to not abandon my plan for getting a hair cut. It was about 5:30 pm when I finally made it to the hair salon. I locked up my bike and strolled over to the hair saloon. I legitimately looked like something the cat had dragged in.

My pant legs were wet, especially the thighs; glasses were fogged and dotted in rain; jacket was wet and glittering with unabsorbed raindrops. But, the reason for which I was at this hair salon was becoming more and more apparent as I tried to smooth down the rather ridiculous hood-hair I had acquired from my biking in the rain. I am certain the hair stylists were eyeing it excitedly, just itching to snip off the knotted ends.

I was instructed to shed my jacket, have a seat, and get ready to wash my hair. It seemed almost a silly idea to be washing my already damp hair, and yet they did.

Now in my opinion there are few things more relaxing than having someone wash your hair. I suspect some people get this sort of satisfaction from years of endless meditating or performing complicated and mind-expanding yoga. I, however, receive this euphoria when my head is in a hair-saloon sink. The long nails, warm water, soothing head massage, and fragrances of shampoo are enough to put me into a mindless state of relaxation. When the lady had finished, I was reluctantly pulled back from the world of mindless ease and oneness with the head-bath, to that of well, a hair salon.

I sat down in the chair in front of the mirror and began to explain in my academic Italian how I would like my hair cut. I realized that my knowledge of Dante was not really going to help me explain layers and trims. I turned a slight hue of scarlet as I realized I was sounding more and more like a fool. After hand gestures, incorrectly used words, and finally a magazine photograph the lady had an idea of what it was I needed.

As I sat there looking in the mirror I realized what a lovely dark, red-brown my wet hair seemed to be. Well anyway, to most people it would have appeared a “lovely” color, but to me, who has always been a golden or dirty blond, was more inclined to see it as an “abominable” transformation brought on by the severe lack of sun. As I was be-mooning my new rich brown hair color, the lady made the first cut.

I have never really been nervous cutting my hair, but I had asked her to take off a significant amount of mine, and when I saw the first cut my heart paused a full two seconds. I think my eyes widened and I am certain I got goose bumps. The last of the remaining scarlet in my cheeks from embarrassment drained. I realized at that moment that I was going to have shorter hair than I had had in over a year.

The more she cut the more I realized how short it would be. But, I also became more relaxed as I realized she was cutting off all the tangled nasty ends I had been attempting to brush for months.

She finished the cut, layers, and bangs swiftly and skillfully. She pulled out the dryer and began to dry my hair. She asked me to lean forward and look down so she could dry by hair from underneath. Similar to the way I might dry my hair in the morning, but nothing like the way I have ever had my hair dried in a salon. I was trying not to snicker.

She finished the rest of the drying with my head in the normal up-right position looking in the mirror. My new, shorter, nearly weightless hair was a bit startling, and a little disconcerting. I realized that I had cut off the last of the California, sun-bleached blond hair. It was sad but true. I felt as though I had made a transformation into being just that much more Italian. My gray, brown hair looked healthy though and so I was pleased.

The lady then pulled out a brush and asked me something in Italian. I was not sure what she meant, but it seemed as though she wanted to brush my hair. I told her with a smile that that would be nice. She then began a long process of drying and brushing my hair into smooth styled segments. It was absolutely gorgeous when she was done. But, it was not free.

My new beautiful healthy hair was worth more than I was expecting. A lot more. What had been a determined attempt to find the cheapest haircut turned into quite the expenditure. I paid 17 Euro for the haircut, as planed. But I paid another 18 Euro for the brushing/styling/drying part she had so kindly asked if I wanted. It was a good thing I had come directly from work that day. I used my earning to pay my bill. It was almost as though I had never gone to work that day.

As I was leaving, she looked at me and out the window and asked if I had an umbrella. I looked at her with a pitiful expression and told her that I just had my hood. Her expression was nearly indescribable. It was a look akin to mournful. As though a composer was forced to hear his opus performed by a tone-deaf orchestra. She had just done a marvelous job with my hair and I was about to walk out into the rain and ruin it all. If only she had known that I was also going to get on a bike and bike through this rain to get home.

By some miracle, my hair still looked almost as perfect as when I left the salon even after being under a hood, in the slightly heavier rain, while being subjected to the wind speed of my bike. It most certainly turned out to be worth the money.

Now I know: when the hair lady asks me if I want anything else, say no. If I say yes, it should not be raining, I should not be on my bike, and I should be going somewhere to show it off.

When faced with an Italian Snowstorm

My best friend since I was born has been studying in Dublin for a month and a half now. At the end of January she managed to get a flight to come see me and we arrange to go snowboarding for my cousin’s birthday.

After negotiating transportation and finally arriving together at Varazze train station, Sergio picked up Emma and me. We went out for some dinner and had a great time. I was the translator and we laughed and talked and caught up after way too long of not talking.

Then, after a rather stomach-curdling ride back home—Sergio was taking the hair-pin turns and narrow streets at tire-screeching speed, probably showing off for Emma—we arrived home and got ready for bed.

Early the next gray and gloomy morning we got up, arranged to drive up to Prato Nevoso to go snowboarding. We had to stop to get party provisions—it was Sergio’s birthday party after all. We met up with two more friend and all crammed into Sergio’s car.

We finally got up the hill to go snowboarding and only to find the visibility near non-existant. It was snowing and foggy. We could not even see the ski lifts from the parking lot.When we got to the ski lifts, we could not see most of the hill.

So what do you do when you find yourself stuck in a snowstorm? Well you go geat a drink obviously!

We spent the better half of the afternoon in a bar, drinking a beer or two and eating. We laughed and joked and made quite a raucous. Emma and I had an opportunity to catch up and Sergio and I had an opportunity to bond. Anyone who was there, unaware of Sergio and my relationship as cousins, might have suspected we were an item. We shared our sandwiches, joked, threw a few punches, and had a grand old time.Then the boys went and played "billiards." Emma and I talked and talked and laughed and talked.

After that we decided it was time to head to our various hotels. Maybe take a nap before getting ready for the night. Well, the minor hotel crisis had put Emma and I at a hotel down the hill a ways. And by a ways, I mean like 30 minutes by bus on a narrow, windy, snow-covered road. It was nothing of extraordinary consequence, however, because there was a shuttle that would take us from the hotel back up to Prato where the party would be that night. So we were not concerned.

The shuttle ride was un-eventful, even though the snow was still coming down. We made a few friends on the shuttle and discovered they were going to be in the same hotel as us. We parted ways to take our naps.

After napping, Emma and I got all ready to go out, came down the stairs to see when the next shuttle would be, only to discover that it had just left and was full. But, the friends we had made on our way there came down the stairs only a few minutes later. We were all in high spirits, excited about the night to come. We sat and talked with them, waiting for the next shuttle. They both knew a bit of English, especially the guy, and so that made it easier for Emma, and fun for all of us.

Still snow, lots and lots of snow.

After an hour we began to get antsy, realizing that the shuttle was not coming back any time soon. We were also all hungry. Next door there was a pizza place with such a tantalizing smell poring through its doors that we decided to follow our noses. The two Italians, Emma, and I sat at a table together and swapped interesting stories and phrases. It become more and more apparent that the excessive snow (which had not let up all day) was creating problems for transportation up the hill. The shuttle driver had stopped answering the various people’s calls to pick us up. Some people were getting incredibly frustrated. We all just wanted to get to the party for which we had already paid.

Emma and I just sat back and relaxed. We decided it was not worth the stress to be concerned. We were together, talking, laughing, and being overly entertained by our new Italian friends.

We turned in early and decided we would just snowboard the next morning.

At about seven the next morning, my screechy alarm went off reminding us that we wanted to snowboard that day. I opened the window slightly to see if the snow had let up and discovered a winter wonderland. There was easily 4 feet of snow on the car roofs, and still more was pilling up on top. No sun, but lots of fresh beautiful snow!

We did not know how the busses might work, so we decided to ask the lady at the hotel. She was little help and rather tired of people expecting her to know how the busses worked. We started asking around.

We learned that a bus passed by and that if we went out to some un-designated area we may be able to catch it. The directions and instructions were all rather hazy and un-helpful. So, we asked a friendly man if he was going up the hill and if he had space in his car for us and our few bags. He said that if he had space he would be pleased to take us up the hill. About 30 minutes later he was ready.

He asked us to grab our stuff, and his 6 year old boy looked at his dad with a shocked expression, “What are you doing?”. His dad said that there was nothing to worry about; if we were not nice girls then he would just kick us out. This made me snicker as I explained it to Emma.

This man turned out to be our hero of the day. He had a nice large car, snow tires, four-wheel drive, and knew how to drive in the snow. This road, covered in snow, and still more snow coming down, was made more perilous by the presence of hair pin turns, stupid drives, busses, and snow plows. But, even when the car would not necessarily take to the road, this man knew exactly what to do.

All the while, the man was asking us about why Californian’s were up skiing at Prato Nevoso. He was also asking his son to use as many of the words in English as he could remember. It was absolutely adorable. I guess Emma and I turned out to be nice girls because we never got kicked out of the car.

Emma and I made it up the hill, safe and sound. The snow was still coming down hard, but it was only about 10:30am and the visibility was better than the day before. We had a ski pass and decided it was worth it. We figured we could get in a few good runs before 3pm. We rented gear and took off. Shortly after we realized just how COLD it was and Emma decided she need to get some goggles after all.

So by about 11:30 we were actually set up and ready to go. And boy did we go. Emma went through the initial shock of the strange atomized ski system that I experience my first time. Prato is actually a huge mountain, but do to poor visibility we decided to stick to only one run that day. We must have gone about 50 times. By 1pm it felt like we had spent an ENTIRE day on the hill. There was no line, hardly any traffic on the hill, and a fast ride up. We estimated that we were doing the whole up and down in about 8 minutes or less. We were loving it.

The fresh snow made us feel more confident and less afraid of falling. We even tried a few jumps. The first two times I tried, I chickened out and so fell into the soft snow and had to scoot my way out of the hole I made. But the last time I managed to rock it.

At about 2pm we realized that at the top of the lift we could see next to nothing. So, it was time to turn in. That, and we had a train to catch.

We met up with Sergio and his friends. Sergio apologized profusely for the fact that we ended up at a hotel so far away and couldn’t make it to the party. I told him not to worry, we still had a great time and got to go snowboarding.

We drove down the hill at a crawl because Sergio was terrified, the snow was STILL falling, the ground was slippery, and the chains weren’t helping. I was beginning to think we were not going to make it to the train station in time. The snow was falling nearly the whole car ride, admittedly it was more like a light sleet at the end, but nonetheless falling. I figured we had to be a ways away from Varazze if the snow was still coming down. And then we rounded a corner, and I saw a huge flying cruise ship. I was completely perplexed until I realized that it was floating on water and we were closer to Varazze than I was anticipating.

We got to the train station and dropped off Sergio’s friends. Sergio thought it would be great fun to start wrestling with me, but I quickly showed him I was a worthy match. We called a truce, but then he threw a snowball at me (there was at least 5 inches of snow on top of his car). I chased him around for a few seconds and then decided that was silly. I ended up getting him back when he was pretending to be sad about something and I was telling him he was a poor dear, my hand on his face, and then I “smacked” him. After that we had a truce.

Emma’s and my train was not due for another 45 minutes, so we went to get some pizza. At this point I had a bad stomach ache, but I figured it was from all the snowboarding, tight pants, not having eaten real food all day, and the like. So we ate some dinner. We went to the station to discover that our train was not going to pass through Varazze due to a strike. Sergio was so kind and said he would just drive us to Genova.

Well the whole ride Sergio and I talked and joked. I was doing everything to take my mind off my massive stomachache. I figured I just had not had enough water or that I was over-reacting and it would go back to normal in a little bit. We pulled into the station and I realized that what felt like a normal tummy ache from over exertion was much more—more like the flue.

Emma went home that night. I went back to Varazze, sicker than I have been in years. But, still full of all the great memories of that weekend.

Though the plan for the weekend had been, snowboard Saturday, party Saturday night, wake up late Sunday, take the train back Sunday night, we end up doing a bit of the opposite. And I learned one of the best ways to pass my time in a snowstorm, eat, drink, and be merry!

Aperitivo

I was talking to my parents the other night, and like any good parents they were worried about my health and lifestyle. I mentioned that I had gone out dancing all weekend to celebrate my 28 on my Dante exam (this is equivalent to a very high A), and my Dad asked me if I was a party girl now.

This made me laugh, as I associate the expression “party girl” with one who goes out and becomes nearly incapacitated from drinking, then goes out dancing, and in every sense of the term goes wild. I assured him that this was NOT what I was out doing. I told him that I simply enjoy an aperitivo at about 7 and then I like to go out dancing afterwards (best way to burn off the glass of beer or wine).

My dad sounded concerned when I used the word aperitivo. I realized that there is no English translation for such a wonderful, eating, drinking, cultural phenomena. His perplexity and concern were obvious. Not knowing what an aperitivo might be he, as any concerned father might do, assumed some unsavory scenario.

Aperitivo, however, is nothing to cause alarm. In fact, it would be wonderful if the US incorporated something similar for college students. It may cut down on excessive partying and help students enjoy social drinking, not drinking to get drunk.

But, as I was saying, aperitivo is simply one of the best ways to have a drink and a dinner with friends. You go to a bar (which in Italy could be anything from an American style bar to and American style café) and you order a drink. Depending on the place you go and the drink you order your aperitivo can range from 5 to 7 Euro. But none of this is what makes aperitivo as fantastic as it is.

When you order an alcoholic drink, then you are welcomed to a delicious buffet of various Italian treats: pizzetta, pasta, riso, cuscus, inselata, and so much more. Each place has its own layout, its own dish style, its own atmosphere, and its own price system. Some nights, you can eat a scrumptious meal for only 5 Euro, and that includes your glass of beer or glass of wine.

Then, hours later, we head out dancing full, happy, and surrounded by good company.

After my explanation, my Dad relaxed. The potential evil was really just a wonderful way to eat delicious food for reasonable prices. And my Mom, well she took to this idea with enthusiasm, telling me that I would have to take them out for an aperitivo when they came to visit.

So when in Italy, especially Bologna, I highly recommend going out for an aperitivo at least once.

Groundhog Day

On February 2, 2011 at 7:20 EST, Punxsutawney  Phil, the weather forecasting groundhog of Punxsutawney Pennsylvania, climbed out of his hole and reportedly did NOT see his shadow predicting that winter has ended and spring is on its way. Well, at least if he was not such a famous groundhog he would have climbed out of his hole. But, since the tradition of Groundhog Day and the founding of The Punxsutawney Groundhog Club in 1880’s, Phil has lived the life of no ordinary groundhog. He in fact lives the luxurious life of a pampered star.


When and why has Groundhog Day become such an important part of American tradition? It has its root with the Pilgrims. To the Pilgrims, it appeared that the animals had a certain time in which they would wake up from a long winter’s hibernation, emerge from their homes, and determine whether or not winter has truly passed. The groundhog was one such noted animal.


The tradition says that when a groundhog would emerge from his hole after winter hibernation he would look for his shadow. If it was a sunny day and he saw his shadow, the groundhog would take that to mean six more weeks of winter weather and crawl back into his hole to sleep some more. But, if the day was cloudy as he climbed out of his hole, then he would not see his shadow. He would take this as a sign that spring had arrived with nicer weather and happily stay above ground.


According to an old English song:


    If Candlemas be fair and bright,
    Come, Winter, have another flight;
    If Candlemas brings clouds and rain,
    Go Winter, and come not again.


In this tradition, every year, the nominated groundhog Punxsutawney  Phil uses his powers to predict if winter has truly passed and we can anticipate the spring, or if we are in for another six more weeks of winter.


(Thanks to http://www.groundhog.org/ with the official web site on Groundhog Day.)

Keep Santa Cruz Weird

check it out; a little look into Santa Cruz life.

http://flashgiovani.it/giramondo/news/9/2338/