It was the end of summer and one of my best friends, Cassie (who's insanely gorgeous, like routinely stops-traffic-pretty I'm not kidding) and I were enjoying the last few minutes of twilight summertime sunshine while walking around the apartment we stayed in for a week outside of Milan, Italy. Two boys that we grew quite close to left for America that morning and a sort of sadness followed us around that day, even though we were in the middle of Italy on this amazing adventure, the boys leaving proved that summer always turns into fall and the adventure, for the time being, was ending.
Cassie and I were playing our favorite game of Would You Rather.. (which involves two scenarios: both of equally disturbing nature meant to disgust and hopefully upset the person you're playing with - it's a real ladylike game) while walking back to the dingy flat. There were families packing up from a nighttime picnic and couples walking hand-in-hand as we exited the park and veered away from the bike path we were walking on. On our left, a bicycle whizzed by with a young man on it (with Italian men it's always hard to guess ages, especially when flying by on their bicycles. The blur of shiny, red sneakers could really be worn by any age/sexual orientation group) as he and his bike continued on, his face and eyes stayed glued onto my best friend and I. While ogling, he grinned and purred, "buonaa serrraaa" the English equivalent to good evening but the emotional equivalent to oh, the things I'd do to you....
Now, this poor gentleman probably thought he really hit the jackpot: two sweet-looking American girls without a boyfriend in sight, in a foreign land, ready to swoon into the arms of an Italian lover. Unluckily for him, a tree stopped this thought process.
In a matter of a half a second, the poor boy slammed directly into a tree as the last slimy 'a' fell out of his mouth.
Any sadness we had about that day, quickly vanished as we ran away in a fit of giggles and two years later still invokes an unstoppable amount of laughter whenever Cassie and I ooze buona sera to each other.
Would you rather bike into a tree while trying to impress someone or....
Friday, July 22, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
So, Have You Got a Boyfriend?
I don't mind people being noisy, in fact, I kinda like when people are so interested in my life that they cut polite small talk and ask blunt questions. I write this now, but in most moments like these I like throwing up an awkward turtle hand sign instead of answering the looming, direct question.
However, one of the things I quickly realized while living in Italy was that customary, polite American small talk frankly bored Italians. They like to talk: about you, about them, about what they're going to eat and who they're going to eat with. Never in a malicious tone (unless you sayin' sumin about their mommas) but in a never-ending dialogue about the activities surrounding them.
The way Italians commentate on soccer matches, they commentate on people. She lives in Florida but is here just to teach, imagine her poor mom! away from her all this time! I eventually got used to being asked where I was going, who I was going with, had I been to the place before, did I know the owner? but the first time I faced the loss American polite-ness in a business setting, I was a bit taken back.
After a chain of emails and highly-awkward broken up Skype convo (broken because I couldn't figure out how to turn my microphone on, so all my future bosses saw was a slightly blushed blond girl waving manically at the camera and pointing to my mouth. Why they hired me, I'm still confused about) However, they offered me the job of teaching English part-time at a private language school in Salerno.
Within a week of the offer, I packed all my worldly possessions (I love the expression wordly possessions, because in this case it just makes the two unnecessarily large suitcase full of clothes seem a whole lot more meaningful than Forever 21 sale items) and jetted across the Atlantic towards Rome. With no more than a phone number for my school and an address for a hostel I booked only three nights at, I was onto the next adventure.
The first day I showed up early in the morning to what I thought would be a casual get-to-know-you-meeting, I mean this was la dolce vita after all, at my school.
"Ah! Sarrraaaa! Hello! one moment, please." The two owners of the school, who I recognized from our awkward Skype conversation were in the middle of heated discussion with another woman. They guided me to a small meeting room and asked me to wait. 10 minutes... 15 mintues.. 30 minutes later they came in, all smiles and rainbows like I hadn't flown halfway across the world, left my worldly possessions in an unlocked locker inside the hostel, got lost coming to the school and when I asked for directions from the sweet old lady standing at the corner, she promptly told me she did not live here. hmph.
"So, for the interview.." Anna started. wait, interview? I thought I had the job, I would not have sold my beloved Jeep, left all that was familiar to me and start a crazy adventure if I knew I wouldn't have some sort of steady income. ok, "breath," I told myself, if this doesn't work out, you can always fly back home and have a great story to tell over happy hour. oh no, I am not going back to happy hour.
"Have you got a boyfriend?" Anna smiled sweetly and Paula raised her eyebrows in expectation. A boyfriend? They want to know if there is a boy I sleep with on a regular basis who referrers to me not as "some girl" but his girlfriend. They don't want to see my visa, my passport, hell, if I even really speak English that well, that want to know if I have a bloody boyfriend!
"Well, errrmm. No, in fact, I do not." I half smiled, half stammered.
"Oh well, that'll change!" pipped up Paula. fat chance, but aren't we here to talk about school?
"Ok, then, here's your schedule, we'll pay you 10 euro an hour and you start tomorrow. Ciao, bella!"
My interview had consisted of my bosses prying into my non-existent love life. ah, la dolce vita indeed.
However, one of the things I quickly realized while living in Italy was that customary, polite American small talk frankly bored Italians. They like to talk: about you, about them, about what they're going to eat and who they're going to eat with. Never in a malicious tone (unless you sayin' sumin about their mommas) but in a never-ending dialogue about the activities surrounding them.
The way Italians commentate on soccer matches, they commentate on people. She lives in Florida but is here just to teach, imagine her poor mom! away from her all this time! I eventually got used to being asked where I was going, who I was going with, had I been to the place before, did I know the owner? but the first time I faced the loss American polite-ness in a business setting, I was a bit taken back.
After a chain of emails and highly-awkward broken up Skype convo (broken because I couldn't figure out how to turn my microphone on, so all my future bosses saw was a slightly blushed blond girl waving manically at the camera and pointing to my mouth. Why they hired me, I'm still confused about) However, they offered me the job of teaching English part-time at a private language school in Salerno.
Within a week of the offer, I packed all my worldly possessions (I love the expression wordly possessions, because in this case it just makes the two unnecessarily large suitcase full of clothes seem a whole lot more meaningful than Forever 21 sale items) and jetted across the Atlantic towards Rome. With no more than a phone number for my school and an address for a hostel I booked only three nights at, I was onto the next adventure.
The first day I showed up early in the morning to what I thought would be a casual get-to-know-you-meeting, I mean this was la dolce vita after all, at my school.
"Ah! Sarrraaaa! Hello! one moment, please." The two owners of the school, who I recognized from our awkward Skype conversation were in the middle of heated discussion with another woman. They guided me to a small meeting room and asked me to wait. 10 minutes... 15 mintues.. 30 minutes later they came in, all smiles and rainbows like I hadn't flown halfway across the world, left my worldly possessions in an unlocked locker inside the hostel, got lost coming to the school and when I asked for directions from the sweet old lady standing at the corner, she promptly told me she did not live here. hmph.
"So, for the interview.." Anna started. wait, interview? I thought I had the job, I would not have sold my beloved Jeep, left all that was familiar to me and start a crazy adventure if I knew I wouldn't have some sort of steady income. ok, "breath," I told myself, if this doesn't work out, you can always fly back home and have a great story to tell over happy hour. oh no, I am not going back to happy hour.
"Have you got a boyfriend?" Anna smiled sweetly and Paula raised her eyebrows in expectation. A boyfriend? They want to know if there is a boy I sleep with on a regular basis who referrers to me not as "some girl" but his girlfriend. They don't want to see my visa, my passport, hell, if I even really speak English that well, that want to know if I have a bloody boyfriend!
"Well, errrmm. No, in fact, I do not." I half smiled, half stammered.
"Oh well, that'll change!" pipped up Paula. fat chance, but aren't we here to talk about school?
"Ok, then, here's your schedule, we'll pay you 10 euro an hour and you start tomorrow. Ciao, bella!"
My interview had consisted of my bosses prying into my non-existent love life. ah, la dolce vita indeed.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Just How Did I End Up Here?
Throughout high school, I gave into my anti-social tendencies and passed up Friday night football games so I could get to my early Saturday morning SAT prep class. My PSAT scores were scary-low and I knew I wouldn't be able to get them up without the aide of someone smarter. Luckily, that paid off and I got into college and subsequently went to the only college my then-boyfriend got into. sigh, if I could only talk to my 17 year old self. Then again, I wouldn't have listened. I wouldn't be able to get over the fact that I still have acne at 25 years old.
In college, amongst hangovers and regret, when I'd let that creepy feeling of what-are-you-really-going-to-do-after-you-graduate pop in, I'd take a few career tests to ease my racing mind and then quickly jump into the next beer pong tourney. My social life was full (I even kept a calender full of things like Day at the Derby party and Breakfast for Dinner at the Sigma Chi house, who does that?) and then, bam! I was walking across a stage with a ridiculous hat (they should really teach us where motar boards come from) and a hot polyester gown and somehow ended up with a degree in Mass Communications. Which USF later took away, but that's for another post. so, two weeks after that awkward stride pride across the stage to receive my (fake) degree I was strapped into a 747 flying across the Atlantic heading towards London.
In my sweet, little, sheltered life I had heard rumors in books and AP classes about how Italians had a different way of looking at life. La dolce vita. Which frankly, made me want to chow down on some creme bruele (it's european sounding...) My American brain didn't understand a place that not everyone worked 9 - 5, where people took the entire month of August off and above all, didn't define success as how much you've accomplished but rather how much you intend to. My mind was always blown by these eye-talians.
I went to Europe to work a English summer camps in Italy and at first, I was highly annoyed (and me being annoyed is saying something, I once had someone try Chinese water torture on me, just to see and I fell asleep) that my 10 and 11 year old students could not be prompt and ready to learn English at 8 am. sharp! Didn't they want a crazed American blond girl singing about Austrian yodelers in their faces? Didn't they look forward to the craft of Write Your Future Husband/Wife a Love Letter? I probably would have slept in too.
But once their sweet little faces slowly trickled in the door, they smiled and played along, probably because they were afraid of how crazy I'd really get if they didn't. But I started to realize that the whole timetable I set up for them during the day was more of a guideline than set in solid stone. guidelines? I don't do guidelines. My times were drawn in blood. Not for these 10 year olds though. At 10, they'd master the art of doing what they pleased, when they pleased. It was like being in a classroom full of little Italians, oh. well, I was in a classroom full of little Italians. My 22 years of life experience hadn't even brought me close to the cool-ness these pre-teens already possessed.
They enchanted me of stories of parents taking months off to stay at their beachside villa (which I ended up staying at, but again, for another blog post) I dissapointed them with childhood vacations that we're rushed to the grandparents in upstate New York for seven days.
Over the months I spent with these kids, I let the Italian-ness settle in. I slowed my actual pace (which wasn't hard since I easily gained 5 pounds in pasta, but again all in the effort to become more Italian) I sipped cappuccinos and let the foam stay as a mustache for a minute too long, I stopped making to-do lists and filling up my now useless calendar, and then, I started to be late. As my five mintue-ish tardiness became habitual, my kids caught on and would giggle in delight as the crazy, blond American finally adopted la dolce vita and didn't crave creme brule while she did so.
In college, amongst hangovers and regret, when I'd let that creepy feeling of what-are-you-really-going-to-do-after-you-graduate pop in, I'd take a few career tests to ease my racing mind and then quickly jump into the next beer pong tourney. My social life was full (I even kept a calender full of things like Day at the Derby party and Breakfast for Dinner at the Sigma Chi house, who does that?) and then, bam! I was walking across a stage with a ridiculous hat (they should really teach us where motar boards come from) and a hot polyester gown and somehow ended up with a degree in Mass Communications. Which USF later took away, but that's for another post. so, two weeks after that awkward stride pride across the stage to receive my (fake) degree I was strapped into a 747 flying across the Atlantic heading towards London.
In my sweet, little, sheltered life I had heard rumors in books and AP classes about how Italians had a different way of looking at life. La dolce vita. Which frankly, made me want to chow down on some creme bruele (it's european sounding...) My American brain didn't understand a place that not everyone worked 9 - 5, where people took the entire month of August off and above all, didn't define success as how much you've accomplished but rather how much you intend to. My mind was always blown by these eye-talians.
I went to Europe to work a English summer camps in Italy and at first, I was highly annoyed (and me being annoyed is saying something, I once had someone try Chinese water torture on me, just to see and I fell asleep) that my 10 and 11 year old students could not be prompt and ready to learn English at 8 am. sharp! Didn't they want a crazed American blond girl singing about Austrian yodelers in their faces? Didn't they look forward to the craft of Write Your Future Husband/Wife a Love Letter? I probably would have slept in too.
But once their sweet little faces slowly trickled in the door, they smiled and played along, probably because they were afraid of how crazy I'd really get if they didn't. But I started to realize that the whole timetable I set up for them during the day was more of a guideline than set in solid stone. guidelines? I don't do guidelines. My times were drawn in blood. Not for these 10 year olds though. At 10, they'd master the art of doing what they pleased, when they pleased. It was like being in a classroom full of little Italians, oh. well, I was in a classroom full of little Italians. My 22 years of life experience hadn't even brought me close to the cool-ness these pre-teens already possessed.
They enchanted me of stories of parents taking months off to stay at their beachside villa (which I ended up staying at, but again, for another blog post) I dissapointed them with childhood vacations that we're rushed to the grandparents in upstate New York for seven days.
Over the months I spent with these kids, I let the Italian-ness settle in. I slowed my actual pace (which wasn't hard since I easily gained 5 pounds in pasta, but again all in the effort to become more Italian) I sipped cappuccinos and let the foam stay as a mustache for a minute too long, I stopped making to-do lists and filling up my now useless calendar, and then, I started to be late. As my five mintue-ish tardiness became habitual, my kids caught on and would giggle in delight as the crazy, blond American finally adopted la dolce vita and didn't crave creme brule while she did so.
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