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.
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