The theme of this year in Italy has been, "When it Rains, it Pours." I have translated this phrase into Italian and German, waved my hands to make myself understood to the French, Spanish, and Portuguese.
No work: TOO MUCH WORK
No prepared food when I get home: TOO MUCH FOOD
Not enough hobbies: TOO MANY UNFINISH PROJECTS SITTING AROUND
No tourists: WHY ARE YOU STANDING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET STARING AT A PLAQUE?!
No friends: TOO MANY...
No wait, you can never have too many friends.
Especially not when they travel from across the world to visit... you! And these are fun guests. I'll be honest, most of the time the saying holds true: "Guests and fish start to stink after 3 days." Not these guests. These guests battle the public transportation system carying 10 bags of groceries so they can cook you a Cinco de Mayo dinner while you're at work. These guests don't drag you to all the same museums you've seen a million times. And most of all, these guests make me laugh and feel like my all-too-American self again for the first time in too long.
I think I started to get too used to my Italian persona. Now, there's nothing wrong with understanding differing cultural norms and adjusting your behavior to fit those norms. For example, raucously loud laughter in public areas in Italy will not only earn you strange, but also dirty looks. So you tone it down. Italians do not speak in character voices on a constant basis. ("No soup fo' you!" "I'm walkin' here!") So you drop the character voices. Italians do not burst into song, and certainly not musicals, so you drop the musicals. (I will make an exeption here, which is Angelo, who will frequently regale me with his rendition of "I feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeel you, Johanna!" But then, that's why he's the top. He's the tower of Pisa. He's the smile on the Mona Lisa.)
I am pleased to announce that having Hannah and her friend Jessica visiting me this week and the next has woken up that little part of me that was sleeping, but not dead. We're all tired as heck, (and some of us angrier at the public transportation system than others,) but I can say without hesitation that we're having a pretty fantastic time. Right at this moment, the two of them are getting massages at the Spa in a tiny hill town, and in less than an hour I'll be off work and on my way with Angelo to meet them there for dinner under the stars and natural hot springs until 1am.
When it rains, it pours.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Lessons in Life and Architecture
Let me be perfectly honest about my working situation... while holding down these two jobs does keep me out of the house for a good 13 hours every day, my jobs are relatively enjoyable and low-stress in and of themselves. The kid is sweet at the babysitting job, and the most difficult activity I have at the jewellery shop is chatting with tourists about the best restaurant in town and the prettiest cameo in our window. Best of all, my day is filled with moments of down-time: while the kid is napping, the interminable stretches of time when no one comes into the shop, and the 1.5+ hours spent on the bus.
So currently I am catching up on a whole chapter of culture which was as yet, to me, unknown; 18th century English literature. I started out with Jane Austen this fall, and devoured every book with glee. I moved on through Charlotte Bronte, and now it is my enviable task to read that great ode d'amour to the Gothic Era, "The Hunchback of Notre Dame." Let me just say right now, without any quibbling, that I liked Jane Austen infinitely better. Reading this book, I feel as if I were taking a course in ancient architecture from a cross between Ben Stein and Stephen Hawking. Whole chapters are dedicated to describing the facades of 15th century Paris and lamenting the follies of Renaissance renovations. Every now and then I come across a very nice line, such as this one this morning: "Architecture is the great book of humanity, the principal expression of a man in his different stages of development, either as a force or as an intelligence." Ah!, I thought, How true!, and I mused over this sentence for a few minutes. When I turned back to the book, I found that Victor Hugo had found it necessary to spend 12 more pages convincing me of this theory, little knowing that I was already satisfied with his observation. Honestly. I'm on page 200 and I believe I've read about 10 pages that have an actual Hunchback in them.
Well... besides beating my head against this paperback wall, some of you may remember that Angelo and I were taking a Tango course this year. It's going swimmingly! It's the only thing that can convince us to get out of the house after 10 hours of work. We love it. But here is something interesting... we fight like Siamese Betta fish during the lessons. Why do we do it, then? My theory is this: we're going to have disagreements regardless, because we are two people living under the same roof. It is inevitable. That we are in a relationship only strengthens this inevitability. But if we do it on the dance floor, we can leave it on the dance floor. Similarly, these sorts of disagreements are always so easily arbitrated by our teachers. Example: whose fault was it that my foot was continually stepped on last night? Angelo's error or mine? We consulted the instructor. It turns out we were both doing the step absolutely correctly. The problem was much more basic: that our dance posture was sloppy, meaning our feet were closer together than they were supposed to be. I'd like to take this as a metaphor. That we were both doing exactly what we should have been doing in the moment, but the result of our combined effort was incorrect, was only indicative of another underlying problem, not the fault or ill intention of either one of us. We thought this was a very keen observation for life.
So currently I am catching up on a whole chapter of culture which was as yet, to me, unknown; 18th century English literature. I started out with Jane Austen this fall, and devoured every book with glee. I moved on through Charlotte Bronte, and now it is my enviable task to read that great ode d'amour to the Gothic Era, "The Hunchback of Notre Dame." Let me just say right now, without any quibbling, that I liked Jane Austen infinitely better. Reading this book, I feel as if I were taking a course in ancient architecture from a cross between Ben Stein and Stephen Hawking. Whole chapters are dedicated to describing the facades of 15th century Paris and lamenting the follies of Renaissance renovations. Every now and then I come across a very nice line, such as this one this morning: "Architecture is the great book of humanity, the principal expression of a man in his different stages of development, either as a force or as an intelligence." Ah!, I thought, How true!, and I mused over this sentence for a few minutes. When I turned back to the book, I found that Victor Hugo had found it necessary to spend 12 more pages convincing me of this theory, little knowing that I was already satisfied with his observation. Honestly. I'm on page 200 and I believe I've read about 10 pages that have an actual Hunchback in them.
Well... besides beating my head against this paperback wall, some of you may remember that Angelo and I were taking a Tango course this year. It's going swimmingly! It's the only thing that can convince us to get out of the house after 10 hours of work. We love it. But here is something interesting... we fight like Siamese Betta fish during the lessons. Why do we do it, then? My theory is this: we're going to have disagreements regardless, because we are two people living under the same roof. It is inevitable. That we are in a relationship only strengthens this inevitability. But if we do it on the dance floor, we can leave it on the dance floor. Similarly, these sorts of disagreements are always so easily arbitrated by our teachers. Example: whose fault was it that my foot was continually stepped on last night? Angelo's error or mine? We consulted the instructor. It turns out we were both doing the step absolutely correctly. The problem was much more basic: that our dance posture was sloppy, meaning our feet were closer together than they were supposed to be. I'd like to take this as a metaphor. That we were both doing exactly what we should have been doing in the moment, but the result of our combined effort was incorrect, was only indicative of another underlying problem, not the fault or ill intention of either one of us. We thought this was a very keen observation for life.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
How long is the age of a racoon?
Hello everyone!
It's been a coon's age since I wrote here, and I have two things to blame. The first was when I was in America over the holidays, and that was because I was visiting many of you! So no complaining. Besides catching up with family and friends, eating my fill of American cuisine, and raiding the local Blockbuster, I was also organizing a cabaret/fundraiser for Studio East, my old theater school back home. I'm happy to say that with the help of many of my fellow alumni, we were able to raise about $1,800! Hooray! The money goes to help the Studio move into their new space, up and out, new and improved!
My second scapegoat is my new work schedule. While I was in the States on vacation, two leads on jobs were brewing back in Italy: one as a babysitter for a sweet little 1-year old, and the other at a jewellery and antiques shop in town. The shop is absolutely my favorite in all of Siena... in fact, the only reason I got offered the job at all was because I spent so much time there as a customer and befriended the owners! Well, both of those jobs came through, so now I'm dividing my time between singing Sesame Street songs and polishing silver teapots.
Which is all why I had to laugh when I was riding home on the bus today (a trip that takes 45 minutes each way... yuck!), browsing through my iPod's endless albums of musicals I still haven't listened to, and here's the song I came across:
--------------------------------------------
"A Very Nice Man"
from "Carnival", by Bob Merrill
Did you ever in your life
See such a lot of wonderful things
Every shelf is stacked
So jam-packed
That you have to hang the rest on strings!
What a very nice saucer!
What a very nice vase!
Here's a cover would surely
Cure a
Shabby
Bureau.
This is
Sure a very nice place!
You're a very nice person
With a very good heart.
And with one of those
Honest
Kindly
Faces.
It's a very good feeling
To belong in a place,
Working hard as you can
For a very nice man
With a very nice face!
It seemed the end of the world
To meet with such a bitter disappointment!
And not a friend in the world!
But in the nick of time
The man with the very nice face
Said, "Come on into the place
I appreciate it a lot."
What a very nice bracelet
What a wonderful ring
I declare that if I were
Rich I
Don't know
Which I...
Can't the rich buy beautiful things?
What a very nice picture
In a very nice frame
They're so real you can almost
Smell those
Roses
It's a very good feeling
To belong in a place,
Working hard as you can
For a very nice man
With a very nice face!
Where is there another shop
With a such a marvelous stock
Ribbons and beads
Geranium seeds
A frying pan that's a clock!
It seemed the end of the world!
Two "elcentimes" is practically a pauper!
And not a friend in the world
But in the nick of time
And angel out of the blue
Said "Let me give it a thought,
I might have a job for you"--oo!
What very nice doilies!
Made of very fine lace!
How in heaven was this one
Slipped in?
Stitched up?
Snipped in?
Still its
Ripped in a very nice place!
What a very nice pitcher,
Though the handle is off!
But who says that a
Pitcher
Needs a
Handle?
It's a very nice feeling
To belong in a place!
To be young,
And strong,
And have
Ambition!
I could rise to high position!
It's a very nice place!
You're a very nice man,
With a very nice face!
------------------------------------------------
Now, I'm sure that everyone has those moments when a song of any particular genre seems to pertain ridiculously well to their life. But I have to say that Broadway musicals do it in far more hilarious ways than rap. Somehow I can't imagine Snoop-Dog uttering the word "doily".
So between the two jobs, I'm a busy busy woman, and that's my excuse for slacking on the blog for so long. I'm out of the house these days from 7:30am-8:30pm, and Sundays are spent doing all those "necessary" things like laundry. (And yes, a very indulgent trip to the Pitti Palace in Florence this past Sunday, the first time I've been out of Siena since we got back.) But now that things are settling in to more or less of a routine, I'll try to contribute more often.
Oh, and by the way, the Sunday before last I managed to find enough time between laundry and cleaning my bathroom to make boeuf bourguignon with a side of roasted potatoes, which I gleefully served to Angelo's Sicilian friends. They all looked at it rather warily. I'm fairly certain most of them were trying to remember if there was a pizza joint open on Sundays nearby, and Angelo was mumbling something derogatory about dishes that take 4.5 hours to prepare, but you should have seen how quickly a recipe for 6 people disappeared down 4 gullets, and they were all very liberal with their compliments. So thanks, Julia Childs! A French recipe via two Americans and four decades to the mouths of Italians.
It's been a coon's age since I wrote here, and I have two things to blame. The first was when I was in America over the holidays, and that was because I was visiting many of you! So no complaining. Besides catching up with family and friends, eating my fill of American cuisine, and raiding the local Blockbuster, I was also organizing a cabaret/fundraiser for Studio East, my old theater school back home. I'm happy to say that with the help of many of my fellow alumni, we were able to raise about $1,800! Hooray! The money goes to help the Studio move into their new space, up and out, new and improved!
My second scapegoat is my new work schedule. While I was in the States on vacation, two leads on jobs were brewing back in Italy: one as a babysitter for a sweet little 1-year old, and the other at a jewellery and antiques shop in town. The shop is absolutely my favorite in all of Siena... in fact, the only reason I got offered the job at all was because I spent so much time there as a customer and befriended the owners! Well, both of those jobs came through, so now I'm dividing my time between singing Sesame Street songs and polishing silver teapots.
Which is all why I had to laugh when I was riding home on the bus today (a trip that takes 45 minutes each way... yuck!), browsing through my iPod's endless albums of musicals I still haven't listened to, and here's the song I came across:
------------------------------
"A Very Nice Man"
from "Carnival", by Bob Merrill
Did you ever in your life
See such a lot of wonderful things
Every shelf is stacked
So jam-packed
That you have to hang the rest on strings!
What a very nice saucer!
What a very nice vase!
Here's a cover would surely
Cure a
Shabby
Bureau.
This is
Sure a very nice place!
You're a very nice person
With a very good heart.
And with one of those
Honest
Kindly
Faces.
It's a very good feeling
To belong in a place,
Working hard as you can
For a very nice man
With a very nice face!
It seemed the end of the world
To meet with such a bitter disappointment!
And not a friend in the world!
But in the nick of time
The man with the very nice face
Said, "Come on into the place
I appreciate it a lot."
What a very nice bracelet
What a wonderful ring
I declare that if I were
Rich I
Don't know
Which I...
Can't the rich buy beautiful things?
What a very nice picture
In a very nice frame
They're so real you can almost
Smell those
Roses
It's a very good feeling
To belong in a place,
Working hard as you can
For a very nice man
With a very nice face!
Where is there another shop
With a such a marvelous stock
Ribbons and beads
Geranium seeds
A frying pan that's a clock!
It seemed the end of the world!
Two "elcentimes" is practically a pauper!
And not a friend in the world
But in the nick of time
And angel out of the blue
Said "Let me give it a thought,
I might have a job for you"--oo!
What very nice doilies!
Made of very fine lace!
How in heaven was this one
Slipped in?
Stitched up?
Snipped in?
Still its
Ripped in a very nice place!
What a very nice pitcher,
Though the handle is off!
But who says that a
Pitcher
Needs a
Handle?
It's a very nice feeling
To belong in a place!
To be young,
And strong,
And have
Ambition!
I could rise to high position!
It's a very nice place!
You're a very nice man,
With a very nice face!
------------------------------
Now, I'm sure that everyone has those moments when a song of any particular genre seems to pertain ridiculously well to their life. But I have to say that Broadway musicals do it in far more hilarious ways than rap. Somehow I can't imagine Snoop-Dog uttering the word "doily".
So between the two jobs, I'm a busy busy woman, and that's my excuse for slacking on the blog for so long. I'm out of the house these days from 7:30am-8:30pm, and Sundays are spent doing all those "necessary" things like laundry. (And yes, a very indulgent trip to the Pitti Palace in Florence this past Sunday, the first time I've been out of Siena since we got back.) But now that things are settling in to more or less of a routine, I'll try to contribute more often.
Oh, and by the way, the Sunday before last I managed to find enough time between laundry and cleaning my bathroom to make boeuf bourguignon with a side of roasted potatoes, which I gleefully served to Angelo's Sicilian friends. They all looked at it rather warily. I'm fairly certain most of them were trying to remember if there was a pizza joint open on Sundays nearby, and Angelo was mumbling something derogatory about dishes that take 4.5 hours to prepare, but you should have seen how quickly a recipe for 6 people disappeared down 4 gullets, and they were all very liberal with their compliments. So thanks, Julia Childs! A French recipe via two Americans and four decades to the mouths of Italians.
Monday, December 7, 2009
"Free the Knox"
For those of you who have been following the Amanda Knox trial, I'm hoping you're as upset about the guilty verdict as I am. I was utterly convinced they were going to let her go free, and finally go home. Maybe I'm blindly prejudiced, also being a 22-year-old American girl from Seattle, having studied abroad in Central Italy. But I'm fairly certain that this case comes within the realms of "reasonable doubt."
As for other Italians... pretty much everyone I talk to about it is either apathetic or pretty sure she's guilty. And then I throw a fit and fling facts about the case around until they waver, and then I bash the Italian justice system in respect to the American one until they ponder, and then I lament her abuse through the Italian media until they agree with me. I was so upset about it yesterday, I think I spent a total of an hour complaining about it to Angelo and his friend Davide. By 3am I had Davide agreeing that she was most likely innocent and deserved to be set free, and Angelo was ready to start a campaign called "Free the Knox" and march on Perugia.
I found an article in the back of a newspaper in the corner of a pub last night which talked about how upset the Americans are getting about this whole thing, and now Italians must fear the wrath of God because Obama and Cantwell are sending in Hillary Clinton. Don't know if it's true, but I hope it is. If Bill can argue two journalists out from under Kim Jung Il, I'm pretty sure Hillary can destroy these faulty allegations.
I will only feel satisfied about this whole thing when I see an army of American lawyers fly over and completely squash this whole thing, throwing shame and humility on the Italian media and justice system. Only then will I be able to let this go. And woe unto him who utters the phrase "Foxy Knoxy" in my vicinity.
As for other Italians... pretty much everyone I talk to about it is either apathetic or pretty sure she's guilty. And then I throw a fit and fling facts about the case around until they waver, and then I bash the Italian justice system in respect to the American one until they ponder, and then I lament her abuse through the Italian media until they agree with me. I was so upset about it yesterday, I think I spent a total of an hour complaining about it to Angelo and his friend Davide. By 3am I had Davide agreeing that she was most likely innocent and deserved to be set free, and Angelo was ready to start a campaign called "Free the Knox" and march on Perugia.
I found an article in the back of a newspaper in the corner of a pub last night which talked about how upset the Americans are getting about this whole thing, and now Italians must fear the wrath of God because Obama and Cantwell are sending in Hillary Clinton. Don't know if it's true, but I hope it is. If Bill can argue two journalists out from under Kim Jung Il, I'm pretty sure Hillary can destroy these faulty allegations.
I will only feel satisfied about this whole thing when I see an army of American lawyers fly over and completely squash this whole thing, throwing shame and humility on the Italian media and justice system. Only then will I be able to let this go. And woe unto him who utters the phrase "Foxy Knoxy" in my vicinity.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Halloween in Italia
Don't think that just because Halloween doesn't exist in Italy that it escaped my furiously childish attachment to traditions. Oh yes. Halloween came and went with all the accouterments of home, including Jack-o-Lanterns, a screening of "Nightmare Before Christmas", Apple Cider, and Pumpkin Pie. I would like to bask in my own glory for a moment as I recount JUST how hard it is to make pumpkin pie when there are no:
- Cans of prepared pumpkin
- Evaporated milk
- Ground cloves or allspice
- 9 in pie tins
- Shortening
As you can see above, the jack-o-lanterns came out quite nice, even if they did look a little more squash-y than pumpkin-y. I was working on Halloween night until late, and Angelo tells me that some trick-or-treaters came by the house! Of course, here in Italy, everything Halloween is just being copied from what they see in American films, and some of the details get lost in translation. For example, said trick-or-treaters were not in costume. Had it been me at the door, I would have given them a good lecture on the spirit of Halloween and then handed out treats dug out of the cupboard. As it was, Angelo was so charmed, he invited them inside and fed them pasta.
Fear not! With a little ingenuity and a lot of hard work, some of the comforts of home can be reproduced just about anywhere! My next assignment... *gulp*... Thanksgiving.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Rising hopes...
Did you know that there are about six different types of leavening to be bought here in Italy? None of which, of course, are familiar to me. Apparently my dismal returns on bread-making in the last month have all been attributed to my having used the wrong types of leavening, although the "Beer-yeast" for "pizzas and breads" sounded like a sure thing. The correct yeast, I have now been informed, is located with the butters in the refrigerated section. Go figure.
Tomorrow they connect the internet in our apartment... I've been looking forward to this date with such fevered anticipation that I can now hardly contain myself. Skype! Allrecipes.com! E-mail! Google! Because honestly, a heated discussion at midnight about the exact location of Helsinki begs to be promptly resolved.
I'll try not to let the newfound access to all things web-ly impinge on my reading spree, however. Since being unemployed again, I've been switching between Jane Austin, the "Twilight" series, and narrative explainations of the American health care system for immigrants. All of this has resulted in feeling rather bookish and intelligent, and helped to assure me that my 17 years of schooling havn't completely annhialated my will to self-educate.
For all these feelings of superiority, at least I have my temper to humble me. A bout of embarassing impatience at our Tango lessons last night has given me the homework assignment to control my more restless side. This extends from Tango box-step annoyance to the rage I feel every time I see Silvio Berlusconi's face on the TV. I hereby vow that I will not hit things when he denies the indisputable sexual exploits.
Apropos, does anyone follow him over States-side? I feel like his glaring hypocricy, corruption, and licentiousness would make him delicious fodder for the American media, but I see very little about him in my regular news sources.
Here's hoping that a job crops up soon... if not, the convenient thing will be being able to come home unhindered for Christmas!
Tomorrow they connect the internet in our apartment... I've been looking forward to this date with such fevered anticipation that I can now hardly contain myself. Skype! Allrecipes.com! E-mail! Google! Because honestly, a heated discussion at midnight about the exact location of Helsinki begs to be promptly resolved.
I'll try not to let the newfound access to all things web-ly impinge on my reading spree, however. Since being unemployed again, I've been switching between Jane Austin, the "Twilight" series, and narrative explainations of the American health care system for immigrants. All of this has resulted in feeling rather bookish and intelligent, and helped to assure me that my 17 years of schooling havn't completely annhialated my will to self-educate.
For all these feelings of superiority, at least I have my temper to humble me. A bout of embarassing impatience at our Tango lessons last night has given me the homework assignment to control my more restless side. This extends from Tango box-step annoyance to the rage I feel every time I see Silvio Berlusconi's face on the TV. I hereby vow that I will not hit things when he denies the indisputable sexual exploits.
Apropos, does anyone follow him over States-side? I feel like his glaring hypocricy, corruption, and licentiousness would make him delicious fodder for the American media, but I see very little about him in my regular news sources.
Here's hoping that a job crops up soon... if not, the convenient thing will be being able to come home unhindered for Christmas!
Monday, November 2, 2009
Better belated than never
When I left the States, I promised a lot of people that I would keep in touch. Promises ranged from sending pictures to keeping people updates with my search for a tango course and a job. Well, I suppose that you could either call me a hip girl, caught up with the times, or a genuine sell-out, because I've come to the conclusion that a blog must be the most convenient and reasonable way of keeping those promises. So here I am, two months and twenty-three days after my arrival in la bell'Italia, keeping you up to date on my maneuvers as a post-grad American girl against the forces of evil in the Italian bureaucracy.
Since I arrived my life here has been divided into three epochs: The month or so after my arrival was painted with a general ennui whilst job and apartment seeking. September brought a much-anticipated and welcome visit from my parents, a fabulous jaunt around Northern Italy for two weeks, and the satisfaction of finding a beautiful apartment in the country outside Siena. In the month since my parents' departure, I found a real live job working as a waitress/busser at one of the hottest tourist restaurants in town, on the Piazza del Campo in the middle of the city. The contract only lasted through October, however, and once again I'm on the search for a job, though happily settled in my pretty apartment with my un-aformentioned beau.
Perhaps the most important incident in my Italian life so far has been the passing of my Grandfather in August, shortly after my arrival here. Much to my consternation, I was persuaded by both my family at home and my new-found family here that a trip to California for the memorial was either excessively foolish or needlessly sentimental. As a consequence, I grieved from afar, but recent plans to visit my family and pay my respects at my grandfather's grave during the winter holidays have lifted my spirits on the subject.
As for the tango class, Angelo and I signed ourselves up with "Tango Siena", an association which offers classes, balls, performances, potlucks, and most of all, a social life. Twice every week now, we go to make only slight fools of ourselves, dancing from 9:30-midnight and munching on prosciutto and lasagna when we get frustrated. So it is with distinct pleasure that I announce our complete success on that front.
For the work, here's hoping. I have a couple of prospects on the horizon which will only be worth mentioning if they come through. My job at the Birreria (resteraunt on the Campo), though brief, was intense; lasting 8 hours/day, 6 days/week. The best part about the job was perhaps surprisingly NOT the incredibly, unbeatable view of the Palazzo Publico and environs, but the mixture of tourists and locals who filtered through every day. Germans tourists stroked my ego by insisting that I sounded like a Berlin native, American tourists reveled in my real-life paperback-novel love story, and I got to meet some of the most interesting Sienese locals who would come by every evening as the tourists left on their busses back to Florence. There was the old man who insisted to me that this was the "Spanish Plaza!" and that a bull lived in the Palazzo Publico, stomping out all the mice because they scare the Palio horses. There was Anna, the old half-crazy lady who came every night to play the scratch-and-win tickets and would cry out "Chee-Wa-Wa!" whenever she won. (When Anna found out I was American, she gleefully bellowed, "Obama! Chee-Wa-Wa!")
On the 11th of November, they're supposed to come connect my internet, so you'll all be hearing more of me. But in the meantime... ciao, e a dopo!
Since I arrived my life here has been divided into three epochs: The month or so after my arrival was painted with a general ennui whilst job and apartment seeking. September brought a much-anticipated and welcome visit from my parents, a fabulous jaunt around Northern Italy for two weeks, and the satisfaction of finding a beautiful apartment in the country outside Siena. In the month since my parents' departure, I found a real live job working as a waitress/busser at one of the hottest tourist restaurants in town, on the Piazza del Campo in the middle of the city. The contract only lasted through October, however, and once again I'm on the search for a job, though happily settled in my pretty apartment with my un-aformentioned beau.
Perhaps the most important incident in my Italian life so far has been the passing of my Grandfather in August, shortly after my arrival here. Much to my consternation, I was persuaded by both my family at home and my new-found family here that a trip to California for the memorial was either excessively foolish or needlessly sentimental. As a consequence, I grieved from afar, but recent plans to visit my family and pay my respects at my grandfather's grave during the winter holidays have lifted my spirits on the subject.
As for the tango class, Angelo and I signed ourselves up with "Tango Siena", an association which offers classes, balls, performances, potlucks, and most of all, a social life. Twice every week now, we go to make only slight fools of ourselves, dancing from 9:30-midnight and munching on prosciutto and lasagna when we get frustrated. So it is with distinct pleasure that I announce our complete success on that front.
For the work, here's hoping. I have a couple of prospects on the horizon which will only be worth mentioning if they come through. My job at the Birreria (resteraunt on the Campo), though brief, was intense; lasting 8 hours/day, 6 days/week. The best part about the job was perhaps surprisingly NOT the incredibly, unbeatable view of the Palazzo Publico and environs, but the mixture of tourists and locals who filtered through every day. Germans tourists stroked my ego by insisting that I sounded like a Berlin native, American tourists reveled in my real-life paperback-novel love story, and I got to meet some of the most interesting Sienese locals who would come by every evening as the tourists left on their busses back to Florence. There was the old man who insisted to me that this was the "Spanish Plaza!" and that a bull lived in the Palazzo Publico, stomping out all the mice because they scare the Palio horses. There was Anna, the old half-crazy lady who came every night to play the scratch-and-win tickets and would cry out "Chee-Wa-Wa!" whenever she won. (When Anna found out I was American, she gleefully bellowed, "Obama! Chee-Wa-Wa!")
On the 11th of November, they're supposed to come connect my internet, so you'll all be hearing more of me. But in the meantime... ciao, e a dopo!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)