I have a family history of : cancer

When you start getting into the finer details of a language you find yourself wound up in expressions that there are no words for in the other language. For instance, I understand "ti voglio bene" as something like brotherly love. An expression of love for someone that you not in love with. It literally translates as "I want well for you" and than cements the meaning in my head, but it's not something you would say in English.

On the other hand, I find myself surprised sometimes at how literally expressions translate between English and Italian. For instance, honey moon is luna di miele and a fish out of water is also used un pesce fuor d'acqua.

Well I found myself in some twisted version of these two the other day... I'm not exactly sure where it lies. I was doing some research for natural health products and discovered that the Italian phrase for colon is i due punti.... lol... get it? "the two points" aka :

Yea, I'm easily amused.

grammar finally comes back to bite me in the butt

Italian class, day 3.

Today we learn how to use/form the past tense of verbs. Holy hell, what a nightmare.

Past participles, reflexive and reciprocal verbs, infinitive...
And then, near and far past?!?!

Crapity crap crap crap
Grammar finally came back
To bite me in the ass

Did I ever mention that I hated grammar (can you tell)
I knows I can speak English. I ain't got to knows why!

Well, apparently I DO. Because now I'm up shit creek when my teacher asks me to form the passato prossimo. And could I please explain the difference between reflessivi and transitivi verbs? This is apparently a very key difference because it depends on whether or not you form the near past actions with to be or to have.

To be completely frank, I have no friggin' idea.

I know Mrs. Jones is tsk tsk-ing right about now..
_______________

Hi Mrs. Jones. Yea, I know, sorry about all this. I really didn't learn a damn thing in your class, did I? But hey, look! I've got this groovy blog! And even you stopped by to read it.
What's that? I shouldn't start a sentence with And? That's like, creative writing, isn't it?
Oh, okay, I'll put a quarter in the jar for using like improperly. I bet you about ready to retire on the misuse of the word like in your 6th grade grammar classes. Wow. That is impressive. Way to turn what must have been like a totally maddening situation into something positive. Oh, sorry, double word score for using like and totally together. Here's a dollar. Now leave me alone.

italian lessons... day 1

I've started my Italian language class. Yep, after two years in Italy, I've grown tired of sounding like a cave woman. My first class was pretty enlightening, exactly the stuff that Strange Pilgram is all about, so I'll share. Maybe weekly, we'll see...

What did I learn in my first day of Italian?

A pencil sharpener is called temperamattita. This word gave me a lot of confusion when the punks and I were shopping for school supplies. Mattia means pencil, and tempera reminded me of Temper Paints, so I thought it was some kind of painting pencil. Glad we finally cleared that up!

Also, principianti means beginners. I'd always understood it to be "participants"... which actually works most of the time. Ahh, the subtle details are beginning to surface.

And then this phrase really threw me for a loop:
Lui e' medico, pediatra in un grande ospedale di Milano; si chima Paolo, ha 45 anni, un po' di pancia (poca), e' un po' pelato (troppo), e' sportivo, simpatico e allegro.

Did you get all that? Well, Paolo sounds like a pretty good catch. He's a doctor, a pediatrician at a big hospital in Milano. 45 years old. Pancia means tummy, so he has just a little tummy. He's also athletic, nice, and happy...

But what about pelato? What the heck does that mean? I'm thinking: Pelle is skin and pelo is an animal's fur coat ...wait, are they saying he's furry? Too much furry?

How much is too much? Are we talking Mike Rowe furry or Teen Wolf furry?

good furry

bad furry

Well, it turns out that, on the contrary, pelato means bald.

after all, she's a foreigner!

Yesterday was the first day of my Italian language class. It's hard to describe the sense of release that happens when you enter a room filled with people that understand where you're coming from. Even if, in fact, none of you actually comes from the same place.


I was the only US citizen there. The world opened up as we start to introduce ourselves to each other. We are from Romania, Ukraine, Lithuania, Russia, Turkey, Morocco, Tunisia, Japan, Peru, Cuba, Brazil, the United States... but here we were, connected, and becoming friends with each other.

This reminds me that there are unifiers that apply between myself and even the most inaccessible "local" that draws back from someone a bit too different from them. That there are circumstances under which we would find comfort in each other's company. We could even be friends. This is a good thing to remember.

tables are turning

My children are far more fluent than I am in the language that the rest of the country speaks. It makes for a bizarre, tough ride... I think for all of us.

We went to see a movie last night. "The Proposal" dubbed in Italian as "Ricatto D'Amore." Looked like a funny film. It was and the kids were giggling. At times more than I was. I was definitely missing some finer details of the dialog. At one point, as Sandrea Bullock is climbing down a ladder, Ryan Reynolds feignly attempts to help her by putting his hand on her ass and she tells him to take it off. I got that much. But when she reaches the bottom she turns to him and says something which I'm sure is quite whitty but the details of which are completely lost to me. I turn to Punkone and ask him what she said. He looks back at me, with his smiling, angelic 8 year old face, and says "If you touch my butt again, I'll cut off your penis while you are sleeping."

Somehow the humor is lost when you hear your kid say it.


And this is one of the things I am going to tackle this year. I'm going back to Italian classes and I'm going to make great strides this year. I'm so tired of hearing the world around me through a thick curtain. I went to take a test to determine my placement in the class, kids in tow...

The instructor is speaking to me. Asking, I think, "how long have you lived here"... I answer confidently "two years"... but then falter... what if she is asking me, 'how long will I live here?'? So I decide I'll make sure and ask for clarification. Punkone pipes up, and starts to tell me but the instructor stops him. Smiling, "no, don't help Mamma... let her figure it out." They're getting quite a kick out of this. As I'm taking the test, Punkone is watching over my shoulder and despite himself I can hear him assessing my answers.

No big deal, right?


Really?

Shouldn't your mother be someone who has her act together? In this big crazy world, she's your go to person who knows just how to sort things out. Wouldn't it be a bit stressful to find out that she was even more confused than you are?

Guess all I can do is make sure I kick ass in other areas... clean house (ok, this one needs work), good food on the table, lots of fun free time together... and maybe stick to the G rated movies for awhile longer.

Is there a linguist in the house?

Why is it called a mustache?
Why is it called a rainbow?
Why are ladybugs sometimes called ladybirds?
...

Do they ever get tired of asking questions that I have no answers for? I think it's so frustrating because I know that there are probably answers to these questions, I just don't know them. Stop asking me about stuff I don't know!!!
...

Why is Captain Hook called Captain Hook?

(FINALLY!!!) Because, he's a captain and he has a hook for a hand. (Fireworks and grand applause for Mom, the fountain of knowledge)

What was he called before?

Damn.

every get that not so fresh feeling?

I was waiting in the normally long, slow line during the 6 pm rush at the supermarket. I wasn't in a hurry, so I found the agitation of the others around me slightly humorous. I smiled and chuckled to myself as one person after another plotted not so obvious ways to cut ahead of me in line. I was so detached I didn't feel like playing and entertained myself internally with the circus that was humming around me.

We hadn't budged in 10 minutes, well, at least I hadn't. I started scanning the products on the shelves around me. Across the aisle were feminine hygiene products. Delicate feminine washes seem to be a big thing here... I think it has to do with the popularity of bidets. But this one in particular made me snort so hard I almost choked and startled the old lady next to me:


That's exactly the feeling I'm looking for when I think about my nether regions... "Chilly". Curiosity got the better of me and I found their web site, which is even more hilarious. Their catch phrase is "nel mio intimo c'e' Chilly"... which I roughly translate as "in my intimates, it's Chilly ... or there's Chilly"

I'm sorry... am I the only one laughing my ass off?

so is it Fat Monday?

A little more about Carnivale. It lasts over a week, so what else am I going to talk about? There were a few questions from my last post, so I'll elaborate. Yes, it's the same as the celebration that they do in Louisiana... a last ditch celebration of our glutenous, sinful lives before getting our acts together for lent. It ends on Fat Tuesday (ie, Marti Gras... this finally makes sense to me! In Italian, Tuesday is Martedi' and fat is grasso. English really confuses things.), which is immediately followed by Ash Wednesday. Very Catholic.

Although scattered festivities have been going on since over a week ago, the big kick off was on Thursday, dubbed "Fat Thursday."


On Thursday, Punkette went to school in costume and had loads of fun. Some of the parents put on a play for the kids, I'm not sure what it was about. I stopped asking about what they tell her at school after she told me all about blue and green little ridding hoods... as in Little Red Ridding Hood and friends. It's just too much for my pea sized brain to take in.




Punkone didn't dress up for school because his class did not. I'm not exactly sure why (I must appear to be a very involved parent to you) but perhaps it was for the best as the kids are asked to change into their costumes at school. If I think about the problems that changing into gym shoes seems to create, I guess I do have a fairly clear idea as to why costumes were done without this year.




On Saturday, in our little city, there is the parade that you see in these pictures. The parade involves a shocking amount of confetti. They shoot it out in cannons, every man, woman, and child has a large bag of it and it is everywhere. Last year it was raining during the parade and we all looked like we'd been tarred and feathered. This illuminates why, even in September, I spot bits of confetti on the streets. Today, a full day after the parade, after shaking out coats, hair, shoes, and clothes, I went swimming. When I was rinsing out my suit afterwards, I found confetti inside my suit.

I'd like to burst your bubble

I'd gotten pretty good at the making friends gig. Between moving from one side of the US to another, I was always reading faces, always trying to gauge a person's willingness to welcome a new friend into their lives. Sometimes it's easy. Like when starting grad school. Everyone is in the same boat and most people are open to making new friends in that situation. Moving to a new town, slightly harder, but I started having kids about that time, so that became the new ice breaker.

When we moved here, I thought, ok... I'm in Italy, so I'm going to push myself to be with Italians. What is the point of moving abroad if I'm going to socialize in an English speaking bubble?

But my mission to make Italian friends has been tough. My main mode of contact is parents of kids that the Punks go to school with. While this worked fabulously in the states, not so much here. The adults are just in their own groove and don't see much of a reason to change it up with a new American friend.

just a scene from the street

And I've noticed that, although I had the objective of making friends with the locals, most of my friends ended up being people that have traveled/lived abroad or have also moved here from somewhere else. Even if they are Italian, generally they grew up in another region and also feel somewhat out of their element here. And most of them speak English, while the average person in this part of Italy does not.


And I wonder why that is. Even with the desire to integrate, I've found myself surrounded by a group of internationalists. Like myself. Not that that's bad, I just find it curious. I can strike up a conversation with someone who's lived here their whole life (at Punkette's school 90% of the parents of the kids were born here) and it seems to peeter out quickly. Never getting beyond the weather or school activities. But yesterday, I started to talking to the woman that works at a gelateria close by (they've reopened for Carnivale!) and we chatted for over 20 minutes. I learned she is from Colombia, she has an older daughter that wants to return as soon as she is finished with high school and a son who just turned three. I learned she's lived here for 12 years and is married to an Italian. And we just had a comfortable time chatting with each other. I think I may go invite her to our next dinner party.

I guess it's not surprising that you end up hanging out with people who have common interests or experiences... I am just surprised how strong that push is. Becoming one with a new culture must be nearly impossible, because we're always in the bubble of our own experience.

puzzetto

When we had kids, we decided to talk to them intelligently. Using the proper names for things and actions and avoiding all that sickening baby talk. There was no "boo boo, or wee wee, or witty bitty tooties. Nope, just the straight dope man.

gratuitous Doctor

So, this morning, when my daughter delared she "Fato uno puzzetto" (I made a stinky) I was crushed by the sudden realization that we speak Italian baby-talk.

This is what happens when you put the kids in charge. I've been basically learning Italian from them. My daughter wears a "grembrulino" (a whittle-apron) to school. My son has a pisilino (whittle weewee). They "fanno i ninne nanne" (something like nighty-nite) and give me a bacino (whittle kiss) before going to school. And, apparently, make puzzetti (stinkies).

I have to stop translating myself before I gag.

cosi'

The Italian word of the day (see sidebar) is cosi' meaning like that.... as in...

Oooh baby, do it like that.

not

I like that hat you're wearing.


Actually, cosi' is more accurately like so. The punk's tennis instructor says it a lot. I mean, when showing the kids the proper way to swing the racket. Not when we're in the throws of passion. Oh, wait. That never happened.


Hey, THANKS! Lisa at I didn't get the message for this very flattering award!

ciao

This morning, on the bench.
wooden, painted green but worn, under as enormous pine tree
Waiting for the number 5
whenever it comes, 8 has passed twice now, I could take the 9 and transfer, but there is no bench at that stop, no tree either
I was making some notes
collecting ideas for my "suck it" theme, there are always good looking men in that apartment, it looks like there isn't much furniture inside, why?, maybe because it's dark and the curtains are sheets, look at these two, he takes his sunglasses off at the window, oh, eye contact, maybe this could be a post
When the gardener stopped to sweep under me
do you have to sweep in this exact spot RIGHT NOW? Do I look like I need a sprinkling of dust?
"Ciao" he says
ciao... I mumble mid-note, into my scarf
"I said CIAO... respond to me when I say ciao!"
Listen fucker, you're sweeping crap all over me! I'm sitting here, just waiting for the bus, just trying to take notes, enjoying the tree, avoid looking into the window across the street... and I said "ciao"... assholes should go down on the list
"Ciao" I say more clearly.


Sometimes it's better that I don't speak the language so well.

how do you say...?

Learning a language on the fly gives a person a big helping dose of humility. Daily routine builds up your confidence and then you unexpectedly stumble into uncharted territory. You're hit with that blow, and that blank expression when you realize you have no idea what to say, you fumble through it with grunts and hand gestures and walk away feeling like an ignorant dolt the just set foot in this new country that you've inhabited for a year and a half. It's happened over and over and over again. To me.


Starts with making your way around the place the first few months. You avoid markets where you'd actually have to talk to a live person until you get fed up with the dismal selection at the supermarket and arm yourself with the words for things like "cetriolo" (cucumber) and "pomodoro" (tomato) and TRIUMPH! You pull it off. The market ladies are sweet and smiling and don't seem to mind when you can't figure out how to differentiate between one stalk vs. one bunch of celery (yes, you can buy a single stalk of celery). Minimal amount of grunting involved to sort things out and you're off with two buldging bags of fresh produce for under 10 euros.


This experience does good for your ego... I can do this italian thing, no problemo. So you're off to the deli.

Yea, the deli. Who knew such fumbles could be had at the deli.

Prosciutto crudo, cotto, salumi... I know these things. Let's get the good stuff from the deli today.

You casually saunter up to the counter, number in hand, roll off your polite "buongiorno" like a native and say "Prosciutto cotto, piacere".

Deli guy: Quale?

Uhhhh... ok. There's four different kinds... quick, what are the prices... something mid range... oh, that's COOP... the store brand. Is the store brand any good? "COOP" you blurt out. Whew!

Deli guy: Quante?

With your mouth half open you think, How much? Well, duh! Why didn't I think of how to say how much. About a quarter of a pound? Oh wait, metric. They must do this in grams. How many grams is about a quarter of a pound? Oh crap, I'm so blowing this. I don't care how much! Just give me some prociutto cotto!


Deli guy: Un cento grammi?

Si. Yes yes yes... exactly! That's exactly how much I wanted. Oh, well, that's not very much. "Posso avere due cento grammi?" Ah... nice recovery.

And so you've learned how to order from the deli counter. Things are really looking up. You figure out bread, school supplies, socks for your punkette, all pretty much the same way.

And then, out of the blue...Oooh. That's a great purse. It's perfect. I've got time, let's go in and check it out.

Death trap... well, language death trap... all kinds of crazy new words here. Words like "straps, pockets, adjustable, suede vs leather, snaps, zippers"... and I don't know ANY of them! How do you grunt "are the straps removable?"

Like I said, humility.

guerilla conversation

My social skills are in atrophy. They were not very sharp to begin with, but after a year and a half abroad, I'm starting to have real problems. First off, shhh, I'm blogging. Yikes. Second, my need to converse seems to be cumulative. The result of this is that when I do find someone to talk to, I assault them with conversation.
I JUST WANT SOMEONE TO LISTEN TO ME!!!!
You can imagine the effect that has.


Actually, most people seem to take it in stride. If I'm lucky, they're also a foreigner and feeling just as isolated as I am and we just beat each other into the ground. But sometimes I accidentally unleash on an unsuspecting Italian.

I was pissed off today and I carried this stupid pissed off feeling around with me all day because I just didn't have anyone to vent to. It was driving me nuts. I kept telling myself to just let it go, it's a silly thing to be upset about... but I just couldn't shake it.

Poor Michele. He's one of the guys at work that speaks some English. I was trying to stick to casual conversation, fearing what might happen to what little relationship there was between us if I unleashed my brewing frustrations. But he's also one of those wonderful people that asks you how you're doing and really wants to know. And such a kind face.

UGH. I exploded all over him after lunch, just as we would normally have simply parted ways. I could even see the reeling in his face in the process but I just couldn't disengage. What a trooper. He hung in there and actually conversed with me about the situation. Validation. Empathy. And hardly any signs of shell shock. Ugh, this should be so much easier. But I think Michele and I could actually become friends. I just wish I didn't have to feel like a socially inept science dork in the process... oh, wait...

the elusive skate park

Punkone recently completed a month of reading 5 books a week to obtain a skateboard. I'm not usually one to use rewards, but he's been begging for a skateboard for years and I figured he should have the opportunity to work for it if he really wanted it so bad. Plus he needed the extra reading practice. He did his reading happily and diligently as we ticked off the days on the calendar. At the end of the month, Mom went out and bought him the board in addition to all the protective gear as promised.

Now he just needs a place to ride it.

photo by skatechick68

We've asked around and had a reliable lead that there was a skate park on the outskirts of town in an area complete with soccer fields, baseball diamonds, tennis courts, an ice skating rink... It's cold, I don't know where we're going, and this is the first trip outside the kids have had in three days so I decide we'll splurge on a taxi.

We arrive at the ice skating rink and my plan is to ask someone who works there where the skate park is since I didn't spot it on the way in. Problem is that we don't find anyone who works there. People everywhere, but no one in any of the booths. Probably a Sunday thing. So we start asking other people. Other people in this case are mostly punk-ass teenagers. Punk-ass teenagers who seem to think that it's hilarious that we've shown up at an ice skating rink with a skateboard. They ignore my efforts to explain by acting out the difference between ice skating and skateboarding. And laughing their punk-ass butts off.

I give up and decide to head back to the outdoor fields we passed on the way in, figuring that it's likely to be somewhere over there anyway and at least we'll distance ourselves from the skateboard vs. ice skating confusion.

We stumble upon a rugby match in progress. This peaks Punkone's interest (who had been in despair at my failing to deliver him to a skate park) and we sat and watched the game for awhile so he could figure out the finer details of the game and Punkette could get some important coloring done.

After we've figured out who's playing, where the goals are, and how the players move the ball about the field our butts are frozen and it's getting colder as the sun has dropped behind the mountains. As I call the cab to go home, Punkone makes the wise observation that at least now we know where the skate park is not.

mums the word

Today I escaped the house after a week home with my sick punkette.

First stop was the hairstylist for a long overdue hair cut. My stylist was a bit chatty, which is difficult for me because I need to use a whole different subset of words. Words outside of my usual elementary school or supermarket banter. But I put up a good show and the conversation ensued.

From there, I went to meet a group of expats for our first get together. Lots of new faces, and lots of talking. It took a while for me to convince my brain to just relax and speak English. Like easing it into warm honey. No really... just relax for awhile, I've got it all under control. My mouth finally gave my brain a few hours off.

And now I'm horse. Apparently my vocal chords are out of practice. After just a few hours of casual conversation I have a sore throat. It made me realize that I probably don't talk very much anymore. Maybe I should take up singing or read my emails out loud while my brain tries to catch on to this new language. What's going to happen when I visit the states in the spring for my brother's wedding? How will I socialize with all the long time no see relatives?

Obviously my brain is still on holiday.

risk

My post yesterday has had me thinking. As often happens to me, I end up arguing with myself. In this case, part of me is turning her nose up at the sentence "I no longer have access to the tools to throw my hat in the ring." Ha! she says. Get a backbone. Take charge. If you want to make some friends, do something about it. And she's right.


Opportunities much less daunting than a bus load of strangers are all around me. The gathering of parents at my kid's tennis lessons, the cafeteria line at work, pick up at school... I've become fatigued and I just need to pull it together and go for it. Again.

what could be more frightening than a group of moms waiting outside the elementary school?

My challenge to myself (any other takers?): get to know someone just a little bit better in the next 24 hours. Someone that you normally wouldn't strike up a conversation with. Let's get gutsy and see what we find.

learning Italian

I'm trying here. Really trying. If you want to see your Italian husband turn white, ask him what coglione means. In public, at a crowded cafe'. Ok... maybe the cafe' shouldn't be crowded. At least not with people you know. We don't want to bring on other health issues... just a nice pasty shade of white.

coglione (co.yo.nay) n. - literally, testicle, but with a very offensive undertone (don't use it in public), ie. @#*%ing jackass.

Obama scusa, Berlusconi e' un coglione.

Well, I figured as much, I just didn't think it was that bad.

You can tell I'm not Italian... I'm sure if I was, I'd never actually write such a word on my blog. Sorry Italians. I'm just learning here.

For instance, my husband, learning English among male colleagues in the lab, became particularly fond of the "f" word. His favorite sentence was "F... the f...ing f...ers." (ok, I actually taught him that one). I was really nervous the first time I took him home to meet Mom and Dad.

The fact is that it takes a childhood of warnings and evil eyes to really feel the impact that such a word has. For someone new to the language, even after they understand the meaning of a word, the physiological response still isn't there... it's hard to learn the gut wrench or devilish joy or the simple release of tension that you get from firing off a string of profanities in your own language.

I guess I'll get there, one faux pas at a time.

io sono contenta

I had intended to resist commenting on the election. I just figured that, being here I've missed all the passion that's been stirred by the campaign. But that's not true.

There are not many Americans here. The few I know I rarely see (I think they must have been assimilated). People stick to the norm here and like it that way.

And try as I might (ok, I don't try that hard) I stick out. People know that I'm an American. I see the same people every day in my 4 block radius. I see the same people in the cafe, talk with the same parents and grandparents at the schools, often stand next to the same people on the bus. So, by now, they've figured it out, and some of them have even warmed up enough to find out exactly where I'm from.

I left the house today, more tired than usual after spending half the night restless (wondering about the election results) and the other half soothing my son back to sleep (poor guy is getting congested... yes, Mom, more vitamin C). But I was tired and not paying very close attention to the people around me.

I was soon pulled out of my stupor when Elisabetta at the coffee shop started talking to me. This is a woman who practically scowled at me for the first 4 months I took coffee in her cafe'. We've slowly made our way through a stage of polite greetings and now, after a year and a half, we pleasantly call each other by name and chat when the cafe is not too crowded. But today was something unusual...

E: Tu sai contenta!?! (are you happy?... notice the informal tu... we've come a long way baby)
Me...obviously tired and not prepared to plunge into Italian conversation: Scusa?
E: Ma perche tu sai cosi stanca? Il Electione! Tu sai contenta?!! (but why are you so tired? The election! Are you happy?!!)

Me... snapping out of it... and imagining that I would have to wait longer to know the results and not believing anything since the last time we've been through this, reply timidly: Spero per Obama ("I hope for Obama"... man I sound like such an ape in Italian).

She chuckles at me, shaking her unruly head of curls and hands me the paper. So this is how I learn the outcome of the election. Deciphering the local Italian paper and nearly wanting to cry when I've collected enough pieces of evidence to convince myself that it has been such a good and decisive outcome.

Si, Io sono contenta.


But it continues... At the preschool, you know, the one with the sweet little nuns and all the folks whose families have lived here since the dawn of time... the one where I am the one and only non-European... and one of roughly 3 non-Italians. At that preschool, I am stopped over and over again by literally JUBILANT parents and grandparents. One grandfather in particular, who I've actually discussed US politics with in the past, described to me how he was cheering out of his window this morning "We WON, We WON!" and he kept repeating to me "It's so good! It so great! It's wonderful!" (yes, he used them all... buonissimo, benissimo, stupendo). Even at the market, my fruit and veggie gals: You must be happy! How wonderful!...

So Obama has touched even this frigid town in the very north of northern Italy. Mountain people who seem so set in their ways, so closed and stubborn and judgmental... turns out, they are also looking for change; and now, they also have hope.