Atlas Shrugged

Sunrise over the Alps, by plane.


First, accept my apologies for not having written sooner. The only internet access in my host family’s house is in the older sister’s bedroom, thus – despite her assurances that she doesn’t mind my complete invasion of her privacy – I feel bad using it. As a result, I had to wait until I went to my school in Crema before I could send this off.

That said, let me tell you about my new Italian life. Given that you know, at this point, nothing, I’ve got a lot more to say in this post than I normally will in the future. If you’re reading this blog only for the anecdotal juice, and not so much for the general information, I’d recommend skipping down to paragraph ten for a brief story about my shower situation (I’ve even included an asterisks for your navigational convenience). For the more loyal and invested (i.e. my parents), read on.

My host family – la famiglia Mascheroni – consists of five members. Loretta, the mother, is an English teacher at a middle school. She’s hilarious. Everybody else in the family is totally content speaking with me in Italian, but not Loretta. She’ll ask me how to say something in English, and when I tell her, her eyes light up and she says – in her wonderfully stereotypical Italian accent – “Oh, but this is so beautiful! (Sigh.) I love your country.” Yesterday, we were driving through Castelleone and we passed a father pushing his newborn son in a stroller. After stopping to chat, Loretta commented that the father was “a culo e mutanda” with his son (literally, “like the butt to the underwear;” figuratively, “very close”). She then asked me how to say this in English, and I told her about Forrest Gump’s relationship with Jenny (“like peas and carrots”). This, she thought was adorable, and promised to teach to her classes the following the week.

Gianluigi (or just Gian, pronounced like “John”), the father, works some sort of administrative job in the Italian oil business. I’m not exactly sure what it entails, but he seems to like it. So far, I haven’t spent too much time with him, but the one thing I’ve gathered about John is that if you wish to stay alive, you never sit in Gian’s chair in the living room. It’s this brand new, black leather recliner that faces the TV, and it’s beautiful. After work, John usually comes home, puts on his flannel slippers, and stretches out in this chair to watch the news. He’s this sweet man of no more than 50 years, far from intimidating, but I’ve yet to see anybody sit in it but him. It’ll be interesting to see how long that lasts.

One other thing about Gianluigi: huge fan of the Boss. That, and Alicia Keys. A rather strange combo, but I respect it.

Moving on, Marta, the older daughter, turns 19 in a week. On Wednesday, she’s starting university classes in Milan (a 50km commute each way by train, which she’ll do five days a week. She’s awesome. Quiet, but not at all shy. This past week, she started taking lessons in Latin American dance (salsa, tango, samba, etc.). She’s trying to get me to go with one of her friends next week, but the course costs 170 euro for something like ten sessions, which I think I’d rather spend on soccer tickets. Which reminds me: Last night, AC Milan played Inter Milan, and even in the tiny town of Castelleone 50 km away, it’s all anybody wanted to talk about. The rivalry between these two teams – and, more importantly, their fans – makes the Red Sox and the Yankees look like bosom buddies.

Anna, the 12 year old daughter, is probably my favorite person in the Mascheroni family. Whereas Marta says only what really matters, Anna says everything on her mind. Fortunately, the contents of her mind are always entertaining. Before coming, I was worried that she wouldn’t be too psyched about having this random American guy (me) hanging around the house, but she has, in fact, been totally accommodating. Already she’s introduced me to most of her friends, and every time we agree on something – which happens often – she gives me a huge high five. Having spent my entire life the youngest of three brothers, it’s been refreshing having younger sisters to hang out with.

Lastly, there’s Penny the dog. Poor Penny isn’t allowed in the house. Ever. Even in the dead of winter. So she just hangs out outside, or sometimes in the garage, doing nothing. Sometimes, when Loretta isn’t home, Marta lets Penny inside, but I shouldn’t even be telling you about that. It’s kind of sad, actually, but I’m not about to contest it for fear of winding up like Penny myself.

Anyway, the six of us live in a two story house in Castelleone, about a kilometer from the train station and 10 kilometers from my school in Crema. Castelleone is a mostly-agricultural town of about ten thousand people – beautiful, but not exactly a tourist trap. As a result, I am the only American for – literally – miles. Which means that practicing my Italian hasn’t been difficult. Already I’m getting great at gesticulating wildly.


*If you’re still reading, thank you for your devotion. If you’re just joining us from paragraph two, welcome back. I’d now like to share a quick story about my shower before wrapping this thing up.


So, my shower is, for the most part, a normal shower. It’s in a bathroom; it’s got hot water; there’s a hand-held showerhead, a drain, a faucet, a bathmat nearby. There are, however, two standard features that my shower is missing:

1.) A shower bar (and, in turn, a shower curtain)
2.) A wall fixture to which the showerhead attaches (the showerhead attaches to the faucet, which is on the wall at about knee height)

As a result, showering consists of crouching down in the bathtub, holding the showerhead above my body as best I can. When I shampoo, I have to apply, rinse, and repeat just like I normally would, but ALL with one hand, because the other hand is clutching the shower head above me. If I lose focus even for a second, I end up spraying half the bathroom with water. It goes without saying that concentation is essential.

This whole process, although a bit... different, is entirely manageable. What makes it bizarre is the giant, wall-to-wall mirror attached to the wall directly across from the shower. Throughout my bathing process, there will be moments during which I forget how ridiculous I must look. But then I’ll catch the reflection of this completely naked, embarrassingly fair-skinned redheaded kid crouched down in a bathtub, trying not to soak the rest of the bathroom, and the realization that I look like an absolute buffoon comes flooding back. I’d like to think that I look something like Atlas, and that instead of holding the world I’ve been asked to hold a hand-held showerhead, but I may be flattering myself. In the next few days, I may try to take a picture (PG, of course) of the situation, so hopefully you’ll be able to decide for yourself.

And that’s that. Again, let me assure you that future posts will usually be much shorter. If you’re actually reading this right now, thank you for your time. You’re awesome. I hope all is well with you back in the States.



Until next time,


Nate