A few weeks ago, on my way to the movie theater in Crema, I popped into a supermarket in pursuit of some bread and cheese. Realizing, however, that I had chalk all over my hands from a day spent hand-erasing notes from the blackboard, I decided to seek out the bathroom before making any purchases.
Entering the market, I immediately saw a sign for
Il toilette (often times here they use the French), just to the left of Cash Register Number 1. When I arrived, the door was locked, and a sign told me to proceed to either Cash Register Number 2 or Cash Register Number 14 to pick up the keys. Standard procedure, I figured. So I went to Cash Register Number 2, waited for the cashier to finish with her customer, and then politely asked for the keys to the bathroom. Nope, she told me. I had to go to Cash Register Number 14.
Okay. Fair enough. I thanked her, then walked across the line of cashiers to Cash Register Number 14. Once there, I waited for the cashier to finish with her customer, and then asked, once again very politely, for the keys to the bathroom. She looked at me, perplexed – perhaps by my request, but more likely by my thick American accent – and then told me to wait a moment. As I waited, she rang up the next customer, and then made a phone call. I couldn’t make out the conversation, but when it was finished, she told me to proceed to Cash Register Number 8.
Chuckling inwardly, I thanked her kindly, backtracked halfway across the supermarket to Cash Register Number 8, and then asked, for the third time in the same number of minutes, for the keys to the bathroom. And finally, my request was granted. The cashier handed me the keys, pointed me towards the corner of the supermarket in which my journey had begun, and then returned to her customer.
Success, I thought. But when I arrived at the bathroom, the light didn’t even work and I had to wash my hands in the dark.
More than just a random blog story that I write in an effort to entertain my parents back home, this experience is, I’ve decided, a perfect reflection of how Italy works. From the supermarkets, to the post offices, to the schools, to the central government in Rome. When you want something, you have to ask at least three people for it, and when you get it, it often isn’t even what you were pursuing in the first place.
The other day, I walked into the bar near my school to grab some coffee before work. When I arrived at the counter, about to place my order, the bartender looked at me, seemed to recognize my face, then asked,
caffè lungo, vero? Elated, I told her that this was, indeed, my usual order, proud to have finally become a regular.
Then, just this afternoon at the same bar, I didn’t have to specify what type of panino I wanted (grilled vegetables and mozzarella). The bartender, different from the one who had served me the
caffè lungo, already knew. All my life, I’ve dreamed of being able to walk into a bar, look casually in the bartender’s direction, and say, “Gimme the usual, Jack.” Finally, that dream has become reality, the only difference between the original dream and the reality being that Jack is now Giacomo.
In Italy, people are often late. The trains are often late. Life, in general, is often late. In the morning, my classes are supposed to start at 8:20am. Rarely am I teaching before 8:27am. Which has just become normal.
Several weeks ago, Juventus was playing Inter Milan on a Saturday evening. That same afternoon, my soccer team had a game against another team from Castelleone. In an effort to bring the team together after their afternoon derby, the coach reserved a table for 20 at a nearby restaurant so that we could all eat dinner together that night while watching the Inter/Juventus match.
The game was scheduled to start at 8:05pm. At 7:55pm, my entire team was sitting quietly in our seats at the restaurant, facing the high definition television in the corner, patiently waiting for the game to start. For professional soccer, I have learned, you are never late.
In Italian, the sound of the letter “i” sounds like our “ee.” Cinema, for example, in Italian is pronounced “chee-nay-muh.”
Andiamo, which means “we go,” is pronounced “on-dee-aum-oh.” On so on. English pronunciation, given its many irregularities, can be extraordinarily difficult for nonnative speakers. Even more difficult is English spelling.
That said, a while back, I asked the students in one of my classes to write a paragraph about their favorite film, using, if possible, as many vocabulary words and expressions as possible from the list that I had made them. This is – verbatim – what one of my students wrote:
Titanic is a drama film, the actor and the main character is Leonardo de Caprio. Titanic speak a story of a big sheep called Titanic then it has a bad end in the Pacific Ocean. In the starting protagonist won the Titanic’s ticket for go to the America, so in the sheep he know a beautiful rich girl and he will love she. But the sheep in the night crash with an iceberg. All the film and the all story of the actor and actress is take place in this big sheep. The panoramic shot is the ocean and the under of sheep. I see this film 2 years ago and I think it’s a must see!The poor fellow. When I told him what sheep meant, he was humiliated. I thought it was great, though. The story of two lovers who meet in a big sheep which meets a terrible end after crashing into an Atlantic iceberg. It's got James Camron written all over it.
At my home in Castelleone, the microwave, once finished, wishes me a
buon appetito. In the United States, I don’t think microwaves do this. Granted, the microwave I used for most of my life back in Newton was older than I was, so it may not have reflected the most cutting-edge microwave technology. Nonetheless, I love that my microwave here does this.
I’ve never really used an umbrella before, certainly not habitually, but here, given my commute and the rainy winter climate, it has become essential. About a month ago, therefore, I decided that I wanted to buy my own, rather than using my host family’s spare.
The first store I popped into looked a bit fancy, but I figured an umbrella, even in a fancy store, is still just an umbrella. So I walked over to the umbrella rack, found one that looked nice, and then – seeing no price tag – asked the clerk how much it cost.
200 euro, he told me. I wasn’t sure if I had understood, so I repeated the figure.
Duecento euro? He nodded.
Sì. I paused, astounded, and then asked him:
Si fa volare? (Does it make you fly?).
No, he said. (No. Please leave immediately.)
So I left.
When I told my host family about the store with the €200 umbrella, they weren’t surprised. Apparently it’s famous for its outrageous prices, and only the most important of Crema’s citizens are allowed to walk in there – status I haven’t quite reached. (Apparently the store clerk didn’t know that I was a Middlebury College intramural soccer runner-up.) But no matter. Only a few stores down the road, I ended up finding a beautiful blue umbrella with big white button designs all over it, with, in addition to its aesthetic awesomeness, a very functional automatic opening feature. Total cost, €18.99. I'm quite content.
This coming Monday we have a day off from school, so I'm spending the three-day weekend with my boss and her family skiing in the Dolomites. I cannot wait.
Hope all is well back home,
Nate
