The Adventures of Nataniele Randaglio

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2010-01-26T08:03:00.000-08:00

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http://natereturnstoitaly.blogspot.com

Italian birthday

2009-06-04T00:42:00.000-07:00

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On Sunday, May 17, I turned 23. Aside from being a lot less palindromical (not a real word, according to Microsoft Word’s spellchecker) than 22, 23 doesn’t feel much different. I can still drink legally, but still can’t rent a car without paying extra fees. For those of you readers still yet to reach 23, don’t fret. It’s an easy one.

That said, my birthday weekend turned out to be one of the best I’ve had ever. On Friday, Liz and I threw an epic birthday party feast in our apartment. The menu included two types of lasagne, stuffed peppers, grilled eggplants (did you know that in the United Kingdom, eggplants are called aubergines? I had no idea), and Liz’s famous bean and tomato dip. The kitchen in our apartment is, officially, the second narrowest kitchen in Lombaria, and what would be our living room is Liz’s bedroom, so the nine of us (Liz, Laura, six of our Italian friends, and I) ended up feasting in the front hallway of the apartment. A bit cozy, but delicious.

Liz preparing culinary masterpieces in the narrow kitchen.

Lasagne!

For Sunday, my actual birthday, it had been arranged that I would go to dinner and a movie in Crema with Marta, my host sister, on behalf of Loretta, Gian, and Anna, who were all previously engaged. The plan was that I would be picked up in the piazza near my apartment at 7:30pm, we would grab a quick panino, and then head off to the movies. When Marta showed up at 8:15pm, I wasn’t thrilled… nobody likes to wait alone in a piazza for 45 minutes on the night of their 23rd birthday. But even if you wanted to, it’d be impossible to ever stay mad at Marta, so I let it go. As I got in the car, though, she said we had to go back to Castelleone before going to the cinema because she’d left her driver’s license at home. I pointed out that driving back to Castellone then without a license would be just as risky as driving back to Castelleone three hours later without a license, but she insisted on going back. Again not thrilled, I agreed, and off we went.

Of course, in retrospect, I should have suspected something. But, for whatever reason, I didn’t. Thus, when I walked into the house back in Castelleone and 20 people yelled “Surprise!” as loud as they could, I was completely unprepared.

For a week, it turns out, my host mom had been rounding up everybody that I knew in northern Italy. Liz and Laura were both there. My two Middlebury friends living in Brescia, about an hour and a half train ride from Castelleone, were there. My boss and her husband were there. All the kids I went to Rome with for New Year’s were there. Loretta had even tried to involve my former soccer team from Castelleone, but was, unfortunately, unable to get through to anybody. Nonetheless, it was an amazing surprise, and an amazing birthday party. From 8:30pm until midnight we all hung around on the back terrace, eating homemade pizza, cake, and – courtesy of Anna, the younger host sis – ice cream floats.

Me, still recovering from the surprise, with Loretta and Sarah (former Midd student working in Brescia).

My sisters.

Torta.

Of course, I was honored and grateful for all of the work Loretta and crew had put into making sure I had a good Italian birthday. Naturally, I had to get them back. And nothing, I’ve learned, makes for better surprise party revenge than hot, fresh, surprise pancakes.

(Preface: When my mom came and visited in November, she brought my host family pancake mix as a gift. Since then, I’d been promising my host fam to make them all pancakes one morning, but never got around to it.)

So it came to that this past Saturday morning at 3:00am, Marta picked me up in Crema on her way back home from an evening out. Arriving at the house in Castelleone, we had to make it seem like she was alone – Loretta is an extremely light sleeper, and often wakes up when her kids/host kids get back late from nights on the town. And so, closing our car doors in the driveway, we made sure to synchronize our efforts, creating the sound of one door slamming instead of two. (Very James Bond.) Then, entering the house, Marta went through all of her normal pre-bed rituals. The plan was to wake up at 7:30am, before Gian and Loretta would be awake, and prepare a massive plate of pancakes, so that when Gian and Loretta woke up at their usual Sunday hour of 8:30am, breakfast would be waiting for them. If this plan were to work, we couldn’t sleep upstairs, because G + L would have surely woken up when they heard us stirring about in the morning. As a result, we prepared the couches in the living room and slept down there. (Although “sleep” is a strong word. “Lay quietly” might be more accurate. Foolishly playing the role of the chivalrous host brother, I had let Marta have the bigger of the two couches. Which meant that my legs spent the night hanging off the side of the couch, slowly losing circulation.)

Anyway, the plan worked perfectly, and when Gian and Loretta finally came downstairs the next morning, they found a table full of pancakes and me and Marta passed out on our couches in the living room. Shortly after, a half-asleep Anna joined us, and the five of us enjoyed a very filling surprise American breakfast in Italy. We even used the Vermont maple syrup I’d brought over in September. In the end, it was an excellent culmination of the eight months I’ve spent as a part of this wonderful Italian family.

In a few hours, if their navigational skills manage to defeat the insanity of Italian road signs, my parents will arrive in Crema. We’ll spend 10 days traveling around northern Italy, and then return all together to Just Outside Of Boston on June 15th.

In theory, I’ll write one last, super trite, “what did this whole experience mean to me” post, in an effort to shed some meaning on the time I’ve spent living here. Said post may not happen until after I return to Newton, though, so I thank you in advance for any patience you might be able to extend my way.

Regardless, I’ll be in the States until the end of September, and then back to Crema for another year teaching at Pacioli.

Thanks to all seven of you for reading (readership has grown since my last post), happy beginning of summer, and be well.

Nate

European Adventure: Dublin, Belfast, Glasgow, Barcelona, Madrid

2009-05-12T03:55:00.000-07:00

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It was about a month ago today that I arrived in Dublin, on day four of my trip around Europe. In order to celebrate the anniversary, I figured nothing could be more fitting than completing – finally – my blog about the experience.

DUBLIN

I knew I’d arrived in Dublin when I saw the Irish-jig-dancing street sign on the side of the road (see bright orange picture way below in the previous post). Making my way to the hostel, I caught my reflection in a shop window and decided officially that my facial hair had become too much a part of my traveling identity to get rid of. Resolved to keep it until Madrid (the next time I would be in any sort of respectable social interaction), I found my hostel, dropped off my bag in the 16-person dorm – full of napping travelers who had spent the evening before draining pints of Guinness – and then headed off to a pub to indulge in a plate of fish and chips. After dinner, completely exhausted – possibly from the several days of travel I had under my belt, but more probably from the fish and chip grease struggling to digest itself under my belt – I returned to the hostel and passed out.

Only to wake up at 4:15am from the alarm of one of the other travelers. And then again at 4:20am by his companion. And then again at 4:23am by that fellow’s companion. And then once again at 4:30am from the alarm of the first bloke (a wonderful word, I've decided), who it seems had just hit snooze rather than actually getting up.

For about a half an hour, this group of four or five travelers slowly made their exit, waking up the rest of us in the process. The downside, I fear, of paying 15 euro for a room.

Despite my interrupted slumber, the day that followed was one of the more satisfying I had on the entire trip. Rather than walking around aimlessly on foot, as I’d done in Bristol and Cork, I decided to spend the extra money on a hop-on, hop-off, double-decker guided tour bus that brought me to all of the major sights in the greater Dublin area. Most of the drivers/guides were fairly low keyed, sticking to the more traditional “on your left you’ll see the Dublin Castle” script, but one of the drivers proved to have exactly the type of sense of humor that I aspire to foster within myself. Rather than hopping off at the next sight on the list, I decided to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and ride with this guy for about 40 minutes, taking in both the views and the jokes. Below, his best lines:

- (As we passed an old graveyard): The crossword inventor is buried here. To find his grave, all you’ve got to do is count the tombstones… three down, four across.

- Wonderful woman, my wife. Fantastic chef, too. Only person I know who uses a smoke alarm as a cooking timer.

- What’s the definition of mixed emotions? Watching your mother-in-law drive off a cliff in your new car. (No offense to any of the mothers-in-law out there.)

- (As we passed an old bell tower): For many years, there was an old bell ringer who was exceptionally devoted to his job. Every day he would ring the bell. Poured his heart into it. One day, though, the rope broke. Not wanting to let down the people of Dublin, he climbed up into the bell and started ringing the bell with his head. After a while, he knocked himself unconscious and fell down to the floor. As the nearby people gathered around him, somebody asked, “Anybody know his name?” A fellow nearby responded, “Not sure about the name, but his face sure rings a bell…”

Brilliant.

I could have spent all day riding on that bus, but the driver had, unfortunately for me, finished his route. So I hopped off, hopped onto the next bus, and went straight to the Guinness factory for an excellent tour of the 250-year-old brewery. (Did you know that Arthur Guinness and his wife had 21 children?)

On the way back, we passed the Dublin Zoo. I didn’t get off, but I did learn the lion who roars in the beginning of the MGM films was born inside the grounds.

Monday night, I went to a performance of traditional Irish music and dance, during the course of which I decided that if my eventual marriage to the daughter of an Italian winemaker ever fails, I’ll definitely try to make something work with an Irish step dancer.

BELFAST

The next morning I boarded a bus at 6:00am and headed north to Belfast, Northern Ireland, where I would spend the morning before taking a ferry to Scotland.

Unlike the other cities I stopped in, Belfast isn’t really a tourist attraction, at least in the traditional sense. You don’t walk around taking photos, ooohing and ahhing at the architecture and the museums. Rather, you hop in a “black cab” and drive around the Protestant and Catholic neighborhoods, learning about the history of the Troubles while seeing the various politically and religiously charged murals painted throughout the city. My driver, Fyrtle (stellar name), was a fascinating man, full of personal experiences with his country’s violent past.

Some of the things I learned from and about Fyrtle:

- He was born in 1967, two years before the official start of the Troubles in 1969. As he put it, “Growing up, the Troubles were all I knew.”

- Although Catholic, he’s married to a Protestant woman – something that happens rarely in Belfast. He said that when people refer to his marriage as “mixed,” he’ll respond proudly, “yep, it’s mixed: me wife’s a woman, I’m a man.”

- Only about 4,000 people died during the Troubles, yet everybody in Belfast knew personally somebody who was killed by the violence.

- Today, over 90% of Belfast’s neighborhoods – and, in turn, schools – are segregated

My ride with Fyrtle lasted for about an hour and a half, and it was the most engaging hour and a half of my 11 days of travel. Having spent considerable time in Israel, Fyrtle spent much of the ride drawing comparisons between the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the Northern Ireland conflict. In his eyes, the Palestinians were like the Catholics, and Hamas similar to the IRA. He was a rational man, and refused to justify terrorism, but did insist people need to be careful when judging the actions of groups like Hamas and the IRA. As he put it, “one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.”

As I learned from Fyrtle, the Troubles came to what many people consider an “end” in 1998, with the Belfast Agreement, which, among many things, returned self-government to Northern Ireland, and stated that if a majority of Northern Ireland’s citizens ever votes for Northern Ireland’s complete independence from Great Britain, said independence shall be granted. Right now, the majority in Northern Ireland is still Protestant, but Fyrtle pointed out that the Catholic Church’s position on birth control is only helping the Catholics' situation, because Catholic families – who refuse to use contraceptives – continue to have many more children than Protestant families. Fyrtle believes that as a result, the Catholic population will continue to grow at a much faster rate than that of the Protestants, increasing Northern Ireland’s chances of one day gaining complete independence.

GLASGOW

My ride with Fyrtle ended at Belfast’s ferry docks, where I bid Fyrtle farewell, then boarded a ferry to Scotland. Although tempted by Space Chimps, the onboard movie, I opted to read my book instead.

Arriving on the western coast of Scotland, I took a lovely train ride north to Glasgow (pronounced Glaws-go, NOT Glass-gow, as I quickly learned). The Hogwarts Express scenes in the Harry Potter movies were filmed in Scotland, and it was easy to see why. Once in Glasgow, I sent some Scottish kilt postcards to my family, then spent the night couchsurfing once again, this time with a wonderfully hospitable Glaswegian family, the members of which are actually coming to Newton this summer (a trip they planned long before ever meeting me). Small world indeed.

With only a morning in Glasgow before my flight to Barcelona, I didn’t have time to see much, so I went back to my wander-around-aimlessly tactic. The only real highlight was the Necropolis (see picture, below), which looked more like a giant game of chess than a graveyard.

BARCELONA

Barcelona, I’ve decided, is probably the coolest city I’ve ever been to. Other competitors would have to be Rome, Asheville, NC, Guilin, China (unreal rivers and mountains) and Ripton, VT (just kidding). Rather than taking another tour bus around, I rented a bike from one of the waiters at my hostel and explored the city by wheel. An excellent choice, despite the 10-minute onslaught of hail. Sights included several Gaudì buildings, a Picasso museum, a contemporary art museum (much cooler than the art, I thought, were the skateboarders outside), the F.C. Barcelona stadium, the beach, the Olympic park (Barcelona hosted in the summer of 1992), and the tourist-packed Rambla, a street where you can buy anything. Literally, anything: aside from the expected souvenir vendors, the street is also full of drug dealers and prostitutes. (Don't worry. I purchased nothing.)

Rather than trying to do the city justice with words, I’ll let the photos do the blogging for me.

Perhaps my favorite photo in Barcelona. This sign was posted on the outside of a fountain, near the coast. Apparently it's not okay to swim, but it is recommended that you yield to high-jumpers as they get hit by lightning bolts.

Sailboats, and the approaching storm.

Great day for a sail?

Definitely not a great day for a sail.

Until I was able to find shelter, the hail made for an interesting bike ride.

Art inside the MACBA.

Skateboarder and pedestrian.

Naked turtle riding.

MADRID

At the end of my second day in Barcelona, I took a 10-hour-long overnight train ride west, to Madrid. Entering my six-person bunkroom on the train, it was reassuring to smell that I wasn’t the only traveler who hadn’t showered in several days. Snuggling into my pillow (a couple cotton T-shirts stuffed into a sweatshirt), I managed to sleep well enough, and arrived in Madrid early on the morning of day nine to meet up with my friend Mike from Middlebury, also working as an English language assistant.

By day, we mostly just walked around, stopping only in the Reina Sofia museum, where you can see, among many other fantastic exhibits, Picasso’s Guernica. By night, we went out for tapas and then met up with Mike’s extremely fun, and extremely international group of friends. Represented countries included the U.S., Spain, Italy, Ireland, Bulgaria, and several other places in both Europe and Latin America. Hanging out was how I imagine it must be at a United Nations summit after-party.

At 3:30am on Sunday morning, April 19 -- after two days and a night in Madrid -- I took a cab from Mike’s apartment to the Madrid airport, boarded my third plane in 11 days, and headed back to Italy. By early afternoon I was back in my apartment, napping soundly in my bed.

All in all, it was an extraordinary experience. Definitely refreshing to be able to get outside of Italy for a bit and see some of the old continent.

My plans for the next three weeks: relax in Crema as much as possible while enjoying the arrival of Italian summer. Then, in come my parents, and off we’ll go on an epic, northern Italian adventure, before returning together to the States on June 15th. Just over a month away.

If you’ve made it all the way through this post, I commend you for you dedication, and thank you for your time.

Hope all’s well,

Nate

Photos, in reverse: Madrid, Barcelona, Glasgow, Belfast, Dublin

2009-04-28T02:44:00.000-07:00

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When Blogger adds photos, it adds them to the top of the post. Not to the bottom, which would make sense. Usually, I load my pics in reverse order, thwarting Blogger's attempts to make extra work for me, but today I totally forgot.

If the Internet weren't working so slowly, I would reload them in the proper, chronological order. But it is. And I don't feel like sitting at school for another hour when I could be at home eating the tuna-bean-pasta that I'm about to make.

Thus, I'll leave the post as is.

(My humblest apologies.)

Tapas.

The grandest post office I've ever seen.

Crazy statue

After over a year without letting my stash go free, I had to see what it would look like.
Now I know. It still looks really creepy.

Dawn and a backpacker at the train station in Madrid.

Skateboarder in Barcelona.

Anybody who's seen the picture of my dad that sits in the front hallway of our house can understand my oppressive feelings of beard-growing indaqequacy.

Gaudì's La Sagrada Familia.

People refer to it as the world's most visisted construction site.

Ominous.

Barcelona beachfront.

Another Gaudì masterpiece.

A house I walked by my first night in Barcelona. It might be Gaudì, though I'm unsure.

The Necropolis, a graveyard that overlooks the city of Glasgow.

The peace wall that seperates Catholic neighborhoods and Protestant neighborhoods in Belfast.

Bobby Sands -- the first hunger striker to die in Catholic protests of 1981.

Mural addressed to Obama.

The dry dock in Belast where the Titanic was built.

Step dancers in Dublin.

Original sketch of the famous Guinness ad.

Advertising exhibit in the Guinness Storehouse museum.

Guinness's water.

Sounded scrumptuous, but I didn't have time to stop and try.

Molly Malone, aka "The Tart with the Cart." The most photographed statue in Dublin.

Church and a glorious Irish sunset.

Downtown.

I knew I had arrived in Dublin when I saw that the figures in the construction signs seemed to be Irish-jigging as the worked.

It was over a week ago that I said I would post again "tomorrow." I realize, of course, that I haven't lived up to the promise.

These past few days, however -- for a variety of reasons, including quiz writing, quiz grading, research about possible grad schools, Teach for America inquiries, and beyond -- have left me restless and unable -- unwanting, perhaps -- to focus on a new post.

Today, this continues to be true. But in an effort to tide you (my three loyal readers) over until I finally get my act together, I'll put up the some more of my favorite photos from my trip.

Enjoy,

Nate

European Adventure: Bristol and Cork

2009-04-21T08:51:00.000-07:00

After any extraordinary travel experience, it would be easy – but terribly trite – to begin discussion of it with the following sentence:

“It was all just so incredible. I don’t know where to begin.”

If I wrote that, you'd think, “Oh no. Watch out. Another young blogger just went on another European tour and wants to tell us about the beauty and fascination of the sights, the friendliness of the people, the efficiency of the public transportation, and the tastiness of the food.”

Not wanting to elicit the above reaction, I will begin my post, officially, like this:

“It was all just so incredible. I really, really, really don’t know where to begin.”

In my mind, the “reallys” render the thought original. Hopefully you agree.

Weak prefaces aside, I'll do my best to tell you about the 11 most satisfying and exciting days I’ve had in a long time. Perhaps ever. If, at any point, my ramblings tend towards hackneyed, I apologize… but it’s all in my effort to write genuinely about the trip. For, the sights really were beautiful and fascinating. The people really were friendly. The public transportation really was efficient. And the food – though not always the healthiest (see my breakfast sandwich in Cork) – really was tasty.

BRISTOL

On Wednesday, April 8, I touched down in Bristol, England at exactly 11:30pm, Greenwich Mean Time. For those of you who’ve flown RyanAir recently, you’ll know how exciting it is to touch down on time. This little victory trumpet sounds over the loudspeakers and a movie-phone-esque voice tells you that you’ve just taken part in yet another on time flight from RyanAir! Over 90% of RyanAir flights arrive on time… the best in all of European airlines!!

At 12:00am I boarded an airport shuttle to downtown Bristol, and at 12:30am I found myself wandering around the quays, a bit aimlessly, looking for a street name that appeared somewhere on the Google map I had printed out back at school several hours earlier. (I had a copy of Let’s Go Europe with me, but Bristol doesn’t make it into the pages.)

At 12:45am I figured out where I was, and by 1:00am I was at my hotel, checking in. For the rest of the trip I would stay at either hostels or apartments, but for that first night, I had been unable to find an open hostel with a 24-hour reception. I could have slept at the airport, but doing so doesn’t always bode well for the quality of sleep, and given that I would spend the next night trying to sleep on the deck of a ferry bobbing across the Irish Sea, I wanted to make sure that I had a solid bed that first night so as not to start my journey with two straight days of inadequate rest.

And thus, I stayed at a hotel in Bristol, slept soundly, woke up nice and late the next morning, ate an enormous hotel breakfast (while also packing for later an even more enormous lunch of bread, jam, and hardboiled eggs… if any of you happens to work for Hotel Ibis, do thank Mr. Ibis for the complimentary meal), and then headed out to explore the town.

Bristol, although not often high on the traveler’s list of British cities to see, turned out to be well worth the visit. The first major sight I saw was the S.S. Great Britain, which was constructed between 1839 and 1843 in a dry dock in Bristol, and had, for many years, the honor of being the biggest ship in the world. Since its first voyage in 1843, it has traveled 32 times around the world via Cape Horn and the Cape of Good Hope, docked at more than 15 international ports, and covered a million nautical miles. In the late 1930s, after many years of use only as a floating storehouse, it was officially deemed no longer seaworthy and scuttled in the Falkland Islands. It sat there for over 30 years, until a restoration team in 1970 patched up its holes and sailed it back to Bristol, where it was turned into the excellent and informative museum that I visited two Wednesdays ago.

Murals near the S.S. Great Britain.

The ship itself.

A plastic captain, talking to his plastic first mate.

The second item that left an impression was the Clifton Suspension Bridge, which connects the Clifton neighborhood of Bristol to the town of North Somerset across the Avon Gorge. Begun in 1831 and then delayed because of riots in the town, construction wasn’t completed until 1864 (just 33 years later... sounds a bit like the Big Dig). Despite the setbacks, the bridge was still considered an engineering marvel upon its completion. Ever since, it has been the symbol of Bristol.

Clifton Suspension Bridge.

View from the other side.

Ridiculous British yield sign.

After visiting the bridge, I headed back into downtown Bristol in pursuit of a meal and a lager before having to catch a bus to the southwestern coast of Wales at 8:30pm. The first pub I found had a good menu and looked nice and British, so I stepped inside and walked up the stairs into the lounge. Entering the pub area, though, nobody seemed to notice me. There was a bartender behind the bar, and a waiter on the floor, but neither of them acknowledged what I considered to be my fairly noticeable presence, given the large backpack. I looked for a sign that might tell me to please, seat myself, but found none. After a few minutes of standing there awkwardly, looking lost, I decided that I wasn’t feeling this place, and turned to walk down the stairs and head out. The floor was a bit wet, though, and my backpack a bit heavy – a dangerous combination, which caused me, at the top of the stairs, to slip more forcefully than I’ve ever slipped in my entire life. My legs flew out from under me, my backpack yanked me backwards, and I fell down the two stairs in front of me so hard that I literally – yes, literally – kicked the front door open with the bottom of my feet.

If I had been frustrated with the lack of attention the people in the bar had been giving me two minutes earlier, I was easily making up for it now. Everybody’s head turned to see a confused and pride-wounded backpacker pick himself up, assure the room that he was okay, and then sprint out the door to escape further humiliation.

Not a good start, I thought. Fortunately, the kicking-the-pub-door-open incident would be the low point of my trip.

Continuing on my way, I found a sandwich shop, took an exquisite-looking vegetable wrap to go, ate it while walking, and then parked myself in a pub right next to the bus station. There, I met a nice – albeit quite drunk – British chap named Robert, who told me that he found my backpack very attractive and then sat down across from me to tell me about his favorite types of women.

I nodded politely for a while, laughing at him on the inside the entire time, then excused myself to go catch my bus. Before exiting, I decided to use the bathroom. Following signs, I headed into a hallway in the back of the pub, opened the door that said “toilet” on it, walked through, and found myself outside the pub in a back alleyway.

Feeling foolish and taken advantage of, I decided to hold it until I got to the bus station, and went on my way.

CORK

After a bus to Wales, a ferry across the Irish sea (which arrived five hours late due to generator problems), and then two buses across southeast Ireland, I finally arrived in Cork on the afternoon of Good Friday.

My sleeping quarters on the ferry.

Sunrise from the deck.

The vessel, heading from Ireland back to Wales.

After a brief exploration of downtown Cork, I met up with my host for the next two evenings, who I had found on this “Couchsurfing” website I’d been hearing a lot about for the months leading up to my trip. Couchsurfing, if you haven’t heard of it, is a sort of traveler networking website that lets you get in touch with people that have couches, or beds, or air mattresses, or floors, on which you can spend a few nights – or weeks, or months – while visiting a city. Before just showing up on their doorstep, you have to send potential hosts a message and then get invited to stay; it’s not just a free, blind hostel service. Everybody has a profile with pictures of themselves and personal information, so you can do a bit – or a lot, if you want – of screening before agreeing to host -- or be hosted by -- somebody.

Anyway, I’d found a young French woman named Audrey who had a place for me to crash, and so for my two nights in Cork, I did precisely that. And it was wonderful. The first night – it being Good Friday – all of the pubs in Ireland were closed. So, after walking around the city for a bit, Audrey, her friend Pierre (also French -- both of them worked for Apple’s European headquarters, which I learned is located in Cork), two German travelers that I’d met earlier that day on the ferry, and I went back to the apartment. It was one of those classic meet-other-international-travelers-and-learn-all-about-their-countries experiences you hear about when people go and travel alone in Europe. We were a strange group. Two French. Two Germans. An American. All talking together as if we were old friends, despite being complete strangers just a day before. I loved it.

Germans, French, and an American in Ireland.

The next day I explored Cork, visiting a bunch of different cathedrals and monuments before settling down for an afternoon in the Butter Museum. Butter, it turns out, is one of Ireland’s most important products. Kerrygold, the most famous brand, is exported all over the world.

View of Cork by morning.

Hillbilly's Fried Chicken Express. Serving "American fried chicken" all day long. This is what they think of our cuisine.

My breakfast sandwich. Fried tomatoes on top of friend sausages and fried bacon. With relish. And a potato chip salad on the side. Delightful way to kick off your day.

Another view of Cork.

The legend of the "milch" cow.

That evening, I cooked dinner for Audrey and Pierre to thank them for hosting me, and then we went out pub hopping in downtown Cork, which turns out to have a vibrant night life. The highlight of the evening was drinking my first ever Guinness on Irish soil (it’s true that it tastes better over there) as a local folk band played Irish fiddle music around the very same table where I was sitting. A stereotypical – in the best of ways – Irish experience.

Front row seats for the Irish folk band.

Couchsurfing hostee and hosts.

The following day I woke up late, then took a bus north. Rather than letting this post get even longer, though, I'll conclude it here. Tune in tomorrow for Dublin and beyond.

Until next time,

Nate

My epic European adventure

2009-04-07T06:54:00.000-07:00

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Tomorrow evening, I’m flying from Bergamo, Italy to Bristol, England. After a night and a day in Bristol – if all goes as planned* – I’ll travel to the following places.

1.) Bristol to Pembroke Dock, Wales (bus)
2.) Pembroke Dock to Rosslare Harbour, Republic of Ireland (ferry)
3.) Rosslare Harbour to Cork (bus)
4.) Cork to Limerick, Kilkenny, or Blarney (bus or train, yet to be decided)
5.) Limerick, Kilkenny, or Blarney to Dublin (ditto)
6.) Dublin to Belfast, North Ireland (bus)
7.) Belfast to Stranraer, Scotland (ferry)
8.) Stranraer to Glasgow (bus)
9.) Glasgow to Barcelona, Spain (plane)
10.) Barcelona to Madrid (overnight train, with bunkbeds!)
11.) Madrid to Bergamo, Italy (plane)
12.) Bergamo to Crema (Razor scooter)

My journey, in theory, will last from Wednesday, April 8 to Sunday, April 19. In all: five countries, three planes, two ferries, one Guinness Factory tour, and more buses, trains, tourist information centers, supermarkets, and awesome accents than I plan to count.

I can’t wait.

*Note: In Italian, you don’t “knock on wood.” Instead, you “touch iron.” When such “touch iron” situations come up, many Italian males like to reach for their groin, in an effort to suggest that the “contents” of said region resemble a piece of iron.

Know, therefore, that immediately after writing that sentence (“if all goes as planned”), I touched iron, just to be safe.

The only major hiccup I’ve encountered – touch iron – came today, when I received an email from the fine folks at the Bank of America security center alerting me to suspicious account activity. Moments later, reviewing my balance, I couldn’t blame them, as my card had been used to purchase planes, trains, buses, and ferries across five countries (and in three languages).

The email instructed me to call some number with an 877 area code. Not wanting to spend my time and calling card money waiting on hold, I decided to see if I could resolve the issue using the wonderfully convenient Bank of America online chat feature. (For those of you Bank of America customers reading this right now, know that online, you can chat instantly with a customer service representative. It’s amazing. The minutes, perhaps hours, that you would normally spend calling customer service are transformed into a four minute – and, mind you, very pleasant – instant messaging dialogue. I’ve used it three times in the last month, and recommend it highly.)

Anyway, here are the highlights of my chat:

Ashleigh: Hello! Thank you for being valued Bank of America Customer. My name is Ashleigh. How may I assist you today with your personal accounts?
You: Hello, Ashleigh. I wanted to confirm a purchase that I just made online with my CampusEdge checking card
Ashleigh: Yes, how are you doing?
You: Shortly after making the purchase, I received an email about potentially suspicious account activity. Which I totally understand, because I was buying a train ticket in Spain.
You: The email told me to call a phone number to confirm the purchase.
Ashleigh: That is correct.
You: But the problem is that I'm in Italy. Thus, calling home is really expensive.
Ashleigh: To begin with, may I have your complete name as it appears on your statement?
You: Nathan J Randall
Ashleigh: Thank you, Nathan. I would request you not to worry! I will provide you the toll free number, will that be fine for you?
You: The thing is, calling such numbers from international phones still costs money, as far as I know.
You: I could be wrong.
Ashleigh: Yes, you are wrong.
Ashleigh: I apologize to mention that.
You: No, it's okay.
Ashleigh: Thank you for your kind understanding.
You: I appreciate your honesty.
Ashleigh: Thank you for your appreciation!
You: It's a pleasure.
Ashleigh: Nathan, I will be happy to assist you as best I can from our side. Could you please confirm the last four digits of your account?
You: 1234

Note: for those of you hoping to rob me of my money and identity, know that I just changed that number to a fictitious one.
Or did I…

Ashleigh: Thank you for the information.
You: You're welcome.
Ashleigh: I see that the transaction is pending to your account and might clear by tomorrow.
You: Indeed.
Ashleigh: I would like to inform you that you can contact us from Italy using the following steps:
You: Okay.

Note: Here, Ashleigh very kindly gave me a list of numbers I could call.

You: Thanks for your help, Ashleigh.
You: And have an excellent day.
Ashleigh: You are more than welcome!
Ashleigh: Thank you for your appreciation!
Ashleigh: I wish your issue would be resolved as soon as possible!
Ashleigh: It was a pleasure assisting you today.
Ashleigh: Enjoy the rest of your day! To close this chat session, click the "Close" button in the upper right corner of this chat window.
Ashleigh: Bye and take care! Your compliments are our Bonus!

Taking Ashleigh’s advice, I called a toll free 800 number, only to be asked to enter the 877 number that the suspicious account activity email had initially given me. When I entered the 877 number, however, I was told that I would be charged the International Direct Dialing Fee, and to hang up immediately if said International Direct Dialing Fee did not tickle my economic fancy. Summary: I was right! The toll free number, when dialed abroad, was not, in fact, toll free!

It may be that my four-year-old and hand-me-down Italian cellphone just couldn’t deal with the technological effort necessary to connect me to the supposedly free international operator back in the States, but – given that I was leaving in 48 hours – I didn’t have time to waste. Therefore, I called in the muscle. A.k.a. my mother. Who, doing as she always does, managed to sort everything out for me within the hour.

And so, all that sit between now and Wednesday night’s departure are two hours of natural science lectures here at Pacioli, three hours of private lessons outside of school, and final packing preparations.

Again, I can’t wait.

I’ll be sure to keep you posted on how the adventures turn out.

For now, be well, and touch iron. If not for your own safety, then for mine.

Best,

Nate

Meical Giordant

2009-03-17T07:20:00.000-07:00

As an extra credit question on the Forms of State quiz that I just gave to my second year students, I included the following picture, and asked the kids to guess the identity of the African American man in the center.

Their responses included:

1.) Martin Luther King
2.) Nelson Mandela
3.) Michael Jordan
4.) Meical Giordant (no joke)
5.) Barack Obama
6.) Barack Obama, IT'S A NEW DAY!
7.) Barack Obama, YES WE CAN!

European Field Trip!

2009-03-16T09:07:00.000-07:00

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Prague

At 5:00am last Monday, 8 Pacioli teachers, 120 fifth-year students, Laura, and I rolled out of the school’s parking lot in three packed buses. 14 hours, six rest areas, and three countries later, we found ourselves in Prague, where we stayed until the early hours of Friday morning.

Sunset o'er a German McDonalds.
dd

The trip, though organized by the school, had no formal academic purpose. During the day we would sightsee, but the students weren’t responsible for any of the information they learned. Which meant that many of them spent the hours sightseeing either chatting with their friends or plugged into their IPods. At night, it became clear what the fieldtrip’s real scope was: hanging out.

Said hangout spots included:

1.) The hotel basement, where there was a small bar, billiards, foosball, and three bowling lanes.

2.) The main hotel bar, where there were a bunch of tables and a big screen TV (on which we watched many an hour of Champions League soccer).

3.) The hotel lobby, where there were couches, ashtrays, and an inexhaustible cloud of cigarette smoke. (The percentage of Italian teenagers that smoke is shockingly high. In my suburban public high school back in the States – maybe not the most representative of places, but the only reference point I have – no more than 5% of high school seniors smoked between classes at school. In Italy, I’d put that number above 50%... with the percentage of students that smoke socially even higher.)

4.) Hotel rooms. Many of the students would buy beer during the day to be used later on that night.

The fascinating thing about this whole process, for me, was that the teachers had no problems with any of these activities, and often went so far as to participate in them. Students and teachers could often be found drinking at the same table, or bumming cigarettes off each other, or bashing each other about soccer loyalties. The teachers had no problems hanging out in the presence of their students, and the students had no problems acting like fools in the presence of their teachers.

The lack of formality in these relationships is, I think, a beautiful thing. It would have been awesome in high school to have been able to share a beer with my English teacher, or watch a baseball game in a bar with my guidance counselor. And maybe, had my friends and I been used to seeing our teachers out on the weekends, we wouldn’t have done some of the often rather stupid things that we ended up doing. Although Italian students do drink, the general drinking culture is far less binge-oriented than it does back in the States. Yes, some Italian kids drink too much. And no, not all American kids like getting hammered. But the generalizations aren’t so far off.

At this point, were the drinking age in the States lower, I think the ensuing damage would outweigh any possible positivity. (See LOCO PARENTS: A CASE FOR THE OVERHAUL OF SOCIAL-HOST LIABILITY IN FLORIDA by Samuel Randall, for further thoughts.) Nonetheless, the experience made me reflect about about American drinking culture.

John McCardell’s mission aside…

Tuesday and Wednesday we spent seeing various old stuff in Prague, most of which was beautiful, but didn’t really compare to the old stuff I had seen in Rome in December. The one sight that did stand out for me was an ancient cemetery in the city’s Jewish Quarter. Here, there were graves from as far back as the 1400s.

The ancient cemetery in Prague's Jewish quarter.

Then on Thursday, we drove about an hour and a half outside Prague to Terezin, an old fortress/prison, which was used by the Gestapo as a concentration camp during World War II. For me it was sobering – but meaningful – finally to be able to see some of the things in person that I’ve read about, and seen movies about, so many times before.

Terezin.

As my mother informed me, pre-WWII Prague had a thriving Jewish community, but today, all you can find there are cemeteries and abandoned synagogues. A sad – but accurate – description of Judaism in the city today.

Cotton Eyed Giuseppe

Throughout the trip, several of the students had been begging the teachers to take them out to a dance club in Prague. The logistics with the buses and the teacher supervision ratios (one teacher to every 15 students) didn’t work out, though, so in an effort to make it up to the students, the teachers decided on Thursday night to bring a dance club, of sorts, to the hotel.

Expectations leading into the night were surprisingly high, but the infamous “hotel discoteca” ended up being nothing more than an empty banquet room and an IPod plugged into some low quality speakers. When I got there, the students were having a fairly miserable time, and many of them were getting ready to leave to go drink in their rooms. One of the teachers who had helped organize the event, seeing me, crossed the dance floor and pleaded with me to do my best to get the students to start dancing. For a moment – taking in the scene – I considered telling her that the situation was beyond salvation. But then I thought better of it. After all, was I not from Newton, Massachusetts? Had I not been to over 50 Bat and Bar Mitzvah parties over the course of my seventh and eighth grade years?

Snapping into action – and doing my best to remember everything that I’d learned from Siagel Productions – I did what any well-trained Bar Mitzvah party frequenter would do: I began to teach the nearest group of girls the Cotton Eyed Joe dance. Miraculously – they loved it. Intrigued, another group of girls came over to our side of the banquet hall. They too, it turned out, wanted to learn the dance. And so I taught it to them. And get this – they loved it too! Next, two of the teachers came over. Yes, teachers. 45 year olds, at that. They wanted to learn it. And then some of the guys. And then a bunch more of the girls. (The music, mind you, was always trashy European techno… but as long as there was a 4/4 beat, it worked fine.)

By the end of the hour, I had taught over 40 people how to dance the Cotton Eyed Joe. And although we were never able to get everybody doing it at the same time, at one point we had about 15 of us doing the dance together, perfectly in sync, as a group of 20 or so watched on. And it was, without exaggeration, the greatest teaching moment of my six months here in Italy.

When I got back to Crema on Friday evening, I found glorious spring weather awaiting me. Therefore, at this time I must leave you to head out on a jog around the city.

Sunset on the ride home.

Hopefully you’re all enjoying similarly glorious springtime weather back in the states. Until next time, be well,

Best,

Nate

Where there's a will...

2009-03-06T02:20:00.000-08:00

dd
My apartment here in Crema, although wonderful in many ways, has one major flaw: it’s squeaky. Most of the squeakyness doesn’t bother us, but two of the doors – specifically, the front door and the bathroom door – are unbearable. Were unbearable, that is. Every time we opened them, it sounded like a bad violin player was practicing his scales. In the middle of the day when both Liz and I were awake and about, we could manage, but given that the main door is located right outside Liz’s bedroom, and that the bathroom door is located right outside my bedroom, this squeakiness meant that every time I left the apartment when Liz was sleeping, she would wake up, and every time she went to the bathroom when I was sleeping, I would wake up.

After about a month of putting up with the situation, we got fed up, and decided to oil the hinges. We didn’t want to have to buy any new oil, though, because it seemed like an inefficient use of our meager teaching-assistant salaries. Rent, food, travel, skiing, cellphone minutes, international calling cards, movie tickets, and the occasional pair of tight, European-style pants hasn’t left a lot of room in my budget for impulsive expenditure.

And so, drawing inspiration – perhaps subconsciously, perhaps not – from the Italian culinary tradition, we did the most logical thing that we could think of: we used extra virgin olive oil.

And it worked great.

For the four weeks since, we have been completely squeak free.

Only in Italy.
d

Photos from Perugia

2009-03-02T04:27:00.000-08:00

First, let me apologize for the many typos scattered throughout my previous post, as well as the general sloppiness of its composition. I finished writing it about 25 minutes before I was supposed to be at the train station on the other side of Crema, which made its publication a bit hastier than I would have liked.

In an effort to make it up to you, here are some photos from my trip.

Clara and Ian, my wonderful hosts in Perugia.

All afternoon, these steps were filled with people who, just like us, had no plans for the day other than to bask in the springtime sun.

My chin and the Duomo.

Chicken cacciatore -- my (only) specialty.

The chicken, as well as Clara and Ian's exquisite homemade pasta.

We were hungry.

On the way back, I stopped in Florence for a few hours of solo exploration. Once again, I found myself unable to obey the "no foto!" rules of Italian museums.

Sunrise from the train station in Castelleone.

Now, off to grade quizzes. For those of you in New England, enjoy your snowday. For the rest of you, be well,

Best,

Nate

Sports and Karaoke

2009-02-27T03:28:00.001-08:00

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SPORTS:

As mentioned briefly in a previous post, Laura – the other English assistant at Pacioli – and I taught a two week long seminar, of sorts, on various aspects of American culture. We worked solely with the fifth year students – 65 of them in total – for about 25 hours each week. Most of the time Laura and I would each teach a half of the group separately, but a few times a week all of us would come together for larger activities. One of those included a presentation that I gave on American sports.

Wanting to make the presentation as visually stimulating as possible, I outfitted myself in advance with several different sports-related tops.

For the part about general sports and hobbies in America, therefore, I had my ski patrol sweatshirt on:

For the part about high school sports, I took the sweatshirt off to reveal my Newton South soccer jersey:

And for the part about professional sports, I took my South soccer jersey off to reveal an authentic Red Sox jersey:

It was my first official public striptease, and I think it went well.

One of the objectives of the presentation was to explain to my students the rules of baseball. Having grown up in the States playing a couple years of Little League, as well as watching baseball games frequently both in person and on TV, I take for granted my general knowledge of the sport. For most Italians, however, baseball is a fascinating mystery – something that they see in the occasional American movie but never really figure out. Sort of like Curling for me.

Trying to explain the rules of the sport, therefore, to a group full of people that didn’t even know what a pitcher was, or the difference between a ball and a strike, foul territory and fair territory, home runs and pop flies… etc… proved more challenging than I had anticipated, because so many of these terms have become common knowledge in the States, even among people who don't ever watch baseball games.

They students seemed to catch on well enough, though, and so a week after my powerpoint presentation, on the second-to-last day of the two week program, the 65 of us plus Laura and I packed ourselves into Pacioli’s gym for some practical application of what we had talked about the week before. So, while half of the group played American football with the physical education teachers on one side of the gym, the other half played (tennis ball) baseball with me.

And it was an absolute riot. At one point one of my students came within centimeters of taking my head off when she tried to re-hit – using a real metal bat – a bouncing grounder that I was rushing in to field, but other than that, everything went smoothly, and now about 65 Italian kids understand – at least generally – the rules of our national pastime.

KARAOKE

The day after baseball, in order to celebrate the completion of the two American Weeks, Laura and I offered to meet up with our students for an evening of revelry at a local karaoke bar. Keep in mind that in Italy, the drinking age is 16 but loosely enforced. Many of our students, therefore, have been drinking in the pubs and the discos since they were in middle school. Which means that for them, living in a small town like Crema where everybody who goes out sees everybody else who goes out, the thought of being in a social setting – and drinking, even – with their professors, is normal. It’s not like in the States, where a high school teacher who saw his student drinking would be obligated to report that student to school officials. Here, the youth drinking culture is much more relaxed.

That said, at 10:30pm two Fridays ago, I found myself a few beers deep and on stage at the completely-packed karaoke bar, in front of 35 of my students, singing classic Italian songs. (Songs that fortunately, I had studied in my college Italian classes and knew well.). And I’ll be honest: I was on fire. I was hitting the high notes, holding the low notes, remembering the changes, the guitar solos, the interludes and everything else. My students were singing along with me, dancing, taking pictures, cheering, hollering, whistling, applauding wildly. The night was, without a doubt, as close as I will ever come to feeling like a rock star, narrowly replacing the time I sang as a Japanese nobleman/tea party background singer in Brown Middle School’s 1999 rendition of the Mikado.

The night was so much fun, in fact, that Laura and I decided to return to the karaoke bar this past Friday and try to recreate the mood of the previous week. We didn’t do a good job advertising the event, though, and we had to compete with a bunch of Carnival parties around the city, which led to only about 10 students showing up. When it came time for me to sing, therefore, I could actually hear my voice clearly – something I wouldn’t wish on anybody.

Around 11:00, giving up on what only days earlier I thought would be a promising career as a karaoke DJ, I decided to head out. And so I was putting on my jacket, getting ready to leave, and the guy in charge of the karaoke – who by now knows me by name – came up to me and put his arm on my shoulder.

“Nathan. We’ve gotta talk,” he tells me.
“Ok. What’s up?” I say.
“No. Over here.”

And he pulls me away from the group, towards the bar. At this point, I'm convinced he's going to tell me never, ever to sing again at his bar, because I'm driving away all of the regulars. And I'm humiliated. Getting blacklisted from a karaoke bar?

But in fact, turns out that his daughter is a third-year student at Pacioli, and he just wanted to offer me a beer in exchange for my promise to look out for his kid if I ever have her in class.

Relieved, I thank him for the beer, enjoy it responsibly, and then head off to the concert of one of my students.

Despite the funky lighting, I liked how this photo came out

ddd

Some other pictures from the past week:

New meets old in Milan.

The school's religion teacher, dressed as Jesus; Me as Ted Williams (it's a number 9 jersey); and Laura, wearing a traditional carnival mask that she got the day before in Venice.

ddd

More to come soon, but for now I've got to run to catch a train to Perugia, where I'm heading for the weekend to see a former language school buddy.

ddd

Be well,

Nate

Laundry

2009-02-19T04:12:00.000-08:00

Two Saturdays ago, for the first time since I’d moved to Crema, I did my laundry.

Although I’m pretty good about making clothes last as long as (sanitarily) possible, the situation had gotten desperate: Not only had I exhausted all of my boxers, but I had also run out of soccer shorts to use as boxer substitutes and thus was actually considering going to school on Monday wearing biking spandex underneath my jeans. So it came to be that late on Saturday morning I was kneeled down in the corner of my room, stuffing a pile of dirty clothes into my big, internal-frame camping backpack.

Once finished stuffing (miraculously, everything fit), I decided to reward myself with a quick lunch before heading down the one and a half kilometers of cobblestone road that stood between me and the washing machines. And although my pesto pasta was satisfying, by the time I’d finished eating and doing the dishes, it was, of course, pouring outside.

Initially, I considered bagging the operation, but then thought better of it. The next day I had to wake up at 5:00am to go skiing and wouldn’t get back until dinner time, which meant that there would be no time before Monday morning to get anything clean. Which meant that unless I wanted to teach commando – which I didn’t – I would be wearing the spandex to school.

Resolved, I hung up my normal winter jacket, grabbed my rain jacket and umbrella, and headed what I think was southwest towards the Laundromat. The journey, although a bit damp, went quickly (I got a few “look at that crazy foreigner backpacking across the city in a rainstorm” stares, but those were to be expected), and soon enough I was inside. Only to found myself surrounded – literally, in all 360 degrees – by Laundromat signs.

There were all sorts of different messages. Some of the signs explained Laundromat rules. Others, washing machine procedures. Drying suggestions. Rates and discounts. Soap descriptions. Vending machine supplier contact information, in case the coffee dispenser stopped working. Looking around, my head started to spin… ahem... sort of like a washing machine. (Pathetic. I know.) All this time, in an effort to improve my Italian, I’ve been studying grammar books, and watching movies, and talking with people on the streets and in the bars and at my soccer practices. What I really should have been doing was coming to the Laundromat, sitting in a swivel chair, and slowly turning around in a circle taking notes from the signs on the walls. It was amazing how much there was to learn inside that room.

But alas, there was no time for academic development – I had a spandex situation that needed avoiding. And so I went to work. 75 minutes, two washer loads, one dryer load, and 12 euro (about 15 dollars… laundry here is no financial joke) later, I had a wonderfully fresh and dry pile of laundry sitting before me on the Laundromat table, waiting to be folded.

And so I started folding. Only to realize that this woman, about 70 years old, was staring at me. I continued folding, and she continued staring. For about five minutes – from the sock pile, to the pants pile, to the boxers pile – I tried to ignore her, but then, arriving at the T-shirt pile, my curiosity got the best of me and I gave her a buona sera (good evening). She paused for a moment, probably to digest my accent, and then said – indicating my piles of folded laundry – ma, sei bravissimo! (You’re really good!)

Never have I been prouder. Italian women, more so than the American women I’ve met in my days, are burdened with the large majority of the housework. Even if they work a fulltime job – which many of them do – they’re responsible for doing a most of the chores. Which include the entire family’s laundry. To be complimented on my laundry folding skills by an older Italian women, therefore, would be like being complemented on your acting skills by Denzel Washington, or your golf skills by Tiger Woods, or your pancake cooking skills by Aunt Jemima. It’s a compliment worth taking seriously.

Once finished folding, I bid my new laundry friend a good evening and then returned home through the rain – grinning the entire time. Although my wallet isn’t looking forward to it, I personally can’t wait to do laundry again.

Other stories to come: singing karaoke with my students, watching a professional soccer game in person, and organizing the first ever Italian prom at my school.

Be well, and stay in touch,

Nate

American slang meets a class of giggly 19-year-old girls

2009-02-10T01:46:00.000-08:00

As part of American Weeks, I spent an hour teaching my students a handful of colloquialisms, expressions, and proverbs that they can use to make their English conversations a little more spicy. Below is one of the dialogues -- verbatim -- that ensued:

A: Oh girls, yesterday, Nathan stood me up!
B: Let it go, he is only an awkward.
C. If you ask me, when you see him tomorrow, you have to do puppy-dog eyes and then you will get him back.
D: Yes, he is in big trouble.
B: Exactly! And if he stood you up again, he is a nerd!
A: I couldn't care less of him.
C: Good! Seek and ye shall find!
B: For you, find another boy will be a piece of cake!
D: Look over there! There is Nathan with Maria the ditz!
A: This is the straw that broke the camel's back!

I couldn't stop laughing. Rereading it a day later, I can't decide if I should be flattered or offended, but regardless, I'm proud of the progress they've made.

A note on formality

2009-02-03T01:51:00.000-08:00

I just glanced at my last post to make sure that the formatting had worked out okay, only to discover that Google had decided to replace my bullet points with what seem to be cute little snowflakes.

I don't know why Google decided to do this, but know that said snowflakes are entirely out of my control, and entirely not my style. I don't want you, the reader, to think that I'm about to start dotting my Is with hearts, or crossing my Ts with squiggly lines. This is a serious blog about serious travels, with serious ideas and very serious, very official formatting.

That is all.

Formally,

Nathan

Ciao

2009-02-03T01:28:00.000-08:00

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Dear patient and forgiving blog-reader,

Let me begin with the important task of thanking you for coming back, despite my months of serious blog neglect (posting photos, I've decided, doesn't count). I won’t make excuses, but I will say that the old correspondence cliché is true – no news really is good news. Sitting down to compose this, I’m realizing just how much I’ve gotten into a comfortable and satisfying routine. And although I don’t find something to write home about around every street corner – the way I did, I suppose, when I first arrived – I’m enjoying myself nonetheless thoroughly.

As I mentioned very briefly at the end of my previous post, I’m no longer living with a family in Castelleone but have instead moved into an apartment in Crema with another one of my program’s American language assistants (named Liz, from San Diego… and no, it’s platonic). Although I do miss having a real and awesome Italian family to hang out with all the time, the independence I’ve gained from living in an apartment is worth the sacrifices that came with ditching Gian, Loretta, Marta, Anna, and Penny. Benefits include:

No longer taking a rarely punctual train to and from work
Coming home in the middle of the day for lunch
Finally to getting to try my hand at cooking epic Italian feasts
Doing the dishes without fear of getting beaten to a vine-ripened-tomato pulp by Loretta (I used to have to fight her just to get a hold of a sponge)
Generally being able to do my own thing without worrying about throwing off the rhythm of an entire family

Plus, I’ve been going back to Castelleone to visit everybody there at least once a week, so the relationship, I’m happy to say, is still going strong. In Italian, there’s this ridiculous expression I’ve grown fond of: Non si può avere la botte piena e la moglie ubriaca. “You can’t have the full barrel and the drunk wife.” As lewd as it may sound, this saying appears often in both casual and formal (no joke) discourses as a way to say that you can’t have the best of both worlds, or you can’t have your cake and eat it too. I tell you this not only because it makes me chuckle, but also because living here in Crema, I feel like I’ve succeeded at having both the full barrel and the drunk wife contemporaneously. That is, I’ve got my independence, but I’ve also got this fantastic family only 10 kilometers away that’ll hang out with me whenever I decide that I want to come around. It’s an ideal situation, really, and I’m grateful for it.

On Monday, Laura (the other assistant at my school) and I began teaching this two-week-long American-themed seminar to our fifth-year students. Topics include, in no particular order, literature of the 1930s (Hemingway and Fitzgerald); history of the 1960s (JFK, the Cuban Missile Crisis, Vietnam); Obama’s inauguration ceremony as a reflection of contemporary American life and culture; popular American sports; the U.S. as a Melting Pot; and differences between the U.S. and Italian educational systems. (If you see any sort of continuity between these subjects, feel free to let me know.) Although a bit – okay, ridiculously – all over the place, the different lessons have actually been fascinating to prepare, as I’m both re-learning and from-scratch learning lots of things about my country. For example:

My oldest brother, Samuel, was born on the 18th anniversary of JFK’s assassination
The Yo-Yo Ma quartet of Obama’s inauguration day wasn’t playing live music
In 1963, the U.S. government helped overthrow South Vietnam’s democratic leader Ngo Dinh Diem, and in the process of the coup, both Diem and his brother were killed, which was apparently to JFK’s great disappointment
Soccer is the most popular youth sport in the United States, but only the fifth most frequently viewed professional sport
Some parents meet with admissions counselors in order to get their toddlers into top pre-schools

And more. Although my students may find the (mandatory) experience a massive waste of their time, I’m psyched that the school is paying me to learn about my homeland.

Here in Italy, people don’t have a variety of ways to greet each other in passing. They don’t say “what’s up?” or “how’s it going” or “howdy” or “ahoy” or “yo” or “hey good-looking what’s cooking?” or anything else of that nature. They don’t do the subtle head nod thing, or raise their eyebrows, or wink. (Not that we’re really huge into winking either.) They say ciao. And that’s it. For elders, strangers, store-clerks, and people of authority, there are a handful of more-formal greetings, but walking through school between classes, seeing my students, I’ll say the word ciao no fewer than 27 times in the span of three minutes.

The best thing about ciao, I should add, is that it’s not only used for greetings. It’s also used for farewells. So at the end of class, or a dinner party, or a soccer practice, when everybody’s standing around getting ready to leave, you’ll hear this several-minute-long ciao chorus. It’s absurd, yet wonderfully lyrical. As the months have gone bye, I’ve learned to inflect my ciao voice in different ways in order to convey different ciao messages and ciao moods – a skill I like call ciao mastery.

Anyway.

For now, off to go teach about the Bay of Pigs. But know that I’m going to do my damndest from now until June to post a message – even if only a short one – at least once a week. So please, do return.

Thanks for reading, be well, and ciao,

Nate

Vacation

2009-01-23T03:13:00.000-08:00

I spent the first part of my holidays hanging around Castelleone with my host family, eating panettone and pandoro (traditional -- and extremely delicious -- Italian christmas cakes), watching movies with my host sisters, struggling through Nick Hornby books translated into Italian, and generally doing my best to relax as much and as thoroughly as possible.

Holiday presents from my host family included CDs, books, an awesome new bathrobe, and a pair of the tightest, most colorful, and all-around sexiest underwear I've ever owned. Once again, in the interest of not getting kicked off the internet, I'll spare you the photos.

llllll

On December 30th, I headed south to Rome with Marta and eight of her friends to celebrate New Year's.

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Altare della Patria, the first night in Rome.

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Some of the many ruins scattered all over the city.

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This guy was phenomenal, and not at all hindered by the cigarette pressed between the fingers of his right hand.

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Sculpture in the Vatican museums.

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More sculpture. The light streaming in through the windows gave the sculptures this incredible, orange-ish glow.

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Salvador Dali. Paesaggio angelico, 1977.

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In theory, pictures in the Sistine Chapel are forbidden, but everybody still takes them. Not wanting to miss a good opportunity to buckle into peer pressure, I took this.

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Columns leading up to Saint Peter's.

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La Pietà.

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Inside San Pietro.

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The Colosseum. Unfortunately, Russell Crowe was nowhere to be found.

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I always felt like a huge fool smiling widely into my own camera, hence the semi-serious expression.

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Sunset just outside the Colosseum.

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Fireworks on the 31st.

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Paolo, Marta, and I, a few minutes into January 1, 2009.

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After Rome, I joined Marta and Paolo in Tuscany to stay with Paolo's family for a few days near the sea.

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I was trying to do the whole Aladdin to Princess Jasmine line... "Do you trust me? Do you trust me?" She never crossed.

Plunging into the Tyrrhenian Sea on January 3rd. My host sister, as well as the several fishermen nearby, thought I was nuts.

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The oversized sunglasesses I've always dreamed of. (Despite posing for the picture, I didn't actually buy them, much to the annoyance of the shop clerk.)

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After returning to Castelleone on the 4th, I packed up my bags, thanked my host family as profusely as I could manage, then moved into an apartment here in Crema. ---

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Stories to follow, but for now, off to go fry up some polenta -- my first ever made from scratch --and then melt some gorgonzola on top of it. A bit smelly, but delicious.

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Hope everybody back home is well and warm,

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BEst,

ddddd-

Nate

Photos from the Dolomites

2008-12-11T00:29:00.001-08:00

A standard Dolomitian backdrop.

Translations here never cease to make me laugh.

Old gondolas, covered in powder. Or giant marshmallows. I couldn't decide.

Despite all of the fresh snow, it was -- sadly -- difficult to find anything but groomed runs.

Skiing consisted not of running laps on the same lift, but rather traveling from peak, to valley, to a different peak, and then to a different valley. Over the course of a day, we would cover tens of kilometers and complete enourmous, multi-mountain loops.

So much snow.

Another rogue cloud.

Mountain yaks.

The color coordination between my jacket and the sky was no coincidence.

The most extraordinary natural lighting I've ever seen. The Dolomites are notorious for their pinkish hue, but as the sun set on the afternoon of the first day they turned into this incandescent orange.

Stories from November

2008-12-05T00:56:00.000-08:00

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

Peanut butter and credibility

2008-11-17T14:40:00.000-08:00

Two weekends ago, my real – American, that is – mother, who was heading to Israel, touched down for a weekend in Italy to visit. Being a wonderful mom, she brought me the one item whose absence had been single-handedly and significantly tainting my experience in Italy: real (Skippy) peanut butter. Ever since, I’ve been eating peanut butter by the spoonful. And although immensely satisfying, each bite I take brings my host family’s opinion of my culinary sophistication a little bit lower. (You can imagine their horror the first time they saw me mix it with jelly and then spread it around on bread.)

Anyway, although I have no regrets, I fear that any food-related credibility I may have still had since the ice cream float fiasco has been damaged irreparably.

Once again, totally worth it.

The Duomo in Milan. The second largest church in Italy, it took almost 500 years to complete.

The peanut-butter bringer and her son.

The milk machine in Castelleone, where I can go to buy fresh milk.

Ice Cream Floats

2008-11-14T02:34:00.001-08:00

The day before the election, I told my host family that if Barack Obama won the presidency, I would celebrate by making them all ice cream floats (a delicacy which they had previously never heard of). So it came to be that on the evening of November 5th, 2008, thanks to the American people, my host family and I gathered around the table after dinner and enjoyed my favorite dessert, made with freshly-chilled Coca-Cola and store-bought, but nonetheless exquisite, Italian gelato.

Needless to say, everybody in my family – except for Anna, the younger daughter, who’s up for anything – thought that it was disgusting, and that I was crazy for ruining perfectly good ice cream with perfectly good soda. But I didn’t mind. Their disapproval was a small sacrifice that I was willing to make in the pursuit of patriotism, cultural exchange, and culinary satisfaction.

My favorite photos from October

2008-11-13T00:57:00.000-08:00

My favorite tractor at the Castelleone agricultural show.

Giving new meaning to national pride.

Here, the word "ambulance" is written backwards so that when you're driving, and you look in the rearview mirror, you can read it normally. Genius!

Bridges in Verona.

"These were the houses of the Capulets, where lived Juliet, for whom many a gentle heart has cried, and many a poet sung."

On the passageway that leads into the courtyard where Romeo allegedly courted Juliet, star-crossed lovers have come for centuries to write notes to each other. According to my guidebook and host family, the Capulets never even lived on the grounds, yet tourists pay tens of euros to go inside the house. (The walk into the courtyard, which is what I did, is free.)

The leaves changed here as well.

Gelmini Reform clarification

2008-10-30T00:02:00.000-07:00

In my previous post, I wrote that the Gelmini Reform included a new rule about Italian language proficiency. In fact, this is just a government proposal, which has yet to pass. The Gelmini Reform itself, which officially passed yesterday, includes the following two main points:

1.) Reducing the number of teachers by 87,000 over three years
2.) Returning the Italian elementary schools to a "one teacher" system, which means that every student will have the same teacher for the entirety of his or her time in elementary school

The reform includes several other measures, but these are the two that seem to spark the most controversy.

Just wanted to clear that up.

Mamma Mia and school reform

2008-10-29T04:03:00.000-07:00

Musical films in their original languages are strange enough. The characters are talking, your disbelief is suspended, and then, suddenly, the camera angle changes and a young, tight-panted John Travolta starts singing “Greased Lightning.” Okay. Fine. Not my favorite genre, and certainly not the most faithful to cinematic realism, but I can get into it when the mood is right.

When you add a second language to the mix, things get crazy. As my best (only) example, I give you Mamma Mia, which I saw this past weekend. Pierce Brosnan will be on screen, and you’ll be looking at him, expecting to hear James Bond. Or the boyfriend from Ms. Doubtfire. Or the geologist from Dante’s Peak. Instead, he starts talking, and he is Italian. After a few minutes, this begins to feel normal, but then the camera angle changes and he’s singing Abba songs, in English. This constant back-and-forth from Italian, to English, to Italian makes the movie watching experience a linguistic rollercoaster, of sorts – bizarre, but entirely enjoyable, when the mood is right.

On a less musical note, the Italian government has recently decided to implement a very unpopular school reform, sparking protests and strikes across the country. The Minister of Education, Mariastella Gelmini – whom many people consider a puppet of Prime Minister Burlusconi – has decided to fire 87,000 teachers over the course of the next three academic years, citing as her motive widespread inefficiency and teacher laziness. In addition, she has demanded that all students who don’t meet a certain level of Italian language proficiency – in other words, immigrants – be put in separate, segregated classes.

I’m not sure if this story is receiving any international media attention (I’d imagine that the election, the financial crisis, and Tom Brady’s knee are a bit closer to the current American spotlight), but in Italy, it’s all anybody is talking about. Tomorrow, my school is participating in a national one-day teacher’s strike, so many of my classes may be cancelled, depending on whether the teachers I work with choose to strike. (Just because the school has sanctioned the strike does not mean that every teacher has to participate in it.) It’s an interesting time to be in Italy.

Today, it’s raining heavily. When I walked into my first class, I asked the students how they were doing. Most of them said that they were doing badly, due to the weather. One of them, however, said she was great. When I asked her why she was in such a good mood, she said it was because she loved the rain. "Why do you love the rain?" I asked. Her response: "Because when it rains, I can sing 'It’s Raining Men.'" I thought this was hilarious.

Off to catch a train. I've got more photos to add, however, so check back soon.

Thanks for reading, and be well,

Nate

Good morning, Prof.!

2008-10-15T03:33:00.000-07:00

A wise friend recently told me that if she didn’t know any better, she would think that all I do here is travel, eat gelato, party with the local middle-aged mothers, and bathe. Thus, approaching the conclusion of my third full week in Italy, I suppose it’s time to explain what, exactly, my daily life entails.

Monday through Friday, I wake up early, hop on my bike, try not to get hit by any mopeds, and then catch either the 7:17, the 7:42, or the 8:30 train from Castelleone to Crema, depending on when my first class starts. My train ride lasts for precisely 11 minutes, after which I join the mass of students and workers walking from the station in Crema into the historical center, where most of the schools and businesses are located. From door to door, my commute takes about 40 minutes, and in the course of this journey, I pass no fewer than 20 coffee bars, all of which I hope to try out at least once before leaving.

Once at school, I teach between one and four classes a day. So far, I’ve been teaching Math, Geography, and Film History; starting next week I’ll add on Economics and Natural Sciences. All of these, I teach in English. My school is big into a teaching methodology called CLIL, or Content and Language Integrated Learning – the idea that students should learn a foreign language through content, as opposed to just through grammar exercises, vocabulary, readings, etc. It’s hard, given that the kids need to learn two things – language and subject matter – at the same time, but I like it. Moments ago I just experienced my first ever, class-wide “ooooooohh… I get it!” moment as a teacher, which was heart-warming.

Outside of school, my most exciting pursuit so far has been practicing with a local soccer team. The level of play is far higher than anything I’ve ever participated in, so it can be a bit too humbling, at times, but I plan on sticking with it. Not only is it great exercise, but I also, finally, get to use a real shower after practice! Plus, the practices are at night, which means we play underneath the lights. Which is thrilling.

Living in Castelleone, where public transportation closes at about 9:00pm, I don’t have much of a midweek night life. With the exception of soccer on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I generally spend me weeknights studying, hanging out with my hilarious host mother, wandering around, and, more recently, exploring my host family’s vast movie collection. Italy has a very successful dubbing industry, which makes Hollywood films just as popular here as they are in the United States. It can be disconcerting seeing one of your favorite actors speaking with a different voice, in a different language – try to imagine Morgan Freeman sounding like Roberto Benigni – but you get used to it. Interestingly enough, each famous American actor has a dubber who always does that actor’s films. As a result, dubber’s of the most famous actors – from Woody Allen to Adam Sandler – actually become quite famous themselves.

Two random notes:

1.) Despite that SIGG water bottles – those tall, narrow, metal water bottles that are becoming increasingly popular in the States – claim to be made in Switzerland, the country only 100 km north of where I’m living, not one Italian I’ve met has ever seen one before. Every time, therefore, that I pull my water bottle out on a train, or in the teacher’s lounge at school, or on the street, or in the soccer locker room, somebody asks me what I’m drinking. Every. Single. Time. Before I can answer, they usually ask me, grinning: “Whiskey?” They think this is hilarious.

2.) Italian students generally go to school Monday through Saturday. However, school generally gets out no later than 1:00pm. What this means is that most Italian students have rarely had English class in the afternoon. What this, then, means is that most Italian students think that you can use the expression “good morning” synonymously with “hello,” because for the entirety of their English careers, their professors have walked into the room, said “good morning,” and then begun the lesson.

My school, unlike most schools, does not have class on Saturday. As a result, we meet more often in the afternoon, which means that I often see my students in the hallways in the afternoon. Being diligent students of the English language, my students want to say hello to me in English. So they say what they think is normal: “Good morning, prof.!” When this happens, I usually smile very nicely and then say, in English, “you mean, good afternoon!” They look at me with huge, blank expressions. I then explain, in Italian, that it is afternoon, and that they should use the expression “good afternoon” instead. They usually smile politely, nod, and then walk on. This, too, happens every day.

This weekend, I'm hoping to go to Florence, so if that happens, I'll be sure to keep you posted. (Hah.) For now, time to walk across the street to my favorite panino place and get lunch. Thanks for reading, and be well.

Nate

My president, my bike, and my gelato

2008-10-08T01:22:00.001-07:00

Last night, my host mother said something that stuck with me. We were talking about my absentee ballot, and then about the American election in general, and she said -- jokingly, but only so much -- that it doesn't seem fair that only U.S. citizens get to vote for the next U.S. president. Rather, she thinks that the whole world should get to vote for our president, given that the actions of our country so-dramatically affect the whole world.

I couldn't really disagree.

Some more photos:

My home, in Castelleone. Unusually large, in fact, for an Italian house.

My morning commute through downtown Crema.

My bike.

The rear wheel of my bike. (Note the seamless blending of design complexity with aesthetic perfection.)

My curtain-less shower.

The giant mirror directly across from my curtain-less shower.

Lombardian hay fields somewhere between Crema and Cremona.

Typical graffiti that covers most Italian trains.

A castle in Mantova.

A sculpture in Mantova, which I loved. (Sadly, I didn't take note of the sculptor or name.)

My first experience with real Italian gelato -- one of the many culinary delights contributing to by body's increasing softness.

"Abba lives!" I've seen this particular tag twice, now.

Initially, I thought it was funny because I thought it referred to the Swedish pop group, but I've since learned that Abba was the nickname of Abdul William Guibre, a black Italian beaten to death in September by two white bar owners. As more people immigrate into Italy, racism is becoming increasingly prevalent. See the link, below, for an interesting article on the matter:

http://www.italia-nuova.org/2008/10/italys-attacks-on-migrants-fuel-debate.html

La Sagra

2008-10-05T23:30:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, from Friday afternoon until Monday evening, the neighboring town of Corte Madama celebrated their "Sagra," a bi-annual feast/fundraiser for the local church. Not wanting to put to waste the skills I learned working as a waiter and dishwasher for Middlebury College Dining Services, I decided to help out as one of the servers.

Here are my stats:

People served: 37
Food-related words and expressions learned: 62
Mothers who demanded that I speak with their daughters in English: 4
Grandmothers who insisted that I speak with their daughters (who were mothers) in English: 1
Angry Italian men who swore at me because I was too slow of a waiter: 2

All in all, I'd say I did well.

Some photos:

Marta (host sister) in the middle, with her friends, Paolo and Chiara.

Torta fritta -- essentially fried dough, but with meat instead of brown sugar/cinnamon.

Me and some of the cooks.

From left to right, Anna and Loretta -- host sister and host mother, respectively.

Gianluigi (host father) and his prized chair.

Street performers outside the Sagra.

Yesterday, I went to Mantova and Cremona, two of the bigger cities in Lombardia, so expect more photos of that trip to come soon.

Nate

p.s. I decided there was no good way to take a picture of myself in the shower without getting kicked off of Google for publishing illicit photographs, so for now, you'll have to use your imagination.

Atlas Shrugged

2008-09-29T04:55:00.000-07:00

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

Andiamo!

2008-09-23T10:58:00.000-07:00

Hello friends and family, professors and peers,

For the next eight months, I’ll be living just outside the small Italian town of Crema (Italian for – you guessed it – “Cream”), about 50 km southeast of Milan. By day, I’ll be working as an English teaching assistant in a high school by the name of L’Istituto Tecnico Commerciale, per Geometri e per Corrispondenti in Lingue Estere “Luca Pacioli” di Crema. (Rolls right off the tongue, doesn't it?) By night and weekend, I plan to distribute my time evenly between the local espresso bars, soccer fields, vineyards, museums, and fashion outlets, hopefully accumulating along the way a bit of culture, some friends, an authentic Italian accent and a killer ability to match tight jeans with gratuitously large sunglasses.

I’m writing this blog primarily so that I can have a record of my adventures to one day show to my (Italian?) grandchildren, but if, at any point, you – the kind reader – wishes to take a look at it, I would be honored to distract you from your academic/occupational/social responsibilities, even if only for a few minutes at a time. If it's any incentive, know that I recently acquired a digital camera and plan on using it liberally.

For now, time to go explore the vast wonderland that is Newark Liberty International Airport. My flight still doesn't leave for a good two and a half hours, so who knows where the day could take me?

Until next time, be well, and stay in touch.

Fondly,

Nate

Where it all began – soccer at Middlebury's Italian School. Summer 2007.