Rocky terrain

So I hauled myself out of biscuit-induced stupor in order to accept a date. "A date?" I hear you cry! "This one doesn't hang around!" Before you start giving me old-fashioned disapproving looks let me explain myself.

A large part of the reason E and I are on a break is that I'm not sure I can marry him because I still feel young and want more experiences. This includes romantic experiences. This particular experience was offered to me on a plate so I decided to grab it with both hands, hoping that it could help me understand my feeling for E a bit more, or at the very least that I could have an interesting evening.

This was the kind of date everyone expected me to have when I arrived in Italy, when I flummoxed them all by hooking up with an Albanian pizza maker instead. Fabio is tall, good-looking, well-dressed and speaks passionately on a wide range of subjects from philosophy to architecture to Beethoven. He asked me many questions about myself and was charm personified. He made me a beautiful dinner and got me a bit tipsy on good wine.

Almost perfect. Almost. But (and you knew there had to be one) the thing was, he expected me to have an opinion on everything. And while I am not stupid, I am most definitely lazy and tend to acquire knowledge only if it finds its way to my white matter by accident. I knew I was in trouble from the start ("so Francesca, which is your favourite Renaissance city"? Errr..). I tried to blag it but the questions just got more and more specific and more ridiculous so that in the end when he asked me what my favourite Germanic names were, things came to a head. I couldn't contain myself any more and burst out laughing.

Fabio looked confused and hurt. "What's so funny? Are you making fun of me?"
"Yes!" at the sight of his outraged face I laughed even harder "I'm sorry Fabio, but you can't ask a girl out on a date and then interrogate her on which are the most rocky landscapes in England or if she prefers Germanic or Latin names"
Fabio looked put out "Well, I find it interesting".

So that was my first date in 3 years. I haven't seen Fabio since although he's been in touch. Only time will tell if my lack of knowledge of Britain's rocky landscapes is an unimpeachable barrier between us or if it is the start of something beautiful.

On pause

Sorry I've not been writing too frequently, the thing is the above-mentioned Albanian and I have decided to take a 'pausa'. Yes, we're going on the famous 'break'. During the break I need to decide whether I'm going to make an honest man of him. Because that's what they do you see, in Albania-land. They get married young, have babies, and the women make cheese by draining socks of yogurt over the sink for 2 days. Whilst I'm not sure I'd be capable of making sock-cheese from scratch, the other two I have to at least consider as possibilities if I love E as much as I claim to. But this is a decision I want to make da sola, with lots of English objectivity and a fair bit of Italian heart-following thrown in too.

So, back to the pausa. So far I haven't had any life-changing revelations. It's gone something like this:

Day 1: Got out of bed only for two reasons: unfortunate necessity of work, get packet of biscuits to eat in bed.
Day 2: Moped into work. Went for dinner with friends, got horribly drunk before the meal was put on the table and couldn't eat any of it.
Day 3: General moping and squalidness. Trying to sleep on top of two inches of biscuit crumbs becoming uncomfortable.
Day 4: Today. Pro-activeness! Blog! Lesson-planning! Room-blitz coming up!

I'm hoping the pro-activeness will continue (although maybe with a bit less mania. I'm quite scared I'll give myself a heart-attack). I'll keep you updated and if you don't hear anything please send out a rescue squad to come and dig me out of my biscuity hovel!

In famiglia

It's been a busy and emotional time here at casa mia. I live in a house which belongs to a Puglian family. There are an Aunt and Uncle who live in the mini-appartment below, whilst their two nephews live in the house above, along with me and another housemate, Yasar.

I've been here since October, and we've all ticked along well together. Occasionally the aunt would offer me a homemade goody in passing, or the uncle would come upstairs to deliver fresh milk for the youngest nephew (apparently 21-year-old males aren't capable of keeping themselves in milk). I'd often hear voices raised in argument from down below or the aunt shouting up to her nephew Michele to come and get a nice hot plate of pasta.

Then one day a couple of weeks ago the boys' mamma Maria arrived from the South, along with various bags of produce, 3 different varieties of homemade cake...and a suitcase. Yes, it turned out Maria was planning on staying a few days. Never having had a controlling Italian-style mamma I groaned inwardly at the thought of the inevitable interference that would ensue. In fact it started immediately, with Maria taking issue with Michele's new girlfriend and banning her from the house while she was staying on Michele's floor (quite rightly too). This immediately caused a rift between son and mother, and Maria was left to the company of me and my Syrian housemate Yasar.

However despite my reservations, she turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to the house! If there was a problem, she'd sort it, if there was an old tomato, she'd make it into a pizza, if we were sad or stressed she'd sit us down for a chat over a limoncello.

While she was here the downstairs bathroom was being repaired and the boiler broke, leaving us with only one bathroom and no hot water for the whole easter break. What could've turned into a disaster zone with hysterics and a full-scale war against the aunt and uncle who refused to call the emergency plumber, was neatly averted by Maria who played mediator and even got us invited to easter lunch downstairs. After a few moments of tension all was fine and we happily stuffed ourselves, shouted along with the rest of them (it turned out the shouting wasn't arguing, it was just normal conversation at top volume), and admired the family photo albums.

Now Maria's gone back to Puglia, Michele's girlfriend is firmly re-instated in his room, and me and Yasar feel just a little bit lost without out Italian mamma. On the plus side, we're left feeling much more in famiglia than before, with the aunt bringing us some fresh jam tart, or even popping up for a quick chat. And mamma Maria has promised to come back soon to help us reorganise the kitchen and make some homemade jam. Now to work on those conversational shouting skills...

Learning a language

"Er, what was that again?"

Here are a few things I have learnt whilst learning Italian these past two and a half years:

• I understand a lot more than I can speak. Maybe that's natural seeing as I'm a fairly quiet person in English too, or maybe it's a common phenomenon. I've seen people who've lived here for years who understand nearly everything but can't string a full sentence together. I guess you can exercise your ears with no effort but opening your mouth and forming the words takes a bit more dedication (who knows? I ain't no linguist). Anyway, this often leads to the frustrating situation of being in the middle of an interesting conversation, following everything and then wanting to contribute but not being able to find the words, so you end up always looking just a little bit simple.

• Different people speak to me in different ways when they find out I'm foreign. There are those who speak extremely sloooowly and intersperse their speech with random words that they happen to know in English (but which invariably I don't catch because they surprise me in the middle of an Italian sentence and are often spoken with a strong Italian accent). This I find fairly patronising as quite soon into a conversation I think it's obvious that I have the capacity to speak at more than 10 words per minute. Then there are people who speak at normal speed, but perhaps slow down if they are explaining something complicated, or quickly ask "you know what that means?" if using a difficult term. These are ideal conversation partners. Then finally there are those that make no concession to the fact you are foreign, never slowing down and often using slang or dialect. They're a great challenge for an advanced level comprehension lesson, but less good conversation companions as you're always left lagging 5 minutes behind.
  
• This is connected with number 1. Due to the fact that I listen a lot more than I speak, I am often called 'mysterious' or 'charismatic'. I am obviously nothing of the sort, I'm just trying to work out what's going on a lot of the time. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE being seen as a mysterious foreigner, but I have wondered more than once if my percieved aloofness doesn't stop people from approaching me.

• I have learnt to love my accent. For a long time I wanted my 'R's perfectly rolled and I used to plan my sentences before walking into the shop and asking for what I wanted so as not to slip up. I just wanted to fit in really. No longer. I suppose after a couple of years I have realised that you don't have to assimilate to fit in; you can be different (ie, foreign) and still belong. In fact, since I let myself go and started to talk more to strangers I feel I belong more because the fact that I'm foreign can be a conversation starter, leading to more meaningful relationships. Ok, I am only talking about the relationship between me and the fruit-seller or local bar owner, but it's mostly these small things that give you that sense of 'belonging' in a place.

What has leaning a language taught you?

On sport and keeping up with the pensioners

You know that feeling when the diet just isn't going ahead as planned? You know, when you can't kick that mid-afternoon sugary treat-trap. Or you are incapable of ordering less than three courses and a bottle of wine at a restaurant because it just seems such a damn waste of opportunity not to. And of course you are friends with loads of foodies who all want to outshine eachother by cooking and sharing with you their yummy creations. Since I am a exceptionally greedy and have the self-control of a gnat these are major obstacles to my post-christmas healthy eating plan (or perhaps I should do some goalpost-adjusting and call it "run-up to easter healthy eating plan" so I don't have to remind myself of the two months I have passed in eating).
As I have almost given up hope of changing my ways I decided that the answer was sport. I am profoundly unsporty but my boyfriend E has been known in the past to pull on a pair of shorts and, well, I don't actually know what he did afterwards because I shut myself in the bedroom to read with a bar of chocolate, only looking up again when I heard the door slam to see a red-faced E pulling sweaty layers off and getting into the shower.

So we organised a trip to the park, me in my mish-mash of 'sporty' clothes and set off jogging round the lake. Let me tell you something, it is a lot harder than it looks this jogging lark! I was being lapped by over-60s whilst going about 1 mph faster that walking pace. After one lap of the lake I collapsed in a heap panting on the floor. "Are you tired already?" asked E, jogging on the spot and looking at me concernedly. "What...you..bloody ...think?" I managed to get out. "Just...bloody...go on..without..me" (I don't think sport brings out the best in me).

Anyway, after that occasion we tried going together again but sadly after my 1 or 2 laps of the lake I was incapable of doing anything but sitting on a bench waiting for E to finish his one-hour marathon around the park. Not good for the morale.

Happily, I've now found a better jogging companion. My housemate is just as unfit and lazy as me and together we have contentedly jogged at snail's pace round the local park and done a few (but not too many) excercises.

I've now been jogging a grand total of 5 times and at the risk of sounding like a smug sport-convert type person, I already I feel loads better. I eat less and have more energy. Hopefully, by the time easter with all it's associated goodies arrives I'll be strong enough not to have to warrant a pre-summer diet!

Big fish, little fish

When I first arrived in Rome I was almost scared to leave the house. Not only because my Italian language skills were sorely wanting, but also because of the chaos on the streets that made my poor English rule-conditioned heart bound with panic every time I had to cross a road. And I don't even drive! Even facing a simple zebra crossing as a pedestrian had the power to inspire sweaty palms and a burst of terrified adrenaline as I finally took the plunge and stepped off the kerb, motorinos and cars either stopping just centimetres before me or swerving round me as I walked.

Needless to say I soon got used to it and I now step regally off the kerb, the power of my glance halting all but the most insistent motorinos. Those who dare to swerve past can skim my ankles and I won't even deign to turn my head.

When travelling as a passenger in a car I try to embrace a state of zen-like calm that helps me cope with the crazy traffic, parking arguments and contant near-crashes. My boyfriend E deals manfully with all this hassle, and indeed it doesn't seem to bother him. Just yesterday in fact he was waiting for somebody to vacate a parking space (spaces are notoriously difficult to find in Rome) when a woman pulled in front of him and put on her indicator, waiting for the same space. After a fair bit of swearing and some Italian-style gestures that I took to mean "bugger off and let me take my rightful space" the woman still didn't move on. At this point E got out the car, walked over and told the woman in as many words to bugger off becuase he was there first, thank you very much. During this episode I was slouched down in my seat dying of mortification. "Just give her the space" I begged "we'll find another one".
But it turned out the woman was playing dirty, and insisted that as she had "asked" (through gestures) the man who was leaving the space if she could have it, the space was hers. In the end she left, we parked, all was fine.

The moral of the story? You gotta learn the rules of the jungle. Or, more aptly, when in Rome, play as dirty as the Romans do.

But it's not necessarily always foreigners who are the fish out of water. Last week we went on a jolly to Naples. That is me, E and two friends Giorgio and Maria. The guys, who are both hardened illegal-hazard-light-using, parking-space-argument Roman driving pros, took turns behind the wheel.

As soon as we came off the motorway and drove into the city of Naples a change came over them. They were no longer the agressive, sweary, multi-taksing drivers I knew but nervous, attentive and careful strangers in a new city. We got a bit lost needed to ask for directions but every time the he'd rolled the window down halfway Giorgio lost courage and hastily rolled it back up, fearing every second person to be a Camorrista who might take against us. E turned on to a roundabout and needed to exit, but couldn't get off it. "Why won't anyone let me out?" he whimpered as cars seemed to come straight for us and close in on us from all angles. We parked the car and promtly a parcheggiatore (a guy who "helps" you park in the city centre then expects a fee) showed up and we organised a furtive and fearful whiparound of our loose change in the backseat of the car. In the end we gave two euros, twice what we'd give in Rome.

It was funny seeing these mouthy Romans when faced with Naples' mean streets turning into the equivalent of a pale English girl trying to cross the road in Rome. Maybe when the next time in Rome I close my eyes and pray when Giorgio overtakes on a corner or cringe as the 10-ton bus I'm travelling on screeches to a stop centimetres from the car in front I can remember our day in Naples and feel a little better.

Character-building

Sorry for the lack of posts. My day to day existence has been taken over by the whims of an enigmatic lady, Dottoressa Urso, whose English lessons I am subbing for a couple of weeks and who, despite knowing approximately 20 words in English wants me only to help her translate European parliamentary documents for her forthcoming trip to Ireland. Er, good luck with that Doc.

Obviously, as she is paying the agency I am working for a fair whack and I am only subbing the lessons I have to bite my tongue and treat her with kid gloves like it seems everyone else does. (You know when you arrive somewhere and are told by her subordinates that this woman is "quite a character" you are in trouble.)

More soon.