Chi vuole imparare l’italiano? – Part Two

This is part two of my two-part blog “Chi vuole imparare l’italiano?” about the types of students I met during my autumn of intensive language classes in the heart of Naples…

The language collectors

This is a large category, especially since I was taking classes with a number of European students, who are the crème-de-la-crème of language collectors. Along with my subsequently shattered preconceived notion that Gio and I are a unique couple, I also came to the Centro with a sense that learning a third language was impressive. This is a very Canadian thing to think. For some of my European companions, they came to the Centro with four or more perfectly mastered languages already under their belt. Perhaps my feelings will change when I go back to Canada, but here in Europe, I can’t help but feel like knowing three languages is rather… ho-hum.

  

I don’t know what the statistics are, but I’m sure there is a much higher percentage of Europeans than Canadians who can speak (at least) a second language. When attending a school such as the Centro Italiano, it really seems like all Europeans are polyglots! I know this isn’t true, because I have also met a number of monolingual Europeans (and thank goodness for them, or else I don’t know who I’d practice my imperfect French/Italian with). At the Centro, it was not unusual for me to meet someone whose laundry list of languages is: “Swedish, English, French, Italian” or “Russian, Ukrainian, English, Italian” or “German, English, French, Italian” and even one fellow from the Netherlands whose list of languages was so long, I can’t even recall the whole list!

I’m not ready to add a fourth language to my list, but I could see, somewhere down the road after I’ve sufficiently tackled Italian (and recuperated the French that is currently hiding being the mammoth of Italian in my brain) adding to my list. The language collectors I’ve met in the past few months have shown that this is not the impossible task that I thought it was. These people came to study Italian simply because: it’s a language, it’s beautiful, it’s there, and therefore, it should be mastered. They are a beautiful example of exploring something for the pure joy of it.

The workers

Italy is one of those countries where it is near impossible to work if you don’t speak the language proficiently. However, there are some exceptions where you can get by with a lower language level, such as: being an au pair, teaching English, working for the military, and one final category that, for some reason, I hadn’t thought of before attending classes – being a Catholic clergyman.

On my first day of language classes, I was put in a class with an older German gentleman, who was dressed in a traditional brown monk’s robe. Later on in the day, after some more students took their placement tests, we were joined by a Polish priest (dressed in conservative street clothes) and a young British woman who was about to embark on a year’s journey of teaching English in a high school in a suburb of Naples. The priest and monk’s motivation for learning Italian differed from the English woman, but that’s what is so interesting about coming to a class like this – people’s different backgrounds all become united under the common goal to learn Italian.

I don’t know why I was shocked to see the German monk walk into the classroom on the first day. It makes perfect sense that someone who has dedicated his life to Catholicism would come to Italy. It also makes perfect sense to want to learn Italian. I can see how knowing Italian (and Latin) could enrich the Catholic experience. Languages are so nuanced, and translators often make baffling choices, so going straight to the language source is a smart choice to gain profound appreciation for an original language text. As for the Polish priest, who had decided to stay at least a few years working in a church outside of Naples, the need to learn the language was that much greater.

As for those who do not work for the church, working in Italy means either learning the language, fast, or sinking. Teaching English is a good way to buy some time, because Italian isn’t needed to teach, but it sure is useful. Teaching one of my classes to some fairly low-level Italian teens back before the summer, I was quite thankful that I knew enough Italian to understand their constant Italian chit-chat, and to know exactly what they were confused about if there was a problem. I also remember being extremely frustrated in Spain, when I was working at an English language camp, because I had no idea what any of the campers were saying to each other. While I don’t think talking to language learners in their native language helps them learn any better or faster (actually, I believe the contrary), it is a lot less isolating for the teacher if she has a basic comprehension of the language. 

Sooner or later, even if teaching English, anyone coming to Italy should gain a solid language level, because Italy is truly a different country when you can speak the language.

The italophiles – gli innamorati d’Italia

The people who belong to this category would certainly agree with my last sentence, because these people actively seek every way possible to immerse themselves in anything and everything Italia. To give you an example, imagine the first time you fell in love. Imagine: the intense emotions, the obsession, the desire, and those chemicals that run through the brain that make logical thought near-impossible. Now, imagine if you had these feelings about an entire country. I love this category, because only someone with an enormous heart can have enough love to bestow upon an entire country. The italophiles are, quite simply, a lot of fun to be around.

Usually, though, the italophiles also belong to one of my other categories. It’s all well and good to love an entire country, but as with any love affair, after the honeymoon period, reality sets in and real life must go on. But, for those who are truly and deeply in love, they have to find another way to get their fill of Italy. One good way to extend this love is to find an Italian man (or, more difficultly, a woman), and funnel this ex-patriotic love into a person. This is probably the easiest solution. However, I’ve met some creative students, such as a wonderful Japanese woman whose dedication to Italy and Naples is unbelievable. She holds down two jobs, which are both, incredibly (because of the Naples immigrant situation), legal, as well as attending courses whenever she can. She has paid for an entire year of courses to obtain a student visa, though she is only able to attend about 10%-25% of what she has paid for. This was the solution she could come up with in order to stay, and so this is what she has done.

Then there are those italophiles who belong only to this category. A few students came for a week or two of lessons because it was their vacation period, and Naples is where they always come when they get time off. Their love of Italy, and the chaotic jungle of Naples, is pure and simple. They just love it here, and that’s all the explanation they need to give.

~~~

Thus sums up the five broad categories that give a sample of the interesting, inspiring, thoughtful and educated people who I met past an antique one-meter door, up three flights of marble stairs, at the Centro Italiano in the heart of Naples. Tackling the half-hour walk twice each day in Naples was either trying or delightful (depending on the day) but the educational oasis that sat right in the thick of the bustling Napolitano culture was a constant pleasure of my autumn days. I attribute half of this pleasure to my own personal linguistic journey, and the other half to being able to share the experience with my classmates. Out of all the amazing things I’ve been able to do in Italy, making the decision to continue my education at the Centro was the most rewarding.

Chi vuole imparare l’italiano? – Part One

Learning a foreign language is a form of self-discovery. It’s a personal renaissance. You become another version of yourself, and it’s divine. You’re starting over, and what a beautiful rebirth.

                                                                                          (Robyn Matthew, Language Logic)

After the summer holidays, I decided to switch gears and fully immerse myself in the Italian language by taking intensive courses, five days a week, right in the heart of the historic center of Naples. Before the summer I was unsure about making this decision, as the classes were costly and I would also be giving up incoming money to do this venture; but in the end, throwing myself into the Italian language was the best decision of my sojourn thus far. In conjunction with my solid grammatical foundation that my professors at UBC provided and my speaking and listening practice with Gio’s family and my Italian friends since May, taking intensive courses was exactly the push I needed to make it over my personal linguistic hill.

               Regarding my Italian classes, it was in my favor that there is currently a global economic crisis and that Naples has been getting bad press recently (for example, the American who got robbed minutes after walking off his cruise ship and subsequently died from falling and hitting his head during the ordeal). These factors have, unfortunately for the school, resulted in a drop in registration this year. Obviously, for a selfish language student such as myself, I benefitted tremendously from the low registration. For example, one week there were no other advanced students, so I had private lessons for the entire week. I was in linguistic heaven! Some students might find four hours of personal lessons a bit much, but at my level and in my situation (where I’m speaking Italian all day anyways), it was gloriously useful. I was able to take the time to work out the details, such as my bewildering mental block when pronouncing the stress correctly in the first-person plural of the imperfetto tense.

               Even though I did have one luxurious week of underpriced personal attention, there were other students coming and going in a steady flow, in my classes and the other levels. The Centro Italiano is a language school for foreigners, which means there is an ethnic mix of students; but, more importantly, there is quite a mix of reasons why each student has come to the school. I stayed longer at the Centro than the average student, so I got a good cross-section of the types of people who come to learn Italian. Here is a list of types of people who came to Naples to immerse themselves in the language. A number of people straddle two or even three categories, but for the most part, this is who I encountered . . .

The lovers

Le innamorate degli uomini italiani – The lovers of Italian men

I’ll start with the category with which I identify myself most.  Italy is sensually and romantically abundant in just about every way imaginable, from the food, to the art, to the weather and, of course, to the men. I say “men” instead of “people” because, as one of my teachers told me, in her 20 years of teaching at the Centro, less than five foreign men have taken classes to brush up the language of their Italian girlfriends. For whatever reason, which I still haven’t quite figured out (though I’ve heard many theories), Italian woman are less likely to fall for a foreign man than their male compatriots. The Italian men, however, seem to have made it their duty to make up for this shortcoming in love that Italian women bestow upon foreigners.

Let me confess that before studying at the Centro, I felt like my situation with Gio was unique and, well, special. It was humbling to be reminded that, no, we are not the only two people from different countries who’ve fallen in love. And no, we are not the only two people who’ve ever had to make some fancy life maneuvers to be with each other. In fact, according to the teachers at the Centro, just by taking a look at me and guessing my age, they’d have more than a 50% chance of guessing why I had come to take Italian classes.

So, while Gio and I may not be completely unique, we are in good company. It’s interesting to compare all of our respective situations, and see just how each couple is making things work. If there is a will, there is a way, especially when love is concerned. And, if learning a new language is a product of love, then I’d say a cross-cultural relationship is probably one of the best things a gal can do for her brain!

The military wives

Naples is host to an American military base, as well as various big-name industries. A number of women have chosen to follow their husbands on duty across the ocean to Italy. Because of the frustrating work-permit situation in Italy, along with the fact that it is very hard to get work if you don’t speak the language, taking language classes is a productive way to fill the day – and necessary if the woman wants to get work. For the most part, the women I’ve met are vivacious, late-twenty-somethings who plan on being in Naples for a finite period of time (from six weeks to a few years). Because of the temporary nature of their sojourns, the English speaking company they have in Naples, and an English speaking partner, there is definitely a difference in linguistic motivation between the two groups of lovers. I feel linguistically fortunate to be able to demand to Gio that “We are only speaking to each other in Italian from now on” (which I did!)

Those who are making optimum use out of their golden years

I have a particular sense of respect towards this group of learners. What an inspirational way to spend the time after a whole adult life of working! The people I’ve met in this category are about as far from the rocking chair as I can imagine; because, if they keep going with their linguistic pursuits, I’ve heard that language learning creates the same type of brain synapses that reduce the likelihood of diseases such as Alzheimers.

I hold these men and women in such high esteem because not only have they chosen to continue learning, but they have chosen to do this Naples. Naples is not an easy city for even the strapping-est of lads. It’s chaotic. It’s got ongoing garbage issues. It’s got the most incredible traffic in the Western world. On my walk to the Centro from the train station alone any number of things can, and did, happen: someone may just bark in your ear as you pass, another someone may follow you half a block pestering you for one of the cough drops you just popped into your mouth, or, perhaps! someone a good thirty years your senior might try to hit on you while you are trying to enjoy your morning cappuccino. I must have the luck of a whole SPCA’s worth of cats on my side, since I almost got hit by a car or a scooter every. single. day. My elbow did get bashed once by a side mirror as I was talking on my cell phone, and I still consider myself quite lucky. My point is, anyone with any sort of mobility issues is going to find the constant inundation of people and traffic very hard to deal with.  

To be fair, two particular golden-year friends I made have both expressed to me that they probably wouldn’t chomp at the bit to return to Naples anytime soon. Along with everything else, both were staying right in the center of the city, where the noise is unrelenting, even in the “dead” of night. However, both were able to get a lot out of their experiences in Naples, which is an incredibly rich city in terms of culture and art. And, I know that my new friends will be continuing their pursuit of proficiency in the Italian language. In some way or other, Naples and the Centro managed to foster their love of the Italian language.

Getting on an airplane, at the age of 65+, to attend classes, in the most chaotic city in Europe, with predominantly younger students, is an inspiration. They have become role models for me to never stop learning.

This is a two-part blog, since there are just too many people to speak about who want to learn Italian. Stay tuned for Part Two!

Questo blog è dedicato a Sandra ed Emma per la pacienza, l’aiuto e l’inspirazione che ogni giorno mi hanno dato. 

Party time

No matter the time of year, Italy seems to be in a state of constant celebration. For example, this summer I passed many weekends in the neighbouring hill town of Casertavecchia, and from there, Caserta below would explode in sporadic firework displays almost every night, commemorating some sort of sagra, saint, or personal achievement. They don’t call it la dolce vita for nothing, and here’s why…

A sagra is an Italian word for a town festival. Sagre happen on a regular basis all around Italy, and for the most part, these celebrations are all about, of course, food. Next month in Napoli, there is La Sagra delle Pizze (where I’ve been told, Japanese pizzaioli have won the competition for the past few years running!) In Tuscany there are sagre commemorating such things as funghi, cinghiale and, without a doubt, la bistecca. Sagre are all over Italy, but more typical in smaller towns. It’s basically an excuse to eat copious amount of the food that is in season at the moment, in a festive environment (like, firework displays).

Another community celebration is for the patron saint, santo patrono, of the town or city. Naples has a patron saint, San Gennaro, Caserta has a patron saint, Sant’Anna, and all of the other small towns and suburbs in between have their own respective patron saints. Usually the bigger cities have bigger celebrations, but that doesn’t mean that the smaller towns don’t know how to honour their saint in style. This summer, I thought the celebration for Sant’Anna would never end, as Caserta was decorated with all sorts of fanfare for weeks on end. But, Naples takes the cake for saint days, with San Gennaro providing a miracle not one, not two, but three times a year! In May, December and, most importantly, on September 19^th (the official saint day), San Gennaro’s sacred coagulated blood liquefies, much to the delight of the Catholic masses. There is a procession with his blood and statue from the Duomo as the streets are packed with devoted Napolitani, who all have the day off work. Saint days, from what I’ve seen here in Campania, are mix of religious tradition and modern celebration. Like many Canadians on days like Victoria Day, for the most part, people are just happy to enjoy a day off.

Speaking of Saint Days, not only does each town and city have their own saint, but each person has their own saint too. This personal day of celebration is called an onomastico, poorly translated as best it can be into English as “Name Day.” Most Italians have a name which is also a name of a saint, and each saint has their own day. I got creative, to make sure I didn’t lose out on all the onomastico fun, by figuring out which Italian name best corresponds to my own (Maddalena). To celebrate, relatives give each other money and homemade cakes are baked and then distributed to family members. Some people might have a special dinner with their immediate family. Basically, an onomastico is a slightly toned-down version of a birthday.

Birthdays are more or less celebrated in the same way they are around the world, with a few added details. If a person has a birthday party, the friends invited will all chip in to buy one big, expensive gift all together. Small personal gifts are just not done. Presents from relatives is generally cash and there is also a special immediate-family dinner. There is however one particular birthday that gets a lot of attention in Italy: the 18^th birthday. I’ve been very lucky that Gio’s brother here in Campania, and Gio’s cousin up in Tuscany, both did me the honour of turning eighteen in the time that I’ve been here. What makes this birthday different from other birthdays is the fanfare involved in terms of present giving and lunch eating. Both boys had five course meals in wonderful restaurants, one in the medieval town of Casertavecchia and the other in a castle in San Moltepulciano, with about 20 guests invited to each affair. The lunch progresses at a luxurious pace, because no one will be doing anything after eating that amount of food. After being fed to the point of bursting, an Italian eighteen-year-old is fit and fed for his passage into adulthood.

               In my opinion, there is a second celebration that more appropriately signifies passage into adulthood than the 18^th birthday: la festa di laurea (the graduation party). Most Italians continue to stay at home during their university careers, which is a financial strategy I know and appreciate well. The difference is, the age that an Italian student graduates can vary a lot, with the majority of Italian students staying at home into their late twenties or sometimes longer, if they can’t find a job (which is a major problem in Italy). If a student takes longer than the time it should take to graduate (between 3-5 years, depending on the program), the student is fuori corso – off track. Students who finish on time are definitely in a better position to find a job, since employers look at how long it took them to graduate to gauge their moxy. The catch-22 is, since said employers seem to be a scarce commodity, students are less than motivated to finish their degrees on time to impress these phantoms and step out into the “real world” of high unemployment rates. These sociological factors make la festa di laurea a real shindig, because graduating is a real achievement of adulthood. Students usually have a meal with family that is comparable to the 18^th birthday affair, but the gift giving is quite a bit more extravagant. Another restaurant party often happens with friends, usually with a more casual meal service, like a buffet. Again, friends chip in to buy the graduate a nice gift. I’m looking forward to the celebrations next month, for Gio’s second graduation party, for his Masters degree!

The final celebration, la crème de la crème of all celebrations, is of course, the Italian wedding. I had the honour of being invited to a wedding a few weeks ago, and got a taste of the elegance and extravagance of a traditional Italian wedding. Italy is well known as one of the world’s most romantic destinations, and the people of Italy hold this reputation true by celebrating proudly and lavishly the most important day for a couple in love. To begin, the traditional Italian wedding is a whole-day affair, from late morning to midnight. This wedding started in a beautiful medieval church, where the priest swiftly made his way through pages of religious scripture. (Much to my delight, the service was “subtitled” with a word-for-word booklet of the priest’s speeches during the service, making it possible for me to understand what was going on.) After the service, rice was thrown, balloons were unleashed into the atmosphere, pictures (upon pictures upon pictures) were taken, and everyone migrated to a villa in a neighbouring town to start the feasting.

A wedding feast to end all wedding feasts.

Though, the word “feasting” doesn’t fully encompass the amount of food that was presented at this wedding. The banquet was bookended by two buffets, an appetizer buffet and a dessert buffet, which could have fed everyone to satisfaction on their own; however, in between the buffets was a nine-course parade of Southern Italian delicacies, alternating gracefully between land and sea based dishes. Between two in the afternoon and almost nine o’clock at night, the dishes were served, wine was drunk, and entertainment (singing and dancing, mostly) got everyone moving enough to shake down the preceding course into our bellies, so that we could all make room to eat again. The evening ended with the dessert buffet of wedding cake and about ten different other pastries. During this stage of the festivities, everyone was invited to a decorated gazebo to make their own take-home “confetti” packages (small hard-candy favours), just in case anyone would be craving something sweet later on. The guests also all received a bomboniere, which in this case was a gift of Murano glass, to keep as a memento of the day.

If I’ve learned one thing from all of these festivities, it’s that Italians sure know how to throw a party. And if I could give one piece of advice to someone going to an Italian party it would definitely be: come with an empty stomach.

As always, comments and questions are welcome! 

Where have all the Italians gone?

August is a peculiar month in Italy. Certain cities, such as Caserta, become Spaghetti Western tumbleweed towns. Bigger, landlocked tourist centers, such as Siena, Roma and Milano would be completely empty if it weren’t for hordes of Rick Steves’ toting (Roma), French-speaking (Siena), fashion-craving (Milano) tourists that pilgrimage to interior Italy during the heat of August. So, if the smaller cities are completely vacant, and the bigger cities have been replaced with a temporary population of newly-appendaged people protectively baring their backpacks on their chests….where have all the Italians gone?

               Well, as we’re talking about a country with about 60 million people, the answer, of course, varies. What is different from a country like Canada, is that everyone, en masse, has their vacation in August, usually all around ferragosto (August 15^th). There are some poor souls who have to work in August, but they are usually people who profit from the August tourism in seaside areas such as Puglia, Calabria or Sicilia. There are also the bureaucrats who just can’t seem to get a break, even in August.

An example of an Italian office-worker who must slave away in the heat of August, would be someone who works in the ever-enigmatic Poste Italiane (the Italian post office). In Canada, the post office is responsible for… the post. In Italy, it is so much more than that. If there is ever something paperwork-related to do, chances are, it must be done at the post office. Did you get a fine on the train for not validating your ticket? Pay that fine at the post office. Did you just arrive from Canada and need to get your visa documents? Why, that paperwork will be at the post office, not at the city hall where you first must present yourself and where you subsequently need to bring back the paperwork.  Do you need to mail a letter? Well, I guess you could go to the post office, but it will probably take them a while to figure out the postage you need, (and you might just need to correct them, because a postcard to Canada does not cost 3.30€, thank-you-very-much). To be frank, they’re not as accustomed to dealing with postal matters as they are non-postal matters at the post. Better off just go to a Tobacco shop for your stamp. Basically, even in August, you will find many Italians, workers and citizens alike, hanging around the Poste Italiane, dealing with all sorts of frustrating bureaucratic matters.

               Besides working in the tourism sector or in the post office, where are the other millions of Italians that have vacated the city centers? The vast majority of Italians go traveling somewhere; however, “go traveling” is a subjective term. For some of my friends, they went as far and wide as the east coast of Canada this summer, trading the imposing man-made wonder, the Coliseum, for the imposing natural wonder, Niagara Falls, and the ancient Italian city of Pompeii for the as-ancient-as-it-gets Canadian city of Quebec. Others hop into campers and go to various campsites around Italy or to other Mediterranean coasts. For the most part though, as I noted in a succinct Italian Groupon promotion, there are two main categories for Italian vacations: Volete andare al mare o in montagne? (Do you want to go to the seaside or to the mountains?)

               There is one uniting goal when choosing either of these opposing locales: escape the heat. As this poor Canadian noted, especially one particular week in mid-July, the city heat in Italy can render the hours between 12pm-5pm completely unbearable, hence, the exodus to higher ground or to the beach. While at first I found it a bit strange that everyone takes their vacation at the exact same time, I quickly learned why people need August off. It’s just too hard to function in intense heat. May as well go into the shade of the mountains or take a dip in the sea and call it a month until September comes.

               As Europe has become increasingly smaller these past years with the rise in popularity of cheap flights, a lot of Italians take their August vacation to neighbouring countries’ sunny hotspots. I joined the Italian masses this August in Croatia, which is very much “the new Greece,” especially this year, the last year with the Kuna before the Euro storms in and raises the price of everything. In certain Croatian towns, especially those completely devoted to sea-worship, I felt as I were in Italy. With all of the tanned olive-toned bodies around and the chatter of carefree Italian mixed with the thud of omnipresent electro-bass (which is very à-la-mode at any big Croatia beach town), I could have been in Puglia for all intents and purposes. Going to Croatia (in August) was certainly an Italian affair.

               For a tourist to go to Italy in August, it will be a rather particular month, and probably less of an “Italian experience” unless said tourist were to find one of the Italian vacation hot-spots. Hint: these hot-spots are not to be found in your Lonely Planet or Rick Steves’. The Italians know which places (Cinque Terre, I’m looking at you) attract foreigners, and while some do go there, others specifically avoid these crowds. My advice would be, to truly find an Italian experience in August in the next few years, head to Makarska, Croatia. Either that, or get a parking ticket, and get in line at the Poste.  

              

I'd love to see any comments or questions or general love from any readers! 

Shopkeepers

Une langue est un organisme vivant, un être qui a un esprit et une âme comme nous. Et comme tout ce qui est vivant, elle naît, respire, se nourrit, grandit, se reproduit éventuellement, vieillit et meurt… Aucune langue ne naît riche ; c’est l’usage qui l’enrichit. (Adiaffi 106-7). 

Italians, who are known for their love of food, coffee and style, are quite adept at keeping their traditions alive. This means that they continue buying and selling the beloved products which they are known for. I have partaken in my fair share of consumerism in the past three months in Italy, and in these three months, I have encountered various different types of people who are in charge of taking my money from me. Here are three examples of the many types of merchants that can be encountered when in southern Italy.

The Expat’s Dream: The Kindly Chicken Merchant

This is the type of merchant that anyone who has lived in another country, especially in another country trying to speak in another language, can recognize and appreciate. He is the type of merchant who is friendly, patient with your second-rate language skills, and is curious about who you are and why you are here. He has you leave his fine establishment feeling like a “local.” An Expat’s Dream.

One day, I wanted to buy some chicken. Usually, I do all of my shopping at the local grocery stores where I can sneakily avoid talking to anyone to make a transaction. Admittedly, I get nervous at the idea of speaking with a Casertan who doesn’t know me. As far as I was told at the Comune (visa office), I am the only Canadian registered in  town, and therefore my halting Anglophone-accented Italian might be hard for someone to understand if they’ve never heard my accent before and are not expecting it. Speaking Italian in general makes me sweaty enough as is (seriously), but with people I don’t know, I may as well just run a marathon instead. On this particular day, I went to a grocery store, only to find out that there was no more petto di pollo (thinly sliced chicken breast). I knew there was a Polleria nearby. With no other appropriate pollo source in sight, I was forced to face my fears.

As I entered, I saw the chicken merchant; a workaday-Joe who has probably worked as a chicken merchant for most of his life (and if stereotypes hold true, has inherited his chicken business from his father or even grandfather). I took a breath and asked if he had any petto di pollo. Success! He did! Feeling courageous that he understood me, I went one step further; I asked him if he could cut the chicken a bit thicker than the usual petto di pollo. Double success! So while he went to work cutting up the breasts, he decided to ask the strange alien in his shop a few chit-chatty questions… all of which I understood and, as far as I could tell, he understood my answers, too. I was feeling linguistically elated. The questions started off at the usual starting point (where are you from, why are you here) and then, as we got to be closer friends, the questions became more personal: Are you married to this man you are seeing from Caserta? No? Are you going to? 

What would have been a slightly invasive/inappropriate interaction for me in Canada became one of the most rewarding times I’ve handed someone 5 euros since I arrived in Italy.

The Corrupt Cafe Owner

Since my Polleria encounter, I’ve been feeling braver about speaking to Italians. I exercised this bravery, in full force, when I met my dear friend Bess at a café near the central station in Naples.

Since we were waiting for her brother at this particular café, and had no way to contact him, we decided we may as well sit and have a coffee. I knew that this was not a great area to get a coffee, because near any central station is never an ideal place to sit and relax. However, we went in and ordered one coffee and one babà, a rum-soaked Neapolitan treat. I had an uneasy feeling from the start, as the waiter was seriously trying to upsell. I stood my ground and thought that we had gotten what we wanted. Wrong.

When they came out with our simple, very Napolitano breakfast, I thought they had brought us the wrong order. They stuck a ridiculous sparkly pink stick into the babà, covered it with whipped cream and chocolate, and gave me my coffee with a side of whipped cream (!?). I went inside and gave back the whipped cream, saying I didn’t order it, but the café owner made it seem like it was some sort of gift. I knew we’d be paying for it somehow.

Then they brought us the bill, which was about double the amount it should have been, even taking into account that you always pay more if you sit down rather than stand at the bar. I’ve been overcharged left, right and center all over Italy (especially when I travelled without Italians) but that day I decided to fight, wrongly assuming that I would be given some slack because I can finally argue in Italian.

I started off by questioning the bill (which was just a number on a piece of paper, with no break-down of the charges) and then decided to make my case:

 Ho mai pagato 2 euro per un caffè in Italia! I’ve never paid 2 euros for a coffee in Italy!

Non è vero. Un caffè è 3 euro a Venezia. That is not true. A coffee is 3 euros in Venice.

Ma siamo nel SUD. But we’re in the SOUTH.

Si, certo. Il caffè è meglio qui. Yes of course. The coffee is better here.

The argument did not end here. He showed me a piece of paper saying he has to charge this much because of how high his taxes are and I, in turn, tried to get another café patron on my side by asking her how much she paid for her coffee (she was having none of this, as she probably was annoyed at this silly tourist trying to get the same price as her at the café she’s been going to her whole life). Defeated, I threw the money on the counter and sat back down and started ranting to Bess about how tourists are taken advantage of in Italy and then phoned Gio to continue my rant. A kindly waiter came up to me and asked Sei arrabiata? (Are you angry?) I nearly made him jump out of his apron when I said SI! while shoving my cell phone at him and telling him to talk to my Napolitano boyfriend who is also angry about me getting ripped off. Even Gio had no success with the owner, who by this point already had my money and was not about to give it back after talking to some stranger on the phone.

As I said, this is far from the first time I’ve been taken advantage of as a tourist in Italy, but on this particular day, I decided to try to do something about it. While knowing the local language didn’t save me that extra euro on my coffee, I did manage to at least stand my ground whilst make a very satisfying scene. And I now know to ask to see the list of prices before ordering, to avoid this situation in the future.

The Opinionated Optical Fashionista

Italians, more so than any other group of people I’ve encountered, have amazingly fashionable eyes. In a country known for its world-class designers, why would eyewear be exempt? The frames I’ve seen on the Italians my age are oftentimes fun, colourful and fearless. So, when I went with Gio’s brother, Andrea, to help him pick out new frames, it ended up being an education in style.

As we visited about four or five stores in total, I started to notice a pattern in the staff and merchandise. The first place we went to, we were met by a curly-haired firecracker of a lady who seemed to be quite sure of what sort of glasses Andrea should have. He currently wears a pair of subtle rectangular wire frames and was looking for a change in the shape of some oval-shaped frames. Well, I can tell you right now, the oval-shape is simply not in style this season in Italy. You can forget about finding anything except nerd-chic rectangles or something in a Harry Potter-meets-the-1950s. Miss Curlyhair decided to hand Andrea frame after frame of black plastic Buddy Holly frames, claiming that this would look best for him. She was talking non-stop while he tried on the frames, giving him a running dialogue of her opinion about the latest trends in eyewear. He told her he would think about it, and we went to the next shop.

The next shops were more of the same types of frames, with similar merchants. The last shop though, had a particularly chic looking merchant in brightly framed glasses and a lab coat. He also had quite strong opinions about what style Andrea should choose (ruling out, of course, the oval-shape that is not in fashion this year and therefore is not available). He ended up trying on some really nice frames, but some of them had quite dramatic sides, for example, bright white plastic with a big Armani logo. Both Andrea and I agreed he looked nice in a couple of the more subtle frames. When the merchant saw this choice, he softly chastised Andrea, saying that he is young and should really go for something more “fresh.” After I sided with Andrea, the merchant made a comment about me being his girlfriend. When we corrected him saying I was actually his older brother’s girlfriend, (as he made sure to ask), the man nodding knowingly, as if it all finally made sense. Clearly, I’m just a bit too old to be a representative of the young and fresh Italian eyeglass wearers!

Andrea never chose a pair of frames that day. Perhaps he should just wait until oval comes back in style.

Interacting with people is one of the great pleasures of living in another country. The good interactions are rewarding and the bad interactions turn into good stories for the people back home, and a conversation topic with the people who live here (and how to avoid a repeat offense.) One thing is certain, as my Italian is improving, so is the overall quality of all of my interactions.  

Fare una passeggiata

 Because I’ve been working from home (developing an online language learning platform) for the past month and a half, getting out of the house to take a walk at some point during the day has become an essential part of my daily ritual. However, the temperature in Caserta keeps going up and up and up (37 degrees this week), which makes it difficult to “fare una passeggiata” after 9am and before 7pm. Rather inconveniently, these are the hours when Gio is at school and I’m left to my own devices. Regardless, I’ve soldiered on, and from these various walks around the small city center of Caserta, I’ve made a number of observations. This is a walk I often take…

First, I go through the courtyard and exit Gio’s apartment complex (which is comprised of six apartments that are each inhabited by his relations). Entering the street, I need to look left to make sure I am not immediately run over by the cars racing through the one-way street. Having survived the crossing, I continue on through a small piazza. This neighbourhood piazza is lined with leafy, shade-providing trees, and thus, is quite popular for locals, pigeons and stray dogs alike. I make a point of crossing through the piazza, to take advantage of a precious moment of shade. Continuing on towards the train station, I pass by the newly opened Chinese dollar store, the pizzeria which I’ve been told to avoid because of its “schifose” conditions, a bookstore with weather-worn second-hand books on display outside, and the ever giggle-inducing Bim Bum Bar. At the end of the street there is The Family on the Corner.

The Family on the Corner has taken it upon themselves to extend their apartment onto the street. While in Italy life is much more lived in the streets than it is in Canada, this family has taken this cultural idiosyncrasy to the extreme. There are about 8-10 family members, including: a babe in arms, a couple of little tykes who I often almost trip over, a few women in perpetually too-tight clothing and too-high heels, a pot-bellied middle-ager, and a young man in a wheelchair. The Family on the Corner has set up multiple plastic chairs and toys on this busy foot-traffic street corner, across from the already cumbersome train tracks (which by themselves cause lots of congestion if a train is passing by). If a train is passing by, I take the graffiti-filled underpass. Surprisingly, it doesn’t smell bad down there, and is quite refreshing and cool. If there is no train, I walk on top of the tracks alongside the cars, bikes and scooters that traverse en masse.

Continuing on, I pick up some cereal, yogurt and still-water from the Brio grocery store. Gio’s family doesn’t buy these items because biscotti are the typical Italian breakfast food of choice and their preference is to drink lightly carbonated water (to aid in digestion). After hearing about my friend’s kidney problems (and subsequent hospital visit) after drinking too much of the extremely calcium and chlorine-filled tap water, I’m sticking to the bottled stuff. Needing less than 10 cents change, the grocery store clerk decides not to bother returning the pennies. I think she does this to everyone needing pennies change, perhaps to keep the extra money from the till at the end of the day, perhaps from sheer laziness… or perhaps it’s in protest of how annoying pennies are!

Leaving the Brio, I pass an African man who lays out his wares on a white cloth outside of the Brio each day. These white cloths can deftly scoop up all the wares in one fell swoop if a police man is in sight. Caserta has many (often illegal) immigrants from African countries, who have fled war and extreme poverty. Italy has not integrated all of them into society, so instead, for example, stopping at a long traffic light in a car means that a man will come up to your window and wash it (unless you’ve put your wipers on first) or push tissues or plastic toys into your window. He will be accompanied by various other men, who are trying the same thing with the rest of the cars in the line. I like the man outside the Brio. He never tries to push his wares on anyone, and sells wooden carvings and the same type of useful fruit basket that my mom has (with a moveable net to keep insects out). As with every time I pass him, I wonder what his story is, and wonder if he speaks French (because I don’t know exactly which African country he is from, so it could be possible). I was also recently told that he probably has to give half of his earnings to the Camorra.

Further along, I pass a couple of cheap clothing stores run by more immigrants (this time from Asia), a man selling the most seasonal fruit from a cart (though these days he’s been selling grilled corn), and a deli where the man tells you what panino he thinks you should get, based on what is good today. After this street I need to be careful walking, as the sidewalk has ended and if I don’t walk straight against the store fronts, my foot could get run over by a car or scooter that is sharing the same road. Coming up on a main road, to the left there are two of my favourite bars to go for an aperitivo, which always come with copious amounts of snacks, including small sandwiches with marinated vegetables, cheeses and meats. These snacks are complimentary at both bars, and tipping is not required, which makes going out for a drink and nibbles significantly less expensive than in Canada. However, since it’s not aperitivo hour (5-8pm), I continue straight on, across a busy road.

Crossing this busy road is an art form. There is a faded zebra crossing, which is but a mere apparition of order. To cross the road successfully, I take a strong step out into the road, appearing to look ahead while actually keeping a watchful eye to my left and my feet ready to halt at an instant. If the cars were to think I was going to wait for them to cross, they would never stop, so I must make it seem like I myself am not going to stop walking across the road, in order to make them put on the brakes. Basically, it’s a game of chicken. Luckily, Italians are not the murderous sort, so they (usually) stop. But, I must be strong and not show them I am secretly afraid of dying an untimely death in the middle of the strada. The second crossing proves easier, since the cars coming from the right are easier to convince that I’m serious about crossing, since I’m already in the middle of the street.

Having survived that ordeal, I continue along another even narrower road, shared by all types of traffic. Because of the narrowness, this road is usually quite nicely shaded, as well as being protected by the tall buildings and the shadows cast by characteristic Naples-esque laundry fluttering in the wind. This street marks the transition between the stores that sell practical goods to the stores that sell nice clothing, purses, knick-knacks, and other such frivolous sundry. In the heart of the city, further on, I could buy a pair of Prada heels, if I ever got the whim to do such a thing.

After this narrow road my walk could diffuse in various directions: I could continue straight on in a similar fashion, turn left and go towards the Royal Palace, head towards the main shopping drag (and get those Prada heels), turn right and pay a visit to the tiny fair trade/organic shop, or stop in a café and sit and enjoy a macchiato.  Then, I loop back, and take the same route home.

Going for a walk in Caserta is a feast for the senses. It’s not exactly a relaxing experience, but it’s definitely a cultural experience. All I need to do is step outside of the apartment, and there is no doubt that life is being lived in every corner of this city. 

A girl is carried across the street after a heavy rain fall/flood in June. Brio workers watch the scene and sweep the water away from the store front.

Tu vuò fà la napoletana… ma sei nata in Canada !

Tu vuò fà la napoletana… ma sei nata in Canada !

Italian hospitality never ceases to amaze me. I was the recipient of whirlwind hospitality last summer and this time around, I’ve been welcomed into an Italian home for as long as I need and want. I’ve come to learn that hospitality, especially in southern Italy, is an art form that is not to be taken lightly.

My role in Gio’s family is still in progress, as living with your boyfriend’s parents in any country is not an easily defined role. We’ve all been transitioning and adapting. I will always be grateful to them for not only welcoming me into their home, but for: entirely transforming two rooms to create a bedroom for us (an unmarried couple in a Catholic household), getting me a job where I am able to make a decent amount of money, acquiring a new (used) vehicle for my use, refusing to let me pay room and board… and the list goes on. However, for me, it’s hard to accept such overwhelming generosity without feeling the need to contribute something.

At the start of my sojourn, I had a few hiccups in my quest to not be a burden on the family. After Gio’s mom made a comment about how quickly we ran out of toilet paper in our bathroom, I went out and bought some as well as a bottle of their preferred laundry soap, thinking that might be a thoughtful contribution. Well, it turns out that I was scolded for spending money on such paltry household items, and as a dear friend pointed out, I’m not living in a shared apartment L’auberge espagnole style! Basically, it wasn’t the appropriate contribution.

I’ve also had a couple of hilarious cooking snafus. I’ve since realized that offering to make a whole meal for the family does not work so well with the flow of their household. Since this realization, I’ve made food, but not entire meals. Is there a more direct route to anyone’s heart than… fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies? However, if anyone has ever tried baking in a different country, you’ll know that it’s not so simple. Ingredients are different and altitude and climate are different, which all interfere with the science of baking. My cookies lacked brown sugar (which I am pretty sure doesn’t exist here) and a proper leavening agent (I used sodium bicarbonate because baking soda also doesn’t exist here… and then realized that one does not equal the other). Also, the nonna helped me grease the pan which resulted in the first batch of cookies pretty much being fried instead of baked! The family did happily eat the “cookies” over the next few days, but I felt those cookies did not well represent my baking abilities.

The second cooking snafu was trying to make quinoa for a traditional Italian family.  What’s wrong with quinoa? Well, nothing, but I went about it the wrong way. Quinoa was the principal ingredient in the dish whereas I probably should have used it to bulk up a salad or other ingredients. The dish turned very earthy and so the flavour profiles just weren’t something the family was used to. Gio proclaimed in Italian (not realizing how good my comprehension has gotten) “If I ate this every day, I would lose so much weight!” which is exactly how it tasted. To be completely honest, it just wasn’t very yummy. My next starch attempt was a mayonnaise-laden potato salad. Much better results that time!

 “Going out for Thai” or “picking up Chinese” isn’t in the Italian vocabulary. Many Italians are used to cooking only Italian food. To a North American, this may seem like a very limited way of cooking, but it really isn’t. I’ve been here for more than a month and a half and we’ve rarely eaten the same thing more than once, except for a few basic lunchtime pasta dishes.  Italy has an extremely diverse food culture, especially between the North and South. However, sometimes the family surprises me with what they find exotic. At lunchtime today, Gio’s mom asked me how I usually use mustard. Then his brother proceeded to put some on a piece of bread with a slice of cheese and salami (sounds pretty standard, right?) and proclaimed the flavour of the mustard to be “troppo forte.” Oh well, they’ve liked it when I’ve snuck it in a few sauces.

My quest to find a rhythm in the family hit a speed bump a few weeks ago when I was sick with a high fever, “la febbre,” which seems to be a common Italian virus that goes around, like the flu. My way of dealing with sickness in Canada is sleeping and drinking water and ginger ale until I feel better. My parents involvement is basically doing what I ask (“please make me a hot water bottle” or “can you bring me some water and an advil?”) and leaving me to sleep (thanks parents!) The Italian way of dealing with illness is much more involved. This caused some issues.

The whole family was very concerned with my fever, which was kind and caring of them, but also very intense. My temperature was measured every few hours (to accurately give me the appropriate dose of medicine), no matter if I was sleeping or not. This was mostly okay, except for one time when I was woken up by two very concerned parents at 9 am, while I was in the middle of a deep, sweaty-fever sleep. I was groggy and disoriented, Gio wasn’t around to translate, and his parents were asking me a number of rapid-fire Italian questions! If anyone has had to speak another language they aren’t 100% comfortable with a 101.8 F fever, you’ll know this is no easy task.

Another difference is that my parents give sleep the number one priority when sick, whereas Gio’s parents give eating the number one priority. The problem with this was that my fever was making me feel nauseous. I forced myself to eat a bit and ended up throwing up! So here I am, refusing to eat, and Gio’s parents are completely insistent that I eat, and are very worried when I don’t. Enter Gio himself, who got caught in the eating battle crossfire, with me on one side refusing to eat and trying to get him to tell his parents I don’t need to eat, and his parents on the other trying to get him to get me to eat. It was a stressful situation that escalated as the days when on and the fever had not broken yet. I felt very bad because I felt like my fever was making the whole house completely stressed out, and when I finally got better, I felt very nervous about my position in the family because I felt like my way of dealing with illness could be seen as obstinate and uncooperative.

Luckily for me, after that, three delightful visitors blew into town and really made things better. My dear friend Annette came with her parents (luckily after la febbre), which was a nice shift of focus after being cooped up for a week, sick as a dog. Gio mentioned to his parents that I had friends coming, and they immediately went into super-southern-Italian-hospitality mode. They invited them to their hill house in Casertavecchia for a grand feast that took two cooking days and one cleaning day to put together. We made a thoughtful linguistic arrangement at the table to make sure that those who didn’t speak either Italian or English had someone nearby to help. The evening started off with a historic walk around the city itself with a bottle of prosecco to enjoy the view before heading to the house to enjoy prosciutto direct from Casertavecchia itself, marinated vegetables as well as grilled fish, mozzarella di bufala and a traditional babà cake for dessert. The efforts Gio’s family went to to put on this meal for friends of mine, who they had never met, were incredible. It also made me feel really touched that they would do such a thing for my friends and therefore, for me. It was the reassurance I needed after feeling uneasy about how I was being perceived after being sick.

Life here continues to evolve and unfold, but as the days pass, it seems like a rhythm is starting to develop. It’s still a little offbeat, and may always be that way based on the situation, but Italy is definitely starting to embrace me with its charms. 

View from Casertavecchia to Caserta below