HOW DO YOU SAY

Welp, I have to hand it to the universe: I did not expect to ever hear "Thrift Shop" by Macklemore while thrift shopping.  But it happened, and it gave me distinct pleasure, and I may have had to suppress a little dance.  And I am listening to it again now because it's catchy and it's been awhile.  This afternoon, Vale and Ginni decided it was a good time for us to go try on some discount designer clothes, or more specifically, to find "vestiti belli e buffi" for "la Julia" (note: I will answer to "la Julia" upon my return), aka I was going to be their doll and be at the mercy of their fashionable whims.  And so I was.  I pulled some truly marvelous and horrifying creations over my head.  Was intimidated at first by shopping with real live Italian ladies who instinctively know what is hot and what is not, because there is no telling (if you're me) when their faces will contort with disgust as you pull it off the rack (and then immedia...

Decided to read a passage from one of my books to F, and realized with horror that people use WAY too many adjectives, adverbs, and idioms.*  I can't translate this shit--and why should I?  Imma get me some Hemingway and read it to this boy!  Nouns and verbs, baby.  All we need. A typical stumbling block: I'm translating sentences with Ginni, and as I watch her wrinkle her nose at one of my beautiful sentences, I remember that the concept of "eating dinner" is nonsensical to Italians.  Facepalm.  Of course Italians don't "eat dinner."  That would be ridiculous.  No--Italians  dine . Beppe decided to take a photo of me and Ginni yesterday, and ACK, it is super cool to be photographed by a photographer, even if it is with an iPad.  He told us to look at him but not to smile, which is very legit and also very difficult, and also I tend to look like a deranged monster when I don't smile.  This photo made it onto Instagram with a cap...

I'm supposed to get out of my head when I feel like this but that's not what blogs are for so here's (some of) what's inside: Forgot that I rely on dryers for my clothes to fit.  Belts aren't good enough, people!  My pants are falling off, and I am not getting any thinner! Washing your underwear in the sink is not so bad.  You form a strong bond with your intimates. When you try and try to walk slow but find yourself again and again walking fast even though you aren't going anywhere--what is that?  I don't like it. Q: How many months does it take for a crap umbrella to break if you use it very carefully and are willing to say fuck it and get soaked when there's a little wind? A: Eleven. I get creeped out by the smiling strangers in America and I get creeped out by the stone-faced strangers in Italia.  Grass is always greener. Too much rain makes rain in my head, maybe. Foods I did not used to like at some point in my life but now eat with pleasu...

On a whim decided to go to Palm Sunday mass with Beppe and Franci.  'Cause hey, when's the last time I went to mass?  Oh right: never.  Except that this didn't end up happening, exactly; we dropped Franci off at the local church, then headed downtown to another church for which Beppe feels more affinity, I guess.  On the way, Beppe asked if I wanted to go to confession, and my heart literally skipped a beat.  I think he was joking, but in those two seconds before my chosen response (nervous laughter): how do you...?  what would I even...?  where would I begin?  We got to the church just as the bell tolled noon, but we didn't stick around for mass, we just wandered through and got ourselves our olive tree branches, and I watched as Beppe crossed himself repeatedly while contemplating the falsity and insincerity of such a gesture were it ever performed by me and hoping that my blatant heathen-presence--dress too short? looks like I just went swimmi...

Some things that I think about:  1. Instead of saying "what" (in the sense of "hmm?") Italians say "how."  I like this.  In real life, the situation probably plays out the same in either language, but I think "how" is a word with much more depth and possibility.  2. Instead of saying that they love pizza, or they love a dress, or even that they love their friend, Italians don't.  They like these things.  Maybe they like them very much.  Trust me, they have no shortage of ways of saying how awesome or beautiful or delicious something is; men will greet each other with "ciao bello" and kiss each other on the face, so it's cool.  But love is its own realm, and pizza is not allowed in.  I would guess that this allows for less romantic confusion?  Maybe?  3. More than anything, the noises that Italians make are what make me feel like a stranger here.  Even if I reach poet-laureate levels of fluency some day, I will never shrug ...

Yo, whaddup, St. Patrick's Day is not a thing in Italy.  Unless you're taking an English class, in which case it's an excuse for your teacher to make you have class on a Sunday. Lunch with the extended family today.  Lots of shouting, F1 racing on TV, pasta, quail, vino, profiteroles.  Passeggiata with Beppe and the dog through sleepy streets.  We ducked into a villa-turned-museum to see an exhibit about this dude , which was entertaining.  Also ran into aforementioned-factory-worker-guy in the park, which was awkward. Juventus won that soccer game, to nobody's surprise. I might've had too much coffee. That is all.

To the river, I went. To San Luca, I went. Also went on a long drive through the countryside with Beppe, to pick up F from some ancient church where he'd spent the night with his class.  It wasn't educational as far as I can tell, so....it was the Italian version of a camping trip, I guess?  The drive was alternately beautiful, enlightening (much WWII history was bestowed upon me), and terrifying, as the roads were...well, it's generous to call them roads.  Steep and twisty-turny.  B had a lover who died on these roads, he said.  So lots of emotions, white-knuckles, and stories of German slaughter.  We stopped at a cafe along the mountainside for a pick-me-up, and arrived back in Bologna in time for a raging thunderstorm.  This is the time of year when I start experiencing a deep longing for thunderstorms, so I was comforted by all the crashing and flashing and torrential rain. Watched the new pope p...

"Fuck them off," says Beppe, about communists.  "Fuck them off," he says, about fascists, capitalists, the police, H&M.  There used to be an ancient, cool old bar where H&M now stands, flashing sparkly mannequins in its prominent windows.  Beppe (to whom I've been referring as G--now he's Beppe) takes a drag on his fourth cigarette of the afternoon as we wind through the Saturday crowd, everyone carrying dripping umbrellas.  What started as a sunny spring day morphed into a drizzly afternoon and then transformed into a mesmerizing, watercolor evening. I'll start with the morning, though: was so balmy that I could have my floor-to-ceiling windows open.  Doing that got me into my running clothes and out the door pronto.  I found a running path, I found the river, AND I found a running path ALONG the river.  (I am always either searching for or finding running paths and rivers...it's what I do.)  So that was a major score. Lunch was pasta...

Spent this rainy afternoon with an old friend. English lessons are becoming quite musical--Beatles, Bob Dylan, ubiquitous contemporary pop, and my favorite blues guys are nice teaching tools.  For Ginni, anyway. If anyone has any advice about 12 year old boys (going on 13), let me know.  My very presence appears to terrify him.  My only real experience with such creatures is my brother, and as I recall we spent most of that era trying to kill each other. To my Marylanders: happy snow day!  (Is there snow?) UPDATE: Spending the night with the men, drinking Castello Rosso (good Italian beer), eating crescente (local specialty, like focaccia but uber salty), listening to the Sex Pistols, and playing darts in the basement with the "Lebowski Darts Club."  Happy gal, me.

I went to Verona yesterday.  That happened because the mysterious phone lady turned out to be the person who placed me with my host family.  She admitted that she did not tell me this over the phone; what she did tell me is still a mystery.  But she came over just to chat, and then she invited me to go to Verona with her and some friends.  Verona does not equal hospice visits, but incidentally this lady would be awesome at hospice visits.  Those people would probably end up living. Here is me.  Savor this if you're interested in photos of me, because I dunno how many more of these there will be.   We went to a portrait exhibit in the Palazzo della Guardia which included many of the most famous portraits that have ever been done--the most spellbinding of which were those by Caravaggio and John Singer Sargent, imo.  Lunch at a nice little trattoria: formaggio, buon vino, coniglio con polenta, sorely needed espresso.  Spent the rest...

But it's torture, you'll say.  I'd rather do  _______ (something personally horrendous that's still better than running), you'll say.  Yeah.  It is torture.  But it's one of the best kinds of torture.  I won't presume to know definitively what the best is, though several come to mind.  Anyway, today I ran up to San Luca--okay fine, I didn't run all the way up, I made it about halfway and then limped/panted the rest of the way--and then down the back roads which wind around and up and down Bologna's hills.  I had the whole countryside to myself, not a car or person in sight, just the snowy orchards and the steep hillsides and the panoramas and the dark pine trees and the occasional ancient building.  Every once in a while, San Luca popped into view and then disappeared.  The whole loop was about 7 miles, and it made me giddy, and I didn't need anybody else around for it to be a good experience.  Tonight Vale put me on the phone wi...