An Italian Education

I've had a strange day.  I was abducted after lunch by a Spaniard and an Argentine guy who's name I can't pronounce.  They took me to a bar to have coffee and to do something they referred to as "selling each other to women."  I think they wanted to talk to Italian girls and pull the ol' wingman routine with the help of a smiley American, but unfortunately, the girls must have heard we were coming and completely avoided the aforementioned cafe. 

Though there were no females to be had, we found the next best thing: twenty rowdy Italian dudes celebrating the graduation of a friend by making him run shirtless through a gauntlet. We may not have been able to sell each other to women, but the three of us had quite the time drinking coffee and slapping a stranger until his back was red and covered in congratulatory welts.  I am less shocked by the abuse for graduates as I am by the fact that anyone can earn enough credit to reach the gauntlet stage at all. 

Upon returning from Spain, I tried to go to my comparative politics class and couldn't find it anywhere.  This lecture had been an elusive catch to begin with, meeting from 6-8 p.m. on Tuesdays, 11-1 p.m. on Wednesdays, and 9-11 a.m. on Thursdays (how anyone is supposed to make a schedule without classes conflicting is beyond me).  After trying desperately to find comparative politics for a week, even taking extreme measures such as looking for it in different environments, hunting early in the morning, and leaving bait and a rope-trap outside my room, I hung up my safari hat for the weekend and decided I would have to try to tackle my academic prey next week.

When I showed up at the original classroom at 5:45 on Tuesday, I found the door locked and the lights off.  A few students had gathered outside by 6:00 which convinced me to continue to wait and sure enough, at 6:15 a young woman arrived and unlocked the door.  I followed the students inside and took my normal seat in the back, but something seemed different and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Did the professor get a haircut? New shoes perhaps?  I knew he looked different somehow but...oh I know, he's twenty years younger and a woman now.

When I asked this new professor what happened she gave me a look that said, "who are you?" and I gave her a look that said, "who are you?"  It was awkward.  It turns out that some time during the mysterious week where I lost my class, I also lost a professor, and worst of all I lost an exam, as in I missed it.  There are only two tests during the semester so I thought my chances of passing the only class I need to transfer back to UVM had disappeared faster than an Italian university course.  However, the new professor kindly informed me that the tests are only one option for passing the course.

I will be taking an oral exam on June 3rd...that is, if I can find it.  Wish me luck.

Paella with the Family Gea

Gea (pronounced "Hey-Ya" with a bit of Chutzpah at the beginning) made good on his promise and drove us to his parents house in Orihuela, which has about as many gorgeous cathedrals as inhabitants.

Gea's family does not speak English, and my American companions and I do not speak Spanish. Oh what an awkwardly silent lunch we must have had you say, but no.  In another example of how people can always find a way to communicate, the lunch was full of conversation. Gea would sometimes interpret from Italian to Spanish and vice-versa, or hand signals and smiles proved to be enough.  

Mother Gea bopped into the kitchen throughout the meal, constantly returning with heaping plates of Paella, seafood platters, bowls piled high with fruits that I have never seen before, cakes, and even champagne famous in five continents. She seemed constantly disappointed with her own brilliant food.  "Not enough meat in the Paella," she complained, shaking her head.  I did my best to make her feel better by eating as much as possible and butchering the Spanish language, "es buena, esta me gusta."

Mother Gea seemed less upset by the food as by the information we gave her.  When she learned that my American friends and I had walked fifteen minutes from the Valencia bus station to Gea's apartment she was concerned.  When she found out that we would eventually be taking a twelve hour bus ride from Granada to Barcelona she was not pleased.  She was visibly upset by the fact that I am only twenty years old and so far away from my family, and when we told her how much the average American education costs I thought she might faint.

Thankfully there was no reason to worry in an emergency as all of the Geas work in medicine, except Fernando.  Because he studies engineering, the oldest son is the subject of constant jokes and ridicule, but he takes in good stride.  "I don't like medicine, they do, but it's not for me," he told me proudly.

Mother Gea pointed around the table and informed us that Father Gea was a doctor, she helped at the hospital sometimes, the middle son was a nurse, and her youngest was studying to be a dentist.  When we raised our champagne glasses we toasted to, what else?  Salud: health.

When I had eaten more Paella and Spanish fruit than any hungover individual should, Gea took us on a small tour of pristine Orihuela, and even drove us to the train station and waited on the platform, completing his role as super-host.   Next time I raise my glass in Spain, it will surely be accompanied by a toast to engineering.

Valencia

My good friend Fernando Gea proved to be an excellent host when I arrived in Valencia, frantically driving a couple of hours from his parents' house to show me the city and let my friends and I sleep in his apartment.  

Valencia has everything, including bumping nightlife, a medieval city center, the ultra-modern city of arts and sciences designed by native born Santiago Calatrava, a dry river full of palm trees, beautiful beaches, and even it's own language, (don't let anyone hear you calling Valencian a Catalan dialect).

My two American friends and I spent the days oversleeping and sight-seeing, Gea providing tours in Italian, which were informative and hilarious.  When we arrived at a nearby restaurant  around 10:30 p.m. it was deserted (too early for a Spanish dinner), but all of the tables were already claimed by parties arriving later.  The sympathetic host was so helpful that he called another restaurant on our behalf, and five minutes later, I found myself drinking endless sangria and eating like a king at a table that read "Fernando."  

The one thing missing from my Valencia visit was the real Paella.  Gea had warned me not to try the famous rice dish in Barcelona for, as he claimed, I would only be able to find the true version in his city where it was created. Unfortunately, all of the good Paella places were closed for Holy Week. "No problem," Gea insisted, his mother also makes a great Paella, and she only lives two hours from Valencia; conveniently enough, on the way to my next Spanish stop, Granada.

I snapped the picture above after a rainstorm, and it might be my favorite from Europe so far.

Obama British Africa

Barcelona is unique.  Where else can one find wide elegant boulevards, dream-inducing architecture, sandy beaches, and hundreds of mustached men offering cold beers for one Euro?

I saw the sights, and the zoo too, but the most eclectic part of Barcelona, for me anyway, was the night life.

In only a couple of nights I found myself in Irish pubs, Tapas bars, a hip jazz club with a lanky white Louis Armstrong impersonator, an Indian tea bar with thrones for seats, and a pub devoted completely to tobacco pipes.  The strangest of all had to be a place called Obama British Africa.

The bar was on the way to my hostel and the leopard skin and heads on the outside made me say to myself, I know I have to go in there, but do I really want to?   

The inside was adorned with various pelts, statues of long necked Africans in glass cases, and signs that said things like, "I do enjoy my cup of Lyon's Tea sold in spreads of MOMBASA."  The photograph directly across from me portrayed a particularly happy pith-helmeted imperialist displaying a slain crocodile while fifteen or so loin-clothed fellows looked on.  As if the wall hangings and general backwardness of the place wasn't enough, every single plasma screen TV showed PGA golf.  I felt uneasy to say the least, and when my seven euro margarita arrived and tasted like piss, I felt even more uneasy.  I needed some answers.

The waitress was very patient as I peppered her with questions about the bar that seemed to be what the folks at Applebees or Chilis would come up with if told to decorate a British officers' club.  The waitress informed me that Obama British Africa was opened a few months before the real Obama was elected.  She wasn't exactly sure why.

"No offense," I said, "but I could not imagine President Obama coming here for a drink."  

"I know," she replied.  "people tell me that every day."

¿Is This a Spanish Keyboard or What?

I used to hate Spain, and for terrible reasons. My first journy abroad led me to Italy with a group of high school friends, most of whom had taken a similar trip to Spain the year before. Naturally this resulted in a lot of,

¨Oh my God, that´s just like the statue we saw in Spain!¨
¨¿Hey speaking of restaurants, remember that fifty course meal we had in Spain?¨
¨Lets talk about the bullfight we saw in Spain.¨
¨This street is dirty. It would never be this dirty in Spain.¨
¨I love Spain.¨

This sort of banter was frustrating as it often led to unfair comparisons and resulted in a lot of discussion about a place that only some of us had been to rather than enjoyment of what was in front of our faces. Instead of taking things out on my friends (I hate you guys by the way), I took it out on the country itself. After making so many Spanish friends this year in Trieste, I have been anxiously awaiting a chance to put those feelings to bed, and ¿Guess what?

I love Spain.

Barcelona is unique and includes everything a city should offer. The wide streets allowed me to breathe again, the sights lived up to the hype, and the beach was full of characters, providing for superb people watching.

Valencia had an unprecidented mix of ancient and modern neighborhoods. We ate dinner at eleven and hit the clubs at four or five, and best yet, I got to hang out with Spaniards on their own turf.

I´m here in Granada where the sun is shining and the Tapas are plentiful. Pictures and detailed stories will arrive when I return to Trieste on the 18th of April, so see you then.

Language Tips

For some folks just being lingual is enough, but for anyone looking to add a Bi- or a Multi- to that lingual label, here are some friendly suggestions.

1. Take a structured course or lessons: A capable instructor and regular homework assignments will not only be helpful for proficiency in a specific tongue, but will also provide necessary skills for understanding the mechanics of language itself.  A general grasp on tenses, number and gender agreement, sentence structure, etc, will form a solid foundation for dabbling in any language.

2. Set realistic goals: Fluency takes years of practice or complete immersion.  It's going to take a long time to become comfortable with any new language, so start small.  Scoring well on an exam, understanding a foreign pop song, or looking across a restaurant table at a confused friend and saying "if you want chicken, go with the one at the bottom," are important steps.

3. Read the internet:  There are a lot of free resources out there to improve reading skills. Before coming to Italy, I checked out an Italian newspaper online or browsed Italian Wikipedia whenever I got a chance.  Learning about the life and times of a canine movie star might not be the most useful information in the world, but learning it in another language (even without understanding a great deal), will improve vocabulary, comprehension, and even writing skills.

4. Listen to the internet: Can't quite afford that $300.00 Rosetta Stone CD set?  Try a free podcast; all you need is iTunes and an internet connection.  http://www.apple.com/itunes/ is a good place to start.  

5. Be wary of online translators:  Yes, the internet does provide many free, useful language resources.  However, direct internet translators like Babel Fish don't know a thing about idioms or context; the true essence of communication.  Use them sparingly, like to translate a mystery word rather than a mystery sentence or paragraph.  

6. Find someone to practice with: A native speaker can help with correcting mistakes and teaching the things we can't learn in a structured class (yes this includes profanity, woohoo). Sometimes native speakers can be intimidating though; after all, they are fluent.  

Start with a fellow beginner, and even though mistakes will be made, progress is inevitable. Try mixing in food, drink, or sport to help the conversation flow.

7. Make lists: It's difficult to carry a dictionary around at all times.  Try a tiny notebook instead, or even jot down unknown words on the back of a business card or receipt. Looking their definitions up later will increase the size of the all important vocabulary, and the act of writing something down in itself improves the chances of remembering it.

8.  Leave the ego at home:  Anyone practicing a foreign language is going to say things like, "I don't want to pay higher taxis!" and "May I find a piece of your lasagna?" Laugh it off and try again; the mistakes are half the fun.

Any tips to add?  Share them in the comments section in whatever language you'd like.