Two nights ago Luciana and I were talking over dinner, she mentioned to me that she needed to get gas the next day.
The next day at dinner the news was on as usual, and Luciana tells me, “I tried to get gas today but I couldn’t, I got there and there wasn’t any.” I thought this was strange and asked why, “Communisti!” she replied and then pointed at the television where the news story was playing about there being no gas available in all of Italy due to a strike.
Strikes are something I’ve already gotten used to in Italy, they happen all the time, though it is mostly the buses or other modes of transportation. When something is happening politically that people disagree with, they strike. The transportation workers most directly serve the public so they are the first ones to go. This shows the government immediately where they would be without the people and it usually only happens for a half day or so and then ends, I never really hear if they are successful, or what the strike is really for, but we are usually told a week or so before, “just so you know, no trains Friday from noon to midnight.” Or something like this.
When we first got here the high school students were striking because they felt they were being treated unfairly by being forced to take certain exams or something. They organized a protest and actually did something about the causes that they disagreed with in their own lives.
This passion and involvement in political goingson astounds me. It is something I find refreshing; can you imagine American high school students taking anything into their own hands? While it is incredibly inconvenient a lot of times I think it is important to remind everyone that the things you depend on daily depend on someone else doing their job. The lack of gas yesterday was because the group of truck drivers who usually deliver the gas all over the country were striking. I asked Luciana why again and she responded “Because they’re communists,” as if that explained it, and then she added, “but they’re right.” They were working without contracts for meager wages and they realized how unfair this was—the country literally depends on them—and they showed the country just how much simply by making them go without for a day.
People couldn’t drive, taxi companies were driving until their cars were on empty, the fresh fruit and vegetables weren’t delivered to the grocery stores this morning because there were no trucks to deliver them, the gas stations saved what gas they had left for ambulances and emergency vehicles, and yet Italian life went on. And those commie drivers got the attention from the government that they wanted.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Some Christmas in Italia
The lights on Via Calzaiuoli, outside of my school.
Roasted Chestnuts. Mmmmm.
The Store windows! Fashion meets Christmas. Italian Style.
More lights.
Me at the Christmas Market at Santa Croce after my crazy Italian haircut!
Christmas Tree at the Christmas market!
Luciana
The past couple weeks I have gotten closer and closer with Luciana, my host mom. The third girl living in our house ended her program and returned to Switzerland, and with just three of us now at the table the conversations have gotten increasingly personal.
Luciana is an amazing woman, she curses every night at dinner as we watch the news, she hates politicians, and criminals and judges everyone initially on their appearance, though she is willing to change her mind if said person turns out to be a good person inside.
She told me the other day that her sister has always had to tell her, “Luciana, count to three before speaking.” She told me that she is just blunt and she never lies. And I believe her. After using a curse word she laughs and looks at us, “we only use these words in the house, right?”
Her husband died of lung cancer fifteen years ago, I think this is the same year she started hosting exchange students. It is also the year she quit smoking. Now she has two sons and three grandsons. All but the youngest grandson are smokers, and she calls them idiots for it. When Katherine and I first got here we couldn’t figure out if her husband had died or if she was divorced, over time we knew he had died. She speaks of him often and always fondly. He was a professor, he sounds brilliant, and I’m sure he was because she is too.
I think Luciana is in her eighties, though when I first got here I thought she was in her younger sixties. She doesn’t have a wrinkle on her face and she is always smiling. She says when she was younger she was beautiful, and I believe her. She says men used to follow her every time she left the house, but that back then it wasn’t a scary thing. She said her husband was one of those men. She never paid attention to them, but he figured out a way to get to know her. Even today she says men will offer her wine at restaurants or ask her out on the street, but she says, “they are all old,” and she will always love her husband.
Sunday over breakfast she told us this year has been hard. She has three friends in the hospital, two, she says, she’s sure will be going to the other world, one she’s not so sure about. Friends call her house all morning and all evening and she is out almost every day going to the movies, or going to lunch with them. She told us you reach an age where you have more dead friends than ones alive. She is never overly romantic or emotional, just honest. She looked at us and said, “but we’re all here, and you two get to go to the soccer game today!”
Luciana is an amazing woman, she curses every night at dinner as we watch the news, she hates politicians, and criminals and judges everyone initially on their appearance, though she is willing to change her mind if said person turns out to be a good person inside.
She told me the other day that her sister has always had to tell her, “Luciana, count to three before speaking.” She told me that she is just blunt and she never lies. And I believe her. After using a curse word she laughs and looks at us, “we only use these words in the house, right?”
Her husband died of lung cancer fifteen years ago, I think this is the same year she started hosting exchange students. It is also the year she quit smoking. Now she has two sons and three grandsons. All but the youngest grandson are smokers, and she calls them idiots for it. When Katherine and I first got here we couldn’t figure out if her husband had died or if she was divorced, over time we knew he had died. She speaks of him often and always fondly. He was a professor, he sounds brilliant, and I’m sure he was because she is too.
I think Luciana is in her eighties, though when I first got here I thought she was in her younger sixties. She doesn’t have a wrinkle on her face and she is always smiling. She says when she was younger she was beautiful, and I believe her. She says men used to follow her every time she left the house, but that back then it wasn’t a scary thing. She said her husband was one of those men. She never paid attention to them, but he figured out a way to get to know her. Even today she says men will offer her wine at restaurants or ask her out on the street, but she says, “they are all old,” and she will always love her husband.
Sunday over breakfast she told us this year has been hard. She has three friends in the hospital, two, she says, she’s sure will be going to the other world, one she’s not so sure about. Friends call her house all morning and all evening and she is out almost every day going to the movies, or going to lunch with them. She told us you reach an age where you have more dead friends than ones alive. She is never overly romantic or emotional, just honest. She looked at us and said, “but we’re all here, and you two get to go to the soccer game today!”
La Parrucchiera
Well it has been a while since I have written and I am trying to figure out if it is because I have been busy, or just because life is beginning to feel so normal here that I don’t feel like it is exciting enough to write about!
Looking back on the last couple weeks I have been busying myself, with midterms, making plans for winter break, going to my first Fiorentina soccer game, getting my first Italian haircut, trying to convince the Italian post office to release my package (the stories are true, they are insane), and all the while going to class, volunteering, and continuing to get to know my city better.
I can tell that my language skills here are improving because as I write this in English it seems incorrect and I want to use the Italian words for a lot of things. I am also finding myself more confident to speak to Italians. When I got my haircut I was really nervous at first to make an appointment, I picked out a salon and would walk past it day after day, too nervous to go in and say anything. Finally the day came where my hair was just too long, so I went in, and I made an appointment, and it was easy.
The morning I went in I was nervous again and kept pretty quiet for the first little while. My hairdresser however was wonderful and he came over touched my hair and said “bellissima.” Then asked “you just want it a little shorter right?” I laughed because the night before I had told my host mother I was going to the hairdresser and she just looked at me and said, “No you’re not. Your hair is beautiful and curly and people with curly hair don’t need to cut it.”
I told him what I wanted, layers, more volume, more Italian, maybe some type of bangs? He told me he could do it but he was keeping it natural and soft (which also made me laugh because the Italian word for soft is ‘morbido’ which may sound like a good thing to them, but to me, not so much).
I usually get nervous even talking to my hairdressers in America, but I decided that this was a great opportunity to practice my Italian. Saurio and I hit it off immediately, he told me that he had visited California last summer, and loved it. He said he loved Americans, they’re much more relaxed he said, I told him he had visited the right coast. We chatted and then I also chatted with the girl who styled my hair. She asked if I was Italian, I said no, and she said, I thought I heard a little accent. Which is much nicer to hear than people immediately assuming you can’t speak the language. She then told me that with my new haircut I’d find my Italian knight in shining armor. I told her I had an American boyfriend, she stopped and looked at me shocked, that must be so hard! It’s true. Italians really do take the romance thing seriously.
By the end of my time at the hairdressers Saurio told me he loved my hair, gave me the Italian goodbye kisses and made me promise to come back again and I felt a lot more confident, not just about my hair, but about my ability to do normal things in a new language and culture.
Looking back on the last couple weeks I have been busying myself, with midterms, making plans for winter break, going to my first Fiorentina soccer game, getting my first Italian haircut, trying to convince the Italian post office to release my package (the stories are true, they are insane), and all the while going to class, volunteering, and continuing to get to know my city better.
I can tell that my language skills here are improving because as I write this in English it seems incorrect and I want to use the Italian words for a lot of things. I am also finding myself more confident to speak to Italians. When I got my haircut I was really nervous at first to make an appointment, I picked out a salon and would walk past it day after day, too nervous to go in and say anything. Finally the day came where my hair was just too long, so I went in, and I made an appointment, and it was easy.
The morning I went in I was nervous again and kept pretty quiet for the first little while. My hairdresser however was wonderful and he came over touched my hair and said “bellissima.” Then asked “you just want it a little shorter right?” I laughed because the night before I had told my host mother I was going to the hairdresser and she just looked at me and said, “No you’re not. Your hair is beautiful and curly and people with curly hair don’t need to cut it.”
I told him what I wanted, layers, more volume, more Italian, maybe some type of bangs? He told me he could do it but he was keeping it natural and soft (which also made me laugh because the Italian word for soft is ‘morbido’ which may sound like a good thing to them, but to me, not so much).
I usually get nervous even talking to my hairdressers in America, but I decided that this was a great opportunity to practice my Italian. Saurio and I hit it off immediately, he told me that he had visited California last summer, and loved it. He said he loved Americans, they’re much more relaxed he said, I told him he had visited the right coast. We chatted and then I also chatted with the girl who styled my hair. She asked if I was Italian, I said no, and she said, I thought I heard a little accent. Which is much nicer to hear than people immediately assuming you can’t speak the language. She then told me that with my new haircut I’d find my Italian knight in shining armor. I told her I had an American boyfriend, she stopped and looked at me shocked, that must be so hard! It’s true. Italians really do take the romance thing seriously.
By the end of my time at the hairdressers Saurio told me he loved my hair, gave me the Italian goodbye kisses and made me promise to come back again and I felt a lot more confident, not just about my hair, but about my ability to do normal things in a new language and culture.
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