Teaching!
It seems that I am to become a teacher! Stefano has asked if I will come to his house to help him with his English his American English. He has been studying "the Queen's English" -- through books and tapes and ex-pat friends, but has a decidedly difficult time understanding the American dialect and accent. And with his first trip to the US fast approaching, he is determined to be comfortable with American. We'll fashion a swap, so that my Italian gets more of a workout as well.
After class one day, Paola suggested that perhaps I might like to tutor on of her students in conversational English while she was on vacation. Ooooooh, something new to try. This stroke of luck offers a chance to talk with yet another Italian and $25 a lesson good pocket money. Granted, much of the time will be spent speaking English but not all. Bruno, her pupil, is a high school boy who loves all that is American. He wants to learn the vernacular lingo and street culture America by way of MTV Italia. Paola's English is too proper for him. I can certainly help in terms of casual conversation. Though I'm no fly girl with the latest in slang, I do have the very American habit of rapid fire speech heavily laced with pop cultural vernacular.
A typical high school boy, Bruno strives for maximum cool and minimal exposure. Bottom line he is a good kid trying too hard to be Steve McQueen, the ultra cool laconic, man of few words. (Is there a current version of this type? Bruce Willis? Kevin Costner? Marky Mark?) But now and again the boy peeps through when he waxes rhapsodically about guitar gods like Jeff Beck. He was surprised that I knew the names and songs of some of his heroes, unaware that they are hardly cutting edge, new comers to the scene. I'd have to have been brought up in a box not to at least know the names and have some basic context of where they fit in the rock family tree.
Teaching a little stressful at first. I accepted Poala's offer because I knew it would be a good challenge, but I was nervous about everything meeting Bruno, using my Italian, the feeling of responsibility for teaching someone the need to do a good job. I pressured myself about having a PLAN. Really, it was far simpler. We were just talking, conversing so that Bruno could practice English. Eventually, I settled on preparing a series of questions, reviewed by flashlight quickly in the car, to keep conversation flowing. Mostly I asked about his likes and dislikes, about his beliefs and prejudices about America. We talked about food and travel and what he wants his life to be when he grows up. He talked about his frustration with his parents, who push him hard, and in a direction he is not sure he wants to go for. About half way through the lessons his mother would come home, peek in and ask if I wanted tea and cookies. An Italian Mrs. Cunningham. Bruno would always roll his eyes.
He told me this great story that illustrates a prevalent Italian attitude about food. His parents planned a camping trip to France for a couple of weeks. The bulk of what they took with them was food pasta, meats, etc. because you cannot get good food outside of Italy. Bruno admits that he believes this. He might know, deep down that its silly, but he would never go to the US or to another European country without a survivalist's stockpile of pasta. Because you just never know. He has never gone a day in his life without eating his mother's pasta.
February 18
Rasheed asked if he and Hassan could come over to cook a Moroccan meal for me. What a question. Dinner is at 7:30. They arrive with groceries in hand. I've set the table with the remnants of the Valentine decorations. Rasheed gets going in the kitchen. I tried to watch but was not given much opportunity. My orders were to relax with a glass of wine. Fair enough. Hassan and I chat about life in Umbertide. Rasheed is making chicken. He has brought a tagine -- a covered clay cook pot shaped a bit like a top. The herbs and spices are mixed, rubbed onto the chicken, and then everything is put in the tagine to simmer together. From what I could see, onions were minced fine, then mixed with turmeric, cumin, curry and hot peppers and a bit of olive oil to create a paste. That was slathered onto the chicken parts and heaped into the tagine with red pepper chunks, potatoes and prunes. By the time Rasheed took the top off the tagine, the meat was tender and spicy, while the prunes provided a cooling compliment to the meat. We ate communally, with our hands (right only) using bread to grab bits of meat and vegetables and sop up juices. Rasheed and Hassan told stories of life in Morocco, what living in Italy has been like, and a little about the tenets of Islam. It was an interesting evening.
The Muslim community here in Umbertide is a mix of Arabs from different countries -- Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia. They are often lumped together with non-Muslims from other countries, because the country folk in this area are not particularly open to newcomers. So you see the Albanians, the Romany, Indians, the Poles and the Arabs together. Its not that people are unfriendly. (Though you do find those as well.) It's just that you get the feeling of being watched. Even going into a coffee bar with Rasheed and Hassan, I can feel the difference from when I walk in on my own. Even in the open-minded people, there is a pause. Sometimes you get questioned as to whether you are sure this is a "good Arab". Those aren't the exact words people use... it varies. But the gist is the same.
February 15
The pasta aisle rocks. Whenever I go to the Co-op, I spend a lot of time gazing at the myriad varieties, turning the bags over and over, thinking about the difference between spaghetti 4 and spaghetti 5. What you make with the penne rigate versus regular penne. Why we have pinwheels, farfalle, gemelli, fusilli and who decided that there would be bucatini and also half bucatini. Then I get to the pasta for soup section where there are 20 some boxes of teeny weeny shapes for minestre -- shells, fans, circles, half moons, bits and pieces. It makes me want to make soup all the time.
There is one entire aisle devoted to pasta. Not only are there the different types of pasta, there are also many brand names. And the Italians have fervent brand loyalties that go back generations. What is pasta perfection in one family kitchen is sneered at disdainfully in another. Too me, its all good. When I find a new shape -- something I've never seen before like half bucatini -- I want to buy it straight away. Perhaps I could start a summer camp and teach Italian children all about popsicle stick jewelry boxes decorated with gold and silver spray-painted pasta? Lord knows, we have a plethora of raw material.
February 14
I'd been feeling like a party. With Valentines Day coming up, and a supply of Valentine items shipped in by my mother, I see a golden opportunity. Every holiday my mother sends a box full of oddball items, ranging from candy to festive napkins to light up heart pens. (I've become famous for this. Stefano always wants to know what my mother has sent.). My supply of craft items (carefully shipped from the US and hoarded here) was spread across the table. Glitter, glue, ribbon, candy hearts, calligraphy pens... Invitations! That is what every party really needs. I daubed, drizzled, powdered and strung my hearts across 20 pieces of paper, carefully drying everything between layers. I tried to create different moods... blue hearts for some, red for others... candy hearts with messages for all. I invited all the usual suspects (Stefano, Paola, Melchiorre, Mark, Jil) and some new folks (Noami, Marisa and Gianni Berna - from the alpaca farm; Luciana, from the scarf store, with her husband; my neighbor Layla; Paul and Veronica; Sarah, etc.) To really challenge the normal social order, I invited Rasheed and Hassan.
Though I knew they would never come, I included Angelo and Ariana, who own my local grocery shop. You could not fine two people more open and welcoming toward others As gregarious as they are from behind the counter, they are basically shy homebodies. But I wanted them to give them a homemade Valentine.
Food was to be a large selection of appetizers. Stefano offered to bring crostini. Paola was to bring a dessert. I opted for the eastern cuisine -- pork and chicken satay, butterflied tandoori shrimp, and I cannot remember what else. Noami's friend Angela brought a fabulous traditional southern Italian cheese and prosciutto bread. (Angela is quite a cook.) Paola's friend Christina brought more crostini. Most everyone else brought wine or flowers.
The first wave of guests (those not on Italian time) arrived as I was just finishing up the table. First were Paul and Veronica, then Rasheed and Hassan. They settled in and began getting acquainted. Paul and Veronica have a lovely old house up near Preggio. Paul is raising olives and is beginning a vineyard. Paul had a very successful information technology business that he sold a few years back. Now he is studying to be a sommelier.
As I was arranging the food, Ali, my Algerian stalker rang the doorbell. So I invited him too... why the hell not... the more the merrier. And he might meet someone else. Everyone grouped into the living room and chatted. Ali was like a cat on hot bricks... uncomfortable. He had said, when told there was a party, "Oh no, I am too shy, too frightened of the other people." Well get over it and get on down there. My friends are very open and interested in others... just go and mingle.
Once everyone arrived, I think there were around 20 in attendance... many of who had never met before. It was a mix of styles: tea totalers and wine connoisseurs; people who can't abide spicy food, people who adore spicy food; traditionalists and non-traditionalists; smokers and non-smokers; Christians, Arabs and pagans. The food was eaten up and everyone mingled well, making new acquaintances...
Ali took the phone number of Suzanne, an American living in Citta di Castello. Angela's boyfriend got on like a house afire with Luciana's husband, Guiseppe. Paul and Rasheed had a good conversation about something. All I could get out of Rasheed was the Paul was matto... mad. The smokers -- Hassan, Rasheed, Paola and Stefano -- bonded in a haze of nicotine in the kitchen. Very sweetly, at the end, Rasheed and Hassan did the lion's share of the dishes.
February 8
Sunday morning was lovely... warm and sunny. I even thought I might get away with sandals. Since I have the car, I was the transportation. We trundled out toward the lake. I had a rather direct route in mind, but Rasheed had a longer (more scenic) road around the lake planned. It turned out that his brother does not live in Casteglione del Lago, but in a small town in the hills a bit before it. Rasheed has two brothers; both are here in Umbria. Both are named Mohammed. To distinguish them, they call the brother near Casteglione, "Bob." The other, who lives in Gubbio, is known as Mohammed. I call him Mo from that moment forward.
We turn up at "Bob's office", the local bar, at about one. Bob was unaware that we were coming, and has no idea who I am, but is nonetheless full of smiles. He is tall and angular, with a great smile and an expressive face. He has beautiful hands with long fingers. I understand that Bob is a musician, though how much work he actually gets in this area is anyone's guess. He has been here a little more than 10 years. Originally, he came with his Italian wife. They have since divorced and Bob is disconsolate. He does have a girl friend named Natasha who helps console him. We had tea and coffee together and chatted a bit. Rasheed speaks to his family in Arabic. Bob speaks to me directly in Italian and asks many questions how I like it here, where I lived before, if I have ever seen Casablanca. They were raised in Casablanca and are nostalgic for it.
After our refreshment, we pack into the car and over to the Lake. The three of us walk along the shore and Bob tells me about the town and the lake. I tell him the things I know about the area. Rasheed says little. (Its a pattern.) We sit on a bench to watch the shore birds and the sun lowering into the hills. Bob disappears to call Natasha. It's also to encourage Rasheed to speak up a bit. I had heard him chastising his little brother for being so quiet.
It's a gorgeous clear day and we watched the sun setting over the lake. I asked questions about Casablanca, recited the things I knew about Umbria, talked about San Francisco chattered on. I began to think that this was it its no fun practicing your Italian when the other person won't talk. I finally said, "Rasheed, just tell me everything about Morocco." Silence. Ah, well. Its either paralytic shyness or lack of language skills.
The sun dipped low and the wind picked up. We bundled back into the car and drove Bob home. He was a very gracious man -- amiable and gregarious. I wish he lived closer to Umbertide. On the way home, suddenly all this information about Morocco started pouring out of Rasheed. It was as if he'd been collating data silently in his head, waiting for the right moment to unstopper himself. He talked about his family with one house in Casablanca and another in Marrakech. About how cosmopolitan and sophisticated Casablanca is, full of foreigners living together without trouble (French, Arab, Israeli, Italian, English, Indian, American). The streets are safe, the king puts anyone in jail that makes trouble for the foreigners. Muslims caught eating pork or drinking in public are arrested. (What you do in the privacy of your own home s not a problem.) It was a cascade of data.
When we got to Umbertide, we met Hassan for a drink. Rasheed continued to chatter. The floodgates had been opened. Hassan and I talked soccer and half watched a match. I am a little unsure of how to slip in the change about my nationality. Its obvious these guys aren't rabid fundamentalists. Rasheed drinks beer and eats pork. And there politics seem very pro-western. Its an interesting circumstance. Rasheed and Hassan disagree about Iraq and Hussein entirely. Rasheed thinks that Hussein must be stopped now (though I do not think he has thought through the proposition). Hassan is pro-Iraqi people and against anything that further harms the populace. They haven't asked me what I think. For now, I have some new friends from an entirely different culture. And I can start to learn a little about the differences and the similarities. That should be a worthwhile endeavor.
February 7
Rasheed called and asked if I would like to meet for coffee in Perugia. What a nice idea... a public place in a beautiful town. Lots of space to see if he is a mad fundamentalist or just a nice guy. The plan was to meet at 4 at the little train station, Sant'Ana. From there it is an easy walk up into the town square.
I checked and double-checked my train schedule for the right times. Umbertide's train station is tiny. There are not many trains rolling through every day. But there are always unforeseen problems a train strike, a holiday you did not know about, the weather. I wanted to buy my ticket earlier in the day but the ticket window had a big closed sign over it. Why I cannot begin to imagine. So I went home and crossed my fingers it would all work out later in the day. I went back to the station at 3 to be ready for my 3:30 train. The ticket window still said closed. This time there was a man back there in the depths of the office. I asked if I could buy a ticket. "Of course! Why not?" Because the sign says closed. But what is a sign? While he processed my ticket, the ticket man asked questions. "Where are you from? Where do you live?" He began quizzing me about how to import Hammond Organs into Italy from the US. Not that I know anything about that but I am American, and so, an expert in all things American. (All I could offer was that it would be expensive and he might want to find one in Europe.)
Once on the train, I had a phone call from Rasheed asking when I would arrive. At 4 as per the plan maybe 20 minutes from that moment. Okay. When I got to the station, I had another phone call from Rasheed. "Where was I?" In the station... and where was he? In front of the station for some reason. Ah, and there he was... with a chaperone, a family friend, in tow. Odd, but charming. We went to the bar across from the station. (Remember that bar here means coffee bar). I had tea, like a good Canadian. They had coffee. Rasheed did not talk much. He did say that Hassan was like a brother to him... family. Hassan is in his early 40s and he looks it. He has a gaunt face and teeth that could use some dental attention. But he proved to be an articulate and thoughtful man. He speaks Arabic, a little French, a little English and a little Italian. We chatted about life here as an immigrant, basic family information and the like. I stuck to my Canadian story. I was looking for a good place to switch back to American, but did not find it. I kept waiting for Rasheed to jump into the conversation, but he didn't often. I asked questions and he answered but did not take a lot of initiative. Both Hassan and Rasheed seem fairly pro-western. Of course, Morocco is a pro-Western kingdom. Fundamentalism is discouraged strongly. Hassan did have some harsh words for President Bush. He was very concerned for the plight of the Iraqi people, so weakened by the boycott and now headed for a war. Rasheed piped in with, "If this is an uncomfortable conversation for you, we can change it now."
Rasheed was attentive, but very quiet. Shy, I figured. After coffee, we climbed the steps into the center to join the passegiata. Hassan walked away from us mostly, encouraging Rasheed to talk a bit. We wandered the corso. He pointed out some landmarks he knew. I pointed out the landmarks I knew. We could not linger as it was getting dark and I needed to be back in town by 8. We found Hassan and packed off to the train.
Rasheed had told me he lived in Perugia but it seems Hassan lives in Umbertide. They must have been on the train just before me coming into Perugia. We had about 40 minutes to kill before the train, but it was getting cold so Hassan switched us (with the same return tickets) to the bus. It was all very cozy. My friend Michelle even called in the midst of the ride home. I got to announce, "I'm on a date!" And no one understood, expect Michelle.
Once we got back to Umbertide, Rasheed asked if I wanted to go to Casteglione del Lago the next day. His brother lives there and it would be nice to enjoy a passegiata along the lake, if the weather is good. A walk on the lakeside in the sun? Come no? Why not?
February 4
I've taken to carrying a little notebook around with me to make notes about things that strike me as funny... or beautiful... or memorable. Today, I found a scrap of notes from an adventure back in December.
Melchiorre had been talking about a small village out in the hills near Gubbio that had a weekly dance showcasing a local band. It sounded perfect -- just local folks who love to dance. No cruising husbands or overly made up foreign women looking for "dates". Jan and I thought it would be rejuvenating -- a little pick me up of Italian charm, so we decided to go dancing after one of the Christmas lunch events. A date was set and we made our plan - cook for the lunch, eat like fiends, then run off and dance.
Gubbio is deeper into the mountains than Niccone. We are accessible foothills. The mountains around Gubbio are taller, rockier and colder. Wolves once roamed the area. (Note the story of St. Francis and the Wolf, set in Gubbio.) This little town would be a bit of a trek, but worth the time to get away from "the city." It sounded peaceful.
But Melchiorre, being Melchiorre, changed the plan without mentioning it and drove us into the suburbs of Perugia instead. Let me amend that. He instructed me to drive us through twisted streets and deep fog into suburban Perugia. By suburbs, I mean a jarring mix of old stone farmhouses and modern light industrial buildings with the required detritus of crushed metal fences, oil drums and gravel parking lots. As we meandered through the fog, the light industrial ugliness melted away. We wandered through more and more trees and fields, even more twisty streets and criss-crossing intersections. Nothing is on the grid plan here. I began to feel like we were searching for a Brigadoon, waiting for that moment when the fog clears and you reach your heart's destination -- a big old barn of a restaurant/dance hall called Bigi.
The fog never parted and Brigadoon remained a legend, but we did find Bigi. Unlike the steamy, middle aged meat market on the lake we usually go to, this was a well-mannered middle of the road bunch who obviously came here regularly to meet friends and dance with their wives. Yes -- their wives. And they were lovely to behold.
The restaurant was a cavernous melange of rooms and ramps and stairwells with a small retail cubbyhole at the entrance where you could purchase fancy clothing and rhinestone encrusted t-shirts. The dance room reminded me of a skating rink mated with a high school gym -- an open oval of springy wood flooring surrounded by tables on three sides, a bandstand at the front (not raised) and a bar in the back (raised). But the delight of the place was the people.
There was a professional dance couple -- attractive, very tall and lean with elegant, fluid movement. She was about 8 months pregnant, wearing a flowing black chiffon number that showed off her tummy and her arms. He was all tuxed up. It was hard not to stare as they twirled, dipped and waltzed about the room. They were the pinnacle of class. But there were so many couples who were much more fun to watch...
Like the "Walk the Dog Man," who did not dance as much as step in time. You could almost see him counting and stepping, counting and stepping, with such grave concentration. If he'd miscounted, heaven knows the consequences. He held his partner at arms length, almost as if she was somehow distasteful... or he needed to see his feet to keep count. And when they tangoed, it was a forced march... The poor woman was dragged from one end of the floor to the other, seemingly willingly... or else she was drugged.
There was "One-Hand Man" who kept one hand anchored in the middle of his partner's back and the other arm straight at his side, all the while whirling through the dances. And my "Knee-dip Guy" who worked a deep knee bend into every turn... "The Paddler" was reminiscent of "Walk the Dog Man" in his lack of fluidity, but his steps were not so precise, more like the flat-footed "slap, slap" of diving flippers on the dance floor. "American Eagle Man" reminded me of the Warner Brothers cartoon Bald Eagle, with his straight back, dark eyebrows and serious scowl.. very business-like, very serious about his dancing. To hell with her dancing, like a good soldier she fell in line.
And my favorite man, a teeny doll-like Italian man in his 60s in a Frank Sinatra hat, with a teeny little wife in his arms. A perfect miniature couple, dancing in elegant synchronization. Every time they got to my corner of the floor they would add in an extra twirl, a dip, a hip twist. It finally hit me that he knew I was watching and taking notes. I was getting a personal show. At one point, they danced down the aisle to me, did a crisp turn and danced away. As he turned, he winked at me with the most adorable smile on his face.
After a few hours of watching, the dancers become unreal. There is not a lot of spontaneous improvisation on the floor. You can plot the dancers' orbits and they would map out like the solar system with minimal variations. Its like having a life-sized music box with lots of little dancers spinning on their set axes. Except for Melchiorre, our personal UFO, whose course is never pre-planned or plottable.
Melchiorre was full of beans... and tequila. For some inexplicable reason, he decided to drink tequila. And in this neck of the woods, so far from Mexico, there is no true understanding of the perils of tequila. In fact, these Italians were so blissfully ignorant, they served it straight, in a gin and tonic glass with a salted rim. The tequila shot meets the margarita. Melchiorre, who cannot hold his liquor for spit, was downing them like they were sparkling sodas with a twist. I began to get nervous. Firstly, how would we get home if our faithful Indian guide was face down in the backseat? More immediately, when he gets excited on the dance floor, all hell breaks loose. He begins these free form pirouettes and Rockette kicks that could decapitate an unwary dancer focused on his counting. Melchiorre bounces out of the allowable course and straight through the other dancers trajectories, willy nilly bumping, jostling, and beaming with joy.
I felt like the evil chaperone as I hissed at Jan that we'd better keep an eye on him. Jan was having a good time being dipped and twirled. I was enjoying the show but the tequila nagged at me. Whenever he went out on the floor, I'd gulp a bit of his drink and then water it down with melting ice. I clutched at his arm and tried to explain that four gin and tonic-sized tequilas were not the best thirst quencher after a spirited Mazurka, but he was transported in the happy world of the deaf and drunk.
We did get home. Our guide remained vertical. He mis-remembered a few turns here and there, but I have a good sense of direction. And pretty soon, the fog parted and we were delivered to Umbertide, the poor man's Brigadoon.
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2003
