Making a life...

So, it's about 10pm here. I am sitting on the couch blogging away and my boss, Liays, and next door neighbor, Stefano, are playing chess, smoking cigarettes, and insulting each other in a mix of Italian, French, German, and English. Stefano is a total genius and a little too enthusiastic about chess (called skukkhi in Italian SO STRANGE) so I think he will probably smoke Liays. He's in his late 20s, and kinda reminds me of Kramer, and is finishing his third bloody degree in something. I still don't have the translation. I adore him.

The cat is perched on the recliner, keeping watch over her humans. She is a constant delight and frustration. She's still in that insane and unpredictable kitten stage...so at about midnight she goes nuts and zooms around the place attacking anything she can sink her teeth and claws into. I have many, many battle wounds from that.




I'm listening to an artist by the name of Bonobo. He's British and does ambient trip-hop. Kinda like Morcheeba. I first heard him when I was in this little Tuscan town called Lucca. Lucca is one of the only remaining walled towns. I rented a bike and rode around the top of the wall...after falling over a couple of times. Turns out you CAN forget how to ride. Blasted thing.

I’m making a life here. Next month I move into an apartment with 6 other young people. I get my own room, but it’s going to be quite the adventure. I had dinner with them on Sunday and we all sat around the big kitchen table eating pizza (the real Italian kind) and they argued in Italian. It was great. I know my Italian will get REALLY good living there. I like everyone as well—especially the girl Sylvia whose parents own the place. It’s big and beautiful and takes up the entire top story of a great old building in downtown Palermo. In fact, we have the roof and can go up and see the harbor and the mountains and the whole city. I get the room because an American guy (from San Fran) named Jake who has lived in Italy for the past 3 years is finally returning to the states to finish a PhD. He’s totally a mellow Santa Cruz stoner type. Oh, and my rent is 160 Euros/month which is about $200…for the same place in the Bay Area is would be AT LEAST $800. And I probably wouldn’t like my roommates as much, or get to speak Italian. I’m imagining that the experience will be like my favorite movie L’auberge Espanole…The Spanish Apartment. Rent it!

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0283900/

Well, my resume has been translated into Italian…Jake and Sylvia did that. I sat looking at it for a long time having a weird moment. Never ever did I imagine that at some point in my life I would have my resume in…well, ITALIAN. Che cazzo? .....don’t translate that, it’s very rude. I have a lot of those moments where it occurs to me where I am and why. And I either get giddy or a little freaked out. But not much, because really…it’s not like I can’t wave a white flag and go back to the States. But I refuse to do that because this is proof to myself that if I can live around the world for a few years and make it work, there’s nothing I can’t do at home where the constant language and (more importantly) the culture barrier doesn’t exist. So, I’m going to be brave.

The song playing now is a remake of Chris Isaack’s “Wicked Games” by Hilton FM, and the chick singing just knocks it out of the ballpark. I want to tear at my body and explode into the song. I want to lick my headphones (which are state-of-the-art noise canceling German engineered DJ headphones). I want to quit everything and become a singer (though I can’t sing at all). It’s that good.

Ok, back to reality. Tomorrow morning I will call the other language schools and ask about jobs. Of course, I work for Liays, but I need some supplemental income as well. Wow, I sound like a damn adult. Hmph.

Note to self: realizing the inevitability of responsibility is a wee bit unnerving.

Also, very exciting is tomorrow I will have my first official Italian lesson. I’m already feeling fairly smug because a guy here told me that my Italian after 9 weeks of travel in Italy and no formal study is far better than most people he met in Sienna who were in a 3 month intensive 40-hours/week Italian language program. I really just kind “picked it up” by asking a lot of questions and consulting my handy dictionary, “e perche faccio atenzione” [and because I pay attention]. I was shocked. Then again, my 9 weeks was really a 24-hour-day Italian lesson. I’m just now being disciplined about going through my Italian verb workbook and doing a chapter per day. In approximately 5 weeks, I should be able to conjugate virtually everything and will also be living in an apartment with a bunch of crazy Italian speaking people…none of whom are shy about correcting errors. I anticipate by February that I will have the language down pat.

I’m on Italy time now. Goes as follows:
• church bells start at 4am
• the market noise starts at 7
• the firecrackers start at 7:15 (end at 2am)
• I get up at 9
• 9-1pm the day goes according to plan (or not)
• 1-4pm is the 3 hour lunch (1hour to eat, 2 hours to meet your lover)
• 6pm is Happy Hour (Italian style)
• 9ish is dinner
• Go to bed around 1am…read for an hour then dream in nonsensical mix of English and Italian.

DINNER at 9pm:



I’m sorry if this blog is really about nothing in particular. I’m kinda on cruise control, and still adjusting to being here. OMG, the cat just climbed up the guest mattress that is leaning against the wall vertically, and TIMBER down it and the cat went. Lol.

But the cat’s fine, the mattress is fine, and I am better than fine. I am contentissima.

Ciao ragazzi!