Americani

72 hours in country, and I'm loving it.

I went casa/appartamento hunting on Mercoledì with Andrea.  I enjoyed myself to the hilt, as he gave me many good "advices" about day-to-day life in Italy, bought me my first delizioso Italian pastry, and told me that I was the queen (winner, winner). 

He also tried to teach me how to be more Italian, as I've noticed many Italians do as a favor to we Americani.

"We have a joke-eh about Americans-eh," he said.  Italians don't know how to end a word with a hard consanant - MUST. ADD. EH.

"An American-eh came to an Italian supermarket-eh.  He pointed at una mela and say to the grocer, 'what is this-eh?'  And the grocer say, 'that is an apple.'  And the Americani say, 'in America, the apples are THIS BIG,'" stretching his arms apart to show the size.

 "And then the Americani points at a - ehmm, how do you say, ehm," he turns to his Italian counterpart, "Come sei dice la lattuga in inglese? ...Ahh, si, si... he points to a lettuce-eh, and he say to the grocer, 'What is this?' And the grocer says, 'This is lettuce.'  And the Amercani, he laugh and he say, 'In America, lettuce is theeees beeeeg,'" he stretches his arms wide again. 

"Then, a truck of watermelons-eh drives eh-by, and the Americani say, 'What is this?'  And the grocer turns to him," Andrea shrugs his shoulders, "and he say, 'These?  These are just peas.'"  He throws his head back and bursts out in laughter at his own joke.  I am as much amused by his delivery as the joke itself, so I join him in merriment.

One of the things that distinguishes Italians the most is their lack of any sense of urgency.  This can be either extremely charming or irritating, depending on the situation, but you just have to accept these cultural differences at face value.

It's not better, it's not worse, it's just different.

I happen to find this "tomorrow...normale" attitude delightful (I am told that after a few months, I won't find it quite so charming anymore, but I prefer to be optimistic, no matter naivete).

On my first day of work, I had to wait at the gate to get my photo badge before entering.  Upon approaching the guardshack, I peaked in the open window and saw 3 men gathered around another gentleman, who I would later learn to know and love as Franco, while he played and sang a rendition of "Volare." 

Volare!?  Are you kidding me?  Could this BE any more perfect??

He acknowledged me at the window by a nod of his head without wavering from lyric or missing a note.  He played for another minute or so, finishing with a smile as he reached his arms out, directing an Italian phrase at me that I could only assume meant something like, "what do you think?" or "not bad, huh?" while the other guards applauded and looked to me for my response.  I clasped my hands together and cried, "bellissimo!" which I gathered was the proper reply from his cheerful reaction.

Franco, 60 years old and harmless, has taken a fast liking to me, and I must admit that I fancy him in return.  He speaks Italian to me every day, fully cognizant of the fact that io non capisco.  Today, as I was leaving, he held up traffic behind me at the gate in order to "chat."  He came prepared, dragging along a younger man who spoke a little English.  The young man apologized for not being able to understand me very well, as he had been out of school for a while and was out of practice.  Franco waved at the car behind me to pull up alongside me.  He asked the man if he spoke English.  When he replied, si si, Franco cried, "Ah! Bravo!" rolling his "r" extra long for emphasis and holding his hands out toward me as if we had both won.  The man translated an exchange of pleasantries before ending with Franco's appeal for me to learn Italian, saying (apparently), "you live in Italy now, you must learn Italian."  I assured him that I was trying to learn, if only to enable me to speak to him.  With this, he smiled and nodded, seemingly satisfied, and sent me on my way, along with the lengthy line of cars that had formed behind me, bidding arrivederci.