Although my journey home was a three and a half day journey, I loved every second of it. After spending every moment of 7 weeks either responsible for children or under the jurisdiction of a host family, having a few days of complete independence and alone time was heaven.
During my last week at camp in Malo, I booked a ticket to see Verdi’s “Aida” at the Arena di Verona for Saturday night. So upon departing from my host family on Saturday, I was excited to see yet another famed Italian city and of course to see an opera at one of the best summer festivals in the world. Once in Verona, I found my way to my hostel, which was actually university housing that had been converted into a hostel for the summer. I was halfway around the world and still couldn’t get away from dorm life! It was small and cheap, but adequate… the only problem was that I found a few tiny black bugs jumping on my legs (maybe fleas?!?). Anyway, Verona turned out to be one of my favorite cities I have seen in Italy. It’s fairly small, but has the feeling of a large city. The main piazzas are really touristy (so many Germans!!), but the locale around my hostel seemed strictly Italian. Also in Verona are the houses of Romeo and Giulietta (Juliet). Giulietta’s house has been preserved beautifully, including the famous Giulietta’s balcony—which is thought to be made from half of a sarcophagus. Below the balcony is a fairly new statue of Giuliette that is supposed to bring good luck to those who place their hand on her breast. So naturally, there were tons of tourists lined up to take pictures of eachother touching this statue’s breast. I didn’t feel like fighting the crowd to cop a feel myself, but it was quite the sight!
My ticket for the opera was the cheapest one available, meaning that I would be sitting high up in the unnumbered seats section. In fact, there weren’t seats at all—the ‘cheap seats’ were just spots on the original stone steps of the arena. The arena was fascinating in every way; it was so cool to know that I was seeing an opera from the same stone steps where people gathered for entertainment centuries ago. Since my section was general admission, I arrived two and a half hours early to get in line for a good seat within that section. What I found was that the seats were actually really good. I could see and hear everything perfectly, just from an angle instead of straight-on. The performance itself was the most amazing production I’ve ever seen. The sheer size of the cast blew my mind: there were over 150 people on the stage at one point... it was just crazy. I can’t imagine how much it must cost just to have costumes on all of them. The set was also extremely impressive, with a giant rotating pyramid and huge Egyptian statues everywhere. Because the festival has five or six operas rotating in the schedule, several of the large set pieces for the other productions were just sitting outside the arena for all to see.
The audience of the opera was as diverse as one could imagine, but there was definitely a clear distinction between those who had seats on the arena floor and those of us sitting on the arena steps. The arena floor had a separate entrance, which was visible from my seat. I watched as men in suits and women in ball gowns paraded themselves to their red velvet chairs as those of us in the stands just wore whatever we had on from earlier that day. It was definitely one of the most obvious ‘separation of the classes’ events that I’ve been to. But as the opera started, it didn’t matter what I was wearing or where I was sitting; I was experiencing the same music and splendor of the atmosphere that every other person in the arena was…and it was magnificent. As an Arena di Verona tradition, people in the audience lit candles to mark the start of the opera as the conductor took his stand. Seeing an enormous Roman Arena filled with candlelight from hundreds of people was truly a sight to behold! And of course, the singers were world-class. The soprano playing Aida was absolutely incredible… my jaw was dropped after each one of her arias. It would make sense, as a singer, to become discouraged after hearing singers who are leagues better than one could ever hope to be… but oddly, it just encouraged me more than ever to keep singing. The beauty of art is that it is subjective and can therefore never be “perfect”. And as an artist, there is this pull to keep training and get better and better; to strive to reach one’s full potential, as imperfect as it may be.
The rough part about seeing operas in Italy (particularly the outdoor sort) is that they can’t begin until the sun is completely down… which, in the summer, means about 9:15. So a 4 –act opera such as “Aida” runs until about 12:45am, followed by the half-hour walk back to my hostel. The next morning, I made my way to Milano by train. A bit too ambitious, I decided to save a few euro and walk to the station instead of taking the bus. An hour later, I arrived at the station with all my luggage still on my back and completely exhausted… but the walk was beautiful. I got to see what Verona looks like in the morning. And being Sunday at 10:30am, there were countless church bells tolling all around me, assuring me that I was getting a full European morning experience. My stay in Milan was quite uneventful. I walked around Piazza Duomo for a while, comfortable with its familiar and home-like feel, having stood in the same piazza about six or seven different times over the past two summers. I made my way to the hotel where I relaxed until my flight to Atlanta the next morning.
As I checked-in at the Milano Airport, I was told that my flight was filled to capacity and they had bumped me up to first-class free of charge: SCORE!! I always thought that first class just meant you get a bigger seat and more leg room, but boy was I wrong—it was a whole different world!! I felt like a king (and I also made sure I appreciated every second, knowing that this might be the only time I ever fly first-class). It must have been so obvious to the other passengers that I had never flown in such style before. I reveled at all the free stuff, took a picture of each of the four courses they served me for lunch, complete with unlimited free wine and champagne (I can’t imagine what the dinner must have been like!). The seat could recline almost to a horizontal position, complete with a footrest. The pillows were huge and fluffy, and there were nice quilted comforters on our seats instead of those puny blue blankets I’m used to. In the pocket in front of me, was a free pair of huge headphones, as well as a bag of complimentary toiletries (lotion, lip balm, toothbrush, toothpaste, etc). I couldn’t believe it! I suddenly felt like one of those suited men in the floor seats of the Arena, receiving amenities far beyond my needs. And just as the separation of the classes was apparent at the opera, here too it was quite obvious. Not only were we seated in the front of the plane, but there were closed curtains separating us from the coach class, making it easy to forget that there were others on the plane who were receiving a lesser service than we were. I suppose that’s kind of a good reflection of how classism works in society as well. We build ‘curtain’ dividers in the form of district zoning and, therefore, in education and housing that allows the higher classes to go about their lives without much interaction with the lower classes. It’s easy to ignore the things you don’t see.
My luxury continued as I arrived at my Atlanta hotel. My father had booked me a hotel room because I had an overnight layover… but little did I know that he reserved it with his diamond status honors points (thanks to all his company traveling for business). So once again, my stay was quite luxurious!
As I now await my departing flight from Atlanta to Springfield (which is delayed…ugh!), I am planning what song to listen to on my iPod as the plane prepares to land. (I always like to heighten exciting experiences by finding a song that matches my emotion at that time and jamming out to it.) My choice this time is “When You’re Home” from the musical “In the Heights”. The most fitting lyrics are: “Everything is easier when you’re home; The street’s a little kinder when you’re home.”
Topsy-Turvy Italian Tid-Bits
1.) I’ve been contemplating lately what defines a tourist. This probably sounds like I have a superiority complex or something, but when I’m in Italy I don’t feel like a tourist. No, I’m not a citizen. Yes, I’m taking lots of pictures. Yes, I’m buying souvenirs for family. But no, I’m not staying in hotels; I’m living with families. I’ve seen villages and countryside that no tourist has. I’m working there. I’m teaching the children of the country. I’ve sang in the bars and streets. I have friends there. And yes, I will return. I can’t help feeling like more than just another tourist. I’ve invested more of myself there than that. When I see American tourists in the piazzas of the major cities, I feel qualitatively different from them. I know this probably just sounds like I’m being pompous, but I think this feeling is a good thing. I feel connected to Italy in a way that will always remain within me… and I’m so grateful for the opportunities I’ve had to create that feeling.
2.) I’m worried that graduating from college is going to bring a particular challenge to the forefront of my life: eating. For all the years I lived at home, my parents provided me with unlimited food and always prepared it for me. Now, as an RA at WashU, I will have had a full meal plan for all four years of college. And my summers in Italy consist of host families cooking me/paying for every meal. I’m beginning to realize that sometime in the near future I am going to be responsible for feeding myself… and I am NOT looking forward to it! Spending the time and money to shop for and prepare meals is going to come as a real slap in the face… But, unless someone would like to point me in the direction of Neverland, I guess I have to become a full-fledged adult at some point or another.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Malo
Fortunately, my final week working for ACLE this summer was one of my favorite experiences and made me forget that I was actually burnt out with the job. It was the largest camp I had ever been to (15 tutors, 150 children), and it was in fact the second largest ACLE English camp in the entire country. It was a blast to work with so many other tutors. One of the best parts of this job is meeting other young people from all over the world, all of us headed in different directions in life, but all joined together for a short time for the same cause. Most of the tutors were British or American, with some Canada and Scotland sprinkled in the mix. We also varied widely in age, from 18 to 39. When we arrived at the local train station, there was nothing short of a parade waiting for us—it was the most amazing welcoming I’ve ever received. The camp director had organized all the host families to arrive before our train, and she handed out all the City Camp and English-speaking countries’ flags to them. So as soon as we stepped out of the train, this huge mass of people was cheering and clapping and waving flags at us… I felt like such a celebrity!
Because of our size, we split the camp into three groups (2 elementary, 1 middle school) for most of the activities, warm-up circles, etc. My class of nine year-olds was really great, albeit their level of English was far below what it normally is for that age. Our final show was SpongeBob Square Pants, and they were so enthusiastic about it and wanted it to be perfect (which is good, since I’m the same way). For the ending song, my girls even came up with a gymnastics routine complete with one-handed cartwheels and splits. We performed the final show in the town’s cinema on a huge stage—it was so cool!
The town of Malo was small, but a very supportive and enthusiastic community. The sense of unity and town pride reminded me a lot of my own hometown of Nixa. The best part was that the lunches at the school were managed by the local parents’ council, meaning they were really well organized and the food was really good! The town rests in a valley, surrounded on three sides by mountains. It made the climate much cooler than I would have expected, and also very few mosquitoes (YAYYY!!).
My host family provided me with quite an interesting experience, to say the least. First of all, none of them spoke a word of English, which I was actually very thankful for because it meant that I got a lot of practice on my Italian (which is markedly better now than it was last summer!). Secondly, they have a 4 year-old child who is the closest thing to Satanic that I have ever seen. Within the first 24 hours of being with the family, I had already been scratched, pinched, punched in the groin, spat on, and he hurled an English-Italian dictionary at my head. He also cried and screamed non-stop every day. One night at dinner, he noticed that I had a green cup and he had a yellow one… well, who would guess that something so small could almost cause WW3 to occur!! By Saturday morning, I was so sick of all his crap that when he asked me to play Dragonball Z with him, I relished at the opportunity to seek vengeance, at least virtually. So instead of going easy on him as I would have done with any other child, I relentlessly beat the shit out of him… and loved every second of it!! He started yelling at me to stop punching/shooting him, but I didn’t. I had a week’s worth of frustration and hostility built up inside me, and there was no way I was gonna stop until I saw “KO” across the screen!
The first day of being with the family, they took me to a family feast (over 30 people) on the side of one of the mountains. The view was incredible and they had huge picnic tables lined up in front of an outdoor roasting pit. The father took me by the shoulder and walked me over to the roaster. From a distance it looked like enormous shish kabobs of meat… but as I got closer I realized that the pieces of meat were actually entire birds. I asked what kind of birds they were (assuming some type of tiny game fowl), and he said they were birds that he shot from the sky, like sparrows and the like. Although slightly shocked, my “I’m in a foreign country—I want to try everything” attitude was intrigued. When we sat down, the father noticed me watching other people pick the birds up to see how it’s done and he told me to just eat it. I asked, “What about the bones?” He told me not to worry, they’re only small birds. He proceeded to eat one of his as an example. Quite ravenously he separated the head from the body and put the head/neck in his mouth, biting the skull in such a way that only the beak remained uneaten. Then he tore the wings off and ate them one after the other. Then he ate the body in two more bites. I was fascinated, having never seen a bird eaten in this way: skull, bones, everything! So I quickly followed suite, starting with the head as he had done. The bones were crunchy, but definitely edible… unfortunately, I thought they were also the best tasting part. The meat was so dark and just tasted nasty; but at least now I know!
After lunch, we went for a hike through the mountains. At one point we reached this tiny church, out in the middle of nowhere. And from the church, we could see in the distance—between two mountains—some sort of monument. The father told me that it was a monument built following WW2, and inside were the bones of the Italian soldiers who had been killed by the Germans there. Apparently, it is the only monument of its kind in the entire country. After the hike, I laid in the grass playing Uno with the other ‘kids’ in the family, which included Ginny. Ginny was 17 years-old and studying psychology at her high school. Somehow the father took this to mean that she would be a perfect match for me. So Ginny and I both spent the entire afternoon slightly embarrassed at his suggestive statements, including one about marriage. At the conclusion of the family feast, it was decided that Ginny and I would go out to a bar together on Thursday night. And the father reminded me every day that, come Thursday evening, I have a date with this 17 year-old girl who barely speaks any English. The father also added that I should sing for them that night too.
Little did I know that Thursday would be the second of three consecutive nights of singing. Wednesday was chosen as the night that the camp director would take all the tutors out for dinner. We went to a pizzeria that was well-known in the area for its “pizza non-stop”. Our entire group of about 25 people could have all-you-can-eat pizza for one price. The only rule was that we had to completely finish all of our current pizzas before receiving another batch, which would eventually include a dessert pizza with Nutella and sliced pears. And like any good Italian, she insisted on ordering us plenty of wine to share. Well, let’s just say I ended up drinking more than plenty that night. It was my last week of working and all the tutors were having a great time at dinner… so before I knew it, I was drunker than I had ever been before (but not wasted, mind you). At one point, I stumbled into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror, telling myself out-loud to pull it together… but all I could do was laugh at the thought of being drunk on ACLE’s budget.
As soon as I got back to the table, everyone started asking me to sing for them. I told them that I wanted to wait until we were in the parking lot, but really I just said that so that I could maybe sober-up a bit before trying to sing an aria. Unfortunately, I then noticed that we were leaving at that moment and I was going to be singing drunk… really drunk. We got to the parking lot, me stumbling along with a few other tutors. When everyone got quiet for me to start, I took four or five deep breathes in an attempt to center myself and remember the words. And then the most remarkable thing happened: as soon as I started singing, I felt as though I wasn’t drunk at all. I was fully aware of my voice as usual, perhaps just feeling a bit freer than normal. It was almost like all the time I had spent practicing that song and all the training my voice has gone through was able to override the effects of the alcohol. It was a remarkable feeling.
Fortunately, teenagers in Italy can’t drive until they turn 18… meaning that the family had to come with Ginny and I on Thursday night. She also brought a few friends. I felt kind of bad when she got to the house looking all trendy with her hair and make-up carefully done and there I stood in shorts, flip-flops, and an already-been-worn t-shirt. When we were leaving, the father said, “Tonight we will hear you sing.” I said that would be fine, having no qualms about giving yet another performance for another host family. Then when we got to the bar, there was a huge sign that said “Karaoke Night” and they shoved a song list into my face. I tried thinking of something to say in Italian that politely meant “Hell no! I told you I’m a lyric singer, not Justin Timberlake. I’m not gonna sound good on this.” Not only did I not want to sing karaoke (which I would have totally done in America… but not there), but I also didn’t know any of the songs on the list well enough to sing. The international section was full of late 80’s early 90’s stuff and a lot of artists I hadn’t even heard of before. After several attempts to dissuade them, I heard “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas come on, and some guy shoved a microphone in my face. I didn’t really know what was going on; all I knew was that I didn’t really have any choice but to sing at that point. So I sang. For the first time all week, I was so thankful that the devil-child was there. He started screaming that he was tired, so we went home early, cutting the date short after just one mojito and a botched pop song.
My next adventure of public performance came the following evening, after the final show was over. A few of the other families invited to take a group of tutors out to eat with them. I accepted, happy to get an evening away from the devil-child and a chance to spend more time with the tutors before we all said our goodbyes. After dinner at the restaurant, one of the tutors mentioned to her host father that I am an opera singer and that I sang for them on Wednesday. So again, I was asked to sing in the middle of a restaurant. I happily obliged, and afterword the manager gave free shots of grappa to all of us tutors… needless to say, I was the man of the hour (although I thought grappa was disgusting—I felt like I was drinking fire).
I think it’s just wonderful how open and appreciative Italians are of art and music. I’ve been asked hundreds of times in America what I am studying. When I mention singing, nobody ever asks to hear me… and understandably not. When was the last time you saw someone singing or doing something artistic out in public if they weren’t hired to do so? I would feel so strange singing at a restaurant in America, most likely getting “What the hell are you doing? You’re disturbing my conversation.” kind of looks. But when I sing in Italy, the people don’t just hear me, they listen to me. They put their forks down, nobody talks, some people even stop and dismount their bikes. It’s one of the most blatant cultural differences I’ve experienced in all my time here, and certainly some of the greatest joys of the past seven weeks.
After leaving the restaurant, we tutors decided to go to a bar and share one last bottle of wine together before parting ways. Because the final show ran so late, we were all still wearing our bright red English Camp t-shirts and generally not looking our best. It was late, so when we spotted a bar that was still open, we parked our bikes outside and walked in. Little did we know that we were creating one of those moments you see on TV. As soon as we walked in, everyone in the bar fell completely silent and stared directly at us. They were all dressed very fashionably, and although we hadn’t even spoken yet, they clearly knew we were not Italians. We all looked at each other with those “oh shit, this is awkward” glances, and we walked right back out the door. Luckily, we found another bar (more suitable for us) a little further down the street. After a bottle of wine, we knew it was getting really late and we needed to say goodbye and get back to our families.
Saying goodbye to Franzi, with whom I had been working and had spent the majority of almost every day for six weeks, the goodbye was especially hard. She had been with me since my second week, and my best memories of the summer all include her. We spent that amazing day together lost in the middle of Tuscany without a care in the world. She had heard me sing my Italian aria about 7 different times. And we had laughed together more times than would be possible to count. The next time I am in London, I know I have a friend who I will be more than happy to visit.
The next morning I boarded the train out of Malo, waving goodbye to my host-family as they drifted out of sight. And as soon as I couldn’t see them anymore, I began to cry. If you know me well, you know that I don’t cry very often, but for some reason I did that morning. I think it was my exhaustion from working combined with the excitement of going home, the sadness of leaving Italy, and the remaining emotions from the previous night’s goodbyes. Regardless of the tears, I was so happy during that train ride, contented with the job I had done, the experiences I had had, and the people I had met. I also couldn’t stop thinking about nine year-old Giovanni who was in my class that week and who approached me on Friday with a hug and said “I sad perche English Camp e fine.” In that moment, I had never been so glad to be doing what I was doing. Not only could I see how much being at English Camp meant to this little boy, but he had also used English I had taught him to say so. I had taught emotions on Tuesday, and although he forgot “am” in the phrase, it made me feel so proud to hear him speak those two words to me in context three days after I had taught that lesson. Teachers always talk about those moments when they see their students’ progress shine and it makes all the trouble worth it. I think that was definitely a small glimpse of that feeling.
Saying goodbye is always tough with ACLE. It’s the nature of the program that you form really strong connections to the people you meet and work with, and then you are torn apart… every week. Maybe I will see some of those people again someday; maybe I never will. But more important than the relationships I’ve built during the last two summers in Italy is the confidence that wherever I go in life, I know there will be people there who fascinate me and with whom I can connect. I think a lot of times people are scared to move to different places because they are worried that they will feel alone. Sometimes our current friends are so amazing that we forget the world is filled with an innumerable amount of other people who have the potential to also amaze us, show us love, and make us laugh. Thanks to my experience with ACLE, I know this. And I hope to put this knowledge to good use in the years to come.
Topsy-Turvy Italian Tid-Bits
1.) I’ve noticed that a lot of light switches in Italian homes are on the outside of the room. This just doesn’t make any sense to me. Last week, I had to walk out into the hallway to turn my bedroom light off when I was ready for bed… I don’t understand the point of this.
2.) I’ve always thought it kind of nit-picky of society to have such strict rules for proper eating, one of which being that you should hold the knife in your right hand and fork in the left. I’ve always done it the other way around and been perfectly fine. But after seven weeks of Italian fathers ‘correcting’ me, I now consciously use my knife with my right hand.
3.) I can tell that there is more of a cultural emphasis on family in Italy by looking at my last four host families. Three of the four families lived either in the same house as or in the same apartment complex as the grandparents. In my last family, the father was a construction worker and had built a big house, divided in half by a wall. They lived on one side, the grandparents on the other. I wonder if they watch “Everybody Loves Raymond” in Italy… I’m sure the majority of the people could relate to it!
4.) Earlier this week, my class was getting rowdy and I had some ACLE paperwork to complete. I decided I would try playing the silent game with them, with the incentive of the winner getting a sticker… Worked like a charm! Why did I not discover this until my last week of having a class!?! Not only did I enjoy the peace and quiet, but the kids loved the game too. They asked me to play it again with them every day following. SCORE!!
Because of our size, we split the camp into three groups (2 elementary, 1 middle school) for most of the activities, warm-up circles, etc. My class of nine year-olds was really great, albeit their level of English was far below what it normally is for that age. Our final show was SpongeBob Square Pants, and they were so enthusiastic about it and wanted it to be perfect (which is good, since I’m the same way). For the ending song, my girls even came up with a gymnastics routine complete with one-handed cartwheels and splits. We performed the final show in the town’s cinema on a huge stage—it was so cool!
The town of Malo was small, but a very supportive and enthusiastic community. The sense of unity and town pride reminded me a lot of my own hometown of Nixa. The best part was that the lunches at the school were managed by the local parents’ council, meaning they were really well organized and the food was really good! The town rests in a valley, surrounded on three sides by mountains. It made the climate much cooler than I would have expected, and also very few mosquitoes (YAYYY!!).
My host family provided me with quite an interesting experience, to say the least. First of all, none of them spoke a word of English, which I was actually very thankful for because it meant that I got a lot of practice on my Italian (which is markedly better now than it was last summer!). Secondly, they have a 4 year-old child who is the closest thing to Satanic that I have ever seen. Within the first 24 hours of being with the family, I had already been scratched, pinched, punched in the groin, spat on, and he hurled an English-Italian dictionary at my head. He also cried and screamed non-stop every day. One night at dinner, he noticed that I had a green cup and he had a yellow one… well, who would guess that something so small could almost cause WW3 to occur!! By Saturday morning, I was so sick of all his crap that when he asked me to play Dragonball Z with him, I relished at the opportunity to seek vengeance, at least virtually. So instead of going easy on him as I would have done with any other child, I relentlessly beat the shit out of him… and loved every second of it!! He started yelling at me to stop punching/shooting him, but I didn’t. I had a week’s worth of frustration and hostility built up inside me, and there was no way I was gonna stop until I saw “KO” across the screen!
The first day of being with the family, they took me to a family feast (over 30 people) on the side of one of the mountains. The view was incredible and they had huge picnic tables lined up in front of an outdoor roasting pit. The father took me by the shoulder and walked me over to the roaster. From a distance it looked like enormous shish kabobs of meat… but as I got closer I realized that the pieces of meat were actually entire birds. I asked what kind of birds they were (assuming some type of tiny game fowl), and he said they were birds that he shot from the sky, like sparrows and the like. Although slightly shocked, my “I’m in a foreign country—I want to try everything” attitude was intrigued. When we sat down, the father noticed me watching other people pick the birds up to see how it’s done and he told me to just eat it. I asked, “What about the bones?” He told me not to worry, they’re only small birds. He proceeded to eat one of his as an example. Quite ravenously he separated the head from the body and put the head/neck in his mouth, biting the skull in such a way that only the beak remained uneaten. Then he tore the wings off and ate them one after the other. Then he ate the body in two more bites. I was fascinated, having never seen a bird eaten in this way: skull, bones, everything! So I quickly followed suite, starting with the head as he had done. The bones were crunchy, but definitely edible… unfortunately, I thought they were also the best tasting part. The meat was so dark and just tasted nasty; but at least now I know!
After lunch, we went for a hike through the mountains. At one point we reached this tiny church, out in the middle of nowhere. And from the church, we could see in the distance—between two mountains—some sort of monument. The father told me that it was a monument built following WW2, and inside were the bones of the Italian soldiers who had been killed by the Germans there. Apparently, it is the only monument of its kind in the entire country. After the hike, I laid in the grass playing Uno with the other ‘kids’ in the family, which included Ginny. Ginny was 17 years-old and studying psychology at her high school. Somehow the father took this to mean that she would be a perfect match for me. So Ginny and I both spent the entire afternoon slightly embarrassed at his suggestive statements, including one about marriage. At the conclusion of the family feast, it was decided that Ginny and I would go out to a bar together on Thursday night. And the father reminded me every day that, come Thursday evening, I have a date with this 17 year-old girl who barely speaks any English. The father also added that I should sing for them that night too.
Little did I know that Thursday would be the second of three consecutive nights of singing. Wednesday was chosen as the night that the camp director would take all the tutors out for dinner. We went to a pizzeria that was well-known in the area for its “pizza non-stop”. Our entire group of about 25 people could have all-you-can-eat pizza for one price. The only rule was that we had to completely finish all of our current pizzas before receiving another batch, which would eventually include a dessert pizza with Nutella and sliced pears. And like any good Italian, she insisted on ordering us plenty of wine to share. Well, let’s just say I ended up drinking more than plenty that night. It was my last week of working and all the tutors were having a great time at dinner… so before I knew it, I was drunker than I had ever been before (but not wasted, mind you). At one point, I stumbled into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror, telling myself out-loud to pull it together… but all I could do was laugh at the thought of being drunk on ACLE’s budget.
As soon as I got back to the table, everyone started asking me to sing for them. I told them that I wanted to wait until we were in the parking lot, but really I just said that so that I could maybe sober-up a bit before trying to sing an aria. Unfortunately, I then noticed that we were leaving at that moment and I was going to be singing drunk… really drunk. We got to the parking lot, me stumbling along with a few other tutors. When everyone got quiet for me to start, I took four or five deep breathes in an attempt to center myself and remember the words. And then the most remarkable thing happened: as soon as I started singing, I felt as though I wasn’t drunk at all. I was fully aware of my voice as usual, perhaps just feeling a bit freer than normal. It was almost like all the time I had spent practicing that song and all the training my voice has gone through was able to override the effects of the alcohol. It was a remarkable feeling.
Fortunately, teenagers in Italy can’t drive until they turn 18… meaning that the family had to come with Ginny and I on Thursday night. She also brought a few friends. I felt kind of bad when she got to the house looking all trendy with her hair and make-up carefully done and there I stood in shorts, flip-flops, and an already-been-worn t-shirt. When we were leaving, the father said, “Tonight we will hear you sing.” I said that would be fine, having no qualms about giving yet another performance for another host family. Then when we got to the bar, there was a huge sign that said “Karaoke Night” and they shoved a song list into my face. I tried thinking of something to say in Italian that politely meant “Hell no! I told you I’m a lyric singer, not Justin Timberlake. I’m not gonna sound good on this.” Not only did I not want to sing karaoke (which I would have totally done in America… but not there), but I also didn’t know any of the songs on the list well enough to sing. The international section was full of late 80’s early 90’s stuff and a lot of artists I hadn’t even heard of before. After several attempts to dissuade them, I heard “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas come on, and some guy shoved a microphone in my face. I didn’t really know what was going on; all I knew was that I didn’t really have any choice but to sing at that point. So I sang. For the first time all week, I was so thankful that the devil-child was there. He started screaming that he was tired, so we went home early, cutting the date short after just one mojito and a botched pop song.
My next adventure of public performance came the following evening, after the final show was over. A few of the other families invited to take a group of tutors out to eat with them. I accepted, happy to get an evening away from the devil-child and a chance to spend more time with the tutors before we all said our goodbyes. After dinner at the restaurant, one of the tutors mentioned to her host father that I am an opera singer and that I sang for them on Wednesday. So again, I was asked to sing in the middle of a restaurant. I happily obliged, and afterword the manager gave free shots of grappa to all of us tutors… needless to say, I was the man of the hour (although I thought grappa was disgusting—I felt like I was drinking fire).
I think it’s just wonderful how open and appreciative Italians are of art and music. I’ve been asked hundreds of times in America what I am studying. When I mention singing, nobody ever asks to hear me… and understandably not. When was the last time you saw someone singing or doing something artistic out in public if they weren’t hired to do so? I would feel so strange singing at a restaurant in America, most likely getting “What the hell are you doing? You’re disturbing my conversation.” kind of looks. But when I sing in Italy, the people don’t just hear me, they listen to me. They put their forks down, nobody talks, some people even stop and dismount their bikes. It’s one of the most blatant cultural differences I’ve experienced in all my time here, and certainly some of the greatest joys of the past seven weeks.
After leaving the restaurant, we tutors decided to go to a bar and share one last bottle of wine together before parting ways. Because the final show ran so late, we were all still wearing our bright red English Camp t-shirts and generally not looking our best. It was late, so when we spotted a bar that was still open, we parked our bikes outside and walked in. Little did we know that we were creating one of those moments you see on TV. As soon as we walked in, everyone in the bar fell completely silent and stared directly at us. They were all dressed very fashionably, and although we hadn’t even spoken yet, they clearly knew we were not Italians. We all looked at each other with those “oh shit, this is awkward” glances, and we walked right back out the door. Luckily, we found another bar (more suitable for us) a little further down the street. After a bottle of wine, we knew it was getting really late and we needed to say goodbye and get back to our families.
Saying goodbye to Franzi, with whom I had been working and had spent the majority of almost every day for six weeks, the goodbye was especially hard. She had been with me since my second week, and my best memories of the summer all include her. We spent that amazing day together lost in the middle of Tuscany without a care in the world. She had heard me sing my Italian aria about 7 different times. And we had laughed together more times than would be possible to count. The next time I am in London, I know I have a friend who I will be more than happy to visit.
The next morning I boarded the train out of Malo, waving goodbye to my host-family as they drifted out of sight. And as soon as I couldn’t see them anymore, I began to cry. If you know me well, you know that I don’t cry very often, but for some reason I did that morning. I think it was my exhaustion from working combined with the excitement of going home, the sadness of leaving Italy, and the remaining emotions from the previous night’s goodbyes. Regardless of the tears, I was so happy during that train ride, contented with the job I had done, the experiences I had had, and the people I had met. I also couldn’t stop thinking about nine year-old Giovanni who was in my class that week and who approached me on Friday with a hug and said “I sad perche English Camp e fine.” In that moment, I had never been so glad to be doing what I was doing. Not only could I see how much being at English Camp meant to this little boy, but he had also used English I had taught him to say so. I had taught emotions on Tuesday, and although he forgot “am” in the phrase, it made me feel so proud to hear him speak those two words to me in context three days after I had taught that lesson. Teachers always talk about those moments when they see their students’ progress shine and it makes all the trouble worth it. I think that was definitely a small glimpse of that feeling.
Saying goodbye is always tough with ACLE. It’s the nature of the program that you form really strong connections to the people you meet and work with, and then you are torn apart… every week. Maybe I will see some of those people again someday; maybe I never will. But more important than the relationships I’ve built during the last two summers in Italy is the confidence that wherever I go in life, I know there will be people there who fascinate me and with whom I can connect. I think a lot of times people are scared to move to different places because they are worried that they will feel alone. Sometimes our current friends are so amazing that we forget the world is filled with an innumerable amount of other people who have the potential to also amaze us, show us love, and make us laugh. Thanks to my experience with ACLE, I know this. And I hope to put this knowledge to good use in the years to come.
Topsy-Turvy Italian Tid-Bits
1.) I’ve noticed that a lot of light switches in Italian homes are on the outside of the room. This just doesn’t make any sense to me. Last week, I had to walk out into the hallway to turn my bedroom light off when I was ready for bed… I don’t understand the point of this.
2.) I’ve always thought it kind of nit-picky of society to have such strict rules for proper eating, one of which being that you should hold the knife in your right hand and fork in the left. I’ve always done it the other way around and been perfectly fine. But after seven weeks of Italian fathers ‘correcting’ me, I now consciously use my knife with my right hand.
3.) I can tell that there is more of a cultural emphasis on family in Italy by looking at my last four host families. Three of the four families lived either in the same house as or in the same apartment complex as the grandparents. In my last family, the father was a construction worker and had built a big house, divided in half by a wall. They lived on one side, the grandparents on the other. I wonder if they watch “Everybody Loves Raymond” in Italy… I’m sure the majority of the people could relate to it!
4.) Earlier this week, my class was getting rowdy and I had some ACLE paperwork to complete. I decided I would try playing the silent game with them, with the incentive of the winner getting a sticker… Worked like a charm! Why did I not discover this until my last week of having a class!?! Not only did I enjoy the peace and quiet, but the kids loved the game too. They asked me to play it again with them every day following. SCORE!!
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