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!!