Italy: Ahem

I mumble.

I have always been vaguely annoyed when people don´t understand me when I´m mumbling, but I would like to take this opportunity to bow before everyone who has ever been subjected to my mumbling and beg forgiveness. For Kate, when she is tired, when she is hot--and we spend most of our time hot and tired--mumbles. And it is sublimely annoying (this is not something I remember about her. Either my memory is going, or my hearing is).

Luckily I, too, am annoying.

My most annoying quality on this trip, or at least what I hope is my most annoying quality, comes each evening when the sun lowers its fierce head and people begin to greet each other with ´buonasera´ instead of the daytime ´buongiorno´. Shortly after being forced to say ´buonasera´for the first time, this  Louis Prima song pops into my head, and no matter how resolved I am to keep my mouth shut, it always leaks out when I´m not paying attention. Now, this might be kind of funny and even charming the first time. But we were in Italy for 13 days. I doesn´t help that I only know about 10 words that I sing over and over. Over and over. Poor Kate.

Fortunately, as well as rediscovering each other´s irritating qualities, Kate and I are remembering how hard we can laugh together, especially when the going gets rough.

Speaking of which.

Kate and I left our Gentleman´s Farm. We decided, incidentally, that WWOOF (Willing Workers on Organic Farms, the organization that led us to the farm) should in many cases be renamed Willing Workers for the Landed Gentry. Especially because I would much prefer saying I was WWFTLGing than WWOOFing (arf). We spent many of our Organic work hours varnishing Claudio´s doors and window frames and getting loopy on the fumes. So much time that we have converted ´varnish´ into a curse word. But hey, Claudio was a helluva cook, so that made it worth it. Also we got to harvest a lot of lavender, which was sickeningly picturesque.

Anyway, we returned to Rome and immediately went on a quest for gelato and pizza, following new recommendations from Claudio and Michelle. By just after midnight we were well sated and ready to take on the Notte di Caravaggio tour of churches. In honor of the 400th anniversary of the lamentable death of Caravaggio, (not his real name) Roma was having a great celebration wherein all the churches housing his work were kept open all night and there were historians around to explain the brilliance of the various masterpieces and a free bus was provided between the churches. This is further evidence of sane people choosing to be nocturnal when possible in Rome in July. The line for the first church was crushingly long,...

...and when we finally got in we couldn´t focus long enough to try to understand the Italian historians. Thoroughly exhausted, we threw in the towel and got a cab (such decadence!) back to our lodging.

Now there were three layers of security in the apartment building where we were staying. The first layer was not so secure, since the lock wasn´t latched and we just pushed through the door. The second layer was the one that stymied us. At 1 AM time does strange things for those of us who prefer going to sleep at 10. We fought that lock for what seemed like days. First Kate, then me, then Kate, then me. The marble steps were cool and inviting, and we were all but resolved to sleep there for the night, when we decided to make one last ditch effort. Having lost most ability for verbal communication, I took up the key, shoved it back in the lock for the 2000th time, and turned. As usual, it made an encouraging sound that seemed to communicate that the bolt had moved. But the door, as usual, remained unfazed. "Push and pull," I instructed Kate, and with a wild look in her eye, Kate complied. She threw herself at the doorknob, then drew it back with all her farmer might. Again and again she did this, and we started laughing maniacally. All the while I put pressure on the key, first one way, then the other, till finally, and this was truly a miraculous moment because both of us had lost hope at this point, the key turned! A moment of epiphany! Caravaggio´s light touched us!

 (This is what the light was like at that tender moment when the key turned.)

And Kate, still carrying the momentum of push-and-pull, fell into the apartment. The key I was still holding dragged me behind her, and we tumbled in, landing in a heap in the entryway. Helpless giggles ensued. Push and Pull. Put your back into it. It´s good advice.

Italy: Forgive me...

...for I am in Italy and I am going to tell you about a meal.

We arrived in Rome without a guidebook, but with a list as long as your arm of recommendations from friends who have explored Rome enough to find the hidden treasures every food-and-culture obsessed traveler seeks. Go to La Lucia and eat the coniglio caccitora (thank you Stephanie). Stay in a monastery, they're cheap, clean, and oh the nuns! (thank you Evan). Pizzarium, west of the Vatican, has the best pizza in the world (thank you Max's mom). The problem with our tome of juicy insider knowledge was that we tried to do everything on each person's list,eat every dish at each food establishment, and all under the brutal Roman sun when any sensible being with any say in the matter must have been curled up in a siesta from 11 AM to 5 PM. What I mean to say is that we over-Romed. And now, from a hillside just outside of Rome, I have a moment to share with you. It is from Stephanie's carefully crafted list of delights, and it involved inhumane amounts of hearty Roman peasant food.

The Romana who served us did not beat about the bush. Smoker's voice and teeth to match, stringy hair and sparkling eyes, she smacked both palms on our plastic sidewalk table--had their been a sidewalk--and leaned forward, offering us our only choice of the evening: "Bianco o rosso?!" I am not being coy in withholding the name of the restaurant; we just couldn't find any marker that announced it. It is pressed into the side of a hill in Trastevere, at the foot of the Janiculum stairs, at the end of Vicolo del Cedro. That is enough if you ever want to find it.

We chose rosso, and soon the table wine and pitcher of good Roman tap water plunked down onto the green-and-white plastic table cloth. Almost immediately the first wave of food was upon us--bruschetta with thick chunks of tomatoes, languid, savory beans dissolving into their savory sauce, spicy mashed potatoes that were a startling fiery orange. We were still smiling when the pasta bowl arrived--simple parmigiano and pepper. But when the next two bowls of pasta arrived, panic nestled into my stomach somewhere between the bread and the pasta and the potatoes. The only solution was more rosso.

 Pasta Anguish

 More Rosso

When the segundi presented themselves, one squid one chicken, we were practically lashing ourselves in penitence. We could not eat it all. The squid was nothing to write home about (ahaha), but the chicken tasted so much like chicken it was almost indecent. With the arrival of dessert came the arrival of even more diners. More tables drawn onto the street, more family, friends, regulars. It felt very much like we were crashing a neighborhood party. With the anise biscuits, limoncello, and grappa, and months of catching up to do, Kate and I barely made it back to the convent by curfew.

Limoncello. Grappa. Anise Biscuits.

Meh. Squid

I could go on like this. I could describe every topping on the finest pizza I've ever had (so far). I could tell you about watching the fruit crates roll into the gelateria and the gelato and sorbetto roll out (fragoline di bosco! how you torture me!), but it is already feeling a bit too nostalgic. We have moved on, relocated to a 'farm' outside the city, which is really the vegetable patch of an old gentleman called Claudio who was the director of a local TV channel until Berlusconi bought it up. He is 72 and works in the garden with his pacemaker despite the protestations of his fluttery American wife. We work alongside Filip and Anna, the sweetest Swedish couple you can ever imagine. We call Claudio 'Cloudy,' which with his shock of white hair and limited range of hearing, is the perfectest term of endearment. It is hot. The meals are long, and the siesta is longer. Life is good.

The DR: Adios, Dominicana

Amigas, amigos. The last installment from La Dominicana. I have been traveling a bit, to the mountains and to the beach. I’ve finally gotten the requisite sunburn. Silvana (amiga mía preciosa—¡voy a extrañar verte en tu natural habitat aquí!) has been driving me around the Capital, too.  

Through my travels I have come to appreciate the Dominican usage of the horn. We Americans have an extremely limited sense of what the beep of a car horn can communicate. For us it means ‘Danger!’ or ‘Hurry up.’ Here in the DR it is like ‘Aloha’ in Hawaiian. It means ‘Hello,’ it means ‘Goodbye,’ it means ‘Watch out I’m about to crush you like a bug,’ and it means ‘I’m here, please don’t crush me like a bug!’ It means ‘I’m passing you on this dangerous road.’ Beep beep. It means ‘I’m coming around this blind curve on the wrong side of the road.’ Beeeeeep. It means ‘I am a guagua [bus], need a ride?’ It means, ‘Hey cutie’ and it means ‘Move it or lose it.’ Very communicative. Beep beep.

Since I came here to learn to speak like a Dominican, I suppose I’ll end with a little taste of what I’ve learned in the streets:

La Lengua Callejera Dominicana

[Dominican Street Talk]

Amigo: ¡Hola rubia!

Friend: [Hi white girl!]

Yo: ¡Hola moreno!

Me: [Hi brown guy!]

Amigo: Dime a ve' ¿que lo que?

[somewhere between ‘what’s up’ and ‘how’s it hanging’]

Yo: Cogiendo lucha, mi hermano

[grinning Life’s a struggle, bro.]

Amigo: ¿Ya comiste?

[Did you eat yet?]

Yo: ¡Tu ‘ta mofle! Ya son la 10

[You’re way behind! Literally, ‘You’re a muffler!’ It’s already 10]

Amigo: ¡Coño, pero tengo hambre!

[Damn, but I’m hungry!]

Yo: Bueno, vamo a comel, amigo.

[ok, let’s go eat, buddy]

Scene.

I am going to miss it here. I am going to miss the bachata and merengue, and the fried food, and the open hearts.

The DR: On dancing, Adolescence, and Breasts

¡Hola otra vez!

 

*On dancing

Dominicans are completely confused when you tell them that a lot of Americans don’t dance. ”Especially the men,” I explained once. “But what do they do?” was the bemused response. “What do they do at night? What do they do at parties?” Dancing here is like walking; if you can’t do it, you must have a sprained ankle. And music is everywhere. Even when we went out to the countryside, the riverside bungalow was equipped with a dance floor and a set of giant vocinas. Speakers. We blasted merengue and bachata out over the river. Loida and her boyfriend danced.

Daniel is teaching me bachata and merengue. I like dancing with him because I don’t have to worry about what it means. When we’re dancing together it means we’re dancing together, na’ma’ (which is Dominican for ‘nada más’ which is Spanish for ‘nothing more’). When I’m dancing with Dominicans, dancing too close seems to have sketchy significance, keeping distance is stiff and uptight, blah blah blah. Anyway, even a rhythmically challenged white girl can manage these dance steps. I can’t do anything fancy, and I certainly don’t look native, but I can get by. Still, poor Dan. His girlfriend works most nights at a pharmacy and he’s stuck on the dance floor with an amateur.

*On Lisbeth y Santa

I am getting to be friends with Lisbeth and Santa. They are both 12, but on opposite ends of the growth spectrum. Santica is tiny, Lisbeth looks like she’s 15. Santa moves like a cat and is learning the fine art of butt shaking; Lisbeth doesn’t quite know what to do with her limbs yet. They are both in the house day in and day out. Sometimes they do chores, but mostly they just chill.

It’s strange to think they could be my students. I can hardly imagine hanging out so much with my students without going crazy, but of course, I am not their teacher. In fact they are the ones doing the teaching most of the time. How to cook, how to do laundry, how to pronounce things in Spanish…. Today Lisbeth brought out Santa’s diary and read me one of the stories. Díos mio. It was about a girl named Camila whose father let her go on a cruise for her 15^th birthday, her quinseañera. On the cruise she met a very cute boy named Raúl. He gave her cards and flowers and their romance developed until the last night of the cruise, when she gave him the most important thing in her life: her virginity. The next day, he gave her one last gift before they parted: a box and a card that said, “Do not open until you get home.” She obeyed. When she got home she opened the box and inside was a black flower and a note that said, “Welcome to the world of AIDS.”

Interpret at will, my friends.

*On boobs

I have never seen breasts like I´ve seen in this country. This is not necessarily because they have not been around, but because they have not been quite so…well displayed. Lovely wobbly breasts are absolutely everywhere. I find them very funny for some reason. In a country full of low cut shirts, there have been a few women whose shirts have been so exposing that I’ve been convinced the boobs would pop out at any moment. Bubble right out of their nests. One such woman was rather large. She was apparently not as concerned as I was that her boobies might get loose, so she danced a wiggly sort of dance, and I think I was not the only one wondering if they might just…might just…oops. They didn’t. But her show offered some real competition to the main attraction, which was the woman at the other end of the room who was channeling an African spirit named Ogún Balañó.

But that is a whole different story.

The DR: On Men, Food, and Beauty

Preamble: It is a great irony to lose one´s voice when one is trying to learn a language. At the same time it’s a bit of a reprieve—a sanctioned break from struggling through mutilated sentences. It’s a break for those who have to listen to me, too! I’m drinking lots of tea with honey and lime. All will be better soon.

And now on to what you've all be waiting for.

*On men

Darío! Ha! For the record, Darío is no tiguere. In Ecuador they were called ‘tiburones’—sharks. Here they are called ‘tigueres’—tigers. They are guys who hang out on corners and say enticing things like, ‘Hey girlfriend!’ or ‘Hey [insert person’s color]’ or, for my benefit, and this is one of my personal favorites, ‘American people! I love you baby!’ No, Darío is not a tiguere, he’s a guy who works with Loida in politics, managing a team of people who…and that’s where I stopped understanding what he was saying when he explained what he does.

It was an awkward situation to begin with. The two of us were swimming with mucha gente. Me, Darío, the people who had brought us together, and half the rest of the DR. We were in the mountains, escaping the heat of the city. 

 This was taken when the crowd had subsided considerably

The funny thing is, no one here has any tolerance for cold, so even though I thought the water was lovely (and we all know how wimpy I am), Darío, who is a great hunk of man, was shivering visibly. I asked if he wanted to go back to the table, gesturing toward the terrace above where other people from our party were hanging out with the our bags. He thought I had asked him to “dar una vuelta” which I guess in this case is go for a walk around the swimming hole. Whatever. I said yes to the question he thought I had posed. Vamo. So we’re chatting, me practically naked in my bikini, him fully clothed, having gone swimming in his shorts and T shirt. What do we do for a living? How do we know Loida? Nothing intimate whatsoever. Then the inevitable. He asks if I have a boyfriend. I pause, then say, “Vamos a decir que sí” Let’s say I do. Of course I immediately wished I’d just said, “Si” and left it at that, but his response? Not ‘What do you mean by that?’ or ‘How long have you been together?’ or anything like that. He says, “I like that you’re honest about it. It’s probably just as well. You’re only here for a month and I’m very sensitive. I get attached to people.” He took my blank stare of utter bewilderment to be a linguistic problem, and repeated what he'd said slowly and more clearly. It was all I could do to keep it together. I smiled and nodded and led the way back to our group. Awkward silence plagued us from that moment forth.

*On food

Ayayay the fried food.  It is a test of a person’s metabolism.

 Breakfast with Luz: eggs with yucca, or mangu, or tostones whatever strikes her fancy. 

Dinner with Maria: Empanadas

 Vacation food I: Coconut on Playa Rincón

 Vacation food II: Fish, Rice, and Beans on Playa Rincón

Playa Rincón

*On beauty

Obesity and beauty are most definitely not mutually exclusive categories here. There are plenty of flacos and flaquitas, but big boned boys and girls get down and dirty on the dance floor, too. And I mean dirty. And everyone and their mother gets…appreciated…by any audience. There always seem to be people watching. On the street, in the discotecas, in the park. They notice, they comment, the feedback is always good. I wonder why people devote so much time to preening, when they’re just as likely to get attention walking around with rollers in their hair as when they’re all made up, with straight and smooth and shiny locks. I love seeing people in rollers, incidentally. Cracks me up.

 

La Santica in Rollers

And that´s quite enough for now.

The DR: ¡Que calor!

´La Dominicana.´ It´s damn hot. 

*On luz.

At the top of this photo you'll see the inversor. If you look really carefully, to the left you'll see two tiny lights. I have learned that the little green light is bad and the little red light is good. The red light means the electricity is on in the house where I rent a room, so we can bask in the luxury of fans and, at night, lights. It also means that la bomba can be started up, which is the contraption that coaxes water from the main into the pipes and, if all goes well, out of the faucet. For some reason la bomba is usually turned off, which means we flush toilets with buckets of water, and the sink sits impotently collecting dishes. When the green light is on, as Daniel—my americano DR contact and guardian angel—explained to me, it means ‘go generator!’ But there is a problem with the generator; its reserves are tapped easily. This means only electrical essentials are to be employed when the green light is on. No fans. No bomba. And, late in the night when people are going to bed anyway, no lights. When the electricity cuts, cries of ‘se fue la luz!’ echo through the cavernous casa. Equally, when the electricity comes back on, there is a flurry of activity, joyful cries of ‘hay luz!’ as Santa runs to start la bomba so Loida can do laundry, or fill the reserve tanks with water to flush the toilets and wash hands when la luz goes out again. 

Loida is the lawyer whose house I share, and Santa is her diminuative 12 year old...servant? The relationship is a bit unclear so far... but she certainly seems at everyone’s beck and call. I think she helps out in exchange for food, lodging, and the opportunity to go to school in the city. Anyway. What is surreal about turning on la bomba is that, just as when the electricity comes on it seems that all the lights in the house have been left on, when la bomba is turned on, it is not uncommon to wander into the bathroom or kitchen and find the faucet gushing. Whereas walking into a lit room feels more or less normal, walking in to a room with water gushing out of the faucet leaves one with the impression that there may be a resident ghost. ¡Hay aguacita!

*On showering. 

The first night I stood in the shower and squeezed a washcloth over myself, which felt divine after the long trip and the stifling heat. In the cool of the morning I was giddy over the prospect of finally rinsing off the dust of travel under a real shower. I made sure that la bomba was good to go. Then, joyfully, I turned on the shower head. I noticed with vague disappointment that it was a hand-held contraption, the kind that doesn’t leave a person both hands free to do the washing, but this was nothing major. It turns out my problem was much more grave. When I turned on the tap, only a few drops trickled out. Then nothing. I asked Loida how the shower functions, and she said, “ah, I don’t know.” 

Me: “You don’t know?” 

Her: “Vamo a ver” (I am learning to cut out my ´s´s) 

Together we went into the bathroom. She turned on the water, and again a tiny trickle and then nothing. “You’ll have to use the bucket,” she told me, shrugging. My heart sank. I was familiar with the bucket method because we had used it in Cameroon. What made the situation here in la Dominicana comical was the appearance of infrastructure. In Cameroon it made sense—when the toilet is a hole in the concrete, and the bathing space is a dark concrete room with a somewhat dingy drain, it comes as no surprise that one has to ladle out water to wash with, especially in a land where water is a precious commodity. But here I was, standing in a nice clean tub with a shower curtain, in a fully tiled bathroom, going through the same procedure. I get the impression that this disparity between appearance and functionality may be a common problem in la Dominicana.

The funny thing about the shower was, I didn’t mind. Maybe only because there was more water available to me than there was in Cameroon, for water shortage does not seem to be a Dominican problem. I don’t ever remember feeling completely clean in Cameroon, but after my cold Dominican shower, I felt like a new woman, ready to go out and learn some damn español. ¿No hay duche? No hay problema.

*On San Antonio

While the shower gives an idea of the problems that even wealthy Dominicanos deal with every day, it is by far not the most interesting thing that I´ve experienced in my first 3 days. Dan, who does research on traditional Afro-Carribean religious music, brought me to a fiesta for San Antonio in a poor barrio full of exuberant folks. When you don´t have electricity you don´t have to worry about it cutting out. There were prayers and incense and a splashing of water with flowers and herbs and drumming and then a processional, drumming all the way, carrying the image of San Antonio back to its owner´s place. Antonio had been on loan to a brujo (´witch´ is a bad translation but will have to suffice) who needed him. Belief in brujos and Catholicism are obviously not mutually exclusive, although the Church might beg to differ.... 

 Yeah that's right, I'm playing the guira, Rubia

Jean the brujo and the other músicos

 San Antonio is in the wood case

The ceremony was a load of fun, I was given a beer all for myself (which is a huge honor and speaks to how welcoming everyone was to a friend of Daniel). A ten year old girl named Esmerelda took me under wing and talked my ear off, simultaneously making sure we didn´t get hit by motos or cars as we all paraded through the streets. I understood maybe one word in 5, but we got along great.

Esmerelda

I´ve also been systematically breaking all the cautionary rules of what to avoid when traveling here. Except the water. Don´t drink the water. Eso.

Student Teaching

So I am loving this. This teaching thing is really fabulous, despite the fact that it has made the voice in my head (I pause here, hoping you all have voices in your heads, too) occasionally code-switch into a smooth-talking adolescent Latino boy. Which is, for those of you who might not remember, the demographic on which I spend about 95 % of my emotional and intellectual energy because of my student teaching placement in an urban school where my English as a Second Language class is populated by...well, the latest count was 11 boys and 2 girls, all from Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, Honduras, Columbia, and the one girl from Guinea). So about this voice in my head. As I finished dinner tonight, I heard it say, "I am not entirely con-bins-ed that I eshould be putting this cosa in the dishwasher." Which, a month ago, would have sounded a whole lot more like, "I'm not entirely convinced I should be putting this thing in the dishwasher." Either way it's a voice in my head...

Anyway.  I love these kids. Really really. And they're breaking my heart. Call it melodramatic, but it is absolutely true. They are amazing, wonderful kids, and they are swimming against an incredibly powerful cultural, socioeconomic, and institutional current. Two of them are parents, and another is about to join their ranks. Many of them have after-school jobs, and rumor has it that some work full time. One has an undefined disability that means he should be receiving special education support but there are no bilingual special ed teachers available for him. And the one bilingual counselor has been out sick, which is really too bad because there's a kid who's recently been sleeping through most of his classes almost every day. No one can figure out what's wrong, though informal diagnoses of depression fly through the (tiny, windowless) teachers' room. 

So I love them. The reality is that they have probably already changed me more than I will ever change them. I've never worked in an urban school. I've never felt so content in a classroom or so frustrated with administration.  I am glad that I will not work at this high school, but I would love to work more with this population.

How about a profile of one of my little darlings (most of whom are bigger than me, and whose age range is 15 to 20, but no matter).  I will change the names to protect their innocence.

Juan.  If i could use 'street-smart' as a term of endearment, I would use it on him, and liberally.  'Come here, Street-smart,' I would say as he roamed around the classroom, 'Let's try just the first part of this assignment. Just the first part."  I choose Juan because the Rumor Mill says he may no longer be my student next week. Admittedly he is so seldom present that his speculated expulsion would change the class dynamic only slightly. But without him we will be both slightly more focused, and quite a bit sadder.  Juan has a heart the size of his island of Puerto Rico, but he apparently has a temper to match.  The Rumor Mill (whose name is Esperanza and who sits on the right in fifth period ESL) says he was a leader in the clash between races that happened at the metro stop last friday.  And by races I mean ethnicities, of course, because many of my 'Latino' students are every bit as 'black' as the 'African American' students, and when you get right down to it, 'African American' fits them, too...  aren't the Carribean and Central and South America...American?  but there is of course a huge cultural and sometimes linguistic divide between them. It's a complicated social climate, but not for the students.  They know who's on what side of every line.

Anyway, I'm exhausted most of the time, but satisfied. I could get used to this whole 'work' thing...  now if only there were a paycheck attached.

Juan is the one with the yellow shirt.