Let's talk about food

                                                       Learning how to hand-make pasta 
                                                                  at a local restaurant

For many of you, this photo probably seems strange.
"Is that Bernadette with an apron on" you might ask. "Is she cooking something?"
To give you some better context for these questions, I would like to confess that I absolutely have no idea how to cook. The years of eating mom's excellent dinners and the wonderfully greasy meals at Mrs. E's have left me in Italy without any knowledge of how to actually feed myself.
You may think, "Well, cooking is easy! You just turn on the stove and boil some water!"
Well the first problem here is that I have a gas stove that is probably older than the apartment I'm living in. So it took me about a month to learn how to light that thing.
Then there are of course the questions like, "How long does it take water to boil?" "How do you know if the pasta is finished?" "How exactly do you cut an onion?" "Wait, you aren't supposed to use the seeds in a pepper?"
Apparently, everyone went to some secret cooking basics school when they were little and I wasn't invited. Before coming to Italy, I honestly didn't know what garlic looked like, let alone that you were supposed to smash it with the flat side of your knife in order to cut it.
Well, lucky for me! I found the right place to learn about all things food! And not only am I learning about Italian food, but the best kind of Italian food. Anything and everything bolognese.
The city of Bologna has many nicknames, but the most important one for this conversation is "la grassa", meaning "the fat". Bologna is famous for it's food. Ever heard of tortellini? How how spaghetti alla bolognese? Or maybe you've heard of mortadella (more commonly known as baloney)? All of these things were invented by the bolognese.
I am living in the food capital of Italy! And I can't figure out how to light my stove...
Last Saturday evening, I tried to make carbonara. This is a very simple pasta recipe that my roommate showed me how to make a few days before. Fry up some pancetta (bacon). Scramble some egg yolks. Boil some pasta. And then mix the egg and pancetta in. It takes about 10 minutes.
But of course, when I tried to do it, it took me ten tries to light the stove. I forgot to put the water on (add 20 minutes) and when I mixed in the eggs at the end, the pasta wasn't hot enough so instead of cooking a little to make a type of paste, I was left with liquid egg yolk and a little pasta on top. Naturally, I threw the whole batch away and went out to dinner.
The restaurant I chose? Spaccanapoli. Only the best pizzeria in the entire world. They serve pizzas so big, you have enough meals for the rest of the week. As well as for everyone else in your apartment.

                                                                 Me at Spaccanapoli

It was only 10pm when I got there, a very normal dinner time for Italians, and something that I am still having trouble getting used to. When I tell people that I normally eat dinner at 6 pm, they look at me like I'm crazy.
"But that's almost like lunch!" I've had someone say to me before.
I don't understand the Italian metabolism. They only drink espresso for breakfast. Eat lunch at 2pm. And then dinner no earlier than 8pm. Ever.
Then there's really not a lot of snacking. The potato chips here taste funny. And there's no such thing as grape jelly, so PB&Js are nonexistent (an essential block of my diet where I am physically experiencing withdrawal).
Food here (when I'm not cooking it) is actually pretty simple. Caffe, pizza, and pasta. I eat pasta for almost two meals a day. I read an article for class that said on average, every Italian consumes around 60 pounds of pasta a year. That's a lot of pasta. I just wish I knew how to cook it.
My usual dinner consists of pasta and tomato sauce. Usually with some onions (yes, I now know how to peel an onion). And while it may seem a little repetitive, there is actually something beautiful about the smell of onions in olive oil. I now put onions in everything. Its also the only vegetable I really know how to cut properly.
To conclude this post, I would like to discuss my Thanksgiving feast. Thankfully, our program put together a dinner for all of our homesick selves. They rented out an entire restaurant, which then prepared all of our traditional Thanksgiving foods. For me, the best part was a squash/pumpkin soup. Maybe just because I've really never had anything like it before.

The turkey was actually fantastic too. Buuuut, there wasn't any stuffing. In fact, I was taken back to the kitchen to explain to them what stuffing is and why it is absolutely essential to every Thanksgiving meal. They didn't make the mashed potatoes chunky like my mom makes them. And cranberries don't exist in Italy. They think cranberries are blueberries. So I did enjoy a rather interesting blueberry sauce.
It was a wonderful Thanksgiving. But not the one I have at home. It's amazing how homesick you can be for food.
Sometimes I feel guilty. I am in the country that invented gelato and nutella! And all I can think about is how I would kill for a crab rangoon from Peking Taste.  But then again, every time I smell those onions cooking in olive oil, I remember just how lucky I am.
To make up for the lack of PB&J, I just get gelato everyday instead. Wow, what a rough life.

Tanti Auguri Pietro! (Happy Birthday!)

As many of you already know, children and I have a very special relationship. Its that kind of special relationship that I imagine Harry Potter and Dudley Dursley share. Or maybe sour milk and your stomach. I can't really go so far as to say that I hate children. But we don't have a very good history. I'm usually sitting next to them screaming on and airplane, screaming in a restaurant, screaming in the library (this just happened today), or just generally screaming at someone.
No, I'm sorry, I really don't want to pick your nose for you, why don't you just do it yourself.
Well, this is the year to challenge myself.
And the the new task at hand: Teaching a 6-year-old boy how to speak English.
I'm not really sure what prompted me to take the job. I think it had something to do with desperation as I watched my hard-earned money apparate out of my bank account. Whatever, the reason, the day I showed up to meet Pietro, just to see what he was like, I ended up leaving with a appointment time for the next week and no real memory of agreeing to the job.
Since that first meeting, Pietro and I have been slowly working through the intricate details of English grammar. Or in real terms, I talk at him with he throws paper airplanes around the room.
Occasionally, he'll pay attention to me to kick a soccer ball at my head, but mostly we're stuck in the world of miscommunication. He refuses to acknowledge that I'm speaking English while I'm not allowed to speak to him in Italian.
He has managed to pick up a few words. These include: ball, soccer, "I scored!", airplane, yes, and burp.
But whole phrases, when he's asked to repeat them, are just a slurred mess of sounds that he can't remember how to recreate.
Despite our difficulties, I am starting to love being a part of an Italian family. It's just mom, dad, and Pietro. But the dad, Antonello, insists that he wants Pietro to think of me as his big sister. I eat dinner with the family every Monday night, after two hours of tutoring. And each week, I get learn something new about Bolognese culture.
Who the best players on Bologna's soccer team are.
How to fully appreciate dessert wine.
How to play Tre Sette (a card game that I still don't really get)
And of course how to make room for more food even though you're absolutely sure you'll have to grow a fourth stomach to digest everything over the course of the week.
Sunday, I was invited to Pietro's 6th birthday party. Not as a paid tutor, but because Antonello insisted that I needed to be a part of this "cultural experience". And it was quite the experience.
He picked me up in his car at 3:00pm on Sunday. That was the first time I had been in a car since August. We had to go pick up the cake first. He pulled into a pasticceria right down the street called Lagana. He'd been coming there ever since he was old enough to walk home from school. We he walked in, the owner greeted him with kisses, and then gave me some as well (something I'm definitely not used to yet). As we waited, not just for the cake, but all the other boxes of panini's, pizzas, sweets and chocolates, he started pointing out things that I had to try from the display. The cashier pulled out each one he pointed to and handed them to me. I stood in the corner with a handful of hand-painted chocolates and pastries oozing nutella as I waited for all the other food to be ready.
We loaded the car up and drove to the actual party location: an indoor playground called Girotonda Park . Think moonbounces and ball pits. And of course all the kids sliding around in their socks and slamming into the walls of the giant inflatables.
You'll never guess how many kids there were at this party.
Fifty. FIFTY! I don't even think I have fifty friend that would show up to my birthday party. And in terms of friends in Bologna, Pietro is beating me by a landslide! And with all the kids, of course, came the presents. I had to make four trips out to the car at the end of the night to load all his new toys! I really don't think they could ever top that party.
Many of you probably think I cowered in the corner the whole time, but I can honestly tell you I wasn't afraid! Maybe I'm a little awkward. I still don't know how to relate to these miniature, needy, and frequently cranky versions of myself. But, there's something actually endearing about listening to their little voices speak a language that I'm struggling so hard with. It's humbling to have a 6-year-old be so much better than you at something. But, then again, it's not really a level playing field. They're trying to understand life and I just want to understand what their saying.

                                            Pietro's the one with the arrows pointing at him.

The evening didn't end until around 9:00pm with Pietro deliriously pacing in the entrance way sporting his new Cars backpack, Bologna jersey, and a fresh cut on his forehead. I rumpled his hair. He head-butted me. I think we're getting somewhere

Biking Bologna

I bought a bike! (This happened over a month ago now but I just haven't had time to blog about it)
After about a month of walking through the holes in my shoes all over this city, I decided I should just shell out to purchase a much faster mode of transportation. A bike! And boy does Bologna have a bike reputation
There's the good: bike paths, bike posts, buses who are aware that a ninety year old lady is cycling along next to them, bike baskets, bike seats for your two kids, one in front and one in back (yeah I still think that one is dangerous)
Then there's the bad. As a university based city, this means theft. Bike theft is overwhelming common here. So common that people can go through three or four bikes a year! If you're really stupid about it, maybe even in a month! You could even say bike theft is relatively accepted. Students can walk down the main university street looking for that sketchy kid standing on the corner whispering "bici! bici!"
You tell him your interested. He tells you to wait a couple minutes. And two minutes later he comes back with a bike that he clearly was just storing around the corner.
The nice thing about this system though is that you can pay only 10 euro for a bike. And might as well buy it stolen because you just know yours will get stolen eventually.
As tempting as 10 euros sounded, I am a firm believer in bike karma, so I went ahead and paid the 50 euro for my lovely pile of metal at an actual used bike store.
Let me describe this fine specimen for you. She's white with pink and green accents (how I always end up with something pink here is a fantastic question). The smooth leather seat has been shredded so a shiny black "fake" leather is covering up the wounds. The brakes work so well that I only have to use my feet half the time! And ever since it rained the second day I got it, there's no longer any need for a bell! You can hear me squeaking down the road from a mile away.
And yet, I absolutely love it!
Riding a bike around this city amplifies everything magical about it. With the wind whipping around you and the colorful porticoes flashing past, I feel like I jumped out of an airplane and am parachuting through candy land.
Since I live outside the city walls, it makes everything seem so much closer and accessible. I can get to class in ten minutes. The train station (the complete opposite side of the city) in twenty. And I don't have to worry about walking home alone at night.
Of course, when I first bought the bike, I didn't think I'd have to re-learn how to ride it. Here's a glimpse at my typical bike schedule throughout the day:

8:45am- Bike to class in the middle of rush hour. Swerve to avoid a moped as I accidentally run a red light.
11:00am- Bike to BCSP office for a different course. Turn down a one-way street and have to squeeze against the wall to make way for a car.
1:00pm- Bike to my Kelly's apartment for lunch. Hit a couple walking on the sidewalk. To be fair, they were walking in the bike lane portion.
3:00pm- Bike to class. Have a heart attack as the bus passes me one inch from nudging my handlebars.
5:00pm- Bike home from the grocery store. With three bags, milk, eggs, and way too many heavy cans of tomato sauce, I turn a corner and completely wipe out. Don't worry. The eggs survived.
8:00pm- Bike to a friend's house for dinner. An eighty-year-old man passes me...
12:00am- Bike home. Freeze my fingers off because I forgot my gloves.


At this point, I'm really surprised that my only casualties have included hitting people as they cross in front of me and falling on the much safer sidewalk portion of the street. Unfortunately, I don't think the Bolognese have ever heard of helmets so I really have my own common sense protecting me from imminent death. My plan right now is to maintain a very practical mantra of slow and steady. I'll just have to deal with my bruised ego as that old man passes me.

Parli italiano?

Back in August, before I landed myself in the middle of this cultural crash course, I thought the Italian language would come easily.
My timeline:
October- no longer need my dictionary
November-be able to make jokes and (more importantly) understand sarcasm
December- lose the American accent
January- be fluent

I've been in Italy for a little over two months now and I can honestly say that this timeline was horrifically unrealistic. Fluency is a hard term to define. Some people say your fluent when you start dreaming in another language. Others say your fluent when you think in the language while your awake. At this point both of those things seem farther away than everyone back at home.
There are some things that have gotten easier. I am no longer nervous to speak. I don't translate every sentence in my head from English to Italian. I can actually use direct object pronouns naturally (though my agreement is probably off).
And while I do love working on my language skills, sometimes my brain just wants to turn off. It's still work for me. I can't just naturally surround myself with all things in Italian because, by the end of the day, I would want to curl up in a dark room with a soothing rain soundtrack playing in the background. It's incredible how easy it is to just speak in your own language. I have never really thought about how simple we make it seem when words just pour out of our mouths. But the contrast between that and the mud slide I sludge through every day definitely gets frustrating.

But then, I decided to travel. First, I went to Ljubljana, Slovenia over Halloween weekend. I think you can tell from that name (which is utterly unpronounceable) that I was immediately shocked by the language barrier. I couldn't even understand which sign meant "train station," something that is totally natural to me now in Italian.

We did find end up finding the train station on our way to Lake Bled and found a cabin with an old un-intimidating Slovenian woman. I thought she would just ignore us for the whole train ride since we were clearly obnoxious English speakers. She didn't seem to notice. The whole ride was an odd mixture of smiling, nodding, pointing at windows, opening them, closing them, laughing politely and then doing it again. She continued to speak at us in Slovenian even though we responded with "We don't speak Slovenian". Clearly, that didn't work though since we didn't say it in Slovenian. She even offered us some grapes near the end of the trip. Though, we didn't accept them because she accompanied her offer with a garbled sentence that could have very easily been translated into "I don't want these. I think I found a worm in one."


Slovenia was nothing compared to Hungary. I went to Budapest the next weekend and gave up all hope of communicating without seeming touristy in Eastern Europe. Did you know that Hungarian has 44 letters in it's alphabet and is the fifth hardest language in the world to learn? Even numbers are confusing! We spent an afternoon at the famous thermal springs and learned the hard way what "freezing cold" means translated into Celsius.

While I loved both of these Eastern European countries, what I was most excited about was the prospect of coming home to a place where I could speak the language. I may not be fluent or even close to it, but I know so much more about Italian than I did two months ago. And the best part is...I still have 8 months left! Maybe if I get bored of Italian I can try to pick up some Hungarian in my spare time...

                                            The main square of Ljubljana. The city only has
                                                 270,000 inhabitants. In other words...tiny.

                                           Lake Bled. An absolutely gorgeous day of hiking.
                                            If you want to live the Lord of the Rings. Go to
                                               Slovenia. Their national animal is a dragon.

                                               Parliament on the River Danube in Budapest.

 

                                             Reason number 1,000,001 why I love Budapest:
                                           Tickets to an Rigoletto in this world famous opera
                                             house. For only 1 euro. The only downside was
                                                 that it was sung in Italian with subtitles in
                                              Hungarian, so I couldn't really understand it.