Back to School

As this post’s title suggests, I am now officially back in school! No, I haven’t gone back to teaching yet. Instead, I’ve found a lovely Italian language school in the heart of Naples. I signed up for the intensive four-week course, which has kept me quite busy. That, coupled with our continued lack of internet at home, has gotten in the way of regular updates to the blog. My list of topics for future posts has now doubled in size! We’ll see if my memory serves me well in trying to recount all our little adventures from the past few weeks.

It’s funny to find myself back in the student’s chair; I had kind of forgotten what it was like to be on the other side of the classroom. Needless to say, the experience has given me lots of inspiration for any lessons I give in the future.

While I cannot restrain myself from analyzing pedagogy, it is really refreshing to be learning again. Upon my graduation from college, I could not help but feel things were a bit stagnant: sure, I had a world of experiences ahead of me, and my pick of newspapers and books and magazines to learn from, but now that classes were over I felt like I had surrendered my key to the door of freely flowing ideas and ideologies. This is an exaggeration, of course, but I’m sure other recent grads (can I still consider my undergrad graduation fresh? It’s hard to believe that that was almost five whole years ago!) would agree that after college your flexible schedule goes out the window, and you are easily sucked into a rut of work weeks, daily routines, and stale ideas. So it is wonderful to be able to enter stanza due every morning and soak up the knowledge until my head starts spinning a little bit.

The atmosphere in the school is also pretty stimulating. The students come from all sorts of countries, and with that, all walks of life. The language barrier forces you to speak Italian with your fellow classmates, and in the process you learn a great deal about other cultures. In my class—thankfully, it is very small and we each get a fair amount of individual attention—there are six other students, each with a fascinating story. The youngest, an 18-year-old girl from Ukraine, is a language whiz and the most conscientious student of the class. She came to Naples with her mother, in search of a career in languages and a better life—apparently the job situation in Ukraine is pretty grim. (To an American, it is shocking to hear that Naples—home to disorganization, pollution, and a very relaxed workforce—could be a step up. Hearing this really reminds you of your myriad blessings, and prompts you to examine why you forget them so easily.) The rest of us are in our twenties, and have a little bit more trouble keeping up with our studies!

Another person who agrees with the Ukrainian girl on the opportunities in Italy is the guy from Nicaragua. He had the great fortune of getting a basketball scholarship to an American university, and has since come to Naples to see something different. When I asked him, “Why Naples?” he answered that he could not live without the passionate lifestyle you find in such a disorganized city. Our teacher readily agreed! Despite the grim economic situation in Nicaragua, this guy has a great amount of nostalgia for his home and would happily return there if he could find a job.

Two of the students are learning the language for love: one is a tall, skinny Turkish guy who fell in love with what we can conclude from his stories is a hard-headed Neapolitan girl. We give him a hard time because every time he answers a question, he finds a way to refer to la sua ragazza. The other student enamored with her Neapolitan ragazzo is a Brazilian lawyer who would like to continue practicing here in Italy, but is consequently under great stress: her boss has given her a three-month ultimatum in which she either learns Italian right away, or says goodbye to her job.

Then there is the French importer-exporter (I want to call him Art Vandalay) of fruits and vegetables. He told me in a heavy southern French accent that he has never been one for school, and instead entered the workforce right out of high school. However, he has an affinity for other languages and cultures—I’m sure the nature of his work is a motivating factor—and has spent the past few years in language schools around the world—Australia, Spain, Germany, and now Italy. This means he is now on his sixth language (his family is originally Dutch, I think, so he grew up bilingual) and hence blows me out of the polyglot water. All the more reason to continue studying!

Finally, there is the spirited Venezuelan hair-stylist, who is here visiting the Italian side of her family, and loves it so much that she is going to apply for citizenship. She makes an entrance every morning, with her impossibly high heels and long French-manicured nails. She is pretty much my perfect foil: for her, shopping is a need she must regularly fulfill; grammar is the bane of her existence; the handsome ragazzi all around her are her motivation to get to the gym and especially to the nightclubs. Most of all, she has a heart of gold, and an addictive and enthusiastic personality that brings out the spirit in all of us. As I am sometimes on the timid side (especially given my new surroundings), I have always appreciated being around this type of person. I sure miss my exuberant girlfriends back home (and of course, that crazy British girl I met back at HEC Paris)! ;)

As you can see, there is never a dull moment in our little class. We have discussed everything from Turkish souvenirs (apparently the thing to get is an engraved wooden stick; I’ll opt for a hand-woven rug instead) to Berlusconi’s monopoly on Italian television to Brazilian transvestites—all in Italian. I am glad to have found a fast-paced course, and of course, to have made new friends.

It is also really nice to have more of a schedule for the next few weeks, as well as a specific reason to get out into the city. Little by little (piano a piano) I am familiarizing myself with public transportation and, most importantly, the softer side of Naples. A few examples: The first few times I rode the bus, I felt a little callous as I observed the little old ladies climbing aboard, and without fail, someone else offering them his or her seat. Imagine my surprise, after seeing so much flagrant pushing, shoving, and general selfishness! The Neapolitans are also very generous when giving directions: each time I ask with a shy “Scusi," they are very friendly and helpful to the point of accompanying me part of the way. Many of them ask me where I am from, and we talk a bit about cultural differences, and they congratulate me on my broken Italian. One elderly lady even kissed me on both cheeks at the end of a bus ride, wishing me auguri in light of my recent marriage.

I’ve also happily discovered the specialized food vendors all along my street. Given my busier schedule, I don’t have as much time to get to the grocery store on base, and have consequently been forced out into the stores in town. Never again will I buy flimsy sandwich bread, tired-looking vegetables, or who-knows-how-long-it’s-been-frozen meat! Out in town, the tiny neighborhood grocery store is overpriced and not stocked very well, so it is for emergencies only. However, just outside the funicular station is a friendly produce vendor, from whom I can get the freshest vegetables (and herbs! Ah, fresh basil…) for less than a euro apiece—and who confirmed that cranberries in fact do not exist here. A little further down the road is the equally friendly butcher, and right around the bend on our little street is the smiling baker (I’ll have to keep my guard up with that one! So far I have bought only bread but the cakes and croissants keep “staring” me in the nose…). And just yesterday, I finally ran into our next-door neighbor, who introduced herself right away and invited me over for a little chiacchiera (chat). I have been meaning to bake some cookies and introduce myself that way, so I’ll have to get on the ball, but I was relieved to find out that, contrary to what I had heard before, the neighbors do not keep to themselves at all costs.

Up until now, when the natives asked me how I liked their city, I would try to temper my gut response with a weak, “E…diverso” (it’s…different). Now that I am waiting on the bus, getting my groceries, and eating in restaurants alongside the Neapolitans, I see that they are people just like everybody else. They may have a more passionate, fast-paced lifestyle than I am accustomed to, and they may look out for themselves more than other populations, but the honest truth is that they wouldn’t have it any other way. In turn, this makes them an open people with a rich culture to offer (did I mention fresh food?), and plenty of excitement on the side. Sometimes this excitement proves too much for foreigners and locals alike, but I have finally learned why the Neapolitans are so unashamedly proud of their city.

The Easyjet Experience, Naples-Style

My absence from the blogging world this week was due to my first trip outside of Italy since our arrival in November. After about two and a half years, I finally got to return to my beloved France! More importantly, I enjoyed a happy reunion with several family members. It goes without saying that my stomach also enjoyed a reunion with Alsatian fare of all kinds, for which my bathroom scale will probably not thank me…

My trip started with what I’ll call “the Easyjet experience.” Don’t let the name of this low-budget airline fool you; it is anything but easy. Add to the mix a departure from hectic Naples, and you’ve got enough pushing and shoving to last you a lifetime.

One look at the makeshift line at Security had me breathing a sigh of relief for my impending escape into calmer territory. (Neapolitans are, for all practical purposes, incapable of forming a line and instead prefer to crowd each other as if sardines in a can.) Once through the metal detectors, I geared up for round two of queuing, which promised even more elbow jabs and espresso-breath down my neck.

The reason for such chaos is Easyjet’s lack of assigned seating. Everyone gets a seat on the plane, but if you’re not one of the first ones aboard, you risk: (a) separation from your travel partners; (b) scarcity of overhead compartments for your luggage, and the consequential stares as you heave your bag up and try to cram it in too-tight spaces; and (c) the dreaded middle seat at the center of the plane, which leaves you one of the last to debark (Easyjet opens doors at both the front and the back of the plane)—not to mention your lap is all the more vulnerable to Coke spills from your neighbors on either side.

A word about luggage: each passenger is allowed exactly one piece, of laughable dimensions. Female passengers are kindly asked to find a place for their purse in their carry-on, which, given the size and fragility of some bags, will inevitably lead to checked baggage. (Read: astronomical fees.) Fortunately, I had done my research—you have to dig a little to find the information—and had packed in such a way that I could easily stow my purse. I figured the Neapolitans, of all people, would not be such sticklers for the rules, but sure enough, I was asked to consolidate my belongings at the gate…while all the people I had managed to precede in the “line” happily trickled through.

Luckily, Easyjet has another bizarre stipulation: no matter how close the airplane is to the gate, passengers will be herded into a bus to wait even longer, only to be driven a few meters to the plane itself. This leaves the suckers who paid extra for “Speedy Boarding” first on the bus, but often last on the plane. I have gone through this rigmarole enough times to know that the best spot is standing—definitely not seated—at the door opposite the one you entered.

Once the bus doors open, the passengers run like Michael Johnson in the 100-meter dash. I like to go through the back door, as inevitably, fewer people are in the loop about this entrance. If you’re in Naples, as you’re racing a middle-aged man up the stairs he will usher you ahead with a breathless “Prego”...yet continue shoving to get there first.

As I mentioned in one of my earlier posts: in this sort of milieu, I prefer to step on others’ proverbial toes than to have my own crushed (but I don’t sleep as well at night). On both flights, I proudly staked a claim to aisle seats near the back door, as well as a nice space for my bag directly overhead. If you’re one of the lucky ones, you have time to get a head-start on your crossword as latecomers mill about the aisles, mumbling: “there’s got to be a mistake; where on earth is the seat number on this ticket?” Occasionally I reach into my little bag of languages and offer an explanation in their native tongue, but more often than not people are too consumed in their chaos to listen.

The running theme of this blog—that is, the rampant egotism of the southern Italian culture—is just plain sad. Happily, just five minutes back in France were enough to remind me that this mentality is not ubiquitous. (More on my stay in another post.) I just had to prepare myself against reverse culture-shock at my return! Turns out the reminder started back at the Franco-Swiss airport itself: I didn’t even need a gate number; I just needed to locate the army of loud, purple-clad Neapolitans crowding the ticket-scanner one hour before boarding.

Our Backyard

A few of my faithful readers have been asking to see pictures of our new apartment. (To those of you who have commented in one way or another, thank you for your enthusiastic interest!) Unfortunately, I can’t deliver on those yet because the process of settling in has been extraordinarily slow. It has been about two and a half weeks and we are just now getting around to drilling holes for our pictures and missing bathroom fixtures. Part of the problem is logistics (e.g., we needed a European drill with a cement bit, and weren’t too keen on purchasing one for life); part of it is that it’s our first big move together and there is just so much to sort and find a place for. We are blessed with plenty of room, but, as Italian apartments are not so big on closet/cabinet space, organization can get a bit tricky.

This afternoon, as I was taking my daily Sudoku break on the couch, I couldn’t help but be distracted by the clear skies outside and our breathtaking view of the water and surrounding islands. The reason I have stalled on producing pictures for you is that, quite frankly, I simply cannot do it justice. But today I was so moved that I started Windexing all the windows—inside and out—to give an even clearer picture. (Not the most pleasant of tasks—did I mention that the apartment was filthy when we moved in? And apparently it’s pretty common around here…)

My photography leaves a lot to be desired, but imagine the top three photos combined into a giant panorama. To the left, a corner view of the city and majestic Vesuvius; in the middle, the hazy islands of Capri and Ischia; to the right, apartment buildings crowding each other around the endless expanse of the sea.

If you disagree with my definition of “backyard,” I must admit that technically, our condominium does have a little bit of green space behind it:






Again, my photography is pitiful (these were taken from above, on our balcony), but notice in particular the oranges and lemons at our disposal!

I hope we can all agree that I am worthless as a photographer, and that you’ll just have to come and see it all for yourself.