Me talk pretty one day

What, you expect me to try to top Sedaris?  I remember reading this essay in grad school, and laughing so hard I couldn't breathe.  Now that I'm taking an immersion language course in a foreign country, I actually find it funnier than ever.  Fortunately, the language teachers at Comitato Linguistica are incredibly kind, supportive, patient, and energetic, and would never admit that spending time with us is at all like having a cesarian section.  Even if it is.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, Jeremy and I were put in a mid-level class -- not quite beginner, but certainly not expecting much from us in terms of understanding or being able to talk.  They assume that we know past perfect, and started us out on imperfect, if that gives you a sense of the level.  We have four hours of class each day:  two hours of conversation, and two hours of grammar.  It's enough to get me thoroughly exhausted, but does still leave the afternoon to do something (today, we went to the archeological museum, which alas had very few explanations in English, and a very cool medieval garden run by, apparently, alchemist monks).

(Jeremy in front of the "tree of the cross," surrounded by rosemary plants trimmed to look like like astrological symbols.  Medieval monks have a wacky gardening aesthetic, turns out.)

The students at the school are almost equally split between older Europeans and young Middle Eastern men who are "getting ready" to go to University in Italy next year.  In our conversation class, we have the earnest Israeli Jawadat, the almost frighteningly smart Jordanian, Mohammed, and the faintly frightening Jordanians Rami and Amer.  Rami decorates his notes with swasticas, and told the class today that he didn't know who his mother is because his father has so many wives (I'm pretty sure he wasn't kidding about that).  When asked what scared him, Amer said "God.  Only God."  Mohammed explained that he had six siblings because the oldest four were all girls, and his father needed boys.  All the Middle Easterners tend to come in late, haven't bought the book, and have never done the homework (although Mohammed is smart enough to do it in his head on the fly.  The rest, not so much.)  All of this makes me wonder about the status of going to university in Italy.  Is it the equivalent of a party school?  Is this where wealthy sheiks send the sons who can't get into Harvard or Oxford?  Is it better or worse than sending your son to Gonzaga?

(Jeremy and Julia trying to fix Julia's camera)

We have made some friends among the Europeans.  We get along quite well with Julia (Switzerland), Sophia, and Tanya (Germany) -- indeed, I think we are all going to take a cooking class together next week.  During the break between classes, we all huddle in the bar next to the school (which doesn't mean here what it means in the states), talking English, which they talk and understand with great comfort.  We also know Philip from Germany, Ina, from Holland, and Frank, from Luxemborg.  I've never known anyone from Luxemborg.  I'm not entirely sure I could locate it on a map, other than by process of elimination.  All of them speak English pretty darn fluently.  Americans really are unusual and sad for not knowing any other language.  The good news is that being multi-lingual already doesn't seem to make learning Italian any easier, so I don't think Jeremy and I are falling behind.  In fact, I have to say I think Rosetta stone prepared us pretty well for everything but listening to Italian.  Listening and comprehending, that is -- I can listen pretty well, and Jeremy is great at making up what he thinks they are saying.

The strange thing is that sometimes, I swear I am forgetting things faster than I am learning them.  Jeremy and I both draw strange blanks -- yesterday, he forgot how to conjugate essere (to be -- a verb he learned ages ago and uses all the time correctly).  I was totally incapable of understanding when a nice man in a book store asked me what city I was from, a phrase I know perfectly well and was expecting.  But then, we have moments of brilliance.  I was able to explain to a woman in a great bookstore that I wanted book of Italian short stories with simple sentences and vocabulary, but not for young adults.  I came home with some Calvino.  My hope is that I am good enough at reading that I can work on building my vocabulary, and my sense of what "sounds right" in the language.  Jeremy spent twenty minutes chatting apparently comfortably with a guy in a guitar store -- but then, there is no place he is more comfortable than a guitar store.

It is strange to be back in a classroom as a student after so many years standing in the front of the room.  I keep wondering if I'm one of those lovely smiling-and-nodding students, or one of those irritating brown-nosers.  It is frustrating not being able always to formulate the questions I want to ask, and it is really frustrating to not be able to express myself with anything approaching elegance or precision.  On the other hand, I am getting enormous satisfaction from successfully buying salami and cheese, which I would not, in the States, consider a grand accomplishment.  So far, the balance is on the side of Italian.