Hey all
German opera singer rang my phone today – and someone answered! At lunchtime he rang it with me there, and although his Italian is “terrible” he still managed to say that the phone had been lost by me, and find out that I could pick it up in from a certain Massimo who worked at a certain restaurant in a certain piazza that evening. Given that they start saying “good evening” after about two in the afternoon I took a chance and went there straight after class. My sense of direction is not great at the best of times – this piazza took a bit of finding as it was not on the street that it was named after, but was down an alley off that street, then around a corner, and really was not that much of a piazza at all, more of a hole where a building should be. Was there a Massimo here, I inquired. “Si, Si,” I was told, but he is not here now, he is gone, he will be back in ten minutes, or sixty, who knows with Massimo, he comes and goes like the wind. Or something like that, I think. I went and bought some chocolates, then sat down and had about half a cigar until Massimo did indeed return from his mysterious errand.
He found my phone in a drawer – was a little off-hand, even rude about it. The turisti, they drop their phones, they lose their wallets, they break their cameras, they complain about perfectly good bread, their motives are obscure, they are generally annoying. I said “Molto molto molto grazie,” which means much much much thank-you, or very very very thanks, or at least something that expresses sincere gratitude. Massimo started to warm to me a little, and I gave him his chocolates. Shock, surprise! He refused, he couldn't accept, he would never take them, he was not worthy. I insisted. A stand-off ensued. Finally he took the chocolates. Everyone smiled. One waitress clapped a little. I left.
Spoke to the Texan designer today about rudeness – the fashion course he is going to as well is supposed to be bi-lingual, is advertised as such – but it is not in reality, and the teacher seems to delight in taking the piss out of him because he is American and can't speak Italian, and is therefore stupid. He said it was even worse in London, where teachers and classmates felt justified in being blatantly rude to his face on the basis of him coming from the USA. I asked him if things had got better since Obama. Apparently not. The Yanks are fun to take the piss out of, I do it myself, but there does seem to be a nasty edge to it a lot of the time and I did feel for him – it must get tiring when all and sundry think they can be gratuitously and publicly rude to you just because you are an American.
Still speaking of rudeness, there is a French speaking Belgian girl in class, who turned 25 yesterday. This afternoon she was appalling. “Noioso, noioso,” (boring, boring) she kept saying whenever the teacher asked her to do anything. “God, what is up with you today?” an English contemporary dancer (who is actually German) asked at one point. Later in the class, when we have to make up our own sentences (which is where I fall over completely) she said “Io spero di trovare che cosa fare con la mia vita” – everyone, the teacher included, went “Oh...” I said “What?” and found out that this was, roughly, “I am hopeful I will find out what I'll do with my life.” I said “Dude, it's just one birthday.”
Photos. The most terrifyingly unstable ute I have ever seen. The sign on the door of the cigar shop here when I went to buy some today. I don't know what it means, but it doesn't look good – it looks like they have been closed down for a month. This is what happens when you don't buy as many as you can whenever you get the chance – I will ask someone in class to translate it for me tomorrow – I hope the address at the bottom is somewhere I can go to in the meantime. Finally, a mystery present for K, which will hopefully arrive in time for opening night, or at least by the time the play closes.
No homework tonight. Going to give my brain a rest - work out now, then read, or watch TV on the laptop, talk to K on skype, go to sleep.
Cheers, B.
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