I Miss Wal-Mart

My week started off nicely. Nothing to do on Sunday and Monday but be a lazy bum. That is, until my dear friend Jordan sent me a Facebook message about my blog. “You do know they use km per hour over there, don’t you? So they are actually going closer to 70 mph.” Blast. And I thought Italians drove so much faster…it certainly SEEMED like we were flying. I probably drive faster than them after all…

Tuesday I had Italian lessons at 10:00. Correction: I would have had Italian lessons, had my phone alarm gone off. Instead, I wake up at 9:46, sigh, and call my teacher. I’ve GOT to remember that on this lousy phone you have to “enable” said alarm. You can’t just put in the time, you have to tell it to turn on. Lame.

Since I no longer had a lesson, I picked up The Host and proceeded to spend the next 3 hours finishing the book. Well, that’s half my day gone. I decide to shower, and actually get something accomplished in Italy: grocery shopping.

I walk to the nearest grocer and think, “This shouldn’t be too hard. Grab what I need, have the employee scan, say ‘Grazie, ciao,’ and be on my way.” Apparently nothing is easy as I think in Italy. I walk over to the produce section, desiring fresh apples, tomatoes and lettuce. I wrap them up in a nice plastic baggie, and proceed around the store grabbing everything else on my shopping list.

I make my way over to the register, plop all my items on the conveyor belt, and pull out my wallet. The next thing I know, the cashier is asking me something in Italian and holding up my tomatoes. I look at her trying to decipher the gobble-dee-gook coming out of her mouth. Did I pick the wrong tomatoes? Am I supposed to take an entire stalk instead of picking off the best ones for myself? There was no way I was taking some of those bruised ones home with me. When I point to the place I got them, she rolls her eyes, grabs my 3 bags of fresh produce, and walks over there. She comes back with 3 white stickers newly placed on my bags.

OH. The registers don’t have scales on them.

How was I supposed to know? I saw the scale over there, and assumed the lady using it was just trying to see the weight of her produce. That’s what those scales are for in Wal-Mart, right? Had I been slightly more creepy and watched the entire process, I would have realized that the scales print out this nifty little tag with the weight and price of your produce. That’s it. All rules on being creepy are off in Italy. If creeping on a lady in the supermarket is what it takes to save me from looking like the foreigner I am (or the blonde I am…I’m not sure which vibe I give off more over here), then creeping here I come.

That was my one embarrassment for the week. At least it’s only one…it could be worse.

Wednesday afternoon I met with Marcello, the man Danielle has been e-mailing back and forth for the past semester, the head honcho of the International Relations department, and just so happens to be the Chair of the Communication Sciences Department! Essentially, this is the guy that I can run to with any problems, international-wise and education-wise. He is a very nice man, older, distinguished, with a good sense of humor and a warm face.

He’s also genuinely concerned with my well being while in Italy. I like this guy already.

We talk about my classes, and apparently Italian classes are 6 hours long. They are usually taught in 3-hour periods, twice a week. So my desire to take 5 classes over here (what I though to be equivalent to 5 classes in the U.S.) is INSANE. 30 hours of school, plus a language barrier, plus homesickness = a very unhappy Anna. 3 classes it is.

Marcello also emphasizes that he wants me to explore Italy while I am here, not just get stuck in the tiny town of Teramo. So he offers to give me a ride to Florence when he visits his home in the country out there. What IS it with these people having 2 houses? Anna Giulia and her Giulianova beach home/ridiculous loft in Teramo and now Marcello with his downtown abode in Teramo/country home in Florence. Now I want 2 houses.

I tell him I would love the opportunity (that saves me a bus ticket and gives me more time in Florence), and we agree to arrange it sometime when he is back in Teramo. He’s a busy man, apparently. But he assures me that he wants to see me 2 or 3 times a month just to check in on me and get to know me as a person. See what I mean about genuinely concerned? I’m not just another number.

I think the fact that I am the FIRST American student at Teramo may have something to do with my special treatment. But I don’t mind. I’m the first American at the University. Ever. I’m like a celebrity.

Okay, maybe not. I’m just the blonde girl in the red coat who doesn’t speak Italian. But celebrity status takes some time to earn. I’ve got time.