Coffee, Creepers, and Chicken

So I was thinking the other day: “It’s been a while since I have had a new post. I don’t know if this is because I’m getting busier, or because that life itself is starting to become more normal and I just don’t have exciting things to write about anymore. I might just have to update weekly, instead of every 3 or 4 days. Certainly something is bound to happen during a full week worth blogging about.”

And boy, did it.

The first of the week was so normal it was almost mundane. Italian lesson on Monday, our routine coffee/cappuccino/tea break afterwards, class that night, class Tuesday morning, and then the struggle to find some way to entertain myself until Italian lessons on Thursday morning.

Actually, Monday night did introduce me to a notable character of my life in Teramo. I was standing at the bus stop after class that night, waiting for the now 10-minute late bus and listening to my iPod. This guy had been standing next to me, and I kept praying that he wouldn’t turn and ask me something. I looked off into the distance, trying to seem completely entranced in my music. The next thing I know, he turns my direction and his mouth moves. Crap.

I turn down my iPod and look at him like, “What?” He repeated the Italian mumbo-jumbo, but this time I could actually understand the he wanted to know where the bus was (or something about a bus). So I told him I don’t know, took a look at the time sheet bolted to the lamp post, and shrugged my shoulders. He asked me something else, and I told him, “Ehh…no parlo Italiano.” He raised his eyebrows in understanding, and turned back to the street. Whoo. Dodged that bullet.

“So where are you from?”

He speaks ENGLISH? Oh no. Usually I would be celebrating that I found someone who spoke English in this small provincial town, but this guy was…weird. He just looked like a creeper. He was taller, wore glasses, and looked like the kind of guy who didn’t have many friends. I quickly figured out why. He talked a ton, always asking me questions about myself. Not gonna lie, it was nice to have someone to talk to in English, but it got tiring after, oh, 5 minutes. He ended up going in the same direction I did once the bus dropped us off.

“What street do you live on?” Good try buddy, but there is NO way I’m telling you that information. “Oh, somewhere near the center. I don’t remember the street.” Please don’t realize I’m a terrible liar, please don’t realize I’m a terrible liar, please don’t realize I’m a terrible liar…

“Oh, near the Duomo (the big church in the center)?”

“Yeah, somewhere near there.”

He ends up walking all the way to the Duomo, and I’m hoping that he isn’t going to follow me all the way to my apartment. I begin coming up with fake streets to say I live on. But what if he walks me to the door? I’ll have to buzz the doorbell, and people who actually live there have keys. I could say I’m homeless. No, too late for that. Is there a women’s shelter nearby? Dangit…

Luckily enough, once we got to the Duomo, he had to take a left. I learned that his name is Antonio, and we spent an awkward 10 seconds saying goodbye. I would try to say goodbye, and he would ask me another question. “So you live near here?” “Yeah,” I said. “That direction,” pointing to the dark alley next to my actual street. He wished me a good night, and I quickly headed down a street next to mine, not looking back.

The next morning, I got on the bus. “Hello,” Antonio said. Are you kidding me? He has class in the morning too? The only seat open was behind his, so I took my spot. I had my iPod in again, but how could I hope it would deter any questions. It didn’t yesterday.

He turns around and asks me multiple questions. I wasn’t very talkative, because I had been up until 2:30 in the morning talking to people back home. We got off the bus, and he asked me, “Am I bothering you?” I told him I was just really tired, and he wasn’t a bother. Which wasn’t a complete lie; the guy seems like he doesn’t have many people to talk to, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

Thus, he launches into the barrage of questions again:

“What are you listening to?” “Lady Antebellum”

“Who?” “Lady Antebellum. They are country. American.”

“Oh. Okay. What kind music do you like?” “All kinds, really.”

“I like rock. Do you know Bon Jovi?” “Yeah I do. (thinking, “Who doesn’t?!?”)”

“I’m sorry if I ask a lot of questions. It’s just in my nature. I am a Communication Science major. I ask a lot of questions. It’s just who I am.”

Oh my goodness, this never ends. We make it to my room, and Antonio says he has to check the board for something. I bid him goodbye and walked to my classroom. I sat down on the chairs outside the room waiting for Professor Burroni to show up. I see Antonio coming down the hallway, and he stops right in front of me.

“Is your professor not here yet? What’s his name? Is he usually late? Would you like to get a coffee?”

To his last question, I said, “No thanks. I don’t actually like coffee. But feel free to go ahead and get some!” I was hoping he would do exactly that, but he sits down right next to me. Asking more questions. Professor Burroni ended up showing up, and tells me that we aren’t having class today because of this Conference. Something about Universities in Italy. He said I was welcome to come, but that it probably wouldn’t be any use at all. So, he told me to go upstairs to see Angela, his Graduate Assistant, to decide what I will be writing my paper on. I told him thanks and headed up to his office. I realized I didn’t even say goodbye to Antonio. Oops. I’m sure I’ll run into him again.

Beverly, Asta, Francesca (our Italian teacher) and I have established a routine of getting coffee and pastries after our lessons Monday and Thursday mornings. Beverly has a good hour and a half before she can catch her bus, so every Monday and Thursday at 11:30 AM we gather our books, and head over to the bar on the corner of the street. This particular coffee break, we decided to indulge in some sweets. Once we sat down, I mentioned about how I love shopping at the little meat/cheese/grocer stores to get fresh meat/cheese/produce, but how I am scared to go in because I do not know how to ask for what I want. I am so tired of pointing, smiling, and hoping that I get what I’m looking for.

Francesca said, “We will learn that at our lesson on Thursday!” Perfetto! Maybe I can actually buy something more than chicken nuggets and pasta at the grocery store!

True to her word, at Thursday’s lesson Francesca taught us all the vocabulary for fresh vegetables and spices and fruits and meats and cheeses, and amounts to order and how to ask for something. Needless to say, by the end of the lesson, we were all hungry. And I was super excited to finally eat healthy food, because I can actually ask for it now!

Francesca could not join us for coffee afterwards, and all that talk of food left the 3 of us desiring pizza. So, we stopped by a local pizzeria and Asta told us all about living in Kosovo. She also said that her boyfriend was on a 24-hour duty in a local town, and that she would love some company. “Let’s make dinner!” I exclaim. I was dying for good food and company.

8:00. Asta’s house. Bring the chicken. See you then!

My body had been yearning to go running all week, so I donned my running clothes and headed out to the park. I only planned to run 3 times around the circle, but I didn’t feel tired. So I ran 7 laps around and then, pressed for time, headed back to my apartment. I absolutely love running outside, but I can’t measure the distance I run. I like to run a longer distance each week, but for all I know I am running 3 miles. I could run 4 back home, so what if I’ve gotten worse?! Well, there is really no way to judge. I guess I can just run until I can’t breathe anymore.

That evening, I got to try out my new food vocabulary at the grocery store. I had to ask for 2 pieces of chicken breast. I come up to the counter, look at the different pieces of meat, and when the lady asks me what I would like, I reply, “Due petti di pollo (2 pieces of chicken).” “Va bene,” she replies. That means she understood! And I didn’t even have to repeat myself! I can’t wait to brag at dinner.

Around 7:45 I headed to Asta’s house. She lives up the mountain, so it was a trek for me and my already-sore legs. Just as I was reaching the front door, I see Francesca standing outside waiting for me. So Asta was able to get a hold of here! I had raw chicken wrapped in a plastic bag and she had this wonderfully-decorated package of pastries. She told me they were the same sweets we had so loved at Monday’s coffee break! Yum.

We went up to Asta’s apartment, got the official tour, and rejoined in the kitchen to make food. We had a delicious dinner of spaghetti, with a tomato sauce, followed by a HUGE salad with tomato, red pepper, grilled chicken, and a light lemon/ginger/olive oil dressing. I was STUFFED. And we hadn’t even broken into the pastries. We gave our stomachs a break, and Asta made tea for the 3 of us (Beverly, unfortunately, couldn’t make it). I had been telling the girls about my run that afternoon, and how frustrated I am that I couldn’t measure my distance.

Francesca came up with the brilliant idea of Google mapping it. So, we hopped on the Internet and found the park. It’s roughly half a mile from my house to the park, so the run there and back alone is a mile. Then one circuit around is roughly one mile, a little less. If I ran 7 loops around AND ran from my apartment and back, that means I ran…

…7 MILES? That can’t be right. But my calculations were correct. I could barely run 4 in the States. How can I run 7 here? Must the be the atmosphere, or maybe this me-having-to-walk-everywhere has increased my endurance. Whatever it is, it is AWESOME. I don’t feel so bad for pigging out tonight. I ran 7 miles today.

We had green tea, and indulged in Francesca’s pastries. After we couldn’t possibly eat any more, and with Asta insisting that we not clean up, we said goodbye and headed out to the car. Francesca offered to drive me home, and I gratefully accepted. I could probably have used the walk after that dinner, but I don’t think I could walk that far without puking.

After saying goodbye to Francesca, I headed up to my apartment. What a wonderful night. I really hope we can do this weekly. Company like that makes living in a strange town 100 times easier. And my stomach wouldn’t mind the food either.

As long as I keep running those 7 miles, or my summer wardrobe may not fit.