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.

Fingerprints and Phantom Lights

So apparently I’m a criminal.

Because I’m a foreigner, I’m automatically a criminal. Well, at least that’s what it felt like on Thursday morning when I had to make a stop by the police station to get fingerprinted. Twice.

It all has to do with that silly permesso-thing. When I turned the permesso application in to the post office, I was given a time and date to show up at the police station to get fingerprinted. So I go to the station with one of the ladies from the International Relations Office, Rina, to ensure that the Italian police force has proof in case this criminal American decides to disrupt the peace of Teramo.

My appointment was at 9:48. But everything except the trains runs late in Italy. So it was closer to 10:00 by the time I actually got around to fingerprinting. The process was pretty easy. I didn’t even have to speak to the guy. He would hold up a finger, and I would copy which finger it was and place it on the scanner. When I thought we were done, Rina told me, “Now we come back in 30 minutes.” Great.

So we go across the street to grab a croissant and some tea. 30 minutes later I am taken up to the second floor to do who knows what, along with an African lady, a Chinese lady, and some other white dude who wasn’t American. It was actually pretty funny, because the group of us covered all corners of the world.

I was first in line, so a few minutes later I’m ushered into a room that looks like it should be in a doctor’s office, not a police station.

Holy crap. What are they going to do to me?

Apparently, if it is your first time in Italy (and you are living here for an extended period of time) you have to get fingerprinted twice. So, the nice guy behind the desk asks for my passport and I sit in the chair across from him.

He asks for eye color, well actually looks at my eye color for himself. It took him a little while, because if you have ever seen my eyes up close, they aren’t exactly one color. Some days they are more green. Others they are a light brown. And others they are gold (I’m not kidding). And they always have a grey-blue circle outlining whatever color they decide to be. Rina said, “You have beautiful eyes!” Gee, thanks. :)

Regardless, it took the guy a while to figure out what color my eyes were. And I couldn’t understand what he ultimately decided. I guess I’ll find out once I get my permesso.

Then I had to stand up and get my height measured.

And then my second fingerprinting. Which was more like a hand-printing. I had to do each finger on each hand. Then the thumbs again. Then my 4 fingers pressed together on each hand. Then my entire palm of each hand.

What? Do you want my Social Security number now? Blood sample? Pee in a cup? Geez Louise.

After that, it was over. Pretty painless actually, but I still feel like I have criminal written on my forehead. Although, all foreigners have to do this. Not just Americans. Still, that’s profiling.

However, I STILL did not receive my permesso. I have to return to the police station in 1 month and go in the morning to tell them that I am there to pick up my permesso. Then I have to return that same afternoon to actually pick it up. Thank goodness my legs work just fine. Sounds like I’ll be doing a lot of walking back and forth.

That afternoon I went for a run in the park. It was almost hot and sunny for once. I think I went a full week or more without seeing sun in Teramo. I was suffering from a Vitamin D deficiency. If this keeps up, I might just have to buy a membership to the tanning salon next to my apartment. I mean, vitamins are important, right?

That night Romeo decided he would teach me how to make spaghetti. I was super excited, because I thought there was some fantastic Italian trick that I would learn. For anyone planning to come over here, bear this warning: making spaghetti is exactly the same as making it in the U.S. And Romeo thought he was teaching me something world-shattering. Psh. I could have done that myself.

Friday was a lazy day, except for going running. I think I’m doing better about running than I ever did in the U.S. Perhaps it is because I have so much free time, I may as well fill it with something productive? After running, I checked my mailbox. Something was in there! I pulled it out, and it was for ME!

I go running up the stairs and into my roommate’s room. “I GOT MAIL!” I say excitedly. He smiles, and takes the envelope. I got my first letter in Italy, from my grandmother. It was a Valentine’s Day card and a Zits cartoon, and I think Romeo was laughing at how excited I was. He is slowly figuring out that it doesn’t take much to make me happy. My first letter in Italy can do the trick.

After opening my mail and turning on some music on iTunes, I laid on my bed to cool down after my run. My light was off, and my hand was nowhere near the light switch. The next thing I know, my light randomly turns on. By itself. Freaky. So, I look at it, and turn it off quickly. Now my light switch is backwards…you flip it up to turn the light off and down to turn it on. This is going to drive my OCD crazy.

That night I decided to have chicken nuggets and plain spaghetti noodles for dinner. From a very young age, I have enjoyed plain pasta with butter and salt. No sauce. Nothing fancy. Just incredibly unhealthy pasta. So, I take the spaghetti and my roommate starts telling me that I was doing it wrong. I should make the sauce first and THEN add it to the pasta. I look at him and bluntly say, “I’m not using sauce.”

It was like I had committed the biggest Italian culinary crime in the history of Italian cooking.

Romeo’s face can’t be described. The fact that I would eat pasta sans-sauce completely boggled his mind. “But that’s not how you cook it in Italy!” “I know,” I said. “But this is how I eat it in America.” “I have no words. I’m never going to understand your cooking.” He shakes his head and smiles.

I’m not asking you to, buddy. I know I’m no chef like yourself, but plain pasta and chicken nuggets make me happy. Let me eat in peace. Except that I realized the tiny things of what I thought was butter that I bought in the grocery store turned out to be some funky brown substance with the consistency of Play-Doh. And it smelled TERRIBLE. Good thing I only spent 0.25 Euros on it. No butter for my pasta, I guess.

After dinner, I was getting ready to go out with my friend Davide to get a croissant and just hang out. Greta wanted to go dancing again, but I felt like being a party pooper. Plus, after 2 days of running in a row, I wasn’t sure how much more my legs could take. Dancing in 4 inch high heels until 3 A.M. was out of the question.

It was incredibly windy that night, like a tornado could be coming. Although, they don’t have tornadoes in Italy. Just earthquakes. Are tornadoes just a U.S. thing? Regardless, you could hear the strength of the wind…and if we had the doors to the balconies open, Romeo and I swore we could feel the building swaying. I was about to head out and turn off when my light just shuts off.

So it randomly turns on that afternoon and now randomly turns off? What the heck…

I thought maybe the power had gone off, because the lights had been flickering on and off throughout the evening due to the wind. But the hallway light was still on, so my room was the only one affected.

Just my luck. Have I said that Italy is going to drive me crazy?

I was headed out the door, so I yelled at Romeo about what happened and left my phantom light to enjoy the evening by itself.

When I returned that night, Romeo tried to fix my light. He replaced the bulb. Nothing. It must be something with the electrical wiring. So I stayed on Facebook for 2 hours in complete darkness. I am positive that my bright computer screen in all that darkness took about 5 years off the life of my eyes. Hopefully by that point I can just get replacement corneas. I’m sure they will have the technology by then…

But what was I going to do for the next who-knows-how-many days before we could get someone to come fix my light? Avoid my room at night? I don’t think so. So I decided to buy a light bulb myself and try fixing the light. This afternoon, I come back to my room and screw the bulb in…and EUREKA! LIGHT! I carefully replaced the glass ball that surrounds the bulb, and it starts to flicker. Fantastic. Obviously something is wrong with the connection.

So being a regular Bob the Builder, I turn off the light, remove the glass ball, and look at the connection. It had just come loose, so I screw it a little tighter hoping that was all that was wrong. I cross my fingers and flip my now-backwards switch. And it worked. Dang, I’m awesome.

And up until this point I have had flawless illumination in my tiny Italian room. Okay, Italy, you are back on my good side.

I'm In Food Heaven...

Davide drove me to his parent’s restaurant. I asked him what was good, searching for a recommendation on what to order. “Everything is good,” he said. Well that doesn’t make anything easier.

I remember something Greta said about Davide’s restaurant having good pizza. And that was a recommendation of his anyways. Pizza it is. Now WHICH pizza? We spend a fun 20 minutes trying to translate the menu, and I decide on a pizza with a spicy salami. It’s the closest thing to American pepperoni that I can find. And I explain to Davide the difference between American pepperoni and Italian pepperoni pizza. He was surprised.

We talked about Carnivale versus Halloween.

We talked about learning other languages.

We talked about the difference between American universities and the University of Teramo.

We talked about biotechnology.

We talked about coffee (neither of us like it. Coffee. Cappucino. Coffee flavored things. Nothing.).

We talked about smoothies versus slushies versus shakes versus malts versus Italian frappes.

We talked about the difference between prosciutto cotto (cooked ham) and prosciutto crudo (dry, cured ham).

And we spent about 20 minutes talking about French fries alone. Not gonna lie, this was one of my favorite parts of our conversation. Italians have 20 kinds of cheese. Americans have 20 kinds of French fries. Regular fries. MacDonald’s fries. Potato wedges. Curly fries. Those teeny-tiny fries at Steak-N-Shake. And waffle fries.

Davide had never heard of waffle fries. So when I explained to him what they were, the look of amazement on his face was priceless. Waffle fries are my favorite, so it made his expression even better. I promised if he ever comes to America, I’ll take him to go get some waffle fries.

In my head I was planning to take him to Chik-Fil-A. He needs the whole chicken/waffle fries/sweet tea experiences. MMMMMmmmm…sweet tea. How I miss thee.

After our 20 minutes spent on French fries, I then spent another 10 minutes on the endless possibilities of cooking potatoes. Davide said they had 2 options for potatoes: cooked with meat in a soup, or cut into French fries, which can then be added on top of pizza. Weird.

These Italians need to open their minds! I told him about potato soup. Baked potatoes. French fries. Potato skins. Mashed potatoes. I felt like such an American. Again, Italians have 20 kinds of cheese, and I get to talk about the endless possibilities of potatoes. I think they win.

The pizza was AMAZING. But absolutely everything I have eaten in Italy has been amazing. Except for these stuffed olives I tried at Anna Giulia’s house. I don’t like olives, but I tried them to be polite. I probably won’t try them again…

We had a dessert that is a secret recipe of Davide’s family. Something similar to ice cream with almonds and chocolate drizzled on top. I thought I was in heaven. I was sad to leave the lovely little restaurant, but Davide wants me to try other things on the menu. So he promised that we would come back.

Plus, it’s his restaurant. So he didn’t have to pay. He can probably afford to bring me back.

This morning I woke up and walked to the main administrative building of the University to stop by the International Relations office. I sent an e-mail 3 or 4 days before, and still had no response. I figured I would just have to make a personal appearance.

All I needed was for one of them to take me to somebody named Daniela Musa to get a username and password for the University’s library wireless internet. When I get there, they tell me it’s not possible. WHAT.

I have to have the wireless Internet to do my online class. I have to do this online class to get credit at UCA. You have got to be kidding me.

Apparently, I cannot get a username for the wireless because I do not have a school e-mail. And I do not have a school e-mail because I am not a student at the University of Teramo.

Excuse me. I am taking classes, and doing homework, and taking exams at your University. How can you tell me that I’m not a student? How are you going to get other international students to come if they cannot use your facilities like any Italian student? The library’s wireless internet should be available for any student taking classes at the University, which would include me. Whether I am American or not.

Excuse my language, but they need to get their shit together.

Yes. I just cursed (which is odd for me). And on Ash Wednesday, no less. I am a terrible person. But I think the Lord will forgive me, because at this point I am just frustrated beyond all belief. I left the office incredibly upset, on the verge of tears because I couldn’t figure out how I was going to manage to keep in touch with my friends and family and finish an online class with only my lousy 3 hours of Internet at day. I stormed to the bus stop to catch a ride to the University. Maybe Marcello could help me. I planned on talking to him about it at lunch.

I arrived at the University about 10 minutes late for my meeting with another professor. I am usually early in America. But this public transportation thing is throwing me off. You either have to get to the University incredibly early, or late. Because no bus can get you there only 5 minutes before you need to be. Man, I wish I had a car.

I met with Professor Silvia Salvatici, who will be guiding me through my independent study on Women’s and Gender history.

I already LOVE her.

She did research in America the entire last semester, and her English is practically fluent and easy to understand. She is super thin, with this shocking black curly hair and a rather loud voice. We are going to get along. I’m reading a textbook published last month, and my job is to talk to her about it. Not only about the subject, but whether I liked it or not, because she is thinking about using the Italian translation for this very class in the Fall. Once again, I am the guinea pig. But growing up as the oldest of three, I am used it; I’ve actually come to like being a trailblazer.

After my meeting with Silvia, I already felt better. I traveled back into the city to meet with Marcello for lunch. On the way there I grabbed a Snickers. This stressful morning deserved chocolate. I got 4 passport photos taken and printed for when I go to get fingerprinted at the police station for that ridiculous permesso. And I walked to the main administrative building to meet Marcello.

He was right on time.

I told him about how I couldn’t get access to the wireless Internet and looked just as surprised as I was. I told him the reason, because I wasn’t “a student of the University,” and he said exactly what I thought: “But you are.” Then he started explaining how if they wanted to have other student come from abroad, they need to open their facilities, and how me being here is revealing problems in the system that need to be fixed. One of the negatives of being a trailblazer. But, I guess I’m happy to help!

Plus, he said that he would see what he could do about getting me an Internet log-on, even if that meant getting the University president’s approval.

If he can make this happen, Marcello is officially a saint.

We had lunch at a small restaurant. Nothing fancy. Actually, quite the opposite. But, true to Marcello’s word, the food was absolutely incredible! He laughed at my surprise that there was a second course, telling me that usually there is a third course as well.

Then he explained the art of drinking wine in Italy. You have it with your meal, on a normal basis. You don’t start drinking until you have started your meal. It should make your pasta taste better. And ideally it is gone by the time you finish your meal.

I’m learning a lot today!

We had spaghetti and meatballs for the first course (my first spaghetti in Italy!), followed by a second course of steak with lemon and cooked spinach. I was full and very much in food heaven. During the meal we discussed my plans after graduation, Kindles, how old people don’t understand technology, and made plans for me to come to Florence with him and meet his girlfriend and daughter. Then we talked about the possibility of me helping him recruit Italian students to go to the U.S., and I said that I would love to! I love telling Davide about the difference between Italy and America, and I love hearing him say, “I have GOT to go to America.”

I know. We are pretty awesome.

Then I have homework. Write down my experience up until now. What to worry about. What not to worry about. What could be fixed. I told him he could just read my blog, and I’m sure he’ll get most of what I am going to write. So I’ll give him both!

He is a very busy man. So after lunch, as he went to advise students on their theses, he dropped me off at the bus stop, apologizing that he could drive me back into town himself and promising me that we would be in touch

I have a feeling that we will be good friends, he and I.

Hard Classes and Hot Chocolate

Sociology. Economics. Student. Therefore. Men. Woman. Firm. Cell phone. Signature. Okay then. Important distinction. So. People. Chocolate? No that can’t be right, I’m just hungry. In fact, I have such a headache from listening to this 3-hour long lecture in Italian, that I could use some chocolate at this point.

I attended my first class at the University on Monday night. I’m definitely not a night person. I try to avoid night classes at all costs when at school in the U.S. But when you register for classes at the University of Teramo, you don’t get to choose your teacher or class time. There is one teacher for that specific class offered at one, and only one, time. So, the rest of my Monday nights in Italy shall be spent with Professor Burroni and the Sociologia della Communicazione Aziendale (Sociology of Business Communication).

Chicken? Did he just say something about chicken? Oh forget it. My head is throbbing by this point, but I don’t know whether it is from hunger or from the fact that my brow has been furrowed for the past 2 hours and 15 minutes trying to decipher any random word of Italian that I can pick out. Perhaps it is a combination of the two.

I certainly hope this gets better. It is very interesting to sit through an Italian University class. From the size of the rooms, I expected my class to be full of 60 or 70 eager Italian students, ready to embark upon the world of business communication. However, my class is about 16 people large (including me, the lone American), which makes for a more personal setting, yes, and also makes me feel even more that I am the only person not understanding.

Thank goodness he uses PowerPoint.

At least I’ll be able to go back home, hop on the Internet, and translate everything I have written down. If I could manage to get everything written down. What frustrates me the most is that I can write down only what is on the slides. In America, I write down the main slide bullet points and additionally copy down some of the teacher’s lecture points. I have no idea what he is saying in his lecture, so my notes consist of only the PowerPoint. And I have to write FAST to get everything on those slides before he moves on to the next one.

I’m going to get arthritis.

Monday night was syllabus day, so we were only in class for 2 hours, not 3. From what I could understand, Professor Burroni simply explained what the class would cover, how to get in touch with him, the difference between frequent and non-frequent students (wait, there’s an OPTION?), the requirements of the course, and what Sociologia della Communicazione Aziendale means.

I figured out what to do when I e-mail him.

I figured out the 3 main requirements for the class (well, THAT’S good).

I figured out that Italian students apparently have the option of not coming to class after a certain point, and it’s actually okay.

I figured out that I have a bad habit of biting my fingernails when I’m bored.

I figured out that I should probably keep a bottle of Tylenol on me at all times during this class, because focusing on understanding Italian gives me a headache.

And that was only Monday night. The next morning, I returned to the University for class from 9:30-12:30. I was going to try really hard to figure out what the professor was saying. I was fervently flipping through my dictionary at every word I didn’t understand…which means I was fervently flipping through my dictionary for 3 hours. Okay, I lie. After about 1 hour, I stopped the dictionary hunting and just looked up words on the PowerPoint slides that looked important. I’ll translate the rest when I get home. There goes an hour of my valuable Internet time…

I decided I would treat myself to Italian hot chocolate that evening. I had other errands to run, and a mid-afternoon nap was calling my name. So, I woke up around 5:00, re-straightened my hair, and headed out to the Grande Italia bar (not American alcohol bar, more like a sandwich/sweets/pub/restaurant all rolled into one) to have some hot chocolate.

I like this place. My 2 friends Beverly and Hasta from Italian lessons and I came here Monday morning to relax and just hang out. Beverly is 18 from Canada, and just living in Italy for the heck of it. I very much admire her, because I would not be able to do that at 18 years old. Granted, she is living with a host family, so her transition is perhaps easier than mine. But she is planning to stay here for 9 months. Just to live abroad. I have a feeling 5 months are going to kill me, but 9? She why I admire her? Hasta moved to Teramo with her Italian boyfriend, after the earthquake in L’Aquila destroyed practically everything recently. She is originally from Lithuania and can speak Lithuanian, Russian, English, and is learning Italian and I believe Chinese? In short, she can speak more languages that I can imagine. I’m struggling with 2.3 (the .3 is for my limited knowledge of Spanish). So I admire her too.

Regardless, Monday I took them to the Grande Italia, because neither had tried hot chocolate yet. I felt so proud when I ordered in Italian and the lady understood me! We each got something different, spent an hour chatting, trying each others drinks, and sharing the two plates of shortbread cookies adorably shaped as hearts and stars.

So, I figured I could handle going to this same restaurant and ordering the same exact thing without a problem. Guess what?

This Tuesday night in particular was (1) Fat Tuesday, (2) Carnivale, and (3) raining. Therefore, all the little Italian munchkins that would normally be running around dressed in costumes spraying each other with silly string and tossing bags of confetti around the town decided to sit in the Grande Italia. On a normal night, I could go in alone and enjoy my hot chocolate with a few others.

Tonight, I had to fight to find a seat. Then I was the only person alone in that restaurant. Surrounded by pairs of women chatting away and tables full of Italian youths, I felt like the ugly girl in high school who had no friends.

But I am young and alive and vibrant and pretty! I have boys asking for my phone number all the time! I’m not this loner you see!

Too bad I don’t know how to say that in Italian.

The waitress came over to take my order. I confidently said, “Classica Oro.” She looked at me with an expression that said, “What are you talking about?” So I pointed to it on the the menu. It seemed like she still didn’t understand. I pronounced it correctly and I’m pointing to it right here! How hard is this?!

“Do you speak English?”

Holy crap. I must have foreigner plastered all over me.

“Yes.” I said dejectedly, feeling my confidence in my Italian ordering skills wash away with the lousy Mardi Gras rain. “Would you like whipped cream?” Oh, that already makes things better! “Please!” I say.

In America, whipped cream on your hot chocolate is free. Not in Italy. It costs .30 euros. Darn.

I decide to do some window-shopping to kill some time before dinner at 8:15 with my friend Davide. I walk out of the Grande Italia, and the next thing I know some young guy is coming up to me babbling off something in Italian. I look at him and say, “HUH?” Firma. Oh signature. Must be some petition. No thanks, I say. I have no idea what you are saying, do you think I’m going to sign your petition? I could totally be agreeing for you to kidnap me and sell me into sex slavery like on Taken. Except I don’t have some Liam Neeson to kick serious butt and save me. I don’t think so, buddy.

I headed home after my hot chocolate and fruitless shopping trip. I had a Skype date with my roommate Emileigh. I was very much looking forward to it.

I log onto Skype, and my grandfather calls. It never fails. When I log on, I can almost always expect him to call. I like it though. Certain constants while I’m over can make these 5 months bearable. :) Plus, my grandfather is pretty cool guy, not gonna lie. Emileigh logs on, and we spend the next 20 minutes fighting with my sketch Italian Internet. First it would connect, but she couldn’t hear me. Then I was like a bad cell phone signal. Then my Internet just quits randomly. So, I finally give it one more time, and SUCCESS! We didn’t get to talk nearly long enough, because we lost the first half of our date time just trying to connect. At least we got to talk about the nice Conway weather, the crappy Teramo weather, stupid boy problems, stupid boys, and periods. I love my Skype dates with Emileigh.

Then my friend Davide texted me. He was outside. It was time for dinner.

Do Italians Not Sweat?

I think this is going to be a regular thing, going out dancing on the weekends. My friend Greta takes me out on Friday with 7 of her friends to the dance club she, Davide, Anna Giulia, and I went to last Saturday. It was 40 degrees outside, but I donned a short-sleeved shirt. I knew I would get hot dancing, so there was no point in trying to wear a long-sleeved top. I notice that all the Italians, however, have long sleeves on. Great. Another thing to make me stand out, not like there isn’t enough already.

We dance all night, if you could call it dancing. The dance floor was so packed, that it was more of a communal swaying back and forth. I like dancing in Italy though. The boys don’t randomly come up behind you, grab your hips, and get with it. There IS a thing called a personal bubble! Plus, there wasn’t much room for guys to maneuver behind the girls. Like I said, one swaying mass of Italians (and me).

By the end of the night, more like early morning, my feet were screaming, and my hair was no longer hanging over my shoulders, completely straight. It was in a nasty ponytail, my bangs no longer bangs, but swept back with the rest of my hair. In short, I looked a hott mess.

But does Greta? Or any of the other girls I came with? Of course not. There is a slight gleam on their foreheads, but their hair is still as straight as ever. Ridiculous. These girls make my fashion look like a slob’s and now they don’t sweat. Perfect.

I get home at 4:00 that morning, and sleep. I set my alarm for 2:00 the next afternoon, thinking I could definitely use the 10 hours of sleep.

Of course I can’t. I have to wake up at 11:45.

There is this thing about Italians and car horns. Apparently, they like to honk them, no matter the time of morning, day or night. So, I am awakened by this inane car honking outside of my window. And it’s not just one time. It repeats, like each horn is communicating to the other. I squeeze my eyes shut and roll over to the other side of the pillow. Until the church bells begin ringing.

Are you freaking kidding me?

I haven’t mentioned it, but there is an old church right down the road from me. I am convinced that it is open to the public, because the bells will start ringing at random times of the day. And they never ring the time, like the main church of the city does. No, they just “DING DONG DING DONG DING DONG………” for what seems like an eternity, and usually during the times I am trying to sleep. I can just imagine little Italian boys, up to no good, hanging off the ropes of the church bells like Quasimodo, up and down and up and down, laughing the entire time. All the while waking this cranky American from her sleep. This better not continue, but I have a bad feeling it will.

I am up earlier than I originally planned, so I grab Confessions of Shopaholic and proceed to finish it as well. Crap. I am down to only 2 more books, and I’ve only been in Italy for 17 days. Amazon.com may become my new best friend.

That night, I was getting ready to go out with Anna Giulia and some of her friends to a concert. I blow dry my hair, cool off, and turn on my straightener. It won’t turn on. OH NO. Danielle’s straightener wouldn’t turn on in the hotel….MY CHI CAN’T BE BROKEN.

I push the reset button. Nothing.

I plug the straightener directly into the outlet, instead of through my splitter. Nothing.

I push the reset button again. And again. And again. Nothing.

I lay down on my bed, tears welling up in the corner of my eyes. This can’t be happening. I am going out tonight, my hair looks like a lion’s mane, and my expensive straightener is broken. FML.

I weigh my options.

Option 1: pull my hair back and go on with my night. There is no way that is happening. Even when I wear a ponytail it is sleek and shiny. Not a tamed lion’s mane.

Option 2: run to the nearest technology store, hope they have a decent straightener, and buy it. But then I’m spending money, and when I come back to America it will have those funky European outlet ends and I will have to spend more money on an adapter or even more money on a new straightener.

Option 3: Order a new one online and have it shipped here. But if it’s shipped to Italy, will they automatically give me one with those funky European outlet ends? Plus it will take WEEKS to get here. My hair cannot be curly for weeks.

Option 4: have my mom order one from America, then ship it here. Again, WEEKS to get here. Not a plausible option.

I plop back onto my pillow, dejected. Okay, maybe it’s the wiring. I know the cable going into the actual plug itself is kinda coming out. I’ll check the connection. I squat down to analyze the connection and notice something.

The cable isn’t coming out.

And it’s a lot thicker than the one on my Chi.

My hair dryer is still plugged in. Wow.

I plug my straightener in this time, and breathe a sigh of relief when that little red light begins to flicker. And I go to the concert with perfectly straight, silky hair. Still, every time my straightener doesn’t turn on, I freak out just a little bit. I check to make sure the tiny green charge light on my computer is on. And every time it is not…so the adapter has come loose. At least it’s not my straightener.

The concert that night was interesting. An Italian “rock” concert…complete with 3-part brass band. It was fun just hanging out with Anna Giulia and her friends, and I mostly enjoyed watching the Italians jump around and look like fools. Looks like moshing hasn’t changed either.

And today, another Valentine’s Day spent alone. Sigh. I should be used to this by now. I’ve spent 20 out of 21 Valentine’s Days sans Valentine. Actually, today didn’t even feel like Valentine’s Day to me. It is a Sunday, so the town is empty. Which made it a perfect day for running. No one was outside, no cars to nearly run me over, and a park to share with only 6 or 7 other people.

Tonight, I am spending quality time with chicken nuggets, iTunes and Facebook. Hopefully people aren’t busy at 1:00 in the afternoon on their Valentine’s Day in America. I hate spending Valentine’s Day alone. ;)

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.

The Jersey Shore Fist Pump

This past weekend was lazy. And I loved it. I had nothing to do Friday. I woke up around 11:00, and got suckered into helping Romeo clean up the kitchen from the mess he and his friends left the previous night. Good thing I’m a decent person. Haha

Two of Romeo’s friends stayed the night in the apartment. Mossimo is a fantastic cook, so I didn’t mind cleaning up the kitchen if that meant that he was cooking breakfast. And Filipo, my admirer. Filipo comes into the kitchen and says, “Very, very beautiful.” I think that may be the only English he knows. Regardless he managed to translate, “Do you have a boyfriend?” When I couldn’t exactly say yes, he said, “I am your boyfriend over here.” I apparently didn’t have a choice. I guess that’s how things work over here?

Mossimo serves an amazing breakfast of peppers and eggs, and some sort of meat in a piece of bread. I can’t adequately explain it, but man do those Italians know how to cook! After we finished, we cleaned up and Romeo went back to his hometown, taking Mossimo and my new boyfriend with him. I had the place to myself. I spent most of that night on Facebook, and slept in on Saturday. Lazy weekends in Italy are wonderful.

Saturday night I went out with Greta and Anna Giulia. We went to Greta’s cousin’s 18^th birthday party. We danced between a bunch of teenagers, we three 20-year-olds. And I did the Jersey Shore fist pump with Italians. It’s not quite as dramatic as Vinny does it on the show, but we still fist pumped. After that moment, my night was complete.

Italians do not eat birthday cake, at least in the American sense. The birthday “cake” was a collection of round golf-ball sized pastries in a cold whipped cream confection. And a big 18 was made out of sugar and almonds. It was delicious, but pretty much everything I’ve eaten over here has been. I’ve come to expect nothing less. But, I’ll admit, I miss legit birthday cake. It must be an American thing.

Afterwards, we headed down to the club underneath where the birthday party was being held. Davide had arrived by that point, and our group was complete. We made it in, and found our way to the dance floor. But people weren’t up and grinding on each other…they were legit dancing. Like the salsa and tango and such. It was awesome. Davide and I went out to dance, and I think I did more of the leading than he did. He admitted that he wasn’t very good. That was okay with me. His two left feet made me laugh.

The four of us were hanging out on the side of the dance floor when I saw him…my perfect man. He was on the dance floor with a girl. And he moved so perfectly. I couldn’t tell if he was shorter than me. He was taller than his dance partner, but at the same time I tower over a lot of Italian women. Would I tower over him? That didn’t matter. He was tan. And beautiful. And single. How did I know this? He had a different dance partner every song. He did not come with someone.

Alas, I did not get my chance to dance with him. We left the club soon after that. But I think we locked eyes once. Goodbye my perfect man. It is probably for the best…Filipo would be jealous.

Once back in Teramo we returned to the same cornetta shop the four of us had visited a couple nights before. Anna Giulia tells me, “Stay by me, okay?” I guess a naïve American is no good alone on the streets of Teramo at 2:00 in the morning. At least I have 3 friends to accompany me! I got a croissant with raspberries and whipped cream this time. Still just as amazing. Afterwards, we called it a night. Anna Giulia and Greta dropped me off at my apartment, and I headed upstairs.

By this point, my feet were screaming in protest to the high heels I wore. I took them off and changed into my pajamas. My bed looked so comfortable. I didn’t even try to Facebook creep before I went to bed. Plus, I think I had already used my 3 hours for the day. Lousy Internet. Not thinking about that anymore, I curled under my covers and closed my eyes, hoping to dream of my perfect man that I locked eyes with on the dance floor. Sigh. :)