14 February 2009
Harvey Milk - Hope (Recurring Theme)
I just saw "Milk" in one of the downtown cinemas, and am so incredibly proud to be from the San Francisco Bay Area. I can't wait to come home.
11 February 2009
Titles (Erroneously) Suggest Cohesion
...and this blog entry has none. I have so much to report, but in these days have given myself much less time in which to say it. I'll try to at least break it up into paragraphs.
This was a busy morning: woke up, morning duties with the boys, walked to the market for fresh fish and bread, walked to the gym for a "tone-up" class with ex-ballerina Giorgia (she's a beast) (I hurt), then high-tailed it downtown to see a Goya exhibit with a friend. Then I read a book while walking home, and checked email while I ate lunch. All that before 13,00! Lately I've noticed a sort of frenzied need to do do do everything before-- before what? Before I leave Italy, I guess; before I grow up and have to pay bills and don't get to do things that I like, take side streets, look at the sky and strike up long conversations with strangers. My mom just forwarded me an article from UC Berkeley News titled "Pressure to Be A Supergirl Causing Teen Mental Health Crisis" that makes socioeconomic sense of this weird pressure I can't seem to name, the way I've been wearing myself out for no real reason (http://www.berkeley.edu/news/media/releases/2009/02/10_triplebind.shtml). In the article it's referred to as "the culture of "busy-ness" that surrounds teens," and goes along with "the stress of homework and sleep deprivation; the ever-increasing sexual objectification of young females; today's relentless cyberculture; and how genes and environmental pressures are combining forces to compound a teen mental health crisis." Dang. We have a lot to deal with. And even though he's talking about American teenagers, I've managed to bring this busy-ness with me into my 20s, and to Europe. It has manifested itself into a string of multitasks (like reading/eating, exercising/watching a movie, getting a coffee/writing) that leave me exhausted at the end of the day. Even in Italy, even with all the free time I technically have, I can't seem to slow myself down enough to start, finish, and enjoy, one task at a time without feeling an incredible guilt that I'm not doing enough. Author Hinshaw advises girls to "focus less on themselves by finding a wider sense of purpose," and "urges parents and schools to promote self-discovery" over achievement. This is brilliant: FIND A WIDER SENSE OF PURPOSE! I will try to focus less on myself. Hmm... that sounds like a contradictory statement...
I'm taking it easy right now, anyhow, curled in a blanket on the couch, laptop propped up against my knees, and will probably nap when I finish this. The other morning our cleaning woman said that I've taken a great opportunity to just grab at everything I can, take all that life has to offer me at this moment, and that was nice. To get some unbiased validation for this strange year I've given myself, doing a non-traditional job that I don't plan to apply to a career; living with a family that isn't teaching me to speak Italian, in an Italian city wholly unlike the one I fell in love with; losing my personality in a culture and class made up of privileged consumers. I often wonder where the benefits are, here. How exactly this is all helping me grow. Maybe it was the movie trailer for Benjamin Button that said something like, "Life can only be understood backward; but first it needs to be lived forward." I guess I'm just trying to live it forward.
Anyway. Some things that have happened lately. This weekend I went to a friend of A--'s (my host dad) to watch the first of six professional rugby games that make up the Six Nations tournament with three Italian dads. They explained the rules to me, in Italian, and I watched the game with great interest. I watched them watch the game with even greater interest. Since my host dad is crazy for weird organic foods, we brought over a biological fruit tartlet which we then ate with biscuits and tea while England completely dominated Italy. That was fun.
I went to the Filipino church on Sunday, for the first time since I've come to Turin. Silly Lauren - I should have gone a long time ago. I walked to the church, about 20 minutes from my house, and noticed that the number of Filipinos on the sidewalk increased exponentionally with my proximity to the church, until I entered the courtyard and found myself surrounded! Mothers pushing strollers, grandmas pinching cheeks, kids running through the adults, cell-phoned teenagers in twos and threes, the elderly men standing nobly on the periphery with hands clasped behind their backs. Lots of laughing; lots of Tagalog. I didn't even know how to feel. They all looked like Grandma. The priest was an Italian man, but the service (which started late, further supporting the notion that there is, in fact, such a thing as "Filipino Time") was completely in Tagalog. Except for the sermon, that is, which was delivered in a combination of Tagalog, English and Italian. Not like he said one piece and translated it into two other languages, but he spoke continuously in all three. I was amazed to see that most everyone appeared unfazed, and able to understand the discourse in all three languages. How adaptable they are, I marvelled, to absorb so much of this other culture without losing their own.
I was in a position I've never been in before, the only white person among hundreds of Filipinos. Other than the priest, and one tall man I saw across the church, that is. Probably someone's husband. It was slightly uncomfortable, as I felt very foreign and very clueless (more so, surprisingly, than I often do in and around Turin), but I plan to introduce myself to some people when I go back next week. Maybe I'll have learned more words by then. So far, my Tagalog word bank includes "How are you?," "Happy Birthday," "I love you," "peace," and "beautiful girl." I've been Filipino for 23 years and that's all I've got.
Have also been doing weekly English sessions with an anthropology grad student, focused mainly on her work to promote tolerance of Roma (gypsy) children in the European classroom through a thorough education and debriefing of the educators themselves on Roma history. Giorgia's level of English is about at the same as mine in Italian, though her vocabulary is a bit more scholarly, and the 90 minutes I spend in her apartment each week - usually drinking Japanese tea, and listening to flamenco guitar - is a true delight. The more I learn about the widespread oppression of and prejudice against Roma children, the more it resembles that of African-Americans before the Civil Rights Movement. There are all kinds of stereotypes of "gypsies" as being lazy, shifty, and stupid, nearly all stemming from the 'otherness' imposed upon them by the majority (in our case, Italian) population; and these stereotypes are perpetuated in the classroom, which largely functions as a microcosm of the larger society. This week we talked about my experience at the Filipino church, and when the topic of language came up she told me some very fascinating things about cognitive linguistics and the difficulties that arise for children who don't fully learn their parents' mother tongue, when it comes time to learn a second language. It made me wonder how my dad and his brothers not only learned English so well, but went on to college and law school with parents who didn't speak English correctly. That's something I've never slowed down to think about... not only within my family, but in ESL communities everywhere. Americans have it so friggin' easy; we can find English most anywhere we go. But think about all the people who have gone out of their ways to learn our language. Most Europeans are not bi-, but trilingual by the time they reach high school.
There are so many things running through my head these days, that I can't fit it all into the hours I have.
The kids are growing, changing, every day. The youngest has completed his first "semester" of school! He can read and write and do basic math, though hasn't yet figured out how to tie his shoes or like vegetables. The oldest sometimes rages or cries for inexplicable reasons - we assume it's hormones? - and loves it when I serenade him to sleep with my guitar. I think he's attempted a couple of sly boob grabs this week, out of curiosity. Both continue to be picky eaters, favoring chocolate over everything else. Lately we've been playing a lot of "I Spy" from the bus, in an attempt to get them to practice English in fun ways. We have already begun to talk about things in terms of Before and After Lauren Goes Away, which makes me sad. On Saturday, I cried watching their swimming lessons, because I know that I will never love two little rascals the same way I love these.
What else can I tell you all? What have you been missing lately? The weather is getting nicer here, though still chilly in the shade. My hair is still short. I bite my nails like I always have. The heartache and homeache that coloured the months before Christmas seems to have lifted, and I find myself trying to remember what it means to relax (like I did when I first arrived). I'm currently reading "The Glass Castle," a memoir; "Il Buoi e Il Miele," the novel upon which the screenplay for "Scent of a Woman" is based; and "Ill Cammino dell'Uomo," still. Daydream about going to the Philippines in 2010, going to Croatia and/or Tuscany in July, and how and when I will stumble onto the great loves of my life.
This weekend I will go to help the florist with some deliveries for Valentine's Day, then there's a lot of special outdoor performances going on around town into the evening. Next weekend I'll go to Ivrea for the annual Orange Battle. Stay tuned for photographs!
This was a busy morning: woke up, morning duties with the boys, walked to the market for fresh fish and bread, walked to the gym for a "tone-up" class with ex-ballerina Giorgia (she's a beast) (I hurt), then high-tailed it downtown to see a Goya exhibit with a friend. Then I read a book while walking home, and checked email while I ate lunch. All that before 13,00! Lately I've noticed a sort of frenzied need to do do do everything before-- before what? Before I leave Italy, I guess; before I grow up and have to pay bills and don't get to do things that I like, take side streets, look at the sky and strike up long conversations with strangers. My mom just forwarded me an article from UC Berkeley News titled "Pressure to Be A Supergirl Causing Teen Mental Health Crisis" that makes socioeconomic sense of this weird pressure I can't seem to name, the way I've been wearing myself out for no real reason (http://www.berkeley.edu/news/media/releases/2009/02/10_triplebind.shtml). In the article it's referred to as "the culture of "busy-ness" that surrounds teens," and goes along with "the stress of homework and sleep deprivation; the ever-increasing sexual objectification of young females; today's relentless cyberculture; and how genes and environmental pressures are combining forces to compound a teen mental health crisis." Dang. We have a lot to deal with. And even though he's talking about American teenagers, I've managed to bring this busy-ness with me into my 20s, and to Europe. It has manifested itself into a string of multitasks (like reading/eating, exercising/watching a movie, getting a coffee/writing) that leave me exhausted at the end of the day. Even in Italy, even with all the free time I technically have, I can't seem to slow myself down enough to start, finish, and enjoy, one task at a time without feeling an incredible guilt that I'm not doing enough. Author Hinshaw advises girls to "focus less on themselves by finding a wider sense of purpose," and "urges parents and schools to promote self-discovery" over achievement. This is brilliant: FIND A WIDER SENSE OF PURPOSE! I will try to focus less on myself. Hmm... that sounds like a contradictory statement...
I'm taking it easy right now, anyhow, curled in a blanket on the couch, laptop propped up against my knees, and will probably nap when I finish this. The other morning our cleaning woman said that I've taken a great opportunity to just grab at everything I can, take all that life has to offer me at this moment, and that was nice. To get some unbiased validation for this strange year I've given myself, doing a non-traditional job that I don't plan to apply to a career; living with a family that isn't teaching me to speak Italian, in an Italian city wholly unlike the one I fell in love with; losing my personality in a culture and class made up of privileged consumers. I often wonder where the benefits are, here. How exactly this is all helping me grow. Maybe it was the movie trailer for Benjamin Button that said something like, "Life can only be understood backward; but first it needs to be lived forward." I guess I'm just trying to live it forward.
Anyway. Some things that have happened lately. This weekend I went to a friend of A--'s (my host dad) to watch the first of six professional rugby games that make up the Six Nations tournament with three Italian dads. They explained the rules to me, in Italian, and I watched the game with great interest. I watched them watch the game with even greater interest. Since my host dad is crazy for weird organic foods, we brought over a biological fruit tartlet which we then ate with biscuits and tea while England completely dominated Italy. That was fun.
I went to the Filipino church on Sunday, for the first time since I've come to Turin. Silly Lauren - I should have gone a long time ago. I walked to the church, about 20 minutes from my house, and noticed that the number of Filipinos on the sidewalk increased exponentionally with my proximity to the church, until I entered the courtyard and found myself surrounded! Mothers pushing strollers, grandmas pinching cheeks, kids running through the adults, cell-phoned teenagers in twos and threes, the elderly men standing nobly on the periphery with hands clasped behind their backs. Lots of laughing; lots of Tagalog. I didn't even know how to feel. They all looked like Grandma. The priest was an Italian man, but the service (which started late, further supporting the notion that there is, in fact, such a thing as "Filipino Time") was completely in Tagalog. Except for the sermon, that is, which was delivered in a combination of Tagalog, English and Italian. Not like he said one piece and translated it into two other languages, but he spoke continuously in all three. I was amazed to see that most everyone appeared unfazed, and able to understand the discourse in all three languages. How adaptable they are, I marvelled, to absorb so much of this other culture without losing their own.
I was in a position I've never been in before, the only white person among hundreds of Filipinos. Other than the priest, and one tall man I saw across the church, that is. Probably someone's husband. It was slightly uncomfortable, as I felt very foreign and very clueless (more so, surprisingly, than I often do in and around Turin), but I plan to introduce myself to some people when I go back next week. Maybe I'll have learned more words by then. So far, my Tagalog word bank includes "How are you?," "Happy Birthday," "I love you," "peace," and "beautiful girl." I've been Filipino for 23 years and that's all I've got.
Have also been doing weekly English sessions with an anthropology grad student, focused mainly on her work to promote tolerance of Roma (gypsy) children in the European classroom through a thorough education and debriefing of the educators themselves on Roma history. Giorgia's level of English is about at the same as mine in Italian, though her vocabulary is a bit more scholarly, and the 90 minutes I spend in her apartment each week - usually drinking Japanese tea, and listening to flamenco guitar - is a true delight. The more I learn about the widespread oppression of and prejudice against Roma children, the more it resembles that of African-Americans before the Civil Rights Movement. There are all kinds of stereotypes of "gypsies" as being lazy, shifty, and stupid, nearly all stemming from the 'otherness' imposed upon them by the majority (in our case, Italian) population; and these stereotypes are perpetuated in the classroom, which largely functions as a microcosm of the larger society. This week we talked about my experience at the Filipino church, and when the topic of language came up she told me some very fascinating things about cognitive linguistics and the difficulties that arise for children who don't fully learn their parents' mother tongue, when it comes time to learn a second language. It made me wonder how my dad and his brothers not only learned English so well, but went on to college and law school with parents who didn't speak English correctly. That's something I've never slowed down to think about... not only within my family, but in ESL communities everywhere. Americans have it so friggin' easy; we can find English most anywhere we go. But think about all the people who have gone out of their ways to learn our language. Most Europeans are not bi-, but trilingual by the time they reach high school.
There are so many things running through my head these days, that I can't fit it all into the hours I have.
The kids are growing, changing, every day. The youngest has completed his first "semester" of school! He can read and write and do basic math, though hasn't yet figured out how to tie his shoes or like vegetables. The oldest sometimes rages or cries for inexplicable reasons - we assume it's hormones? - and loves it when I serenade him to sleep with my guitar. I think he's attempted a couple of sly boob grabs this week, out of curiosity. Both continue to be picky eaters, favoring chocolate over everything else. Lately we've been playing a lot of "I Spy" from the bus, in an attempt to get them to practice English in fun ways. We have already begun to talk about things in terms of Before and After Lauren Goes Away, which makes me sad. On Saturday, I cried watching their swimming lessons, because I know that I will never love two little rascals the same way I love these.
What else can I tell you all? What have you been missing lately? The weather is getting nicer here, though still chilly in the shade. My hair is still short. I bite my nails like I always have. The heartache and homeache that coloured the months before Christmas seems to have lifted, and I find myself trying to remember what it means to relax (like I did when I first arrived). I'm currently reading "The Glass Castle," a memoir; "Il Buoi e Il Miele," the novel upon which the screenplay for "Scent of a Woman" is based; and "Ill Cammino dell'Uomo," still. Daydream about going to the Philippines in 2010, going to Croatia and/or Tuscany in July, and how and when I will stumble onto the great loves of my life.
This weekend I will go to help the florist with some deliveries for Valentine's Day, then there's a lot of special outdoor performances going on around town into the evening. Next weekend I'll go to Ivrea for the annual Orange Battle. Stay tuned for photographs!
05 February 2009
More about the Philippines
Sometime before Christmas, I had a conversation over FacebookChat with one of my good friends from high school, concerning our respective heritages. She's an American Jew who has been to Israel not once, but twice, and seems to know a lot about her family and her people. I, on the other hand, reflected on what I know about my grandparents' homeland, and came up almost empty handed. Originally settled by the Spanish, I think? Comprised of more than 7 thousand islands (I remember tracing a map of the archipelago for a Multicultural Day presentation I did in third grade), with as many dialects. Main crop: rice. And... my info stops there. When I told her that I wanted to know more, to go to the Philippines and get in touch with my roots, she half-jokingly suggested that I write a short report about the Philippines and send it to her in Colorado. "I expect one to two pages about your history, in one month!," she had said. I said, "Okay. I think you're kidding, but I'm going to do it for real." A small, personal research. I can begin at any time, right? I don't have to go all the way to the Philippines to start to know myself.
Well, one month turned into two months, but in the end I wrote up a little something. It didn't come only from Wikipedia, but a handful of travel sites, personal blogs, news articles. From just a few hundred words I learned a lot that I didn't know before, and now I'm even more fascinated by my ancestors than I already was. Check it out:
The Philippines
A Report by Lauren Aczon
3 January 2009
A Report by Lauren Aczon
3 January 2009
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The second smallest one in the front row is Clotilde Albano; my grandma. This was likely taken in the mid-1920s. Click on it to see it up close.
But this is all Now. We want some History.
The history of the Philippines bears Asian, European and American influence. Prior to Spanish colonisation in 1521, the Filipinos had already established strong trade relationships with China and Japan. My family's region, found at the northernmost tip of the country and divided into Ilocos North and Ilocos South, was famous for its gold mines, and exchanged this gold for beads, ceramics and silk. Spain's presence in the early 1500s brought about the construction of Intramuros, a "Walled City" comprised of European buildings and churches which was then replicated throughout the country. After 350 years and 300 rebellions, the Filipino people finally won their independence in 1898... but not for long.
In the same year, it became the first and only colony of the United States. (!!!!) Following the Philippine-American War* the U.S. brought widespread education to the Islands. Most standardised education is taught in English, even today. The two countries fought side by side in the Second World War, particularly at the famous battles of Bataan and Corregidor which delayed Japanese advance and virtually saved Australia. Among the ranks was my father's father, Benjamin Aczon, was in the United States Navy. The Filipinos waged a guerilla war against the Japanese from 1941-1945, an effort that - as far as we know - left the majority of the village's women and children at the mercy of the occupying Japanese military as the able Filipino men retreated to neighboring hills to train. It was subsequently after this guerilla war period that my grandmother left the Islands in 1945, never to return. I don't remember her ever talking to us about what happened in the years before she left.
* (1899-1913) The Philippine-American War arose from the first republic's struggle against U.S. annexation. The first portion of this war, from 1899 to 1902, was an armed military conflict that is also known as the Philippine Insurrection. Over 1 million Filipino civilians perished.
The Philippines regained their independence in 1946.
Travel sites describe the country as festive and welcoming. "The Filipinos are a freedom-loving people," says one, "having waged two peaceful, bloodless revolutions against what were perceived as corrupt regimes." One of those was that of President Ferdinand Marcos whose regime was often compared to Stalin, Mao Zedong, and Hitler. After embezzling millions of dollars of public funds to the United States, he was removed from power by the Filipino people on February 25th, 1986 -- the day that I was born.
The End.
Or rather, a beginning.
01 February 2009
Filipinos in Italy
In Italy, a quick errand easily becomes a thirty-five minute discussion over the cash register, purchases set aside to wait patiently in their shopping bags. My errand was to pick up a pair of shoes from the store I'd visited earlier that morning; after walking around for a couple of hours, trying on several pairs and considering the seasonal sales versus my minimal income, I came back to the first pair I had tried on. They had been set aside, I had exact change, it should have taken ten minutes... but the Italian tendency towards long-winded political discourse triumphed once again over my agenda, though in a surprisingly relevant way: Filipinos in Italy, and what's it's like to be a "stranger" here in Torino.
The guy who retrieves my shoes from the back of the store is a cheerful young man who introduces himself as Marvin. Mar-bin, with the accent. After meeting so many Filipino nannies in the garden this summer, I've come to recognize Filipino-Italian when I hear it, but I ask just to be sure. "Sei Filipino? Are you Filipino?" When I tell him that I'm a half-Filipino from San Francisco, he switches from Italian to English and we chat about his family, his situation: he is 24 and has been working in this very shoe store for seven years - since he was 17! It's been here for forty years, he informs me proudly, and is one of the best stores in the city. It's beautiful, I agree, with a glance around the brightly lit mahogany interior and admiring its carpeted floors with new interest. Marvin is here with his whole family, who moved here to Turin from a small village two hours south of Manila. "When is the last time you visited the Pilipines?," he asks. (I've noticed that native Filipinos always ask, "When is the last time," not "Have you ever?") Never, I tell him, disappointed in myself. I explain that my grandparents came over in the 40s and didn't want any of us to visit while they were alive. He encourages me to go, says it's so beautiful and everyone is so friendly. I ask him if he likes it here, and he says with a smile, "Oh, yes! This is a great job. I'm sorry to lose my English, though, since I speak mostly Italian here." He speaks Tagalog with his family at home. "I learned Italian in just a few weeks when I first started. You know us Filipinos: we're adaptable. We can go anywhere, live anywhere where there's work." And bring the whole family!
I like that: being reminded that my flexibility, adaptability, can be attributed to an entire people. My grandparents sure did it when they took the long ship voyage from the Islands. Maybe I'm doing it now. We Filipinos are adaptable, always have been; finding love, contentment, and home wherever we can be of use.
Working my way toward the cashier, one of the two older women also working in the store chime in, in Italian: How nice to be from America! (My friend was with me.) We do the usual schpiel, we're from California, here to be nannies, just finished school, graduated in blah blah from blah blah, looking for an experience. Yes, Turin is nice; yes, our families are nice. No, not yet fluent in Italian - but we're comfortable in conversation. Then she comes back to my and Marvin's talk, You know, I'm not from Turin, either. I'm actually French. And you girls are lucky now that you can live here-- well, of course it's different for Americans. She grew up on the Cote d'Azur, France, and went to Africa after university. There she met the man who would become her husband, a Piedmontese who then brought her to live here in Turin. The beginning was hard, she tells us, arching her eyebrows but keeping her voice even, the way that many women do when talking about hurts they put away a long time ago. The neighbors called me Signora Straniera, Mrs. Stranger (Foreigner), for months after I arrived. Not by my husbands name, but by the fact that I wasn't from Piedmont! It was rude, really hard. I told him that I didn't like it and asked him why they didn't just call me his wife. Why he didn't speak up for me. He just said, "I piedmontesi sono così. That's just how people are here." Aubrey and I are quiet, sympathetic. She takes off her glasses, wipes them briskly. It's hard to discern any French in her Italian, but I know my ear is untrained. Anyway, now it's easier. It's not so strict - she is German, he is American, English - the world is more mixed. We are all everywhere. It's wonderful. The other saleswoman chimes in to ask about Obama, and we talk about his victory, about Michelle (who the Italians don't seem to like very much, for her outspokenness and, er, unconservative choice of Inauguration Day garb), the economic crisis, and the fact that the UK has already begun to manufacture doll versions of Obama's daughters.
Time flies, and I politely interrupt our chat to request that we ring up the shoes. I'll probably think about this Wednesday morning conversation every time I wear them. Marvin asks me to stop in whenever I pass by so he can practice his English, and I tell him he must teach me some Tagalog. He says a phrase in Tagalog, and one of the women laughs, What an impossible language! I could never learn it. As we walk out I hear him explaining to her, in Italian, that it's actually quite easy because, like Italian, it's pronounced the way it's written. I think about a quote I read in Chaim Potok's Book "The Chosen," about how each scholar must begin by understanding his own history, and how little I know about the Philippines. I wrote a report about it in third grade, back when Wikipedia didn't exist and I had to lug oversized atlases home from the Contra Costa County Civic Library to research my family's country. Then I remember this language program called "Tagalog On Site" that someone once told me about, and I look up the website when I get home. Despite the fact that their website doesn't seem to have been updated since 2006, I'm already beginning to imagine a new trip, perhaps for the summer of 2010:
http://www.tagalogonsite.org/tos_program.html
Hey! There are two Filipinos right there!
The guy who retrieves my shoes from the back of the store is a cheerful young man who introduces himself as Marvin. Mar-bin, with the accent. After meeting so many Filipino nannies in the garden this summer, I've come to recognize Filipino-Italian when I hear it, but I ask just to be sure. "Sei Filipino? Are you Filipino?" When I tell him that I'm a half-Filipino from San Francisco, he switches from Italian to English and we chat about his family, his situation: he is 24 and has been working in this very shoe store for seven years - since he was 17! It's been here for forty years, he informs me proudly, and is one of the best stores in the city. It's beautiful, I agree, with a glance around the brightly lit mahogany interior and admiring its carpeted floors with new interest. Marvin is here with his whole family, who moved here to Turin from a small village two hours south of Manila. "When is the last time you visited the Pilipines?," he asks. (I've noticed that native Filipinos always ask, "When is the last time," not "Have you ever?") Never, I tell him, disappointed in myself. I explain that my grandparents came over in the 40s and didn't want any of us to visit while they were alive. He encourages me to go, says it's so beautiful and everyone is so friendly. I ask him if he likes it here, and he says with a smile, "Oh, yes! This is a great job. I'm sorry to lose my English, though, since I speak mostly Italian here." He speaks Tagalog with his family at home. "I learned Italian in just a few weeks when I first started. You know us Filipinos: we're adaptable. We can go anywhere, live anywhere where there's work." And bring the whole family!
I like that: being reminded that my flexibility, adaptability, can be attributed to an entire people. My grandparents sure did it when they took the long ship voyage from the Islands. Maybe I'm doing it now. We Filipinos are adaptable, always have been; finding love, contentment, and home wherever we can be of use.
Working my way toward the cashier, one of the two older women also working in the store chime in, in Italian: How nice to be from America! (My friend was with me.) We do the usual schpiel, we're from California, here to be nannies, just finished school, graduated in blah blah from blah blah, looking for an experience. Yes, Turin is nice; yes, our families are nice. No, not yet fluent in Italian - but we're comfortable in conversation. Then she comes back to my and Marvin's talk, You know, I'm not from Turin, either. I'm actually French. And you girls are lucky now that you can live here-- well, of course it's different for Americans. She grew up on the Cote d'Azur, France, and went to Africa after university. There she met the man who would become her husband, a Piedmontese who then brought her to live here in Turin. The beginning was hard, she tells us, arching her eyebrows but keeping her voice even, the way that many women do when talking about hurts they put away a long time ago. The neighbors called me Signora Straniera, Mrs. Stranger (Foreigner), for months after I arrived. Not by my husbands name, but by the fact that I wasn't from Piedmont! It was rude, really hard. I told him that I didn't like it and asked him why they didn't just call me his wife. Why he didn't speak up for me. He just said, "I piedmontesi sono così. That's just how people are here." Aubrey and I are quiet, sympathetic. She takes off her glasses, wipes them briskly. It's hard to discern any French in her Italian, but I know my ear is untrained. Anyway, now it's easier. It's not so strict - she is German, he is American, English - the world is more mixed. We are all everywhere. It's wonderful. The other saleswoman chimes in to ask about Obama, and we talk about his victory, about Michelle (who the Italians don't seem to like very much, for her outspokenness and, er, unconservative choice of Inauguration Day garb), the economic crisis, and the fact that the UK has already begun to manufacture doll versions of Obama's daughters.
Time flies, and I politely interrupt our chat to request that we ring up the shoes. I'll probably think about this Wednesday morning conversation every time I wear them. Marvin asks me to stop in whenever I pass by so he can practice his English, and I tell him he must teach me some Tagalog. He says a phrase in Tagalog, and one of the women laughs, What an impossible language! I could never learn it. As we walk out I hear him explaining to her, in Italian, that it's actually quite easy because, like Italian, it's pronounced the way it's written. I think about a quote I read in Chaim Potok's Book "The Chosen," about how each scholar must begin by understanding his own history, and how little I know about the Philippines. I wrote a report about it in third grade, back when Wikipedia didn't exist and I had to lug oversized atlases home from the Contra Costa County Civic Library to research my family's country. Then I remember this language program called "Tagalog On Site" that someone once told me about, and I look up the website when I get home. Despite the fact that their website doesn't seem to have been updated since 2006, I'm already beginning to imagine a new trip, perhaps for the summer of 2010:
http://www.tagalogonsite.org/tos_program.html
Hey! There are two Filipinos right there!
23 January 2009
Morning Musings
I have a hard time trusting my Italian for English Speakers textbook when it uses this as an example sentence: "The dresses look like coats."
This morning my alarm clock interrupted pleasant dreams, and I pulled a cardigan over my nightgown before heading into Friday. The interior heat has turned our house into a sauna, so despite the snow outside I sleep in a light cotton nightgown. I draped the little boys' clothes over their metal thermostats to warm while we ate breakfast (I resisted the cookies, woohoo!, in favor of whole grain toast), then helped them get ready for school. Ushered the family out the door and watched the building's elevator depart, trailing a chorus of Buona giornatas in its wake. Wrote a postSecret to my friend Thomas in Chicago, did some Italian textbook exercises, watched BBC news hourly update on the gynormous plasma television that has caused so much unrest within our household: A-- calls it "The Monster" and does his best to avoid the living room altogether.
Last weekend I visited my daddy in Cannes where he attended an annual music business conference. It was great to see him after seven months abroad, and our first Christmas apart in my 22 years of life. We strolled along the Mediterranean, peeked in upon yacht parties, ate baguettes and croissants, hunted for creme brulèe. He and I stayed out until 3am almost every night, going to "events" to “network” (pick up schwag, listen to music, and pose for photos), or sitting in the living room in our pajamas to talk about life, generally spending as much time together as possible. It was a blessing.
The sun poked out this week, teasing us with the promise of spring. I tasted April in the breeze... but snow is promised for the weekend. To cheer me up, however, I recalled the view from my train from France to Torino:
This morning my alarm clock interrupted pleasant dreams, and I pulled a cardigan over my nightgown before heading into Friday. The interior heat has turned our house into a sauna, so despite the snow outside I sleep in a light cotton nightgown. I draped the little boys' clothes over their metal thermostats to warm while we ate breakfast (I resisted the cookies, woohoo!, in favor of whole grain toast), then helped them get ready for school. Ushered the family out the door and watched the building's elevator depart, trailing a chorus of Buona giornatas in its wake. Wrote a postSecret to my friend Thomas in Chicago, did some Italian textbook exercises, watched BBC news hourly update on the gynormous plasma television that has caused so much unrest within our household: A-- calls it "The Monster" and does his best to avoid the living room altogether.
Last weekend I visited my daddy in Cannes where he attended an annual music business conference. It was great to see him after seven months abroad, and our first Christmas apart in my 22 years of life. We strolled along the Mediterranean, peeked in upon yacht parties, ate baguettes and croissants, hunted for creme brulèe. He and I stayed out until 3am almost every night, going to "events" to “network” (pick up schwag, listen to music, and pose for photos), or sitting in the living room in our pajamas to talk about life, generally spending as much time together as possible. It was a blessing.
The sun poked out this week, teasing us with the promise of spring. I tasted April in the breeze... but snow is promised for the weekend. To cheer me up, however, I recalled the view from my train from France to Torino:
18 January 2009
Winter Break: Phase IV
30 December 2008
Ljubljana, Slovenia
The bus ride from Florence to Ljubljana was nine hours. As we pulled away from the bus stop I watched a woman with thick black hair press her forehead against the window and spread both hands flat against the glass, sobbing silently. Looking out, I saw a man standing on the traffic island with his hands shoved deeply into his pockets, and goodbye in his eyes.
For most of the beginning John and I sat on opposite sides of the bus. There were plenty of empty seats. The driver put "Rush Hour" on the DVD player, in English but with Bulgarian subtitles (thanks), and John decided it would be good practice for him to watch it. I took off my boots and settled against the window with my iPod and journal, looking up once in awhile to observe the afternoon sun settle on the passing mountains. The bus wound over highways that reminded me of the stretch between Mount Shasta and home, and I-70 (Colorado), and something from 2001. Ashland. Somewhere in the middle of the trip I realised that we were on our way from Tuscany to Slovenia - from Tuscany to Slovenia! - and that we were 22, friends, artists, graduates. Both simultaneously Lost, and Here. sunlight filters. 14,30. we go through mtns. looking at john. we're going to grow up and love people, and do things.
"Rush Hour" led to "Rush Hour 2" and, eventually, "Rush Hour 3." Late afternoon became evening, and then, night. I was moody because I could already feel the end, having to say goodbye to him. But it had been perfect, really, to absorb and unload, to give and take in equal parts. Helped ease the heartache that had prevailed over my last couple of months... eased, yet deepened.
We woke up with leisure the next day, as there was no one else in our four-bed hostel room. Ventured out around noon in search of the centralmost piazza, where we'd agreed to meet three Italian students who got onto our bus somewhere outside of Venice. Was deliciously bewildering to be in a country whose native language I couldn't understand. Found the center - called Three Bridges, on account of it being at the intersection of three bridges crossing the river(s?) - and had mulled wine for breakfast while we waited. The five of us wandered in the brisk noon, noting architecture, conversing in the easy way college-aged students often do, about where and what we study/studied, where we've been, where we hope to go. They wanted to head to Sarajevo, I think maybe Bosnia? I mentally considered going with them, but decided my stores of money and energy would suffer greatly on such a tour. No, this was my vacation, in which I had planned to relax, enjoy.
We came to a crossroads, looked at our watches and considered our next move: sight-see? eat? sit? We were hungry, wanted something local and warm, while they weren't so keen on a sit-down restaurant meal, so our motley crew parted ways for a bit. John popped into a restaurant through whose white lace curtains I could see topaz colored napkins two crystal glasses at each place setting, and after a couple of minutes beckoned me in: when the hostess told him they weren't open for lunch, he explained that we're only here for a day and would love to eat something real, something traditional to slovenia, and the cook offered to make us something special. Come in, he said, sit down. I will prepare for you some baked polenta roll thing with raisins, if you like? with a little salad, some spiced wine. (That was a recurring favorite, if you couldn't tell.) As I took off my coat and pulled up a chair, I thanked the stars that my friend was both charming and bold.
Later that afternoon, we wandered into and around Ljubljana's hilltop castle, from which we would later watch fireworks being launched into the sky to signify the end of one year and the beginning of another. Within hours I would forget almost completely the permeating cold and remember only the golden willows weeping out of the black sky towards the cheering crowd, and the weary joy of having made it this far.
in that last entry i should have said, deepens yet eases. after john left i moseyed back downtown to look at life, and found it as lively and charming as it had been the previous festive days. the lights were still up, a band on the stage, families strolling, vendors distributing vin brulée and hot dogs to mittened and scarved customers. i looked at handmade earrings, candles, hats, and considered the ten euro in my purse. turned away from the river onto a shopping street... classical music played across the snow and cobblestones on a PA system, making ljubljana's city center that much less real, and more like a disneyland town. i had a coffee and a bowl of chips with yogurt dip (had wanted something strange and maybe typical, but i think it was just strange) and wrote a long letter to john. long...winded, i think, in which i feel like i actually said very little. so nice to be anonymous and alone, unable to listen to anything.
I woke up at 5am the next morning to take a bus to Trieste, where I celebrated my re-entry into Italy by asking two crusty-looking locals if they could point out a few landmarks for me since I was only in town for about 90 minutes before my train left for Venice. Spent one hour in the Venezia station, tucked into the station's chapel to escape the dirty noise by silently praying a rosary in a grimy kneeler, duffel bag at my side. Sniffling old Italian woman in the rearmost pew. Four hours to Milano Centrale, another two to Torino Porta Susa, and concluded my long, solitary day of motion with a cup of spiced cider and some Dane Cook youtube videos at Aubrey's apartment (again).
Ljubljana, Slovenia
The bus ride from Florence to Ljubljana was nine hours. As we pulled away from the bus stop I watched a woman with thick black hair press her forehead against the window and spread both hands flat against the glass, sobbing silently. Looking out, I saw a man standing on the traffic island with his hands shoved deeply into his pockets, and goodbye in his eyes.
For most of the beginning John and I sat on opposite sides of the bus. There were plenty of empty seats. The driver put "Rush Hour" on the DVD player, in English but with Bulgarian subtitles (thanks), and John decided it would be good practice for him to watch it. I took off my boots and settled against the window with my iPod and journal, looking up once in awhile to observe the afternoon sun settle on the passing mountains. The bus wound over highways that reminded me of the stretch between Mount Shasta and home, and I-70 (Colorado), and something from 2001. Ashland. Somewhere in the middle of the trip I realised that we were on our way from Tuscany to Slovenia - from Tuscany to Slovenia! - and that we were 22, friends, artists, graduates. Both simultaneously Lost, and Here. sunlight filters. 14,30. we go through mtns. looking at john. we're going to grow up and love people, and do things.
"Rush Hour" led to "Rush Hour 2" and, eventually, "Rush Hour 3." Late afternoon became evening, and then, night. I was moody because I could already feel the end, having to say goodbye to him. But it had been perfect, really, to absorb and unload, to give and take in equal parts. Helped ease the heartache that had prevailed over my last couple of months... eased, yet deepened.
We woke up with leisure the next day, as there was no one else in our four-bed hostel room. Ventured out around noon in search of the centralmost piazza, where we'd agreed to meet three Italian students who got onto our bus somewhere outside of Venice. Was deliciously bewildering to be in a country whose native language I couldn't understand. Found the center - called Three Bridges, on account of it being at the intersection of three bridges crossing the river(s?) - and had mulled wine for breakfast while we waited. The five of us wandered in the brisk noon, noting architecture, conversing in the easy way college-aged students often do, about where and what we study/studied, where we've been, where we hope to go. They wanted to head to Sarajevo, I think maybe Bosnia? I mentally considered going with them, but decided my stores of money and energy would suffer greatly on such a tour. No, this was my vacation, in which I had planned to relax, enjoy.
We came to a crossroads, looked at our watches and considered our next move: sight-see? eat? sit? We were hungry, wanted something local and warm, while they weren't so keen on a sit-down restaurant meal, so our motley crew parted ways for a bit. John popped into a restaurant through whose white lace curtains I could see topaz colored napkins two crystal glasses at each place setting, and after a couple of minutes beckoned me in: when the hostess told him they weren't open for lunch, he explained that we're only here for a day and would love to eat something real, something traditional to slovenia, and the cook offered to make us something special. Come in, he said, sit down. I will prepare for you some baked polenta roll thing with raisins, if you like? with a little salad, some spiced wine. (That was a recurring favorite, if you couldn't tell.) As I took off my coat and pulled up a chair, I thanked the stars that my friend was both charming and bold.
Later that afternoon, we wandered into and around Ljubljana's hilltop castle, from which we would later watch fireworks being launched into the sky to signify the end of one year and the beginning of another. Within hours I would forget almost completely the permeating cold and remember only the golden willows weeping out of the black sky towards the cheering crowd, and the weary joy of having made it this far.
in that last entry i should have said, deepens yet eases. after john left i moseyed back downtown to look at life, and found it as lively and charming as it had been the previous festive days. the lights were still up, a band on the stage, families strolling, vendors distributing vin brulée and hot dogs to mittened and scarved customers. i looked at handmade earrings, candles, hats, and considered the ten euro in my purse. turned away from the river onto a shopping street... classical music played across the snow and cobblestones on a PA system, making ljubljana's city center that much less real, and more like a disneyland town. i had a coffee and a bowl of chips with yogurt dip (had wanted something strange and maybe typical, but i think it was just strange) and wrote a long letter to john. long...winded, i think, in which i feel like i actually said very little. so nice to be anonymous and alone, unable to listen to anything.
I woke up at 5am the next morning to take a bus to Trieste, where I celebrated my re-entry into Italy by asking two crusty-looking locals if they could point out a few landmarks for me since I was only in town for about 90 minutes before my train left for Venice. Spent one hour in the Venezia station, tucked into the station's chapel to escape the dirty noise by silently praying a rosary in a grimy kneeler, duffel bag at my side. Sniffling old Italian woman in the rearmost pew. Four hours to Milano Centrale, another two to Torino Porta Susa, and concluded my long, solitary day of motion with a cup of spiced cider and some Dane Cook youtube videos at Aubrey's apartment (again).
Winter Break: Phase III
28 December 2008
Florence, Tuscany, Italy
Although I went to Florence a couple of weeks ago with a fellow au pair for a weekend getaway from Torino, John requested we make a stop there because one of his most esteemed friends had recommended the World's Best Pear Ravioli in some little restaurant. What better reason to go? It sounded a trillion times better than going to see the Uffizi, Duomo, or some other typical, historical reason why a tourist would want to go to Florence. So we went.
After some idle hours eating spinach pastries and experimenting with non-English conversation, baggage doubling as a resting places for our frigid bottoms, we took an intercity train from Como to Florence, perched half-fearfully on unassigned seats in a six person train compartment that made me think of Harry Potter. We played cards on a tiny flip-down table. Afternoon darkened into evening outside. Got to Florence, walked to hostel, met our roommates: a couple of kids from Michigan taking a break from their study abroad in Germany, and a lone Japanese guy with bronze hair. A 16-year-old sleepy boy came from another room into the "lobby" to talk to the receptionist, and we introduced ourselves; learned that he was waking up at 5am the next day to catch a train and then a ferry to Greece. All alone, and had been for weeks. Maybe it was because he looked so, so young that I asked him if he wanted a hug - not in a condescending way, I hoped - and he said yes, so I hugged him. Everybody needs one.
Before heading out for a bite to eat, we agreed that a movie might be nice. I remembered that when I studied abroad in Florence there was a theatre that sometimes featured movies in English; Odeon, it had been called, near the Piazza della Repubblica. Oh-- we almost forgot the pear ravioli restaurant! All he had was the name, La Giostra. That rang a bell, La Giostra... I pulled a business card out of my wallet, and couldn't believe that he was talking about the tiny, adorable trattoria I'd passed when I was here in November! But it was the very one about which his friend had raved, and so we passed by to make a reservations for the following night. It was busy, dimly lit by romantic twinkly Christmas lights, full of interesting looking people and savory aromas. Could hardly wait to come back.
Our movie was horrible, an Italian comedy called "Il Cosmo Sul Como." Don't see it. Don't even think about it.
Next day:
Bought bus tickets to Ljubljana
Coffee and pastry
Climbed the Campanile
Ponte Vecchio
Gelato
Piazza Signoria
Back to hostel to split a bottle of wine and watch a bootlegged movie
Pear ravioli
lots of talk about my time in
florence, the weeks to come, life. we talked about how important it is
to find yourself. what inspires you. i've yet to. he said, those kids
will change you, and at first i was mildly indignant that he didn't
say, you'll change those kids. then i stopped being full of myself and
agreed.
Sleepytime
Belt
Accademmia (David)
Gave my colored pencils to a little Spanish girl
Long bus ride to...
Florence, Tuscany, Italy
Although I went to Florence a couple of weeks ago with a fellow au pair for a weekend getaway from Torino, John requested we make a stop there because one of his most esteemed friends had recommended the World's Best Pear Ravioli in some little restaurant. What better reason to go? It sounded a trillion times better than going to see the Uffizi, Duomo, or some other typical, historical reason why a tourist would want to go to Florence. So we went.
After some idle hours eating spinach pastries and experimenting with non-English conversation, baggage doubling as a resting places for our frigid bottoms, we took an intercity train from Como to Florence, perched half-fearfully on unassigned seats in a six person train compartment that made me think of Harry Potter. We played cards on a tiny flip-down table. Afternoon darkened into evening outside. Got to Florence, walked to hostel, met our roommates: a couple of kids from Michigan taking a break from their study abroad in Germany, and a lone Japanese guy with bronze hair. A 16-year-old sleepy boy came from another room into the "lobby" to talk to the receptionist, and we introduced ourselves; learned that he was waking up at 5am the next day to catch a train and then a ferry to Greece. All alone, and had been for weeks. Maybe it was because he looked so, so young that I asked him if he wanted a hug - not in a condescending way, I hoped - and he said yes, so I hugged him. Everybody needs one.
Before heading out for a bite to eat, we agreed that a movie might be nice. I remembered that when I studied abroad in Florence there was a theatre that sometimes featured movies in English; Odeon, it had been called, near the Piazza della Repubblica. Oh-- we almost forgot the pear ravioli restaurant! All he had was the name, La Giostra. That rang a bell, La Giostra... I pulled a business card out of my wallet, and couldn't believe that he was talking about the tiny, adorable trattoria I'd passed when I was here in November! But it was the very one about which his friend had raved, and so we passed by to make a reservations for the following night. It was busy, dimly lit by romantic twinkly Christmas lights, full of interesting looking people and savory aromas. Could hardly wait to come back.
Our movie was horrible, an Italian comedy called "Il Cosmo Sul Como." Don't see it. Don't even think about it.
Next day:
Bought bus tickets to Ljubljana
Coffee and pastry
Climbed the Campanile
Ponte Vecchio
Gelato
Piazza Signoria
Back to hostel to split a bottle of wine and watch a bootlegged movie
Pear ravioli
lots of talk about my time in
florence, the weeks to come, life. we talked about how important it is
to find yourself. what inspires you. i've yet to. he said, those kids
will change you, and at first i was mildly indignant that he didn't
say, you'll change those kids. then i stopped being full of myself and
agreed.
Sleepytime
Belt
Accademmia (David)
Gave my colored pencils to a little Spanish girl
Long bus ride to...
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