Americans abroad · Emilia Romagna · European travel · ex-pat life · international travel · Italian food · Italy · Parma Italy · Travel

A Slight Turn Of Phrase

 

Learning Italian
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Learning Italian

When learning Italian, it is important to remember that inflection and emphasis on a particular syllable can make all the difference between getting your point across and really offending someone.

A slight turn of phrase can change the meaning of a word entirely.  I believe in trying to speak the language. I try to speak the language. I butcher it regularly and generally frustrate Italians, but it is the only way to really learn and I feel that it is respectful to at least try to speak the official language of the place that I live. But Lord knows, I have really made a mess of it at times.

In the beginning, we were meeting all kinds of people and lots of new kids at school. In Italian, much like Spanish, instead of asking “how old are you?” you ask a child how many years they have.  The phrase in Italian is “Quanti anni hai?”  I was pronouncing the word anni (years) like “ah knee.”  My friend Dena, an American who has lived in Italy for over 20 years, was kind enough to tell me “Oh, be careful how you pronounce anni.”  See, I was pronouncing anni like ani.  Ani means anuses.  This explained the strange looks and giggles I got when I asked children at the school how many anuses they had.  The correct pronunciation for anni is (ahnn knee) with an emphasis on the double n’s.

Then, at language circle one day my friend Paola was discussing the little yellow structure near the stadium.  I said, Oh, you mean the casino?” She looked at me shocked. “No, it is not a casino.” “Sure it is, it says so right on the building.  “aah, you mean casino’ ‘”  Apparently, there is the casino where one gambles and then there is the casino’ which is a brothel.  Oh and casino can also mean a big mess depending on context. In this context I made a casino of the word casino.

And then one time Paola did an entire lesson on the difference between papa’, Papa and pappa.  The first,  papa’ (pa·pà) is pronounced with a short emphasis on the first syllable then a hard accent on the second syllable.  This is one’s father.

Next there is Papa (pà·pa) with a capital letter. This indicates the Pope and is pronounced by keeping an equal emphasis on both syllables, but with a slighter stronger emphasis on the first syllable. But only a slightly stronger emphasis. Too strong an emphasis and you’ve blown it.

And finally, there is pappa. The double consonant ‘p’ requires us mush mouthed Americans to linger for a time on the two p’s. Pappa is baby food. A small snack for babies.

To this day, I cannot hear the difference between them all.

Even Father Christmas Wasn’t Safe!

But my biggest and most famous gaffe happened right after we arrived.  It was Christmas and I was determined to keep up our holiday tradition of a new ornament in the kid’s stockings.  I really wanted to find ornaments that said “Buon Natale.” Unfortunately, all the ornaments that I saw said “Merry Christmas” in English.

We were out on our last Christmas shopping excursion and Joe was having a coffee.  I tried one last store. Low and behold I saw exactly what I was looking for.  I went up to pay. I said my few phrases in Italian and the clerk instantly recognized I was not Italian.  She asked where I was from in English.  I told her and complimented her English. She said she needed to practice. I told her I really needed to practice my Italian as I had only been in the country for 3 months.  We decided that she would ask me questions in English and I would respond in Italian.

She asked me why I was buying the ornaments. I replied that I was buying the ornaments for my children’s stockings. She turned bright red. Her eyes opened wide.  I had clearly said something wrong.  I felt the need to explain further – to fix what I had said incorrectly.  I told her that I was buying the ornaments for the stockings of Father Christmas. At that point the clerk emphatically said “basta basta” or “enough, stop.”  She held her hand up to make sure I got the point.  The little boy behind me let out a guffaw and a snicker.  The clerk told the other patrons that I was new and didn’t speak Italian. The mother of the boy said, “Certamente!”

So, let me explain.  I was trying to say ‘calza’ which is the word for stocking. I put the wrong ending on it and instead said ‘calzo’ which, with my bad American pronunciation, sounded like ‘cazzo’ – the slang term for the male genitalia. So, in the first instance I had told the clerk that I was buying the ornaments for my son’s willy.  When I tried to explain further, I only made it worse by dragging Santa Claus’ willy into the discussion.  Everyone in the store had a good laugh about it.

Then months later at the school I was introduced to a friend’s family from England.  My friend said to her nephews, “This is the lady that said she was buying ornaments for Father Christmas’ willy!”  They all laughed and told me that the story had gone around London. Oy!

But, hey, the mistakes are half the fun and the things that we will remember for years to come.

Americans abroad · Bologna Italy · Emilia Romagna · ex-pat life · international travel · Italian food · Italy · Parma Italy · parmigiano-reggiano

The Reality of an International Move

international move

REALITY

Once we made the decision to move abroad reality kicked into high gear.  My husband had to start work before we were ready to move, thus, he moved ahead of us and left me behind to take care of the logistics. And let me tell you, the logistics of an international move are horrendous.

First, we had to tell the kids. When we started discussing the possibility of moving internationally the kids were 7 and 11.  My son thought it sounded great because Europeans ride bicycles everywhere. As an 11 year old boy that was one of his favorite activities and the idea that he could literally ride his bike all over town sounded ideal. My daughter at age 7 asked if we could visit castles. “Of course!” we assured her.  After we told them we were moving, Aleksander stared straight ahead, frozen like a statue and said nothing.  Lena burst into tears.  “Uh oh.” This was not the reaction we had envisioned. Unfortunately, by the time the move actually happened our son was 13 and happily ensconced in middle school with his friends, teen social life and first girlfriend.  Our daughter was 9 and while she liked castles, she was no longer willing to move for them.

Then, my husband began the process of commuting from Parma, Italy to Pleasanton, California. He was trying to adjust to a new job, learn the ropes, find us a place to live, learn the language, understand the road signs and the ways of life in Italy. He was stressed out and lonely.

LOGISTICS

I was in Pleasanton dealing with: a very sad daughter and a sad, angry son; acquiring copies of all of our records – dental, orthodontic, medical, insurance; arranging the shipping and trying to figure out how to ship personal items; and, the prepping and selling of the house. We were selling right after the housing market crashed so selling the house entailed basically redoing the entire house – painting the interior and exterior, fixing the pergola, patching walls, packing up, sorting, selling, donating and removing any trace of us ever having lived there. Essentially, it needed to look like a model home, not like a real home. I was exhausted every single evening. I live with an autoimmune disease which leaves me tired on a good day, but this left me utterly depleted physically and emotionally.

Now factor in the time difference (9 hours ahead in Italy) and a lonely husband who was missing us and wanting to talk and discuss things. I simply couldn’t do it at times. I was too tired. So Joe was alone in Europe, missing his family, feeling neglected. And I was in the US feeling exhausted, and guilty because I had the kids with me and witnessed their sadness every day. The experience was not boding well for our adventure. We lived apart like this for 5 months.  It was stressful on all of us. My son’s normally good grades began to drop and my sweet, mellow son got angrier and angrier. My daughter broke into tears on a regular basis.

Much to our surprise, the house sold much more quickly than we had anticipated, however, the kids had activities scheduled through the end of July and they needed time to say goodbye to their friends, their home, their life as they knew it.  We found ourselves with no place to live in our own town. The fates conspired in our favor, however. Let me just say that we happened to have the best group of neighbors that anyone could ever ask for. I miss the comradery that we all shared.  In our hour of need, our friends across the street offered up their home to us because they were going away. It was surreal as I watched the new family move into our home of 12 years from the neighbor’s house across the street. I had the good sense to make sure the kids were gone for the day with friends so they didn’t have to watch.

GOODBYES ARE NEVER EASY

Our final day in Pleasanton arrived. We stayed the last night with our dear, dear friends.  The shuttle picked us up to take us to the airport.  I was teary saying goodbye to our friends, but then both kids began to cry. Then they began to sob.  And I mean sob.  Whole body racking sobs. Then I began to sob with them.  We sobbed the entire 45 minutes drive to the airport. We sobbed at check-in, through the security gate and waiting for the plane. It was horrible. I felt like crap.  Their hearts were breaking. My heart was breaking witnessing their pain. We chose this.

On our way to Italy, we made a stop in Illinois and Wisconsin to say goodbye to family. Joe returned as well and we were reunited for a time.  We went from Illinois to Washington, D.C. with my in-laws for a vacation. Joe returned to Italy for work but the kids and I went on to New York City for our last bit of the USA. The idea was that this mini vacation would help ease the pain. It would be a slower transition. We had a grand time that summer and on our final voyage from New York to Italy, Joe surprised us and upgraded us to 1st class. The month long vacation and the 1st class lounge almost fooled us into forgetting what we were doing. Almost. On the long flight the tears started again.

REUNITED

Poor Joe was excited to get us all back together and had positioned himself right at the exit gate with a video camera to record our first steps in Italy. The kids were crying, I was crying for them. We were all exhausted, afraid, and less than enthusiastic about being filmed. Joe may even tell you that I was rude.

When we got to the car, Joe handed our son a package from his girlfriend at home. I will never forget the look of pain on Aleksander’s face when he got that package. I swear the sadness crept out of that package and enveloped us all. It was a quiet ride to our temporary housing. Tears were silently falling down our cheeks.

We chose this.

Americans abroad · Bologna Italy · Emilia Romagna · ex-pat life · international travel · Italian food · Italy · Parma Italy · parmigiano-reggiano

Reality

airplane

Once we made the decision to move reality kicked into high gear.  My husband had to start work before we were ready to move.  The logistics of an international move are horrendous.

First, we had to tell the kids. When we started discussing the possibility of moving internationally the kids were 7 and 11.  My son thought it sounded great because Europeans ride bicycles everywhere. As an 11 year old boy that was one of his favorite activities and the idea that he could literally ride his bike all over town sounded ideal. My daughter at age 7 asked if we could visit castles. “Of course!” we assured her.  After we told them we were moving, Aleksander stared straight ahead and said nothing.  Lena burst into tears.  “Uh oh.” This was not the reaction we had envisioned. Unfortunately, by the time the move actually happened our son was 13 and happily ensconced in middle school with his friends, teen social life and first girlfriend.  Our daughter was 9 and while she liked castles, she was no longer willing to move for them.

Then, my husband began the process of commuting from Parma, Italy to Pleasanton, California. He was trying to adjust to a new job, learn the ropes, find us a place to live, learn the language, understand the road signs and the ways of life in Italy. He was stressed out and lonely.

I was in Pleasanton dealing with: a very sad daughter and a sad, angry son; acquiring copies of all of our records – dental, orthodontic, medical, insurance; arranging the shipping and trying to figure out how to ship personal items; and, the prepping and selling of the house. We were selling right after the housing market crashed so selling the house entailed basically redoing the entire house – painting the interior and exterior, fixing the pergola, patching walls, packing up, sorting, selling, donating and removing any trace of us ever having lived there. Essentially, it needed to look like a model home, not like a real home. I was exhausted every single evening.  I live with an autoimmune disease which leaves me tired on a good day, but this left me utterly depleted physically and emotionally.

Now factor in the time difference (8 hours ahead in Italy) and a lonely husband who was missing us and wanting to talk and discuss things. I simply couldn’t do it at times. I was too tired. So Joe was alone in Europe, missing his family, feeling neglected. And I was in the US feeling exhausted, and guilty because I had the kids with me and witnessed their sadness every day.  The experience was not boding well for our adventure.  We lived apart like this for 5 months.  It was stressful on all of us. My son’s normally good grades began to drop and my sweet, mellow son got angrier and angrier. My daughter broke into tears on a regular basis.

Much to our surprise, the house sold much more quickly than we had anticipated, however, the kids had activities scheduled through the end of July and they needed time to say goodbye to their friends, their home, their life as they knew it.  We found ourselves with no place to live in our own town.  The fates conspired in our favor, however. Let me just say that we happened to have the best group of neighbors that anyone could ever ask for. I miss the comradery that we all shared.  In our hour of need, our friends across the street offered up their home to us because they were going away.  It was surreal as I watched the new family move into our home of 12 years from the neighbor’s house across the street. I had the good sense to make sure the kids were gone for the day with friends so they didn’t have to watch.

Our final day in Pleasanton arrived. We stayed the last night with our dear, dear friends.  The shuttle picked us up to take us to the airport.  I was teary saying goodbye to our friends, but then both kids began to cry. Then they began to sob.  And I mean sob.  Whole body racking sobs. Then I began to sob with them.  We sobbed the entire way to the airport. We sobbed at check-in, through the security gate and waiting for the plane.  It was horrible. I felt like crap.  Their hearts were breaking. My heart was breaking witnessing their pain. We chose this.

On our way to Italy, we made a stop in Illinois and Wisconsin to say goodbye to family. Joe returned as well and we were reunited for a time.  We went from Illinois to Washington, D.C. with my in-laws for a vacation. Joe had to return to Italy for work but the kids and I went on to New York City for our last bit of the USA. The idea was that this mini vacation would help ease the pain. It would be a slower transition. We had a grand time that summer and on our final voyage from New York to Italy, Joe surprised us and upgraded us to 1st class. The month long vacation and the 1st class lounge almost fooled us into forgetting what we were doing.  Almost.  On the long flight the tears started again.

Poor Joe was excited to get us all back together and had positioned himself right at the exit gate with a video camera to record our first steps in Italy. The kids were crying, I was crying for them. We were all exhausted, afraid and less than enthusiastic about being filmed.  Joe may even tell you that I was rude.

When we got to the car, Joe handed our son a package from his girlfriend at home.  I will never forget the look of pain on Aleksander’s face when he got that package.  I swear the sadness crept out of that package and enveloped us all. It was a quiet ride to our temporary housing. Tears were silently falling down our cheeks.  We chose this.