Tuesday, April 03, 2012


Sunday we kept our promise to my friend Bianca's father and met him at his friend's gallery in Via Elisa.  He hoped that they might need a website, but they already have one. It was sweet of him to ask. There was a little apertivo of snack offerings and drink. The place is the size of a shoebox and F started out by dropping his cake on the floor at the feet of the owner. The most hillarious part was not only did Bianca's mother stuff me out of my seams with food at her house, but she tried to get me to eat all of the snacks at the gallery opening. No, no, honey, if you didn't make it, I don't have to eat it.

Bianca's babbo
The gallery owner and his daughter for whmo F promised to make gorgonzola bread after Bianca's mom insisted on having the recipe.
Bianca's mamma

I didn't want the blog to become the saga of the Italian gyms, but it is not all mushroom picking and frolicking in the hills, so an American shopaholic has got to work. Yesterday I got to teach in the big sala at Olympia Club because one of the instructors was MIA, and that was great because I had 26 people total and the class went fairly well, although the people who wanted their usual glutes class had to be convinced that I could work their asses just as hard and they were not too keen on doing the hip hop choreography section. 

Just when I thought I had made it to the end of the lesson-- I say thought because I couldn't see the clock and dozens of other people started flooding into the room as if to signal the end of a lesson. I thought 45 minutes had passed based on my playlist of songs, but sometimes I put on the wrong playlist and the other list goes on for two hours, so it is not a fail safe system. In a panic, I tried to get us all to do abdominal exercises together and hoped that there wasn't an angry teacher back there in the mix. I couldn't see anything since I was lying on my back and shouting over the music. Finally, Rocco, my supervisor, came in and made me move to the part of the room where the teacher traditionally situates herself, even though I had tried facing everyone in a new direction whereby more of the students could see themselves better in the one wall of full length mirrors. He literally shoved a microphone on my head and told me to keep going. The now three dozen new people mixed with my remaining loyal students had no idea what to make of my mangled Italian commands and the rather tricky array of ab exercises that I usually perform, and in the end I just stretched them out. When I came up off the floor the regular instructor thanked me. No one was more relieved than I to get the heck out of there. It may seem silly, but this social chaos mixed with years of not speaking up when I should have in my old life when I had the luxury of using English, makes handling mayem in Italian all the more stressful. As I was leaving an older gentleman who takes a lot of the classes kissed me on both cheeks and said you make no sense but you sure can teach. Ma dopo la pioggia succede il sole. 

One day I'll go to college and know where I put stuff. Not necessarily in that order.

 Today it was raining Italian cats and dogs and T had to get up at the crack of crack for her school trip to Torino. F wanting to be polite, and T wanting to fit in got talked in to leaving her bag of carefully packed snacks under the bus since the driver did not want any messes. Well, I wish to goodness one of them had firmly told him that a mess and a half is what he would get if he planned on not letting T eat in a moving vehicle. It may seem counter intutitive, but I know the child well. Anyway, in the end all of the other children brought heaps of food inside less obvious snack bags and shared with T until she was able to reach her belongings in the storage section at the rest stop. I was reluctant to leave a message for her Professor on his cell phone about her need to eat while travelling, and when he didn't respond, I had to review the formal you/Lei form and call him.  Later I received a message from the number telling me that while they were sorry about my daughter's stomach, I had misdialed. Then I yelled at F and went back to sleep only to be woken up four or five times with perky updates from my darling daughter who was calling me from every number, but her own, since she had also left her cell phone in, you guessed it, the storage area.

As I am writing this, my cell rings. It's T. Did Dad tell you what happened? No. Of course not. She can't remember where she put the 70 euro we gave her to pay the entrance fees and the security deposit on her hotel room. F says it is in her bag, which she hasn't had time to check, what with all the eating lunch and chatting. All of our communications have been reduced to a text message of Tranquilla! Stay calm or TVB :) = Ti voglio bene/I love yous. I jump about due metri everytime I hear my phone beep.

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