The fat lady has sung

Italian concerts.  I've been to a handful and wish I could go to more than a handful more. 

They're in churches, civic halls and auditoriums.  They always start late.  And by late I mean late as in 9 p.m. (Which is kind of late in the States if it's not a rock concert, isn't it?) And I also mean late as in never on time.  Sometimes they start with what I guess is the national anthem and everyone stands up and sings.  Well, everyone except whomever I go with.  And me.  Because I feel dumb standing up if they're not standing up and I'm not even sure what I would or wouldn't be standing up for.


They're beautiful.  And by beautiful I mean beautiful.  The sound fills the church whether it's voices or instruments or both and you really can feel it inside your soul.  Even when it's not soul music.  I cried at the last one I went to.  Maybe it was because I knew it was the last one I was going to. Or maybe it was because I was looking everywhere for Emilietta and Piero and I couldn't find them. I know they were there, I just couldn't find them.  And guess what?  They're farmers.  It really is me and the farmers at these concerts.


But, there are two things about concerts that I don't like.  First, they seem to have a lot to say and to be able to enjoy a little music, you have to sit through a lot of announcements. It doesn't bother me that much because I like to see how much Italian I can really understand, but I think if I were Italian I'd be a little disturbed.  And secondly, there's been an encore at every concert.  (Che bello!  Encore.....in Italian ancora means again.  I love making these connections.) Anyway, does every concert deserve an encore?  And should the musicians be expecting one to the point that if you look carefully you can see that they've already turned their sheet music to be ready for the final song?  Why can't the encore song just be the final song and then we clap and go home?  It's always quite dramatic, too.  They leave.  We applaud.  They come back with silly smiles as though they weren't expecting to be so adored.  They play.  We applaud.  And then they play again.  I've started looking for the fat lady to be sure it's really over so I know it's safe to get up and go home.  It was always a little something to laugh about at the end of the evening and it came in handy when I was crying.


And then last week, my concert came to an end.  After almost nine months of teaching, sending texts in Italian and French, making new friends, trains, planes, reading maps, running through fields,emails in English, eating too much, correcting mistakes, having mistakes corrected,  bike rides on the Seine and through the hills of Veneto, hugging and kissing (and smashing glasses when I couldn't remember where I was), picnics, dinners,  je ne sais pas' and non ho capitos (I'm not sure how to make those plural), nutella, burned out candles, second-hand shops (called Usatoland which translates as "used land" which makes me smile), tears, and cups of tea, the fat lady had finally sung and it was time to go home.  I couldn't have had a sweeter send off.  I was on the train and the door had closed.  The final words had been spoken.  And as the train pulled away, I saw my friend clapping.  My first reaction, (much like yours, perhaps) was that it meant, "Yay!  She's finally leaving."  Was it a way to make me laugh when I was crying?  I looked back confused and then came the hand signal to think about it. Two minutes later I figured it out and then it was confirmed by the last Italian text message that I'd receive:

Se ti applaudo (batto le mani) ritorni... If I applaud you (clap my hands), you return...

Che bellissima. 

The Sound of Music

Let's start at the very beginning. 
A very good place to start.
When you read you begin with A, B, C.
When you sing you begin with Do, Re, Mi. 

Why do I feel the need to continually remind you all that there's a lot I'm missing.  I think when I write about stuff that amazes me, it's with hopes that maybe someone else will step up and say, "Hey!  I didn't know that either."  So far that hasn't happened, yet I continue to divulge my latest revelations, albeit with a bit more fear that you're really beginning to wonder where I've spent the past 46 years.

I was talking to my 12-year-old Italian friend, Anna, about music.  She plays the recorder. I told her that I used to play the clarinet and that I used to be in the high school marching band.  The what?  So, I explained it to her and told her that I had to leave my cheerleading position a little early before half-time to change into the band uniform.  The whole cheerleading thing had come up awhile ago.  She only knows about cheerleaders the way they are portrayed on American TV.   I suppose that's really probably all there is to know about cheerleaders anyway, so I should be glad that she thought it was odd that I was one.

Anyway, the band discussion led to a piano discussion which led to a how-to-read-music discussion.  We both drew staffs and named the notes.  Who knew that the song from The Sound of Music really made sense?  (You all did, I suppose?  Am I really the only nut that didn't know this?)  When Italians sing they really do begin with Do, Re, Mi.  I think that's probably our C, D, E.  But we never really got to the bottom of exactly which note is "Do". And then I started thinking that I had heard of this before.  It wasn't brand new
to me.  I was 45 when my 11-year-old French friend, Flora, used to come to my studio after school.  She'd play her flute for me and I think we had a similar discussion one afternoon. So, I learned it from an 11-year-old and I was reminded of it by a 12-year-old. Is it a European thing or does it go beyond Europe?  Or do other countries use the C, D, E like we do?  Maybe I can find a 13-year-old to answer that.


So, why do music notes have different names in different languages?  And why do we give cities different names in different languages?  Shouldn't Venice always be Venice?  (Actually, I guess what I meant to say is shouldn't Venezia always be Venezia?)  Why would we change the name of a city?  And why would we change the names of notes?  They all sound the same when they're played and they're all in the same place on the staff, so why would we call them something else?  I guess I'm really the one that should have the answer to that since I'm as guilty as the name changers.  When I talk about my friend Mary when I'm in Italy, I call her Maria.  It just came out naturally the first time and then it stuck.  Cathy is Caterina and Sarah is stillSarah, but I pronounce it like "far".  And then one day  someone asked me about my Spanish friend that I often talk about.  I said, "What Spanish friend?"  They said, "Miguel."  I don't have a Spanish friend named Miguel.  It's
an American friend that I unintentionally gave a Spanish name when it should really be Mikele in Italian.  But that's not his name and I've never called him that, so why should I change it?


Anyway, let's get back to the very beginning.  In this case, a very good place to start and to end. I'd written this blog awhile ago, but never really knew what I was trying to say, so I never published it.  Then I was having coffee with some friends (don't worry.  I don't drink coffee, but I do love the tiny little cups) and we were talking about the piano.  I don't remember how it came up, but I can only remember that someone said something about Do, Re, Mi.  I said, "Do you mean C, D, E?" and they had no idea what I was talking about.  So, I proudly explained to them that when we read we begin with A, B, C and when we sing we begin with C, D, E.  I went to bed that night thinking that maybe I'm not missing as much as I think I am.

Gordissima

I seem to have a knack for creatively adapting my three languages.  The other day I exclaimed that I was "GORDISSIMA" and I got a good laugh out of everyone.  Gordo is Spanish and muy gordo didn't seem to have the same ring to it.  So, I added a little Italian to my Spanish and came up with the perfect word.  And at the moment, it's how I'm feeling.  And it's not only my imagination.  I happen to have some Italian friends JUST LIKE ME that don't hold back.  I actually know they meant it as a compliment, but two friends on two different occasions have said that they think I look better a little heavier.  Can you imagine how well that went over with me?!

So anyway, I decided it would be best if I warned you.  I'm  a little chubbier than I was when I left. I know you're saying, "Yeah, yeah.  It's the smart girl who says she failed the test.  It's the millionaire who says they can't afford something."  But it's really true.  I'm the skinny girl that isn't as skinny as I used to be.  And instead of making you feel uncomfortable when you first lay eyes on me after almost nine months away, I thought I'd tell you first so you can prepare yourself for the usual, "Welcome back.  You look great (and a little chubby.)"

If you'll notice in the photo, this giant ice cream cone outside the gelateria just happens to be next to the panificio.  That's the bakery.  And, I get a double scoop almost every night with far more than a dollop of whipped cream.  Ohhhh...the whipped cream. It's not just for sundaes.  It comes on the top of an ice cream cone.  At first I thought I didn't like it because it's usually not sweet.  But then I made a fantastic discovery.  I'd been eating the whipped cream first because that's the way I did it at home.  I would eat it off the top of my hot chocolate before it melted because if you let it melt you don't really get the joy of the whipped cream.  Well, here the best thing is when you kind of let it melt.  Because for some strange reason as it melts (?) it gets kind of firm and then you eat it with a mouthful of ice cream and voila....it's sweet!
So, I've been spending my time eating and eating and eating and not worrying a lot about how I've looked.  Trying to speak Italian, riding a bike with a bag over the handlebars instead of a basket, searching for the best second-hand shops in Italy, trying to catch a field in all of it's forms (tall hay, cut hay, raked-into-rows hay, baled hay and taken-away-hay), and trying to cook with no measuring spoons and bizarre ingredients seemed like enough good things to worry about instead of my kilos.
 
And then one day I saw myself.  And the next day I imagined you seeing me.  And I started running more and trying to eat less and it only worked for a day and then I went back to the gelateria.  I really wish I could be more like nude guy by his cow trough pool or the big lady that came and stripped down next to me on the river bank yesterday. They seem so free.  Unfortunately, I'm still trapped in the image that "Gordissima is not beautiful."  So, when you see me and tell me how great I look, I'll accept it with a smile and appreciate your honesty and pretend that I'm still in Italy, because when you translate great into Italian, it means large.

(p.s.  I don't have time to edit this because I'm on my way for a double scoop cone with whipped cream.)