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.