Depending on your point of view today was either a very bad day, or a good day for learning Italian. The day started with a standard Italian lesson or coffee with my mums’ as I prefer to call it. Today was quite a short lesson, finishing soon after the coffee, which had also started early on account of the bad weather driving us indoors to the coffee shop before the seemingly obligatory 20 minutes standing in the cold talking before repairing to the said coffee shop to continue said conversation. So from ten past nine I was free.
My little task of the day was to find where some parcels were. I knew that they had arrived in Magenta courtesy of a little post office note put through the door. I also knew that 3 parcels had been posted before Christmas so had been awaiting a note for some time. Off to the Post Office I went. Having collected my correct queuing ticket I was informed the parcels were not at the Post Office. They were giro and sinestra and other Italian type directions I couldn’t quite get but gamely I left the post office and walked around the building. The only thing I could understand on the little note was 31. It was obviously at no. 31 somewhere and the post office was no. 29 so I was close. Well obviously I was wrong. Having giroed and sinestraed for longer I found the post office DEPOT. Not the post office. Obviously. So armed with my little note clearly on show I wandered purposely into the depot. One of the phrases I remembered from my instructions to get to the depot was a small window to speak through, so I slowed upon reaching the sorting office complete with big plastic NOT PUBLIC type doors, but I had the foresight to Buon Guornio the post lady I recognised.
In the UK, there is a place for the public to collect the parcels the post office have been (through obviously no fault of their own) unable to deliver. Not so here. Why would anyone expect a place for the public in the sorting office.
The post lady also recognised me, which given I have never spoken to her and I only see her from my balcony delivering post to the posh block behind me, is impressive.
‘Signora McManoos?’ ‘Si’ and I hand out my card. ‘Iononavutoblablablablabla’ as she strode off at a firm pace, towards the big plastic doors. ‘Prego’ and I was in a sorting office. Complete with little compartments for every house in Magneta. How exciting. I smiled my ‘Hi I am friendly, but completely at a loss as to what’s going on’ smile and ‘Si a veróed’ a couple of remarks from the other posties in the warehouse. Two minutes later I was the proud owner of 4 parcels from dear old Blighty. That were posted last year, before Christmas, for Christmas. It’s the 19th of January today.
So far, so normal a day. I have had my bit of excitement. I have a dentist appointment booked for later for a filling. I have learned the corresponding filling, injection, ow words in Italian for the appointment.
I make Secret Ingredient Tomato Soup for lunch (carrots) and complete with new presents await the arrival of my dearly beloved boy home from school for lunch.
Cutting bread is normally such an innocuous activity, not normally one to get excited about. But when you have a new set of proper grown up kitchen knives it is lovely. Until you end up half slicing your left index finger off.
Being very British I don’t have the right sort of plaster or gauze or whatever it is you need for a deep cut, but kitchen roll sees me though lunch. But an hour and a half later when it is still bleeding and having put in a phonecall to my emergency backup /critical incident/first aid trained sister in law I decide to go to hospital for a stitch. I have visions of being there for hours on the grounds that it is completely minor, but having organised 11year old boy to pick up 8 year old daughter from school and get husband on route home so the children aren’t abandoned I set off.
Well, I’m out in 20 minutes having seen a lovely doctor with gorgeous eyes and a fabulous bedside manner and 3 stitches and a comedy bandage on my finger. And the ability to say ‘I have cut my finger with a bread knife and its’ been bleeding for an hour and a half’ in Italian. Allora.
Only the dentist to go, where I dutifully explain that I have cut my finger on a bread knife and it bled (I may have got the tense wrong in translation) for an hour and a half, and no I am not on any medication because of it and yes I will be fine. So then I end up with a huge filling and a numb mouth to cap off my day.
I’ve had 2 bits of toast and a very very large brandy for tea tonight. And an Ibuprofen. It’s probably not a recommended diet. But my finger and tooth don’t hurt anymore. And I have learnt some new words.
Showing posts with label coffee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label coffee. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Bloody Laurie Lee
I have unsurprisingly in the last few months taken more than an avid interest in travel books and other people’s ability to grasp a foreign language.
I only have one language qualification from school. A made up by Lady Mary High School or possibly Cardiff Education Authority Spanish certificate, of which grade 1 and 2 were achievable. I remember the aural vividly. Sat in the hall by the stage whilst being questioned in Cardiffian Spanish what my address and telephone number where. Spanish people we were told say their phone numbers in tens ie, thirty nine, twenty four, eighty three. It was easier for me to make up my phone number so it was zero two, zero four, zero nine. My teachers’ eyebrows queried my reply but nevertheless I became the proud owner of a grade 2 Spanish certificate. The first in my family to have a foreign language qualification, and too open my eyes to the opportunity of the big wide world- not. It remains my only language qualification, and I have never visited Spain.
Laurie Lee famously did visit Spain and when explaining learning the language he poetically describes how slowly words became understood and people patiently listening to his efforts.
Well I can attest to the patience of others whilst I struggle to remember the word for hot, take (of which there are at least 6) food, rain etc. My friends have been endlessly patient with me, and have amazingly not got bored of my pathetic attempts at their language and dumped me. Correcting my mistakes, translating normal Italian into basic, easy to understand, s l o w Italian and speaking on my behalf when I am asked a question, a) I generally don’t understand and b) I can’t reply with all the words required.
But Laurie managed in one sentence to boast that actually he hadn’t had that much problem with the language and given that the rural Spaniards would have spoken no English in the early 1930’s I think he was lying, or at least had forgotten just how hard it was.
Learning to speaking a language is, you are often told, is in stages. Like a baby. However, unlike a baby I have had to communicate with plumbers and shop assistants and doctors so the stages have needed to improve quickly and not quickly enough for my liking.
The first stage is an endless babble of words, spokenatbreakneckspeedofwhichyouhaveabsolutelynochanceofrecognisinganywordorphraseexcept perhaps the word caffe. The first word I genuinely learnt out here was cappuccino. It is not pronounced ‘capp o chi no’ here but ‘ca poo cho’. It remains the most important word I know. To sit in a coffee bar surrounded by people who are willing to put time and effort into being your friend in the knowledge that you are nothing but hard work is a very humbling experience and one I hope makes me a nicer person (doubtful). Even being told people’s names is too much. It took me 6 weeks to work out all the women who I met at the school gate names. And I spoke to them every day: well I stood and listened, and then one of them would ask me in English and explain the conversation.
Next comes a recognition that Italians do actually breathe whilst talking and certain words stand out and are understandable. It may only be one word in a paragraph, but dottore, influenza, iper (the supermarket and my second home here) and scuola mean that you have an idea of the subject being spoken about. But beyond that nothing. You start to si and no and continue to smile gamely during coffee and conversations. You need a translator next to you to explain the conversation.
The next stage is that you start you understand some of the new words you have learnt during lessons such as cucina (kitchen), zaino (rucksack- obviously). The words similar in Italian and English start to become more recognisable, and when saying a word you don’t know in Italian (ie most of them) you add an o or mente or ale on to the end in the hope it turns said English word into an Italian word; for example rarely becomes raramente, peculiar is peculiarle and my particular favourite –spectacturale. This works a good 80% of the time, but you still don’t understand what people are talking about. You need a translator next to you.
Conversing over coffee is a finely tuned art in Italy as you can imagine. Normally 5 or 6 mothers descend on the coffee shop each morning for a caffe macchiato and for me, a daily Italian lesson. There are some weekly attendees and the more occasional visitor’s to our morning ritual. Eight is alot. Eight means at least 9 conversations around the table and as I am fairly mute during the proceedings 2 people are busy. It won’t be the same 2 people. The second conversation is a moving dialogue, which starts as one conversation and then moves, not always in a circular motion missing some who are deep in conversation with someone on the opposite side of the table. ‘Ascolta’ is used frequently, as is ‘escua mi’ as disagreements and common ground are discussed with great passion. My only decision is to decide which conversation I am going to look as if I understand and then attempt to follow. Frequently conversations are based on Italian news and if I keep up to date with the news I can hazard a guess at the conversation. The Earthquake was a complete boon as it happened 3 weeks after we arrived and as you can imagine it dominated the news and conversations for a good few weeks. It came just before Easter and whilst wandering around the local Supermarket on Good Friday we had 2 minutes silence. Well everyone but Tara & I had 2 minutes silence. We were deep in conversation about what crisps she was likely to like when Tudor nudged us and said ‘They just said silenzio, suush’. ‘What for?’ I whispered back looking around me and noticing that indeed all was quiet. ‘Is it for Jesus or the earthquake?’ ‘I don’t know’ was the irate reply ‘I just heard silenzio’. This being Italy I could quite believe that a supermarket would have 2 minutes silence for Jesus on Good Friday but it turns out I was wrong. It was for the Earthquake victims.
Influenza A or Swine Flu to the Brits has also been a good conversation topic. Britain having had the first wave of Flu I was considered an expert especially when I regaled the tale of some friends getting Swine Flu. Thanks to my poor Italian my initial impression of the flu was that you vomited for 2 weeks which was a little extreme. Further interrogation established that the vomiting was only for a couple of days, the weakness lasted for 2 weeks. With such conversations my Italian improved.
I am now at the ‘I can understand the words but not the meaning’ stage. This means that I will get what words they are saying- anche, solo, capito, pero, abbiamo, era, maestra, but what all the words strung together mean is anyone’s guess. This is fine if I am just following a conversation, but the minute a specific question is asked of me I flounder or si when I should no, or I should be giving an opinion. Sentences are opposite structured here confusing it is very. I think I need to start watching Star Wars more to see that little chap talk more. I may understand more then. I can ask basic questions in Italian in shops or the hospital but flounder at the reply. However I still come across the deeply frustrating scenario where I ask for an item – latte (milk) and having been ‘non capitoed’ a number of times I get a oh latte repeated back to me in the exact same way I initially said it. And I can only speak Italian or understand after my first coffee with my mums- nothing before, just a Ciao or Buongiorno and a game smile.
I hope to reach the ‘Nearly understanding the language’ stage soon, but who knows. With each stage I cannot imagine improving or understanding more but slowly I might get there. One day I might be able to say ‘ Well I improved slowly but surely’. But how slowly may become a distant memory, but I doubt it. The frustration and embarrassment will be burned on my brain forever.
Signora McManoos
I only have one language qualification from school. A made up by Lady Mary High School or possibly Cardiff Education Authority Spanish certificate, of which grade 1 and 2 were achievable. I remember the aural vividly. Sat in the hall by the stage whilst being questioned in Cardiffian Spanish what my address and telephone number where. Spanish people we were told say their phone numbers in tens ie, thirty nine, twenty four, eighty three. It was easier for me to make up my phone number so it was zero two, zero four, zero nine. My teachers’ eyebrows queried my reply but nevertheless I became the proud owner of a grade 2 Spanish certificate. The first in my family to have a foreign language qualification, and too open my eyes to the opportunity of the big wide world- not. It remains my only language qualification, and I have never visited Spain.
Laurie Lee famously did visit Spain and when explaining learning the language he poetically describes how slowly words became understood and people patiently listening to his efforts.
Well I can attest to the patience of others whilst I struggle to remember the word for hot, take (of which there are at least 6) food, rain etc. My friends have been endlessly patient with me, and have amazingly not got bored of my pathetic attempts at their language and dumped me. Correcting my mistakes, translating normal Italian into basic, easy to understand, s l o w Italian and speaking on my behalf when I am asked a question, a) I generally don’t understand and b) I can’t reply with all the words required.
But Laurie managed in one sentence to boast that actually he hadn’t had that much problem with the language and given that the rural Spaniards would have spoken no English in the early 1930’s I think he was lying, or at least had forgotten just how hard it was.
Learning to speaking a language is, you are often told, is in stages. Like a baby. However, unlike a baby I have had to communicate with plumbers and shop assistants and doctors so the stages have needed to improve quickly and not quickly enough for my liking.
The first stage is an endless babble of words, spokenatbreakneckspeedofwhichyouhaveabsolutelynochanceofrecognisinganywordorphraseexcept perhaps the word caffe. The first word I genuinely learnt out here was cappuccino. It is not pronounced ‘capp o chi no’ here but ‘ca poo cho’. It remains the most important word I know. To sit in a coffee bar surrounded by people who are willing to put time and effort into being your friend in the knowledge that you are nothing but hard work is a very humbling experience and one I hope makes me a nicer person (doubtful). Even being told people’s names is too much. It took me 6 weeks to work out all the women who I met at the school gate names. And I spoke to them every day: well I stood and listened, and then one of them would ask me in English and explain the conversation.
Next comes a recognition that Italians do actually breathe whilst talking and certain words stand out and are understandable. It may only be one word in a paragraph, but dottore, influenza, iper (the supermarket and my second home here) and scuola mean that you have an idea of the subject being spoken about. But beyond that nothing. You start to si and no and continue to smile gamely during coffee and conversations. You need a translator next to you to explain the conversation.
The next stage is that you start you understand some of the new words you have learnt during lessons such as cucina (kitchen), zaino (rucksack- obviously). The words similar in Italian and English start to become more recognisable, and when saying a word you don’t know in Italian (ie most of them) you add an o or mente or ale on to the end in the hope it turns said English word into an Italian word; for example rarely becomes raramente, peculiar is peculiarle and my particular favourite –spectacturale. This works a good 80% of the time, but you still don’t understand what people are talking about. You need a translator next to you.
Conversing over coffee is a finely tuned art in Italy as you can imagine. Normally 5 or 6 mothers descend on the coffee shop each morning for a caffe macchiato and for me, a daily Italian lesson. There are some weekly attendees and the more occasional visitor’s to our morning ritual. Eight is alot. Eight means at least 9 conversations around the table and as I am fairly mute during the proceedings 2 people are busy. It won’t be the same 2 people. The second conversation is a moving dialogue, which starts as one conversation and then moves, not always in a circular motion missing some who are deep in conversation with someone on the opposite side of the table. ‘Ascolta’ is used frequently, as is ‘escua mi’ as disagreements and common ground are discussed with great passion. My only decision is to decide which conversation I am going to look as if I understand and then attempt to follow. Frequently conversations are based on Italian news and if I keep up to date with the news I can hazard a guess at the conversation. The Earthquake was a complete boon as it happened 3 weeks after we arrived and as you can imagine it dominated the news and conversations for a good few weeks. It came just before Easter and whilst wandering around the local Supermarket on Good Friday we had 2 minutes silence. Well everyone but Tara & I had 2 minutes silence. We were deep in conversation about what crisps she was likely to like when Tudor nudged us and said ‘They just said silenzio, suush’. ‘What for?’ I whispered back looking around me and noticing that indeed all was quiet. ‘Is it for Jesus or the earthquake?’ ‘I don’t know’ was the irate reply ‘I just heard silenzio’. This being Italy I could quite believe that a supermarket would have 2 minutes silence for Jesus on Good Friday but it turns out I was wrong. It was for the Earthquake victims.
Influenza A or Swine Flu to the Brits has also been a good conversation topic. Britain having had the first wave of Flu I was considered an expert especially when I regaled the tale of some friends getting Swine Flu. Thanks to my poor Italian my initial impression of the flu was that you vomited for 2 weeks which was a little extreme. Further interrogation established that the vomiting was only for a couple of days, the weakness lasted for 2 weeks. With such conversations my Italian improved.
I am now at the ‘I can understand the words but not the meaning’ stage. This means that I will get what words they are saying- anche, solo, capito, pero, abbiamo, era, maestra, but what all the words strung together mean is anyone’s guess. This is fine if I am just following a conversation, but the minute a specific question is asked of me I flounder or si when I should no, or I should be giving an opinion. Sentences are opposite structured here confusing it is very. I think I need to start watching Star Wars more to see that little chap talk more. I may understand more then. I can ask basic questions in Italian in shops or the hospital but flounder at the reply. However I still come across the deeply frustrating scenario where I ask for an item – latte (milk) and having been ‘non capitoed’ a number of times I get a oh latte repeated back to me in the exact same way I initially said it. And I can only speak Italian or understand after my first coffee with my mums- nothing before, just a Ciao or Buongiorno and a game smile.
I hope to reach the ‘Nearly understanding the language’ stage soon, but who knows. With each stage I cannot imagine improving or understanding more but slowly I might get there. One day I might be able to say ‘ Well I improved slowly but surely’. But how slowly may become a distant memory, but I doubt it. The frustration and embarrassment will be burned on my brain forever.
Signora McManoos
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