Instituto Italiano

There must be at least fifteen different language immersion schools in Florence and I know because I researched each one when I decided I wanted to come to Italy. I had the hardest time wagering which would be the best and deciding which one to attend. After countless thoughtful hours and with help from my dad and sister, I decided on Instituto Italiano. It turned out to be a pretty good choice, but by now I feel as though all my pensive agony was a bit silly; my hours probably would have been better spent learning the exchange rate between dollars and euros or taking lessons on effective packing techniques. At my basic level, I think any of the schools would have given me a good foundation. The school is a friendly, small institution that offers language immersion courses for students hoping to learn Italian or who already know some and want to improve their skills. The school itself sits on the top floor of an apartment building about three doors down from one of Florence’s most famous architectural marvels: the Duomo. We were introduced to the view of the magnificent church the first day we arrived in class and were graced by its presence peeking through the window each subsequent day.

Not to mention it had the perfect stairs at its entrance for sitting and eating lunch on the few days it was sunny enough to do so.

This will have been my second time studying language in a classroom. I am becoming increasingly fascinated by the interconnectedness of languages and how ideas and concepts are translated across them. The language school is full of students coming from all over the world, so unlike my Spanish classes in high school, the teacher spoke almost entirely in Italian. I found it to be more effective for learning the language but also felt bad for the students that had a harder time understanding it right off the bat. My background in Spanish has been very helpful for understanding Italian because many words are similar if not the same. On the other hand, my knowledge of Spanish has made it difficult to speak Italian because my brain has a hard time differentiating between the two languages. I heard many conversations in school between students as well as teachers discussing the difficulty of learning Italian. I could not begin to make a judgment on its complexity because I have nothing against which to compare. I would imagine learning Japanese would be far more difficult but perhaps there is something even more difficult than that. Being spoken to in a language that I do not fully understand really emphasizes the importance of body language and hand expressions (something that Italians use rather often). When travelling, you must master the “I-don’t-understand-anything-you-are-saying-but-really-wish-I-could” facial expression along with a really first-rate index finger point. Unfortunately, I am not quite as adventurous with my Italian speaking skills as my American friend Brigitte who is not bothered at all by approaching someone and saying (translated from Italian), “Where I go I eat Gelato a lot?” They pretty much always understand what she is saying though, so I am really the one who is missing out.

I have not only been paying close attention to my Spanish and Italian skills, but to my English as well. I have had to speak almost exclusively to people for whom English is their second (or sometimes third) language. I honor my position as grammar/pronunciation corrector but consequently, I find myself speaking as if English was my second language also, occasionally omitting prepositions and putting adjectives after nouns. My Mexican friend, Indira, has been reliable in pointing out the little things I say unconsciously such as, “and also” (in a high pitched voice that she enjoys imitating), and “though” randomly at the end of sentences (i.e. “I will be okay, though” or “We won’t make it there in time, though”). I have had to switch my focus from utilizing a more complex vocabulary for describing situations or feelings to searching my vocabulary for the most simplistic descriptions in order to be easily understood. I have felt disappointed at times by the decline in my English skills but have rather enjoyed the change in perspective. I am now very conscious of little catch-phrases or expressions I use that I did not think much about previously. I have also become aware of the importance of tone of voice and pronunciation, especially after learning that the difference between dad (papá) and pope (papa) is only determined by an emphasis on the last syllable.

I am so impressed with the people that speak three or more languages, especially when they can speak them well. A couple of my friends spoke about the moments when they began thinking in a new language. I can only imagine knowing another language well enough that I could feel content thinking to myself in that language. I will get there one day…and I do intend on getting there. I look forward to the day that Italian switches from being just combinations of sounds that I have to contemplate and translate in my head to actually sounding like intelligible communication. It is interesting to listen to the teacher swap between English and Italian because she goes from sounding confident and articulate to sounding frankly a bit silly. I realized that I have often, without thinking about it, considered not-so-good English speakers to be somewhat less intelligent, but I see that there is a lot that is lost in translation when you are not fluent. The nervous laughing and hand flailing one must engage in when trying to convey messages without using words is all too familiar and ridiculous until you are forced to engage in the acts yourself. You put yourself in a vulnerable position when you make the effort to communicate to someone that does not speak your language but the only real mistake you can make is not doing so. I know that I will now be a great deal more helpful and welcoming to non-English speakers in my neck of the woods. I do not think I ever wasn’t per say, but now I have walked a mile in their shoes; actually, I have walked many miles in their shoes.


Ciao!
j

Bad-Luck-Followed-By-Good-Luck

If it were possible for a place to be made out of gelato and dreams, Florence would be that place.

Italy has taken me by surprise, but I needed to experience a bit of hardship before I arrived in order to begin enjoying all it has to offer. I was worried prior to arriving. I was worried that the people with whom I would be staying would not be welcoming or that I would not like the language school. On January 30th, with all the optimism I could muster, I shoved all the doubts that would fit into the crevasses of Aaron’s couch and tucked the remainder into the far reaches of my massive suitcase. I knew that anxiety would do me little good on my venture out of a now somewhat familiar Germany into new territory. I left the little apartment on the top floor with renewed confidence and a positive attitude. An attitude that was instantly trampled one hundred feet down the road when I realized it was eight fifteen a.m. and my train was scheduled to leave at eight. I was immediately transported to a state of panic that allowed me, shaking all the while, to run with my one ton suitcase back to the house and up the ten flights of stairs in what must have been about twelve and a half seconds. Lightly chuckling at me for having left the house at eight o’clock to catch an eight o’clock train, Aaron instructed me to report to the train station and request a new ticket. Heart still pounding, almost entirely still in a state of panic, I dragged my stuff across Nuremberg arriving at the ticket counter in front of a middle-aged male clerk. I explained that I had missed my train and inquired about receiving a new ticket and a refund. I was lucky to have received delight in response to my English communication because as I have concluded from my experiences in Germany, you pretty much have a 50/50 chance of being embraced or cursed for expecting a German to speak English with you. This male clerk became my first “bad-luck-followed-by-good-luck” of the day as he searched for a loophole in the “no ticket refund” policy and helped me to find a group of people with whom to share a five person, all day, anywhere in Bavaria Bahn ticket. Approximately one hour later than I had planned, I was on a train to Munich in the company of three very nice German twenty-somethings. Still a bit shaken up by the whole ordeal, I calmed myself down by doing a crossword and indulging in some tunes. Upon arriving in Munich, our group said our goodbyes and I, suitcase at toe, bought a sandwich, a ticket to Brennero, Italy, and boarded a new train. This train was different than the trains we had been taking to travel around Germany; it had individual rooms, reserved seats, and the man announcing information over the intercom spoke German, Italian and English. It was the first train I had taken that left Germany and I was pleased by the change of scenery as we travelled through magnificent Austrian mountain ranges and into Italy. I had lost track of time and before I knew it, we had arrived at the station where I was supposed to disembark. Peering out the window, I became apprehensive of leaving my spiffy train with its English speaking announcer and getting off at a very deserted looking station somewhere on the border of Austria and Italy. I wearily got off the train and went to look for a schedule that included either “Florence" or "Firenze” in between all the other words I could not understand and would confirm the time I had planned to leave the station. I proved unlucky for the second time that day and did not see Florence anywhere on the schedule nor did I see any train leaving at the time I had seen posted on the internet. I walked back and forth from the platform to the station entrance hoping that, despite the fact that it was Sunday and I was in a small, foreign town, I would happen upon someone speaking English or a ticket office which I had previously missed. Much to my dismay, I found no such thing and became very worried. I did not have a ticket, I did not know the correct train to take, and I was supposed to have activated my Eurail pass at a ticket counter. After pacing back and forth repeatedly wondering what I would do, I passed by the office where the train technicians worked and attempted to ask a woman what train I needed to take to get to Florence. Not speaking a word of English, she told me to take the train coming to “Gleis 7” in ten minutes. After I nodded my head expectantly and repeated “Florence” about five times, she confirmed that it was in fact the correct train to take and I left the office. Feeling unsure that I was taking the correct train, and quite sure that I was going to be kicked off once the ticket-checker saw that I did not have an active ticket, I boarded and waited.

I sat nervously and anticipated the request for a ticket that I did not have. When the train employee arrived, I nonchalantly showed him my Eurial pass sans activation stamp or supplementary ticket, he simply nodded and continued on. Relieved, I happily embraced my second "bad-luck-followed-by-good-luck" of the day. Even so, I was still unsure if I had boarded the correct train so without taking out my journal or iPod, I sat and anxiously reviewed the signs at every station I passed. After about an hour, I found a map of Italy in my Eurail info packet just as we arrived at a station that looked relatively well-inhabited. Curiously, I stumbled off the train with my belongings and encountered the third "bad-luck-followed-by-good-luck" of my trip. My instincts had urged me to remove myself from the train and inquire about the possibility that it would take me to Florence. I ended up purchasing a ticket for a direct train to Florence and with thirty minutes before my new train was to leave, I called my hostess, Maria, to tell her I would arrive later than I had planned. In broken English she told me to take a taxi to her house and she would be waiting for me. After a very, very packed train ride on which I sat next to a very nice Italian girl, I arrived in Florence, got a taxi and finally ended up at Via del Pellegrino 45.

I rang the bell and was greeted by a short, grey-haired woman with a big smile on her face. She ushered me in and showed me to my room. Finally my crazy day was over and I was safely in Florence under the care of my very nice Italian hostess and in the company of two other students.


My day was trying but ended up teaching me a good lesson about staying calm and never forgetting the importance of asking for help.

Keep smilin'


j

Illuminated Green Man

My trip to Ireland came to its end and I am pleased with my new count of countries I have travelled to outside the United States. My new total comes to a whopping… TWO! That is, if we are not counting a tourist resort in Mexico at age ten and the airplane in Belgium for an hour or so…which I am not. My trip to Ireland was my first divergence from Germany which gives me at least a little more variation in order to properly relate experiences. It was again a rather long day of travel which included a substantial amount of time waiting outside the train station in a small German town called Memmingen. It was perhaps the coldest weather I have experienced yet. Needless to say, I was ecstatic when the 811 arrived and so were the three French girls that ended up asking me if they were at the correct bus stop in order to get to the airport. I told them they were in the right place as if I hadn’t been just as confused 45 minutes earlier when I myself pestered someone else for that same answer. The bus arrived and took us to the smallest airport I have ever stepped foot in which served as a liaison for a plane that thankfully, did not follow suit in the size department. The airport somewhat resembled a large circus tent of which you could see all corners from the entrance. It turned out not to be so bad however, especially when the other Ryanair travelers began accumulating near the gate reminding me for the first time in a couple weeks that I was not the only person in the world besides Sequoia and Aaron that speak English. After catching wind of all the accents, it started to hit me that after all the years I had fancied going, I was actually about to be in Ireland. I spent the next two hours enjoying the sounds and wondering why anyone would have desired to leave Ireland in the first place.
The airplane arrived safely at Dublin Airport and I was directed to an airport bus that was equipped with free travelling internet and a video screen depicting upcoming destinations with impressive graphics. It was nice to be able to confidently ask questions again which inconveniently slipped my mind once the bus dropped me off downtown at one o’clock in the morning and I was lost, to say the least. I only had vague written directions to the hostel I was staying at which were zero help with navigating streets that were free of any signage at all. Unlike Germany whose streets are very clearly labeled (with long names and strange letters, but labeled nevertheless), Dublin has very few street signs and the ones they do have are located on the sides of buildings…often in different locations…or on the ground. After walking up and down the same street literally six times, I decided to ask a security guard—the only person on the streets and not intoxicated at that hour—for directions. She gave me a good-hearted but rather cryptic description of the path I was to take. Eventually, I arrived in the lobby of a very dingy, smoky, but traditionally homey hostel and hotel combo. I was handed my room key and travelled to my room where I came upon 12 other travelers stuffed into a very small room that smelled strongly of food and feet. The bed was adorned with one large sheet, folded in half atop the bed to act as a quasi sleeping bag, as well as a comforter without a cover. And, the bathroom was…less than clean. After having stayed at such a well-kept hostel in Munich, I had become a bit of a hostel snob for which I received adequate ridicule later on from the listeners of my story. I switched the next morning to a delightful, clean alternative located in the center of the city. I stayed in a six bed room in which I was the only occupant all three nights. There was a clean bathroom, clean beds, and a very nice staff. And with that we have come to the end of this episode of “Jitana’s Irish Hostel Reviews.”
After transporting my suitcase to the new hostel, I went on a self-guided tour of the city. Relying solely on my whims, I travelled by foot to the far reaches of Dublin (it was not really the far reaches, it just felt like it because I walked in one giant circle.) I enjoyed the architecture which reminded me of the areas of Britain I have seen via the Harry Potter movies; not to mention the abundance of double-decker buses. I observed many, many bookstores (about as many as there are bread shops in Germany), a beautiful park called Stephen’s Green with LOTS of birds, and a man making a sand sculpture in the middle of Grafton Street.

[That is what you were missing all those years mom, an exhibit of your skills in the middle of a busy shopping street.] Later, the internet led me to a delicious vegetarian restaurant that was surely not authentic Irish food but was scrumptious anyway. The following day was kicked off by an unanticipated free walking tour of the city. We began at Dublin castle which, much to my surprise was not really very castle-like at all. It was like one giant stone tower accompanied by a smaller, Georgian style building next to a small collection of square buildings in quite un-castle-like colors.

The tour guide, a cute, gregarious, born-and-raised Dubliner named Helena said that when the architect was asked what the meaning of the colors on the building were, he simply said that they were chosen because he liked those colors. The tour took us to every important landmark in Dublin city and was complemented with loads and loads of really fascinating history and silly stories about the Irish people. It lasted about three and a half hours during which we saw an old Viking house, Irish Parliament, Trinity College, Temple Bar, the Ha’penny Bridge, the birthplace of Jonathan Swift, and the tallest building in Ireland.




It ended at a pub where we got the option of sitting down with the tour guide to an authentic Irish meal. I enjoyed Beef and Guinness Stew for the sake of adventure and had a number of delicious sides including parsnips, cooked carrots, and collard greens. The tour was well worth the zero Euro I paid for it (plus ten for the meal).
That night I attended a play put on by the college called “Jurass-tastic” and to put it bluntly, it was a “Jurass-tastrophy.” It was a musical spin off of Jurassic Park with subpar renditions of American pop culture tunes, blowup dinosaurs, and frequent usage of the word “fuck.” The next day, I attempted to avoid getting hit by a car while making my way to catch a bus to the sea. The cross-walk situation in Dublin is a bit nuts. No one waits for it to tell you to cross unless there is absolutely no other option. If you are forced to wait until traffic is slowed, you most certainly do not wait until the illuminated green man appears. Rather, you just start walking as soon as you can be sure you will not get hit by a car. Finally, when the little green man does appear, he only stays for at most five seconds and if you have not cleared the road by that time, you should be worried. One time I had to shove someone out of my way to make it across to safety before a bus came storming at me without slowing in the least. When I finally made it to the bus stop, the bus took me out to Howth, a small town on the outskirts of Dublin that is surrounded by ocean. It was exactly the rural, green, stereotypical Irish scene I had hoped for. I spent a couple hours smelling the sea, hearing the sail boat masts, feeling the rain, seeing the cute houses, and buying cashews.


The return flight left at eight in the morning and they forced me to pay an extra thirty-five Euro for the same sized bag that had been acceptable on the way there. It was nice to be back in the company of friends (or friend, rather) upon my return to Germany but I was not excited to return to the freezing weather and lack of English. I hope to return one day to Ireland and travel to the other points of interest in the country but it was delightful to be there at all. I could not be more excited for my next adventure.

j