Monday 18 September 2017

Italy: La Città è Tua Part 1

Note: I started intending to write all of my Italy experiences in one post. This is not going to work. So, have day 1.
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On Sunday August 27th, at 930, I found myself walking through departures in Gatwick Airport, my heart beating fast as I waved cheerily to my mother. I didn't want anyone to see the panic I was suffering. Flying fills me with fear, but that wasn't the only reason for my fast beating heart. I was excited, nervous, and yes, scared. As I walked through the wide corridors to arrive at security, I was looking out for a man I had met just once, over a year ago, who had hired me based on recommendation alone, to teach English and Drama in a small village in Northern Italy, and stay with an Italian family for a week. Impress the theatre company, the school we would work for, the students and a host family? There was a lot to be nervous about.
Now, I could write a detailed report of how I met with everyone, how we had tea at the airport and my nerves for flying grew as I began to relax about work. I could talk to you about the silly putty my sister won for me, which caused strange looks but helped me calm myself on the plane. I could complain about expensive sun cream at the airport, and the terror of broken headphones. The sinking realisation that I'd forgotten to choreograph a dance. But that all disappeared into the back ground as I, bravely!, peered out the window as the plane lowered and my ears began to feel that awful pain. I looked out, and saw the city in the sea. The city I had dreamed of since I was 11, Venice. That was the first time it really sank in. "I'm going to Italy!" I said this out loud, and the woman in the seat next to me (who was already disapproving of my silly putty antics) gave me yet another strange look. The plane landed, I managed not to cry, and I ran off that plane as fast as I could, grateful to be on solid land.
We found our fourth and final member of the group, and bought bus tickets. Suitcases in tow, the heat of Italy was like a wall as we left the airport. Lovely. From then, it was travel. Buses, trains and cars (the first man I met in Italy was called Mario and this gives me great joy) all of which I stared wistfully out of the window. Italy.
And then we were in small town, Trissino.  It was about 6pm. I still couldn't believe it. I'd seen the Romeo and Juliet castles through the car window, the mountains and vineyards. An Aperol Spritz in front of me, the reality rather than the romance started to sink in. I was at a table with a large group of lovely, friendly Italians. And one of these families was going to take me home for a week. How do you live with a stranger? What if I forgot something? or started my period? Or what if they didn't like me?
The four of us were assigned a family, and mine seemed lovely and equally wary. We were whisked off into cars, and as I sat in the front seat making polite 'sorry I don't speak Italian' small talk, it occurred to me that being driven into the mountains by a stranger is the start of a terrifying horror story. What was I doing? I don't speak Italian!
This was not going to be the first time I cursed my lack of language skills.
After a shower, some more small talk, and then a lovely evening where all four host families and teachers came together for a lot of pizza, I started to feel better, more relaxed. I could do this. I managed to fumble through ordering my pizza in Italian, laughed and shared stories of England, of our various acting and dating disasters, and began to know my family a little better.
I went to bed in an 8 year olds room, he had been evicted to stay with mum and dad, and in my Star Wars bedsheets I looked out at the door I'd propped open onto the Italian hillside and couldn't believe my luck.
(The gratitude had waned somewhat when I awoke in the morning covered in mosquito bites. I swear a memo goes around as soon as I arrive in a new country 'She's here! The one with the tasty blood!'. I am convinced mosquitos have a hive mind and won't hear anything to the contrary. )
I didn't sleep that first night. Despite exhaustion, as the light had clicked off I realised that as lovely as my first night had been, tomorrow was work. Now, I must confess that had I been doing a week long holiday course in England, putting on a short musical in a week, I would have had similar fears and probably not slept well. It's part of the job, especially when you care as much as I do. What games do I do to start with? I know I've written a lesson plan but what if I forget? I've not choreographed a dance yet, so shall I start that tomorrow? Or Tuesday? I've got to teach singing god I hate teaching singing. Then, with a bang, I have to teach English. I don't know what level of English these children speak. I know I'm working with 12 year olds and try to think how much French I knew at 12. Shit. Not much at all.
What Italian did I know? 'Ciao' 'posso avere?' and 'grazie'.
I wish I spoke Italian.
I had been told that breakfast would be at 740, just myself and Camilla, the daughter of the family. She was 13, beautiful, and had been very shy on Sunday.
At 745 we sat down to have breakfast, and after some polite small talk (she spoke fantastic English) she asked about eyeliner. I promised to teach her, and from then we were fine. More than fine. By the end of the week, Camilla was like a sister. We talked make up, and boys, and she asked about my husband and my family, and told me all about hers. That first breakfast was quiet, but we came to an unspoken agreement. We were both tired on a morning, we would have a quiet breakfast and then we could both wake up to deal with the day.
A grandparent who spoke pure Italian to me collected us to take us to School, and off we went to explore our classrooms, find out our registers and start the day.
First lesson, English. I don't think I've ever been more worried about a teaching job. The chalkboard was worryingly blank, the children loud. I started with the register, and as I pronounced the names terribly, I realised just how much of the things I say as a teacher are completely irrelevant, and not worth translating. 'Okay so if I say your name wrong let me know and I'll try again' was met with blank looks, but when I pronounced a name wrong, they corrected me anyway. I also learnt very quickly that I speak to fast. 'Can we move the tables to the sides please' was understood only the third time I repeated it, slowly and clearly, with some hand gestures. This week was going to be learning for us all.