9 Feb, Day 30 A Week in Review

Nothing too exciting to write home about, but I feel due for an entry.

This week was marked by an extraordinarily mundane workweek in contrast to some more interesting extracurricular activities.

I jogged 14 minutes towards Milan to a new gym that I’ve heard is one of the best around. And it was a big place by Italian standards, but divisions between different areas seems to corral all the boys into the weight room, and the girls hide in other parts, giving it an atmosphere of segregation. It’s not an ideal setup. I think my favorite part of the evening was jogging down there with my hooded sweatshirt pretending to be Rocky.

Tuesday was my usual aperitivo and Italian lesson with Rosella. I think once I get the signature on a new contract to stay a few more months I’ll put in a little time studying again because I could use a review some of the lesser-used tenses. I was bummed out that the girl I met after class last week didn’t show up.

Wednesday was dinner with the neighbors, but my bus home was 50 minutes late and I was afraid they’d eat without me. But they waited and seemed in no particular hurry. We had spaghetti with pomodoro, and miniature boiled ribs with potatoes and peas. Anna made a type of pastry consisting of thin fried sheets of dough covered in powdered sugar called chiacchierare. After dinner I went out with the Sicilians for Fabrizio’s birthday. I arrived at Porta Genova 15 minutes after we planned to meet, and ended up waiting another 20 before they arrived. Then it was on to meet up with a few of their girls at Puerta Allegra, a bar a few blocks away. They’ve done a good job replicating the feel of a salsa bar in Miami, but there’s still a hint of Italian influence. I ogled at some of the dancers taking particular notice of a super-hot girl in a red dress. I think she caught me staring but didn’t seem to mind.
I went back to the table and sat with the others. I explained the definition of “wedgie” when a noteworthy example presented itself in the parade of people circulating the bar.

Riccardo and I decided to resume our inspection of the dance floor near the close of the night. He asked me what I was thinking as we listened to the bachata. I was going to tell him about dancing bachata with Alfonso’s Columbian friends at UM, but was interrupted when the girl in red came up to me, took my hands, and asked me to dance. Feeling quite embarrassed, I looked at her and stuttered, “that I shouldn’t.” Instead of letting go, she began to pull harder and asked, “Why?” I guess this girl wasn’t used to getting turned down. I thought the proper response to her question would’ve been, “perché sei troppa bella...” But I was losing traction and stuttered something about not being much of a dancer instead. Despite my better intentions, my efforts to resist began to collapse and I was coerced onto the dance floor for a lesson. 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4. Bachata seems simpler than salsa though I probably wasn’t doing very well concentrating on her instructions over the volume of music compounded by certain visual distractions. I suppose this completed my night, and before I knew it, it was time to pile into the car with the boys and head back.

I should’ve been back in the office after a few winks of sleep, but it was one of those mornings then I got to the bus stop to see the bus speeding away leaving a greasy fart of diesel exhaust for anyone unfortunate enough to be left behind it. The next bus came after I finished 41 more pages of Stephen Covey.

I had a refreshing Friday morning and counted off the last minutes of the afternoon before heading home. After a good time on Wednesday, I was looking forward to going out with the Sicilians again. I ended up made tentative plans to visit Leonardo and Fernanda on Saturday if I wasn’t up too late to get out. They’re my Brazilian friends from the language school, -now living in Genova. I went to my favorite pizza place in Monza to celebrate the start of the weekend. They have the same great pizzas, but a new menu that has added about 2 euros onto everything. I’m not thrilled spending 9 or 10 euros on a pizza, and will have to look for a new place. My phone buzzed with a surprising message during dinner. Mari, one of the first Italian teachers that I spoke with in Monza wanted to get in touch. I think it’s odd that a language teacher –typically a vocal/auditory person, sends a text message saying an email bounced, but I guess not everyone fits the cookie cutter… I tried calling back twice without getting her before letting it drop. She has a history of flaking out anyway. If there’s really something to say, she should try calling. I went home and squealed the violin for a while, while I waited on the Sicilians to organize themselves to go out. I think I got it to sound good for a few seconds. Since I’ve been playing without music it can be hard to guess the notes to songs I’ve never played before.

The Sicilians flailed- confessing to be cleaning the house tonight. Cleaning an your apartment on a Friday night is about as lame as a blind dog that’s missing its hind legs.