One, Now Two Languages

I have learned a lot of Italian, and yet it seems that I know none at all.

And now I realize that F is right about also learning Farsi. I start studying it as well, putting in equal vigor to my hard work with Italian.

Learning one, now two languages is slow going, not to mention humbling.

When I attempt to speak Italian, for example, it's pretty common for shopkeepers and neighbors to stare at me, perplexed. My accent is lousy, it's true, but that's not why they stare. What's happening, I quickly realize, is that the clumsy words tumbling out of my mouth, the ones that my brain is scrambling to manufacture, are in Farsi and not in Italian.

And if context-switching malfunctions are not enough, I am also starting to feel a vague sense of confusion about these identities that I now have:
Amy the American.
     Amy the expat American living in Italy.
          Amy the expat American living in Italy with Iranians.

How People Communicated in 1980

Typing was a coveted skill, one that people actually took classes to learn:

Making an overseas phone call amounted to something like $1.00 per minute. You had to talk fast! Sometimes, sending a telegram was the way to go:

When separated, people wrote letters, sometimes really long ones, and by hand. They also sent postcards:

We'll Saturday-Spend Till the End of the Day

My coworker Daniela picks me up in her clean, sporty Fiat. She treats me to a creamy cappuccino at her favorite coffee bar in Cassia, and then she takes me to her hair stylist. With me in the salon chair, the two women confer, in rapid-fire Italian, on how best to work on my uneven, frizzy hair.  

Daniela's brown hair is glossy, and her skin is impeccably suntanned from spending the month of August (chiuso per agosto) vacationing at the seashore. She's stylish and feminine, and I happily submit to her beauty expertise.

For lunch, Daniela takes me to meet her parents. Her mother, also stylish and feminine, serves us pasta that she herself rolled and shaped. Daniela translates back and forth, doing the talking for the four of us. At each opportunity, she patiently teaches me Italian words and phrases.

At day’s end, my girlfriend Daniela drops me off near the apartment on Via Sesto Miglio. After spending this Saturday with her—someone who possesses her own new car, a trendy loft apartment, fashionable clothes, money, and a sense of belonging with Italian language, culture, and family—I feel ashamed to have none of these things.

It's a Living

Each Friday, like a father paying allowance to his daughter, Signore Latini reaches into his dark wool trousers for his wallet. He then meticulously counts the Italian lira (roughly 80 dollars), my week's wages, and politely hands the bills to me. I would be mortified to ask him for money, so I am appreciative that he never fails to pay me.  

Signore Latini, a classic distinguished gentleman, is a scientist. Although he's not working in his field, and instead partners with his New York-born wife on running the American Business School, he's a voracious reader of scientific journals. Since much of what he wants to read is not translated into Italian, he speaks not only impeccable, self-taught English, but is also fluent in Russian. He's never traveled to the U.S. or the Soviet Union.

When he learns one Monday about how my billfold (with the equivalent of 50 dollars in it) was swiftly lifted from my purse on a jam-packed bus, Signore Latini is genuinely sad and sorry. "These thieves we have here" he says, shaking his head, "are despicable." He then shrugs, adding, "But it's a living for them. It's not respectable, but that's how they make their living."

Commuting with Christina

A couple of bus stops down Via Cassia, I spot Christina, waiting to board. She's tall, has intense blue eyes, and a thick mane of curly blonde hair. Complete with her tight, brown-leather pants, she looks quite striking.
Excited, I think, Now I’ll have someone to sit with and talk to during my long commute to Centro di Roma.

Like most of my coworkers at the American Business School, Christina grew up in Rome. She's Italo-Americano, with an Italian father and an American mother. We are both in our early 20s, and she’s the first sort-of American I’ve met in Rome besides Mrs. Latini.

As she nears me on her walk down the bus aisle, I say "hello," loud and clear. She does not respond, however. She instead strolls past me, head held high and eyes focused away, deliberately pretending not to hear me or to see me.

Slighted, I figure that here in public she wants to be all-Italian. Speaking English with an American like me would reveal her American identity. And apparently, this does not fit her desired image.

Outcast

The other typing teachers at the American Business School on Via XX Settembre - Joe, Daniela, Louise, and Christina - are all highly fluent in English, some native speakers even. I am so happy to have found this linguistic sanctuary for myself.

On our half-hour lunch break, we gather around a table in the classroom where Mrs. Latini teaches shorthand. I’m looking forward to getting to know everyone, as I open my bag lunch and pull out my yogurt and plastic spoon.

Italian swiftly dominates the conversation, though, with just a few shreds of English. I experience that familiar left-out feeling. Even here I'm the foreigner - an Italian straniera rather than a Persian gharibeh.

With the isolation of being “there but not there,” I respectfully excuse myself, doing my cheerful best to mask my injured feelings.

With her honey-brown eyes full of concern, Daniela asks, “Where are you going?”

Hesitantly, I put it out there: “Well you guys speak Italian, and I don’t understand well enough, so I’m just going to read my book.”

“Come back, come back,” Daniela says. “We’ll only speak English from now on!”

I rejoin them at our teacher table. Christina seems bothered. And it isn’t long before Italian rules again.

Alfredo

Across the way lives Alfredo. He’s often outside, wearing a work hat made of folded newspaper, and making repairs to the building. Each time we pass through the courtyard, he waves excitedly, and makes pleasant small talk with us. Even though we can barely follow what he’s saying in Italian, it's not a deterrent for him.

Alfredo, his wife, and their only-child Franca invite our entire household, seven Iranians and American me, into their home. Also present are our Scottish neighbor, C, plus Franca's Saudi boyfriend and his Arab buddy. Alfredo is eager for all of us - Middle Easterners, Europeans, and North American - to sample his homemade champagne, and to toast to Franca’s eighteenth birthday.

Each time Alfredo sees one of our glasses even halfway empty, he jumps up, smiles broadly, and fills it to the brim. If we finish a cookie, his wife heaps two more onto our plates. And when the champagne is gone, it's not a problem. Alfredo opens a bottle of grappa (distilled brandy), and begins to pour.

War and Peace

We squish into a wooden rowboat that's loaded with other tourists from every corner of the globe. We bob up and down on the turquoise water—the most intense, shimmering blue-green that I’ve ever seen—waiting for our turn to enter Capri's Blue Grotto.

Our oarsman, a white-haired Italian with deep lines in his forehead, asks where we are from. When we say Iran and America, he is taken aback. “But you’re supposed to be enemies! How is this possible?”

Our governments hate each other, it's true, we explain. But that doesn’t mean that we the people hate each other. He nods his understanding. La guerra (war), he says, shaking his head with a knowing sorrow of World War II in Italy, is awful.

He directs us to lie flat in the rowboat, so we can clear the low opening into the sea cave. Just before our passage, he expresses his hope for pace (peace) between our two countries. World War III, he says, is too dreadful to contemplate.

Neighbor

What a relief it is to meet our new neighbor, C. She grew up in Scotland, is thirty years old, and teaches fourth grade at the nearby American Overseas School of Rome. These days, she's reading Rudyard Kipling to her students, and doing her best to skip over the racist bits.

I take refuge in C's spacious apartment, where she lives all alone. I sink into her sofa, and happily speak my native tongue. Unlike C, who is proficient in five languages, I am a humble monolingual. Despite seven years of French classes, my French is poor. My Italian is barely there, and my Farsi is only developing.

With C, I soak up the intellectual stimulation of real conversation, much like the repartee that I enjoyed in college. When she asks if I'd like "real espresso, or that watery stuff that you Americans drink," I of course choose espresso.

C is average looking, with pale skin and freckles, and yet she fancies herself to be sexy and outrageous. Told with her fun sauciness, I hear all about C's many failed love affairs, and about the Italian movie directors with whom she hobnobs.  Too bad I don’t know enough about the Italian cinema to be impressed, though. Franco Zeffirelli is the only name that I recognize.

Simple

We have two weddings to attend this summer. Even though I have no extra money for shopping, I get into the spirit, and buy a simple cotton red skirt and black blouse.

F explains to me that for an Iranian wedding, you need two outfits—one a bit conservative for the afternoon ceremony, and then something flashier for the evening party. K says that this a bourgeois custom, and that one outfit is fine. Though they both sound convincing, I’m pretty sure that F speaks the truth.

My simple outfit is a bit too simple, I realize, and it will probably elicit some pity when I wear the same thing to parts A and B of the two weddings. But it will have to do.

The Persian women know so much about fashion. The Italians all around us are extremely stylish too. With just a few accessories, young Italian women—ravishing, tan, and perfectly groomed—manage to make a humble T-shirt look glamorous.

My hippie-inspired, west-coast wardrobe clearly doesn’t work here. If I’m going to fit in, I'm going to need a lot of fashion consultation. So when Khanum G asks if she can pluck and shape my untouched eyebrows, I welcome her attempt to beautify me.

Summer Sense of Time

For breakfast, we eat fresh-baked rosetta rolls with butter, sour-cherry jam, and feta cheese We drink endless glasses of hot, sugary black tea.

Lunch is khoresh-e-bademjan (tomato-eggplant stew) and rice, served at 2:00 PM. We have so many guests today that we spread a tablecloth on the marble floor in the foyer—set a sofreh—so that we can all be together.

After lunch, with shutters closed to darken the living room, nearly everyone reclines on the floor with pillows and naps. I keep quiet, writing another long letter to my mother and reading.

Later in the afternoon, we drink more tea. We slice and eat watermelon and munch on pistachios and chocolates. We then head out shopping.

Dinner is spaghetti alla carbonara and salad, served after sunset, at about ten o'clock. We then stroll through Rome's crowded piazzas, gelato in hand, joining the passeggiata.

An hour or three after midnight, we return to the apartment on Via Sesto Miglio. We spread out our bedrolls and fall fast asleep.

The Shah is Dead

It’s the end of July when we hear that the shah is dead. We are picnicking and swimming at Lago di Bracciano. It’s a large blue lake, not far from Rome, that’s surrounded by rolling hills, with a 15^th-century, fortress-like castle atop one of them. A wonderful escape from Rome’s heat and humidity. 

No one in our party is sad about the shah—except maybe Khanum G, who deeply despises Khomeini and his entourage of mullahs—and there is even mild pleasure that the controversial monarch is gone forever.

The shah’s passing seems to signify that the Islamic Republic might now have a lot more staying power, though. Knowing that they will be forced to wear headscarves and dress modestly, in hejab, when they return to Iran, Khanum G and F are not pleased. Extremists on Tehran streets will throw acid in their faces if they don’t comply, though. And men aren’t spared either. Razor blades were recently outlawed in Iran, so they too must look Islamic, with long, pious beards.

Last Words in London

Dad gave us some money, and Mark and I walked around the block. We stopped in a pharmacy. We then got a lecture from some stuff-butt, for taking a shoebox off the shelf. So I said, “Good-bye,” and we walked out.
My evaluation of the cities we’ve been in:
Paris – Very kind and good-looking people. I want to go back next summer for a month. Beautiful city.
Rome – Dirty, hot. Icky people. History and art: Fantastic!
Florence – Similar to Rome, but quieted down a bit. Again, very excellent art and history.
Venice – Tourist trap, polluted, but canals are unique.
Lucerne – Beautiful, beautiful – I will go back to Switzerland; that can be guaranteed! Clean, fresh, and natural!
Amsterdam – Polluted, so-so city. Wouldn’t mind going back – a lot of “hippies.”
London – Snobby people, but tons to see. Great rock groups; definitely coming back!
Our flight leaves at 2:00 tomorrow. I’ll be glad to get back home. I have a lot to do:

An Evening in Paris

I had a wonderful time with Maya and Emmanuel last night. Emmanuel was born in Paris, but speaks good English; he is super nice. Maya is a native Californian (right on) and very big in Women’s Lib; she also is really nice. They showed us around the apartment, which is nice, but certainly not worth $100 thou.

Parisian apartments

We had a couple of before-dinner drinks, and then ate an exotic and rich veal dish. It was good, but I was getting very stuffed. I drank four or five glasses of wine during dinner, so I got pretty drunk. (Everyone was drunk.)
About 11:30, we all piled into the Safarik’s Peugeot and Maya drove us to the hotel. They went into the bar, and Mark and I came to my room. Mark broke into my automatic bar and got a bottle of champagne. I opened it, and the cork hit the ceiling, making a really loud pop. We laughed so hard! He only finished off one glass, and I didn’t want any, so he put it back! I hope to hell he doesn’t have to pay for all these Cokes, beers, champagne, etc. that he’s been ripping off from my automatic bar!
I’m finding out what a passion I have for Paris and the French. The people are very good looking, and I especially notice the guys - wow! I really want to come back next summer!

Paris - Up, Down, Sideways

We got let off on some side street, and ate lunch in some lousy café. For ten francs each, we had shitty submarine sandwiches and wine – UGH!
Mom, Dad, Mark, and I then took a taxi to the Eiffel Tower, and an elevator up to the 2nd landing. Paris is beautiful from up there. I took quite a few pictures, which I hope will turn out good.

View from Eiffel Tower

When we got down, we taxied to the Louvre, which is the biggest palace in the world. At one time, Louis the 14th lived there; now it is a very famous museum. We saw a lot for the amount of time we were there, of course including the Mona Lisa.
We then walked to the metro (a long distance), and had to change lignes three times before we got to our stop. Mom and Dad wanted to buy a cake, so Mark and I decided to walk to the hotel. Well, we got lost. Finally, we turned around and made it back. My feet are still killing me.
At about 6:30, we’re going to take the metro to the Safarik’s apartment, and eat a meal cooked by the young couple living there.

Le Touriste

Starting with this morning, I woke up and saw a French waiter with breakfast in my room. I was in pajamas and in bed, but I talked to him anyhow. (Alas, my alarm didn’t go off.) He didn’t speak any English, but I managed to get a few things across to him in French.
He was friendly, a little TOO friendly – kissing me good-bye three times! I was so embarrassed, but now it’s funny! Well, one experiences something new every day. Today, I French-kissed with an authentic Frenchman. Oh my God! I’m laughing out loud at that last line.
Getting back to what we did today: We met Oda in the lobby and drove all over Paris on the bus, only stopping at Notre Dame. Gippy! But Notre Dame is beautiful; I was disappointed to hear that there was no authentic “hunchback,” though.


Notre Dame gargoyles

I am so sick of the God-damn tourists (even though I am one). I hate the dipshit lady ones who sit on their asses and complain. How obnoxious! I feel so sorry for the Parisians who have to put up with them every summer!

First Impressions of Paris, Age 15

Apres le diner, Mark and I walked around the hotel a little. We then came up to our rooms, and watched some really insane game show. U.S. TV is way ahead compared to the French. Mom and Dad then came in, saying they went to a small café where they were the only Americans. The people were super friendly to them, and they bought chocolat éclair – tres delicieux!
It looks really hazy outside, and the view from my window isn’t too hot. We aren’t in downtown Paris, but out in the boonies. I see a lot of kids riding bicycle-type scooters, and a lot of people walking around. We are on the eighth floor, so I can see pretty far. Where we are, the view looks like any other city, except this city is very old looking. Some cobblestone streets, but basically the buildings are really ancient.
I haven’t exercised my French know-how to any great extent so far, because mostly everything is written in French and English. Also, many of the French in this hotel speak a little English. So it’s really easy to get by.

English History - Old and Detailed!

Parliament, from across the Thames

I was abruptly awakened this morning, when some fool-ass Frenchman came knocking at my door, asking if I wanted coffee!? Then after that, when I was trying to go back to sleep, Mom called me!
We all went on the morning tour, visiting Westminster Abbey and the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. There were so many people at the latter. I ran all over, trying to find a place to see something. And when I finally did (on the knee of a statue), I got a threat to be “hauled down to the station” by some pig English cop!
We ate lunch at Leicester Square, and then went on an afternoon excursion to St. Paul’s cathedral and the towers of London. We didn’t get to see the crown jewels; the line was much too long, and hardly worth the wait. But we did see the “Bloody Tower,” where many famous persons were executed.
I couldn’t understand why Tina was so fascinated by English history, but now I can. It’s so old and detailed!

London Hotel Blues

This hotel is crazy, but snug and cozy. Trying to find your room is like a maze, but you soon get used to it. I’m in the basement, so the view from my window is up, and I can only see feet going by!
I am now lying in my cozy bed, listening to a very good radio station. I can also hear footsteps and cars above.
I feel very sad right now. My sadness seems sentimental; it’s hard to explain. I suppose that it’s Brian. I haven’t seen him for a month, and then one more month until he’s home!
But now the waiting doesn’t bother me so much. The thing that is killing me with worry is that I’ll come home, and there will be no letter. I have a strong feeling that this will happen, but then there is also a small ounce of hope. It means so much to me.

But I’ve decided that, if there is no letter, I shall write him again, explaining that I never received a letter, asking if he ever wrote, if he wants me to fuck off, etc. I just want to know straight out, because suspense kills me.

I love Brian. I think I know him well enough to trust all the things he said before he left, so I will.

I loved a boy who was in our high school's chess club