My Visit to Lucca, Part Four

     7 July 1997.   What a frustrating morning this was! There are times when I simply need to speak English because I don't know how to say what I want to say in Italian; and there are times when I need to have things explained to me in English. This morning we were studying passato remoto, called a "literary" tense, because it's used more in written Italian than in spoken. Delia asked me a question which I was supposed to answer using passato remoto -- but while I was pausing to think, she answered the question for me! And it wasn't even the answer I wanted to give. She does that a lot. So I tried to tell her, "That wasn't what I wanted to say," but the Italian wouldn't come to me in my frustration. As I struggled to think of the words, she kept saying, "E' difficile; passato remoto è molto difficile, e non è usato tanto nella lingua parlata." ("Passato remoto is very difficult and not used much in spoken language.") Finally, the words came to me: "Non è quello che volevo dire!" ("That isn't what I wanted to say.") Then she'd ask another question; for example, "Cosa faresti quando andasti a Londra?" ("What did you do when you went to London?") Well -- first of all, I have to think of something to say; then I have to think of how to say it in passato remoto. But while I'm still thinking of what to say in the first place, she supplies an answer for me. What the hell did I do in London? She didn't even give me chance to come up with that, much less how to say it in Italian, still less how to say it in damn passato remoto! I got more and more frustrated, so finally I just gave up and let her talk away.

     9 July 1997.   Finally this week the weather is what I had expected it to be -- clear and warm. Glorious. But the nights are cool. It's strange -- yesterday it reached 100F in the afernoon, but it stayed cool inside the house, even though there's no air conditioning. How I adore this sun! It's so much drier than Houston; you don't sweat nearly as much, and the breeze from the hills is very refreshing.
     I wonder why all the houses here have green shutters? Also, the window blinds are green, and the net curtains they hang outside the kitchen doors to keep flies out. Even in Pisa and Siena and Lucca, the shutters are all green.
     It's very pleasant here on the terrazzo, enjoying the sunny, breezy day and looking out at the hills. The birds are chirping, the chickens at La Fosca's house are clucking, dogs are barking, and somewhere in the cool dark shade of the neighboring woods the cat Puffi is sleeping.
     (Later)   I'm in my cool room now, the window is open to the sunny day. I can hear Vittorio working in the garden, snip-snip-brush-brush; I can hear the workers next door grunting and growling to each other in some garbled dialect which I can't understand; the dogs are still barking at God knows what; and I'm surprisingly hungry after that rich, heavy lunch. My reflexes are very sluggish today; everything feels heavy. Heavy and lazy.
     This is another thing that puzzles me -- in a place where the summers get hot and air conditioning is rare, which means one has to open the windows, why the hell aren't there any screens? You open the persiane to let light in because Delia won't let you turn lights on during the day unless it's absolutely necessary, and you open the glass to let air in, then all the flies and bees come in. You could, if you wanted to sit in semi-darkness, roll down the persiane so that only the tiny slits are open. Or you could, if you don't mind suffocating, roll the persiane all the way up and close the glass. The simplest solution to all this is, of course, to put screens on the windows. But there are none. Anywhere, almost.
     Delia just called to Vittorio to clean up for dinner. I heard him pause under my window to talk to Puffi-the-Cat in his peculiar wheezy voice: "Puff-eeee! Che fai? Dove sei stato?" Puffi hears the rattle of dishes and knows it's time to eat; he comes slithering from the bosco and if the kitchen door is closed, you hear his hoarse miao, asking to be let in. Yesterday as I was practicing, I heard "miao-miao-miaaaoo" and turned to find him standing near the piano, asking me, "Where's Delia? Where's Vittorio? I'm hungry!" Tremendo!

     10 July 1997.   God, it's beautiful! Today I took two lovely strolls down the road toward Celle dei Puccini. The countryside on that stretch of road just outside our village is almost wide open and very sparsely inhabited. I returned by way of the church, where I usually walk, and stopped in front of the church to sit and rest. There are two beautiful white doves that live there, a husband and wife. This morning they were having breakfast -- someone had left some grain on the pavement. And this afternoon they were back in the eaves of the porch, staying cool. I see them there at the church every day when I pass by.

     11 July 1997.   There is a major flaw in this total immersion process: sometimes, during a lesson, I want to ask a question, but I can't express it clearly enough in Italian; therefore, she can't give me the right answer and I would get frustrated. So my question remains unanswered. This morning, I must have spent 15 minutes trying to ask the same question, trying every way I could, even using diagrams on paper. She just couldn't understand what it was I wanted to know. She gave me a gezillion answers, but none were the right one. Finally, I just gave up and said, "Basta! Avanti." So we went on to review imperatives. The exercise was (written in Italian, of course):

               Tell your friend to:
                    (followed by a list of commands)

     So, okay, I start to give the answers using the personal form of imperative beause I'm talking to a friend, right? Well, she started to correct me, using the formal imperative. I said, "Ma è un amico!" She was just confusing the hell out of me, and I wanted to quit right then and there. I mean, if there's one thing I'm absolutely clear about, it's the personal imperative.
     I tell you, I would have killed to be able to speak English this morning.
     All in all, I think I was making more progress studying on my own. The only thing I can't do on my own is converse. Maybe Delia just isn't the right teacher for me. I catch on to most things very quickly; I only need one clear explanation and one clear example, I don't need 25 examples, that's just wasting my time. I need a teacher who will give me more time to come up with correct answers rather than jump in and supply them after only five seconds; I need a teacher who will let me finish my sentences rather than anticipate and finish them for me; I need a teacher who simply talks less and teaches more.
     I wonder if Delia considers me a difficult student? God knows I've never been a model student; I always hated school, I never did homework, and in the 17 or so years I spent in a classroom, I didn't learn a hill of beans. But I have to admit, the fault was mine, because I had no interest. And why didn't I, when I can be so incredibly, almost maddeningly, self-motivated? Once I get the notion in my head to do something, I go at it like a bloodhound. So why didn't these notions ever come to me in a classroom?

My Visit to Lucca, Part Two

     29 June 1997.   Worked all morning on Figaro recits, then after a good lunch of spaghetti alle vongole (clams) and insalata verde (green salad), Vittorio drove me to Pisa. It really is a shock of the most pleasant kind to walk in through the gate and see suddenly before your eyes the You-Know-What. Some people are surprised at its smallness, but I was prepared, having done so much reading and watched so much Rick Steves. The whole piazza truly is a marvel. I went through the three buildings, then we went walking around the city. I was fortunate to see one of those parades (I forget what they're called) in which the locals dress up in costumes and throw banners around. We passed by Galileo's house, and also an outdoor bookstand loaded with literature, but I disciplined myself and just bought Northanger Abbey (in Italian).

     30 June 1997.   What the hell is wrong with having leftovers? At every meal here, Delia says, "We have to finish this, or we throw it away." I love leftovers! My mother has them all the time, with almost every meal she cooks. The potatoes that Delia made yesterday, for instance -- they were cubed and baked with rosemary and olive oil -- why couldn't she heat the remainder in a pan today for lunch? They would have been great that way! I just don't get it. And she makes me feel guilty if I don't finish everything. I can't! What does she want me to do, throw up???

     1 July 1997.   Well, at least I can go for long walks. And last night I took advantage of the stairs, climbing up and down, up and down.

     It rained on and off this morning, but by the afternoon it was glorious. I walked the route Dan and I discovered, up to the church and back to the main road, making the circle twice around. Tomorrow I'll do it 3 times. I just hope all this walking will burn off the food.

     Yesterday for dinner, Vittorio made a delicious vegetable frittata (I think that's where those leftover potatoes went). Today at lunch there was trout caught from a nearby stream, deep-fried in an egg batter; fresh, ripe tomatoes and cucumbers plus a plain green salad; at dinner there were light-as-air potato gnocchi wth pomodoro sauce, mortadella, cauliflower, and un pochino di tiramisu.

     My lessons are going pretty well, though we're still reviewing grammar that I already know. No harm in reviewing, but I need to push ahead. I feel as if my speking hasn't improved as much as it should. I get nervous. My oral reading, however, has gotten much better -- the phrasing, inflection, etc. -- and I understand what I'm reading. I still can't understand much of the news on TV because the language is too sophisticated and they speak so fast.

     2 July 1997.   Today was a full, tiring day. I got up at the usual time, had breakfast at about 9, then we had 2 hours of grammar (I should have asked to fare una pausa after the first hour; two straight hours is too tiring for my brain), then I went to the post office; back for pranzo at one, then a brisk walk along my usual route; did a bit of laundry, had another hour of grammar, practiced, had a relatively light dinner. It is now 9.20 and I'm exhausted.

     For grammar, we're using the book they use at the Universita' per Stranieri a Perugia. Each chapter begins with a dialogue which features whatever grammatical formula the chapter deals with. Today Delia made me recount the dialogue in my own words. But she keeps wanting to prompt me. Every time I pause to grope for a word or grammatical structure, she prompts me. I have to ask her not to do that. First of all, I have to think for myself even if I need 5 minutes to formulate a complicated sentence; secondly, most of the time she guesses wrongly what I want to say, then I get confused.

     4 July 1997.   Buon compleanno, Stati Uniti!

     Last night after dinner, we had coffee at -- I don't know their last name. Il Dottore (a. k. a. Aldo), his wife, and their daughter Elena (in Italian, the accent is on the first syllable, much prettier than our "E-lay-nuh").

     Elena is 17 and studies piano and something called canto leggero, which is technically "pop" singing, otherwise known as belting and whining. She invited me to go with her today to her voice lesson in town. Her teacher lives on the top floor of a palazzo. She's a real character. During the hour or so we were there, she must have answered the phone about five times, then finally she took it off the hook. Elena is a very nice girl, not unintelligent and not without some talent, though I worry about the unhealthy way she belts. The lesson took place in a very small, crowded room overlooking the steet. Part of her training is learning how to sing with a microphone, which she did, and it was extremely painful to my ears in that tiny room. She wants to show me around Lucca on Monday. Nice kid, very open.

     Her father, il Dottore, picked us up then took me back to their house so that I could practice on their very nice piano a coda (literally, a "tailed" piano, or a grand piano). I've been working on the Bach G Major French Suite, the Mozart K. 576 Sonata, the Chopin A-flat Ballade and his "Andante Spianato and Grande Polonaise." All of which are going amazingly well. Since these are all "old" pieces for me, I can judge very clearly how much my technique has improved. Everything is so much easier! Very gratifying -- especially in the Chopin. How well I remember struggling so hard with some of those sections. I'm a big girl now, with a big girl technique!

     I still play everything as if A. is listening; maybe that's why I've been playing so well.

     To be continued. . . .

In Honor of Puccini's Birthday: My Trip to Lucca, Part One

     In the summer of 1997, I went to Italy for the first time, to do a total immersion language program. Following the advice of the Italian conductor Roberto Abbado, I decided to go to Tuscany, which is the cradle of modern Italian and also where the accents are cleanest, and after much careful research I arranged to stay for three weeks with a teacher who lived just outside the lovely walled town of Lucca. One of the great things about these total immersion programs is getting to choose where you want to study; you're not enrolling in a specific school in a specific city. I chose Lucca because it isn't overrun with tourists, and my teacher lived in a small village where I could enjoy the rolling hills and rest from what had been a particularly grueling opera season. Also -- and very importantly -- Lucca is the birthplace of Giacomo Puccini, composer of such beloved operas as La Bohème, Madama Butterfly, and Tosca.
     In these programs, you live in your teacher's home (in my case, it was just my teacher Delia and her husband Vittorio, a retired couple on the far edge of middle age), they provide all your meals; you and they speak nothing but Italian (Delia and Vittorio had no English, anyway), you have 2-4 hours of lessons every weekday, and on weekends your hosts are obliged to show you around the area, and even take you on short trips.
     Here are some excerpts from my journal, written during my stay in Lucca:
    

     23 June 1997.   Well! My first day was very full The flight into Florence was about an hour late. I zipped through passport control and customs, and there were i signori Bartelloni at the front of the small crowd of greeters, holding up a sign with my name on it. It was searingly hot in Florence, and the car's air conditioner took nearly half and hour to cool up. Within an hour, we reached Lucca. There were the walls which I've seen so often in travel books -- not nearly as tall as I thought they'd be, and of course, I couldn't see much of the city, but the promenade on top of the walls looks so inviting; I can't wait to walk it.

     San Martino in Freddana is just a few minutes from the city. The Bartellonis have a pale pink villa (modern) with  vey nice garden all around, a terrazzo, and the house sits along a small private road which is shared by a couple of other houses, including the one owned by the padrone. The Bartelloni's garden is filled with roses -- pink, white, apricot -- and honeysuckle, and of course small plots of various vegetables and fruits. There are lovely raspberries lining one fence. The tiny village is surrouded by wooded hills. The sun is warm, but the breeze is cool -- very much like springtime in Texas. I have a lovely room with en suite bath. Everything is so spotlessly clean, it makes me a bit nervous, being the slob that I am. In the living room there is massive furniture made of California redwood, and an old Swiss upright piano in fine condition. After touring the house and garden, I met the neighbors, Piero and Piera, a nice young couple.

     I was, of course, fed straightaway -- a clear beef broth followed by a cold chicken breast stuffed with prosciutto, and whipped potatoes.
     I took a long nap after the afternoon meal and conversation (all in Italian), then their two nephews arrived -- Antonio and Gianluca -- to stop the night before going on to Florence for their final exams. Very nice young men, and nice looking. We had cena on the terrazzo: pasta asciutta, bollito (pork, chicken, and tongue), gelato with raspberries, and of course espresso. Then conversation in the living room, and I sang and played a bit for them. I was still very tired, so I retired early.
     This morning, after my espresso and pastry, I went with the Bartellonis to the supermercato, per fare un po' di spesa (to do a little shopping); then I had my first lesson, which was mostly to see at what level I am grammatically. Very easy for me, having learned all the moods and tenses already. Then I strolled round the neighborhood, found the bank, post office, and bus stop. For lunch, there were fresh radishes from the garden, arugula, prosciutto, and pasta with pesto. Delia told me, "La pasta fa bene la pelle." (Pasta is good for the skin.)
     (Later)  My brain is tired. So is my body. It's hard work, being a houseguest -- as nice as the Bartellonis are, I'm just not used to living in a stranger's home. I wonder if Dan feels the same. He's doing the same program in Pescia, which is practically next door. He'll be coming to visit on Friday.
     Delia and I worked on Figaro recits this afternoon. Pronunciation, phrasing, intent, everythng. Oy. But it's great -- I will know these recits backwards and forwards and upside down!
     Dinner this evening was pasta in brodo (pasta in broth), pomodori (tomatoes) e mozzarella, uova (eggs), e salame. Molto buono, ma non sono abituata a mangiare così tanto! (Very good, but I'm not used to eating so much!)
    
     27 June 1997.   Today Dan came to visit from Pescia. Delia and I did our lessons in the morning, then we went to CRAI to buy the ingredients for pizza and tiramisu, and to the post office so I could mail my postcards. I watched Delia make the tiramisu -- very simple, really; even I could make it! She said that some people use panna (cream) instead of marscapone, but it isn't as tasty. Then she made pizza margherita ("la vera pizza" she says, the true pizza). Dan arrived at around 2.30. We were both so happy to see a fellow American! At last, someone with whom to speak English! I know a total immersion program was what I wanted, but it really was such a relief to have a whole afternoon to talk without first having to think about vocabulary or grammar. Dan has done very well in his 4 weeks of study -- when he came to Italy, he knew far less than I did. Far less. Now he can form simple sentences with little problem; he's started to use verbi composti and l'imperfetto, and he can understand a good amount. But he told me that his first week was extremely demoralizing for him -- he would have nightmares in which he couldn't understand anything anybody said and he couldn't communicate.
     I showed him around the house, including the flat above, which Delia and Vittorio are making ready for lodgers. After eating our pizza and tiramisu, we went for a walk on some of the back roads. It's so beautiful here! There's too much traffic on the main street, so little room on the sides to walk without being terrified of oncoming cars, but the back roads are shady and narrow and quiet, with pretty villas and lovely little gardens. We found one of the many neighborhood churches and took a few pictures.

     Dan could only stay he afternoon, since his hosts were preparing a special dinner. It was so nice to hear my own language and see a familiar face. I lead a solitary life in general, but being alone in a strange country, staying with strangers, is altogether a different thing.

     28 June 1997.   Today they took me to Torre del Lago and Viareggio. Torre del Lago, famous for Puccini's house and its opera festival, has been commercialized greatly since Puccini's death; the lake no longer extends up to his villa, and the villa itself has been poorly maintained, but I didn't care. All I wanted was to see his piano and the few pages of manuscript that are kept there. The tour guide is an elderly, weatherbeaten man in a t-shirt, sneakers, and baseball cap. He seemed very much taken with a Brazilian woman in our group who spoke fluent Italian and seemed to know a bit about Puccini. She was vivacious and flirtatious, so he pretty much ignored the rest of us, except for one moment when he asked me, "Giapponese? Cinese? (Japanese? Chinese?)" To which I replied, "Americana." He lost interest.
     When we finished the tour, the three of us sat on one ofthe benches on the piazza in front of the villa. Delia kept talking on and on about the appalling condition of the house and grounds -- "Tutta abbandonata" --, how Italy just doen't seem to care about the arts, etc. On and on and on. Finally I said, "Vorrei sedere un po' da sola per riflettere." I had to be alone and quiet for a moment; I didn't want to listen or translate or struggle with anything -- I just needed quiet. So I went to another bench directly in front of the villa and just tried to imagine Puccini walking through the garden, smoking a cigarette. Some experiences are very personal; one doesn't want other people intruding, no matter how well-meaning their intentions are.

(The sign says "Do Not Trample." No, indeed.)

To be continued. . . .