I was sitting in my old Italian class in the United States with my Professoressa Lucchi-Riester and all of my old class. I was charged to be back in the states, because I would be able to show off my new found skills. Unfortunately, the rest of the class preferred speaking in English. Infuriated, I turned to my professor: “Ma perche parliamo in inglese? So esaurito con questa lingua, preferirei di parlare italiano!”
Fade to black-END SCENE
It was an Easter miracle! I don’t even remember the last time I had thought about the possibility of dreaming in Italian, but it finally happened. This is significant in two manners, because I hardly ever remember my dreams. Maybe once every month, if I’m lucky. But this one came through the fog and it wasn’t until an hour after I woke up that it struck me. I dropped my toothbrush and ran through the house, rejoicing at the news.
I take little credit for it. The only thing that facilitated this was being surrounded by Italian for Easter and Easter Monday (which is a phenomenon over here that involves an extra day or two off from classes. I’m officially a fan). Maybe, just MAYBE the language is finally penetrating my subconscious and working its way from a conscious thought to a subconscious reaction, like a mother tongue.
My only fear at this point is whether to see this dream as a prophecy or not. How frustrating will it be to return to an English speaking country? Will I be continuously exasperated? For the most parts, I see dreams as generated from the subconscious, not from some outside influence. Maybe it’s just an irrational fear!…Right?
I woke up this morning refreshed from a day of relentless traveling, rain soaked socks and backpack wearing shoulders to find myself in the shadows of the Piedmont mountains under a glorious sun on this, the most important day in the Christian world. Easter. Pasqua. This is especially relevant in Italy, a city home to the head of the Catholic church and with a high percentage of Catholics (practicing or otherwise).
To arrive in the north of Italy, I took my first flight with Ryan Air, which was expedient enough to Milan, with the only catch being that I sat through a solid hour or stewardesses pitching sales for all of the things that are apparently necessary for a 40 minute flight (headphones, caffe’, panini, and my favorite: lottery scratch-off cards). Our bus from the airport to the city outpaced the storm clouds sweeping across the region, and we scraped together about an hour of rain-free touring.
In Torino, the city famed for its world class soccer team, we strolled to a local church to celebrate Mass. Like every church in the United States it was packed beyond capacity. After asking, I found that there is no Italian synonym for “Chreasters,” but that the idea is well understood.
After a fantastic morning, involving a walk through the old Fiat factory-turned-mall, we reposed in the apartment of my family friends to a lunch brimming with the most delicious foods: meat balls in tomato sauce, zucchini, carrots, fresh salad, a type of keish made from nettles (it was counter intuitively good), beef filled ravioli and more deserts than my stomach could handle. All of this occurred with the Vatican mass droning on in the background, the soft-spoken words of Pope Benedict XVI blessing the world on this sacred day.
And now, with my eyes drooping as I resist the urge to fall into a blessedly-stuffed nap, I attempt to read a bit of an Italian newspaper, quietly amazed that any of this is happening to me, but careful to avoid questing a good thing.
Tagged: Andrew Erlandson, easter, Juve, lunch, mass, milan, milano, pasqua, ryan air, ryanair, serene, torin, torino, tranquil, travel