They Study That in the United States?

I know you’ve been waiting for a language slip-up story, and finally I have one worth reporting. Not that, up till now, I’ve been communicating with such perfect clarity that I’ve been slip-up-free and people confuse me for a native Italian speaker, but I haven’t had any of those “whoops” moments that I always read about, where some poor guy accidentally tries to sell his wife for a few camels, or a foreign girl accidentally invites her professor to dinner. No, wait, actually I have done that last one . . .

Last night I had everyone laughing, though. I wanted to mention my friend who researches homeless people. In Italian, the word for a homeless person is a “senza tetto” – literally a person “without a roof.” What I actually mentioned, however, is my friend who researches people “senza tetta”: “without boobs.”

What a difference an “a” makes! Anyway, for all the flat-chested women out there (ahem), I’ve found you a researcher!

Voulez vous cou- . . . Oh. No. That’s Something Else.

I’m taking a course in French right now. Not a French course, but a course in French. The professor is great: He speaks slowly, is really patient, and does a great Powerpoint. Still, I’m impressed with myself! Not because of my French ability, which ticks in at caveman level. But because I actually understand the course! My questions go something like: “What – is – difference – feculeries – and – minoteries - ?” (Yes. There's even a hesitation before the question mark.) But I’m more or less following the course. At least, I hope so: the exam is tomorrow.

I really shouldn’t be impressed. A few of my classmates haven’t really studied French either. They’re doing the same thing I am, and probably better. And I get the idea that it’s normal in Italy to have a class or two taught in English, just because it’s something that you should know if you want to go into business. Or engineering. Or academia.

Still, I think it’s really cool that we can all do this. And it makes me want to really learn French, which – along with lots of other things – is “on the list”!

Il Precario

There’s a curious difference between the ways the (average) Italian and the (average) American view work. In fact, I don’t think most Americans are aware of the “work situation” in Italy. I know I didn’t have much of an idea before living here, and I obviously don’t yet fully understand it, because a newspaper headline today caught me off-guard:

“Salaries: Young People Earn 23% Less Than Those Over 40.”

Yeah? I thought. Why on earth is this being reported in the newspaper? Isn’t this “news” of the dogs-bites-man type? There seems to be a complaint, an outrage over the finding – and yet, from my vantage point, there’d be a problem if it weren’t the case.

On the same page were two other mini-articles that also illustrate a chasmically different (from American) Italian world of employment. One is something that I’ve already written about here: Striking is downright trendy. The article “Strikes on the Rise” reported that, in 2007, the hours of strikes by Italians increased by 62% from 2006 to a total of 6.3 million man-hours. With a workforce of around 25 million people, my calculation puts that at about 15 minutes per Italian worker! That seems hugely significant to me (although I don’t have any comparative statistics). The other headline, “Pay more to better employees,” presented exactly that as a promising – but, alas, probably impracticable – employment innovation.

That probably gives you a starter feel for the difference. We could really talk for days and days about the work situation in Italy – in fact, the Italian newspapers do, and rightfully so. It’s really difficult to get a “good” job in Italy, and that’s the biggest problem facing young Italians.

Which brings us to the Biggest Difference of the Day: The “precario.” What I find most interesting about this entire “issue” is that the very concept of the non-precario leaves most Americans scratching their heads. (Rightly or wrongly). Basically, the Italian job seeker is searching for a contract “a tempo indeterminato” – an “indefinite” contract. It means that, as best I can tell, barring major criminal activity (note the modifier), you have that job, and every month you get paid, and you get to keep going to said job forever and ever, until you retire. If yesterday there was demand for 100 widgets, which made the company hire 100 employees, and today the demand drops to only 10 widgets – bummer for the company, but they’ve got 100 paychecks to write. Getting such a job is THE goal of the typical Italian. Companies, instead, for obvious reasons, are keen to give contracts “a tempo determinato” – fixed-term contracts, usually lasting six months, which can then (somewhat illegally) be extended and re-created ad infinitum, essentially employing someone long-term but in a series of six-month contracts. This leaves the employee as a “precario” – literally in a “precarious” situation. The complaint is that, as a precario, you really can’t plan for the future: you can’t get a mortgage, buy a house, get married, and settle down forever and ever.

As I said, I think the most interesting thing about this entire issue is that the very concept of the problem is foreign to most Americans. I like to think that I’m pretty well-informed, but I had to keep asking my Italian friends “clarifying questions.” (And I’m going to have to ask them another one tomorrow: It a surprise that young people get paid less than those with more experience? Is it a “problem”? Is it “wrong”? Why?)

First of all, I think the desire for a fixed contract is itself an interesting comment on the Italian identity. As much as the image of the shoulder-shrugging, toss-it-to-the-wind Italian prevails, I think a more accurate analysis of the Italian personality reveals an strong push for security, stability, certainty. Adventure, planned or imposed, is “dangerous” and best avoided. (This plays out in lots of ways, not just work: for example, even a vacation is usually “safe,” organized by a tour operator, passed with a group, or spent in a vacation village.) The promise of stability is a good thing: You don’t want 500% turnover every year, and you definitely lose something cultural and familial with lots of moving around. But you also gain something, personally and nationally, through risk, chance, innovation. I’m not surprised that a push for stability exists; I’m surprised at the extent to which it’s dominant. There are really very few Italians who are eager to innovate, to go out on their own, to try something new, to take a risk. Again, you don’t want an entire workforce taking risk, but you do need some of it for a healthy economy. It’s kind of an economic application of “bio-diversity” and genetic evolution, I think: You need some risky genes to mutate the economy for the better, in a “survival of the fittest” kind of way.

Second, I’m really surprised that few people pick up on the economic disincentive of the indefinite contract. If I’m an employer, and I know that I can’t fire a lousy employee, I’m sure as heck going to be hesitant to hire anyone. So I really don’t get the double demand: “Hire more people! Create more jobs!” and “Give everyone an indeterminate contract!” The two just don’t seem to go together for me.

This “issue” is in the papers literally every day. It’s a real issue, and really problematic; but it’s also hindered by a somewhat parochial optic. (Just as my optic, for example, didn’t include this employment worldview up until a few months ago!) I obviously don’t understand “from the inside,” and my “analysis” is pretty limited. Still – it’s one of these things that I find really interesting, and I thought you might, too.

Note the Spandex

I have good news, and I have bad news. The good news that I did another race today and ran fast. The bad news is that my landlord continues to be a sexual harasser.

I didn’t really want to do the race, precisely because running is now connected with my landlord, who is part of a running team, does all races in the area, and invites me to do all races in the area. His buddies on the running team want me to join, because I can win points for the team, and, I think, because it’s exotic to have a foreigner. As, uh, my studies keep me really busy, I haven’t been able to make any of the practices, and I’ve, uh, unfortunately suffered from sickness and injury lately, making it impossible for me to join in the weekend races. I figured they’d lose interest, but – well, you already know how the “I figured ….” figuring typically works out for me here.

A “Grampa Richie” was in charge of this race and called me with a personal invite. “We really want you here.” In fact, as it turned out, he’d already gone ahead and signed me up. Why? Because the Sexual Harasser-cum-Landlord told him I’d “almost certainly do it. With 99% certainty.” Say what? Apparently I have a manager now? I don’t like the idea of that, period. I’m an independent: I think alone, I live alone, I travel alone . . . and I run alone. And what’s even more worrisome is my suspicion that he’s not managing an athlete but rather someone he thinks of as his little girl toy. But “Grampa Richie” is a nice old man, and I felt bad that he’d already signed me, so I did the race. In fact, when I showed up, “Grampa Richie” had a membership card and a racing shirt waiting for me, though I did manage to refuse the Spandex shorts. (Seriously: what’s the deal with Spandex?) Which was all very nice of him, but I just feel bad all-around. It’s the classic Italian manipulation mode: Do something exceedingly generous (if pushy) for someone, and now she's “obligated.” To perform well? To join the team? To let the Landlord get some play? I’m not that serious a runner, and I don’t want to be a serious runner. (Although I do continue to enjoy running fast, and winning.) And I'm definitely not a fan of "inappropriate touching" (as it might be called in a grammar school bust) by the Landlord. And then – get this – they have the balls to tell me how to run. You should start off faster. You went too slow at the beginning. You “lost” third place by just a bit. I’m just pissed off all-around. I’ve thought about inventing a boyfriend or a lesbian lover to get me out of the mess, but I’m pretty sure such an acquisition would be followed, vendetta style, with an immediate rent increase. Shite.

On the glass-half-full side, I ran faster than I’ve ever ran before: 8 km race, 30:30, 6:08 miles. I think that's pretty cool.

An Ashe Connection?

Lacking tube socks and short shorts only because of shoddy weather, I entered Tourist Mode full-swing this week: It’s la Settimana della Cultura! This is a fantastic idea . . . Well done, Italy! (USA, Buffalo: Grab a notebook.) To promote tourism by tourists in non-tourist season, and to promote tourism by “locals,” the Italian Ministry of Culture sponsors a Culture Week every spring. Not only are all museums free, but there are all kinds of special events, shows, movies, lectures, and “extraordinary openings” of, say, your local Medieval palace. Wanting to take full advantage, and lured by the promise of show about Chocolate (I do study Alimentation . . . ) I spent a full day today in Modena. (Incidentally, I recently learned that the Italian word for "tube socks" is "tubolari." Excellent word.)

• There was a cool exhibit of 1850s photographs from Rome; I feel like I have a kind of special connection with Rome (maybe everyone ever enchanted by Rome does?), and it’s amazing how much the photos, from a hundred and fifty years ago, of a city I lived in for a month, made me feel “at home.”
• I stumbled into a public library and found a map from when the world was still flat. And a couple of beautiful thousand-year-old illuminated books. Doesn’t it sound crazy that you can “stumble upon” these things?
• And then there was the chocolate show. It wasn’t chocolate, per se. It was chocolate represented in little advertisement cards from the last hundred, two hundred years. There have been some pretty cool ads through the years . . .

But here’s the interesting possibility of the day. Modena was the seat of the Italian branch of the d’Este dynasty, which had plenty of other top dogs scattered across Europe. When I got into Ashe family history a few years ago, I remember reading a theory that the origins of the Ashe name came from French d’Este immigrants fleeing . . . something. I can’t remember, exactly: it’s jumbled against the theory of a Spanish shipwreck off the coast of Kerry (though I think was more of an ambitious explanation for being the stereotypical “Black Irish”) and the rather more probable suggestion that it had something to do with an ash tree (though, in fact, the Irish word for an ash of the tree type is fuinseog). In any case, this idea of the French d’Este connection, having hibernated in the dormant-neuron compartment of my brain for the last ten years, was re-awakened upon seeing the d’Este portraits in Modena. My first thought: That’s an Ashe forehead! Not that we have a monopoly on the “extraordinarily tall forehead plus pronounced widow’s peak” style, but, you have to admit, it is pretty distinctive. And, what do you know?! Check out these two d’Este foreheads.

I think it's conclusive. I'm writing immediately to claim my inheritance.

Pasqua 2008

I had a fantastic, and fantastically unique, Easter. Italian friends from the Camino de Santiago got together: Elisa from Trieste, Matteo and Maurizio from Vicenza, and Giovanni from near Livorno. Giovanni lives in a “house with a view,” if ever there was one, in the mountain-forest overlooking the Ligurian Sea, and he played host. But he didn’t just host us: it was a full house, and full of characters! Giovanni, in fact, is a theater instructor, and lives in the forest with three of his students. They all invited friends, from all parts of Italy, and there were about 20 of us in total. And, thanks to lousy weather outside, all 20 of us spent just about all weekend in the kitchen. Some of the guys even slept there! And it was awesome.

Walter from Napoli was the Chef-in-Charge, and cooked up – oh yeah, I’ve already told you how much I love it! – an octopus that Marco (also from Napoli) brought with him. Three of the theater people put on a show for us, and I especially liked Marco #2 (who played a horse). Guillaume from France regaled the masses with tricks he learned in Circus School (really), such as walking on glass and juggling fire. Bociccio played the mandolin, Luca sang Lucio Dalla, and I laughed a lot.

Buona Pasqua a tutti voi! Happy Easter, everyone!

Talkin' Proud

Part of my "duty" as a Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar is to give presentations to people here in Italy - primary the Rotary Clubs, but maybe schools and other groups, too. The idea is to share a bit about where we come from and thus promote international understanding and goodwill. I think it's all pretty cool: I like the objective, I like that I get to be a part of it, and - you know it - I like giving presentations.

Anyway, I was searching for a Buffalo logo, and I came across the "Talkin' Proud" Buffalo from the 1970s. My real discovery, though, was the associated jingle. I had no idea there was a jingle. I mean, I'd heard the "Talkin' Proud, Talkin' Proud" bit . . . but this is a full-up jingle. Maybe even more than a jingle. It's pretty impressive for its . . . its . . . kitschyness? Can that word be applied to a sound element? Check it out for yourself at Forgotten Buffalo. Since I didn't arrive on the Buffalo scene until 1980, I missed out on this firsthand . . . if you're in the same boat . . . ah, go on - give it a listen!