My tales of woe, Italian, and other matters

So by some freak accident I mastered the past tense, or at least something close enough to it to be mistaken as it, in time for the Italian placement exam. With the combined greatness of that and my ability to make up lots of stuff that strangely turned out to be real Italian, I have (to my horror) been placed in the Advanced Italian class. I am very happy to say, though, that no one else in the class has any idea what's going on either. Since apparently we're all so brilliant and are therefore obviously beyond the level of chapter 1, the teacher gave us a test on the first day of class so she could tell which chapter to start us on. Though we tried to dissuade her, to convince her that we all really would like to start on Chapter 1, per favore (of Book 2 - isn't that scary enough?), she did not relent, and we took the test. Well, we all failed, so now we're on Chapter 1. So much for the smart class. Really deep down, though, I am glad I'm in this class - though we're starting at the beginning (more or less, with Book 2), it's an accelerated class, which will really plunge me into Italian, for which I'm glad.

I've got to say, there's something vaguely insulting about watching American movies, Hollywood movies, that I haven't seen before, in Italian and not being able to understand them. I mean, I live where they're made! Sort of... that's not really my point anyway, so never mind. I was just watching a Diane Keaton/Goldie Hawn/Josh Hartnett (among others) movie called Love in the City, -something- in the Country. See? I can't even understand the bloody title! I sort of got the gist - there were a lot of love triangles. I liked the cellist with the cello-hole shape things tattooed on her back. But really, for the most part I had no idea what was going on. And it had the actress from Groundhog Day!! All these actresses and actors I know, and I can't even understand the movie. Well, all the more motivation to learn Italian quickly (other than my smart-class-ness).

I feel and am treated like a 5 year old. I guess with my current grasp of the language I'm more of a 1 year old, so I should be proud to be treated as such big girl, but still it's rather frustrating. I've got to say, it's disconcerting to hear your name and see people pointing at you, but never once be addressed, and be unable to understand anything they're saying. I'm at the point where really the only words I can recognize are names, so I'll hear -italian, italian- Viterbo -italian- 'olly -italian, italian- to no end. The other day, a crowning moment in my 5 year old-ness, Armida took me to pick flowers. They're sunflowers, something like "giresole" or "girasole" which is really cool because "giro" means 'around' or 'circle' and of course "sole" means 'sun' - so it's a flower that turns in a circle, or at least a semi-circle, to follow the sun. Anyway, we picked 4, and then every time Armida talked to anyone for the next few days, she told them about me picking flowers. I've realized, though, that there's no point in trying to fight it. For most of the year, I will be a 5 year old. No buts. In a situation like this, I can't be anything else. I don't know this language, this culture, this country. I'm new to it all. In a way it's wonderful to be like a kid here. It's okay to make mistakes. It's okay to sound exceptionally dumb. I'm learning, I'm absorbing, and every time someone exclaims over the vase on the table and tells me what pretty flowers I picked, I just have to remind myself, I have everything to learn, and where better to start than in the footsteps of a kid?

The Aeneid is AWESOME! I'm reading it both in English and in Latin right now, though I'm enjoying the Latin more. While the English version is really good, I can't get really enthused about it because the rhythm is painfully rigid, and because the author doesn't seem enthusiastic enough about the story. In his introduction, he talks about how he always used to consider The Aeneid far inferior to Homer's epics and to Dante's Inferno, and how it took him ages to come around and begin to appreciate Virgil. His translation is accurate and beautiful, yes, but it seems a desecration to an amazing epic to be translated by someone who didn't think much of it. Therefore I love the Latin version far more. I don't know if tonight's lines were particularly easy or if I'm just brilliant, but it was so wonderfully clear. There's something so awesome about reading actual Latin, not a translation. Just seeing the words in the original format, as the author himself, some 2000 years ago, wrote them, is so amazing. Word order, something that doesn't come out in an English translation, is fascinating, since in Latin the words can go in most any order, and authors take advantage of that to make a point. And the moment the meaning becomes clear is wonderful, because I'm literally understanding Virgil's own words and the structure of his sentences.

Sono stanca. Ciao,

Holly