Double bonus points!

And as for my German class, it is indeed taught in Italian.

That's how we roll... 'na mean?

Here's my bicycle (given to me by the vice principal), aka "la bici" (BEE-chee.) I've named her Beech for short. She's an old beech, as you can see. And a tough beech, too. I don't have a proper lock for this beech at the moment (just the one that locks the back tire), which isn't a good thing because Italians tend to have sticky hands. So sometimes, when I come back from Milan on the train and go to the parking lot to ride my bike back home, I get a little worried and suddenly ask myself "Oh no, where's mah beech at, yo?!" Hrhr.

On a serious note, people who ride bikes basically anywhere in Italy have a death warrant out for them. You can't ride on the sidewalks because 1. it's full of people and 2. at the end of each block, most of the time the curb isn't bike or handicap-friendly. (Poor peeps in wheelchairs gotta hop the curbs!) So I ride with the big wheels. But, in many cases, they 1. don't see me alongside 2. see me alongside and don't care. I tend to hit a lot of sideview mirrors because the streets are pretty narrow in Italy. (Accidental revenge? Hehe.) And I nearly got hit by a car today (actually I did get hit, just not hard) and I was 1. on the cross walk and 2. it was my green. In other words, I would have been streetmeat had that douchemallet not slammed on the breaks. Yeow.


Oh and by the way, this is how you say marshmallows when you're drunk:

Goodnight, Moon...

A view of the moon from my balcony during sunset...

Update on my Swiss chalet...

...I'm here to stay, yay! Previously, it was a temporary solution for me to search for a proper apartment somewhere in Legnano. After a month of searching (but not really), the VP and her hubby, Luigi, told me that they would be happy to have me stay here, that is, in the apartment inside their house/apartment complex for an über-cheap price. How much better does it get?!

Meet my German class...

When I got to Legnano, I made it a point to find some sort of German course. I've already taken one at Montclair State University so I can get around but obviously I want to do more than just for that, and for a few reasons. One is because I love languages, another is because much of my boyfriend's family do not speak any English, including his mother (who I absolutely adore.) A relationship with a person only goes so far if you can't effectively communicate. Another reason is because when I do my doctorate in Italian, I need to be fluent in either German or Latin and one other Romance Language. So I choose German.

Anyway, my teacher is the one with the white hair sitting next to me. She also works at the high school where I work. So I asked her where I can take a German course. She suggested a few that ended up to be too expensive, too far, or both. Then she suggested taking her German course at the University for Old People. Yes, there is really such a thing in Legnano (and many other cities in Italy) called the University for Old People. But, unless I convinced them that I had a really good face lift recently, how was I going to pass the one requirement of being 50 years old or older?? But as we all know, it's all about who you know. The president of the university actually works at the high school too and was a very courteous help in my seemingly never ending apartment search and decided to let me in, in exchange for teaching 10 English classes to some Italians traveling to the US of A this coming March. Deal.

Upon meeting my other classmates, and them seeing that I couldn't possibly be old enough to be a "socia" (member), they asked what the hell I was doing there. So with a cheeky grin and a wink, I replied with the universal nip & tuck gesture, tugging the sides of my hairline back a bit. They had a good laugh.

The class is great and they're all so cute and funny (including my teacher, who is actually Danish.) When I asked if I could take a picture of the class, they immediately asked me, slightly worried, "But uh...what are you going to do with this photo? You're not gonna put it on that YouTube or something like that, are you?" Haha!

Dye Another Day

But let's backtrack a bit. Got to Berlin on Wednesday night for a 5 day stay.

Let's just say that the unofficial phrase that summed up my entire sojourn there was: "That was not what I was expecting."

As I had explained in a previous post, I hate hair. So in Berlin, I decided to go for my 2nd femme fauxhawk. And what better place to get it done than Berlin? East Berlin, for one, is teeming with post-modern, gritty, no-bullshit people, and some fierce hairdos. Think East Village or Williamsburg but still underground and minus the hipsters. I got a recommendation for a place, thee place to go for the type of cut I so desired. On their website, they advise making an appointment at least 10 days ahead of time. Wow, must be good! I call anyway on Thursday and they say they have an opening on Friday afternoon with the master Friseur (and owner of the shop), Tim. Perfect.

The shop is exactly how I expect it to be-- funky, kitschy, and totally gay. I sit down and tell Tim about the bet and how I need a fauxhawk, pronto. He declines and suggests his vision of a short, cropped bob with some bangs. Thanks but no thanks, Tim. Fauxhawk please. No, he explains, because it's out of style and we should do something more up to date and stylish. (I wonder, have I ever really truly cared about being "in style"?) After a few minutes, I am enticed by a high-pitched voiced, suave-talking, gossamer gay man to do an asymmetrical bob with one down to my ear and the other side down to my chin and the back going diagonal. Cool.

But, alas, something that went down along the pipes of communication took a wrong turn because one side of my head is actually cropped sort of like a long pixie cut and the other side is down to my chin. Hmm, I think. Ok, interesting, I like unique/weird looks. That was not what I was expecting-- #1. I'm not exactly pleased but waiting to see the final result to make a final judgment.

Cut's done, my hair is still wet and Tim suggests a color treatment. First he asks me what colors I don't like/want. I promptly reply, "Red, platinum blonde." He suggests a caramel blond on top, a bit darker brown on the bottom. Ooh, nice fall colors, me likey. He goes to mix up the colors in the back, then pops his head back out to ask: "What do you think about purp--"

Me: "ABsolutely not."

The bleach goes in on top half, dye goes on bottom half. Mind you my hair has already been washed from before the cut...it's a bit painful, nothing I can't endure.

Halfway through, Tim checks my hair and cleans up some dye on the back of my neck when he discovers there's dye on the back of my shirt collar.

My shirt is ruined...That was not what I was expecting #2.

Bleach and dye is washed out. Toner (the caramel blonde dye) for top half of my head is put in...PAIN ensues. My face goes beet red, tears well up in my eyes while blisters form on my scalp. Tim (a bit scared and certainly distressed, probably mostly because I'm American, and you know what goes through any business owner's mind: I'll sue!) orders the shampoo boy to immediately wash out my hair. I tell him no, the color isn't done yet and that I can deal with the pain. (It's only been 5 minutes; I've dyed my hair enough times to know that toner need at least 10-15 to develop.) He insists, though, stating that the toner has done its job and that it needs to be washed it out now. Fine-- Who am I to argue with a 'master Friseur' anyway? ........ .

3 shampoos later, the final color result: Platinum on top and purple-red on the bottom.

That was NOT what I was expecting...#3.

I'm visibly dismayed and utterly confused by what just happened to me (to put it as lightly, no pun intended), by the cut, color, fried scalp and lastly, like the cherry (ugh, can we please not talk about anything purple or red, god...) on the cake, my formerly lovely, now ruined shirt. Why???

Tim is also visibly dismayed and not only gives me 30 euros for my dyed shirt but a 35 euro gift certificate and tells me that I don't have to pay, since he senses that things did not go the way they were planned... Ya think? I mean, he even showed me a hair-color palette to choose the colors I wanted before dyeing my hair. So the problem wasn't a potential language barrier, it was just obvious that he didn't know jack about color-mixing (or that he was color blind, in which case I would advise a career switch immediately) and used some shake-n-bake color recipe in that back room. Even if he purposely wanted to go and do something trendy against my will, since when was having half your head platinum and half your head purple in style?!

What did I do in my past life to deserve such a horrible experience? What kind of tomfoolery was this?!

As I leave the shop, I tell myself to be strong, that big girls don't cry, that it's just hair, that it will grow (then quickly reminding myself how I spent a long, 2 whole years--mostly full of awkward stages-- growing out my fauxhawk for hair that was my beautiful natural dark blond color, just below my shoulders just yesterday.) I arrive back at Michi's apartment and in (dis)comfort of privacy I can't control my oncoming deluge of tears; the faucets turn on full throttle as soon as I open my mouth to mumble some sort of greeting. (Luckily I called him while on the way back home to explain everything because I didn't want to have to deal with explaining all that had just happened to me in between wiping tears, sniffing up boogers or blowing my nose, and snorting whilst being unable to control my speech.) Yet it was almost as if Michi had foreseen the tragedy, because after slamming my head and body right into his chest and open arms, he led me, hand in hand, to the kitchen table to show me not one but two chocolate cakes he had baked. And next to them was written "I love you" in powdered sugar. How much sweeter does this man get? :)

After a good few hours of Michi comforting, supporting, and talking to me, (yes, effectively acting as my shoulder to cry on, but not exactly, since Mrs. Shortshit can't reach either one of them), I fell sleep and woke up to find the pillow ruined with dye. #4. I call Tim to tell him I want him to fix my hair pronto. I go back to fix it on Monday afternoon, this time expecting the unexpected. At this point thought, I knew he wasn't skilled enough to get my hair all one color and he still failed to get a caramel color going. At this now it's an ashy blonde with a lighter brown at the bottom. I didn't pay him this time either (he refused to accept payment again) and even got a bunch of some freebie, full-size hair products as well.

So, after all that, take a look:








And despite some truly insipid prejudgments ('pre' as in, having not seen the cut yet) from a certain someone who otherwise loves me (ah, but I won't name any names), I'm actually liking it now. Why? Simple: it fits me.

:)

Flesh-eating gypsies, psychotic bus drivers and more...

Last weekend was a holiday weekend in Italy, a country which, despite being the seat of the biggest corporation in the world, ie The Catholic Church, is mainly secular. One of the many benefits of having the Pope live in your country is that you get a bunch of government-mandated religious holidays (Yea, I know, sounds like a paradox but, what, you actually thought church and state were separated in Italy?) that are generously extended by this leisure-time-loving people, such as (in completely random, off-the-top-of-my-head order): an extended Christmas break (barely anyone works between Christmas and New Year's), Immaculate Conception, All Saints' Day, Carnival, extended Easter holiday, including their version of Labor Day, as well as Liberation Day, and Feast Day of the Republic Day (their kind of 4th of July, although America's is much more involved and unique with all the red-white-blue fireworks and patriotism.) As with most government workers, you're on the shit end of the stick with regards to pay but a lucky POS when it comes to time off-- especially working in schools (which are mostly state-run in Italy.)

I like to say: Don't ask why, but "why not?"

Anyway, so I hopped over to Berlin for the All Saint's Day "pausa" since we also had Monday off because it was the Legnano Feast Day. How convenient.

Before I tell you how I once again got my ass semi-miraculously saved once again (please refer to this blog posting and this one too, to understand what I'm referencing), you need to know that Malpensa Airport is approximately 50km/31miles northwest of central Milan, and Legnano is about halfway between Milan and Malpensa.

So, I came back on Monday night at 10:20, collected my luggage promptly at 10:30 and searched for the shuttle bus back to Gallarate train station so I could get the train back to Legnano (G-town is 2 towns over.) Hmm. No shuttle to be found. Apparently, it stops running after 10pm. Surprise, surprise. Well, my other options remained as follows:

1. Take a 1 hour bus ride to central station, take a 15 minute ride on 2 subway lines to go 5 stops to get to the train station that takes me back to Legnano in 30 minutes. *Sigh.*
2. Take a 20 minute taxi ride for 50 euros. *Double sigh.*
(*NB: There is also the Malpensa Express Train, which gets you to Milan central station in 40 minutes flat, but it only runs until 9pm, after which, you are forced to take the bus.)

After discussing with a bus driver who urges me to call someone, anyone, to come pick my desperate ass up instead of going all the way into the city only to go halfway back-- especially because, with two tote bags and a full size luggage (hey, I was bringing back my winter gear that I initially left in Berlin when I got there in the beginning of September), I would likely miss the last train to Legnano anyway, which departs at 12:29 sharp each night, and probably be eaten alive by gypsies. And other horrible unmentionable things. It's now 10:36pm.

Needless to say, I got a lil tense. But I had to get on the bus, because I was S.O.L. It leaves at 11. I suddenly get the urge to ask the bus in front of us when they're leaving, in the hopes that they will leave sooner than the one I'm on. Good as done. Bus no. 2 tells me they're leaving in 5 minutes, so I hop on. I sit down in a huff, still frazzled and worried about the cannibal gypsies stationed at central station.

I have this habit (a lucky one, in this occasion) of always sitting down in the first or second rows on buses if available, mostly because I like to get on and get off the vehicle easily. Same goes for airplanes (though that doesn't mean I fly first class.) Cars obviously don't really matter in this case. Anyhow, my other idiosyncrasy/flaw is that people can read me like a book. Once again, not necessarily a bad habit to possess in this occasion. I plop down in my seat behind the bus driver, all in a huff. Bus driver asks me if I'm alright, what's the matter, am I tired, yatta yatta. I rattle off a list of things that I hate about Italy, topping it off with the public transportation system closing down without alternatives promptly at 12:30, further explaining that now it will take me triple the time to get my ass home since I have to [list steps mentioned above to get home here...]if I get home at all.

Bus driver sympathizes and then asks me where I live, and I say Legnano. He says "Sei nata con la camicia." Which basically means "You are one lucky chick." My eyes widen with curiosity, knowing that something magical-- or potential dangerous-- is about to happen in the very near future. He tells me that this bus company's headquarters is in Legnano. And that after driving to central station, he has to drop off the ticket money from his shift at the office, which is actually located on my street. Of course I'm ecstatic at this point, but a little weary on the psycho factor. But once we get chatting on the way to Milan, we talk about our respective families, my travels and what the hell I'm doing in Italy, I see pictures of his family on his cell phone, etc, and generally feel better about the situation.

Anyway, it all ends with me being dropped off (like a rockstar, I might add) in a full size coach bus, right in front of my doorstep. At 12:15am. Talk about curbside service.

My own Giro di Legnano (aka the photo-tour-on-bike of Legnano)

Hopefully you like my skewed point of view :D


City Center (where I live):

City Hall


Entering the piazza, church wall (City Hall on the right)




Church. Yea, it's old. Like pretty much everything in Italy. It's actually one of the first octagonal churches in Italy. I want to say it was built around 1300, but I'll have to get back to ya on that one.


An old pharmacy. The inside is even cooler, probably from the 1800s, with skull signs on some of the antique medicine bottles, which, little did those poor people know, pretty much were poison at that time. (I know, I know, next time I'll get some shots of 'em.)


They just redid the piazza last summer apparently. Now there are a few sets of these fluctuating water fountains which babies loves to walk through fully-clothed when their parents aren't looking. That's always fun to watch.




The office of public relations, aka the U.R.P. (pronounced as a word in Italian, not letter for letter, teehee.) I like the medieval architecture above it.


Totally a Juliet balcony, right? *swoon*


Old ass painting of the Palio, which, in short, is a type of medieval knight-horse-lance battle that takes place every year. Siena's is the most famous in Italy. The city gets split into sections called "contrade" and you support the knight/horse assigned to your contrada til the death. Uhm, yea...So, it's like Medieval Times on crack, basically.




Battle of Legnano (see my post on that below.) Here you can see the famous Carroccio.


The most expensive fruit/veggie store in town. Bastards.


Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do..




I like these statues. The plaque says "To the Fallen at/for Work" Ok, that's a bad translation but it basically commemorates all those who have been hurt (physically) and died working, all for the progress of a nation. It's a reminder for solidarity, prevention/safety meausures (not just equipment, but also laws preventing unsafe work environments) for workers all over the country. October 14th was the 57th anniversary for the fallen workers.


Dunno what this is. But there is some kind of museum exhibit inside. Gotta find out.


I also like this weird impaled iron head. No clue who he is or why he's on a stick or why the stick is curved out in such a weird way.


Park in front of Benett, my supermarket!


It's Christmastime at Benett.


I hate Benett.


Ugh.


Although I'm a fan of these type of escalator-walkways, which I have temporarily named walkalators. Bring your shopping cart anywhere! I never take a shopping cart or basket so I just run up and down them in my Chucks in the hopes (and thrill) to not take a nosedive on one. They're slippery.


Instant gas. Chestnuts = fart pills.


Yay for cachi! (That would be "cockey" aka persimmons for all you non-Italophones out there.)


*Rolls eyes*


Bad news bears.


I had to buy two boxes. (I don't own a microwave, and I like it that way.)


A store full of nothing but Christmas shit in the center of the city. Not a good sign.




My favorite store!!! The local vegetarian/health food/beauty/bath/nature medicine shop that actually attached to my house!


See?! :D


My house. I live where those tiny round windows are! Looks like a crawlspace!




This is the Pretura, which is a bunch of offices and a court, I think. Whatever. I call this the Imperial Nazi building.


My street.


On the way to school (I just walk across this parking lot and then across a park.)


Almost there...




Wait for it...


Wait for it.......


The school!


That's what 100 years old looks like.


Someone call a plastic surgeon and order a facelift, pronto. (Don't you love the makeshift parking lot that 90% blocks that street there?)


Inside the school vestibule, a tribute to Mr. Dell'Acqua.


School courtyard.


The vice principal! Yaaayyy! She rules.


Myriad motor/dirtbikes aka death machines and scooters that belong to students.


On the way home.


But is it art?!?


The Sun.


God, stop following me. Stupid Sun.


Nice lil park next to my hizzouse.