26
Apr

Women and Burkas in Egypt

By anr29 1 Comment
Categories: Uncategorized

 

Michelle wearing one of the hooded robes provided by the Mosque.

Michelle wearing one of the hooded robes provided by the Mosque.

One of Cairo's Many Mosques

One of Cairo's Many Mosques

I just came back from a 12 day trip in Egypt, and have realized just how much Bologna has become my new home.  As family life back in the U.S. seems to be changing every day, Bologna seems to be the one constant thing in my life right now. After 12 days in an entirely new environment, I found myself not longing to be back in California or New York, but in my little warm town of Bologna. Traveling to places I’ve only dreamed of is quite a surreal experience. Cairo, Luxor, and the famous port city of Alexandria were places I’d toyed with in my mind since I was five and began repeatedly dressing up as Cleopatra for Halloween (a habit I didn’t kick until a couple of years ago). I admit it, I suffer from Egyptomania–the first step to recovery is admitting the truth, right?Egypt was so much more than the pyramids and the Sphinx, but served a completely new and modern culture my way. I realized the challenge anthropologists must face in trying to be completely unbiased when observing a culture, and it hit me pretty hard: how to deal with a new cultural idea when the opposing one has been engrained in your mind since you were born.  For me this was the idea of women equality. 

As Islam is the main religion in Egypt, the majority of women wear veils or burkas outside of their houses. Seeing women in head to toe black cloth, including a little slit of cloth between their eyes, under the blazing hot sun was quite impressionable. As a woman tourist walking down the street in Alexandria everyone stared at you, and there were many times where I felt violated. Unlike in Italy or the US where men stare or cat call at you, the fact that literally every man I passed on the street had something to say or seductively looked me up and down made me feel objectified ten times over. When a man asks your male friend to buy you for 1,000 camels, it’s hard to take it as a compliment. 

What really hit me was the segregated mosque entrances for men and women.  As my friend’s Dan, Danny, Megan and I were about to enter a beautifully architectured mosque, she and I were escorted to a different entrance where we were given head to toe hoods, while Dan and Danny walked freely into the main entrance. The woman’s side of the mosque (as the men and women are separated by a large fence) consisted of a small corner, while the men’s “side” was pretty much the 95% left remaining.  I admit I felt angry, I didn’t get it. I knew my anger stemmed from confusion, and I needed to understand the psychology behind it.

“Islamic society has always divided men and women and historically; women always wore the veil,” says Maya Chadda, PhD, a professor of political science at William Paterson University in Wayne, New Jersey. “[The burka] was originally a garment for modesty since women were considered temptations in Islamic religion. Women were forced to keep out of public places because they were seen as potential corruptors of the Islamic purity of men.”

But at other points in Muslim history the burka has stood for something quite different: subversion. During the Algerian war against the French in the 1960s, the liberated women of Algeria began to wear it as a symbol of their identity, says Dr. Chadda: “They were nationalists and not part of this Francophone culture. They carried guns under their burkas and they played an important role in carrying messages and doing spy work. They took on this identity as a matter of choice. And, in Sri Lanka, which has a very small minority of Muslims, the women never wore burkas until the recent civil war. Since they have come under attack, the women have taken to wearing burkas instead of the traditional saris, as a matter of choice.” (What Are They Hiding? The Women Behind the Veil).

In Egypt wearing the burka is an option, but walking through the streets without one made me realize how much pressure must be put on girls to wear one, rather than being watched scrupulously wherever they went by men and women alike. 

Unfortunately while I was traveling I didn’t feel comfortable enough to ask anyone why they wore the veil, but I wish I had to get a better grip on the situation. The experience resparked my passion for cultural research, everything has some sort of logical root, and in anthropology it’s about finding that root and sharing it with others to increase awareness.

*Hochwald, Lambeth. “What Are They Hiding? The Women Behind the Veil.” 16 Dec. 2001. New York. 26 Apr. 2009. <http://www.fashionwindows.com/room_service/2001/veil.asp

 

 

 

25
Feb

a small blurb about hygiene

By anr29 0 Comments
Categories: culture

When you start living in another country discovering different customs is an every day encounter.  I remember being so excited to go to the local pool by my apartment and revive myself in the chlorinated lake that I’ve learned to love from years of swimming and playing waterpolo. As I began dunking my head under water and letting the cool crispness flow through my hair, I looked up to realize that everyone was looking at me like a freak.  Apparently entering the pool without a swim cap on is taboo (and here I thought everyone was just really into swimming laps).  As a woman abruptly told me that what I was doing was not the norm, I jumped out of the pool, and decided to escape the shame by taking a nap on the sidelines. Smaller things that are now second sense to me are using plastic gloves in the grocery store to inspect fruit and having a change bowl at every cashier stand to avoid any hand to hand contact when exchanging cash. 

The first time I came to Italy with my mom, she decided she had fallen upon a million dollar money-making idea that would put me through college: be the Italian supplier of paper toilet seat covers. Oh yes, paper toilet seat covers.  Something I guess I do find a tad strange now is that people don’t want strangers hands touching their fruit, yet they are more than willing to share a cheek to cheek bathroom session with them.  Then again, some bathrooms have solved this problem all together by eliminating the toilet seat all together–and with that I have learned the secret of why Italian women have built thighs—squats.

25
Feb

the dreaded oral exam

By anr29 0 Comments
Categories: school and university life

 When it was announced that I would be the first to take my test with no other than the head of the entire Anthropology Department, I knew waiting until the last minute to study was probably a bad idea.  Instead of practicing all the information I had crammed in my head in Italian with my roomates, I decided to memorize the more useful phrase of Per favore avere pietà di me, or “Please have mercy on me.”  Back in the US I would call studying 2 or 3 nights before the exam a cram sesh.  Taking into account that I was doing everything in a foreign language I gave myself one month to read 4 books in Italian, and memorize it all competently enough to repeat it.  That was the ideal goal… come test day I had read 2 of the books and had somewhat of a vague idea as to what one of the other ones was about just by hearing other people talk about it.  With a grading scale of 18 to 30, I knew I had to get at least a 23 to pass.

I must say that throughout my entire schooling I have never been more stressed than for my first Italian exam.  Unlike in the US where the exams are a miriad of multiple choice or short answer questions, the exams in Italy are mostly oral.  This means that the professor bases your grade on about 5 questions he decides to randomly conjure up for you.  It’s you and the professor one-on-one in a small exam room, or in a lecture hall in front of the 40 other people taking the class.  People compare the power of Italian professors to that of God, because their word is the final word, and if you screw up there is no one else higher up you can talk to about fixing it.  Horror stories started running through my head, from students getting bocciato, or flunked, on the first question in front of the entire class, to others getting publicly ostracized and having their grading sheets ripped in half. 

“E’ presente Alessandra Roqueta?”

“Sì sto qua.”

“Entra per favore”

With all of this daunting information at hand, I almost expected Mozart’s “O Fortuna” to start playing as I walked through the door into the professor’s exam room.  The head of the department was a middle-aged Italian man dressed sharply with thim rimmed glasses and a stern look.  He made the basic intro small talk where I revealed how nervous I was with hopes he would say there was nothing to be nervous about, but no, there was no reassurance, not even a smile.  Any Italian I had learned up til now seemed to magically fall apart into babbling nonesense.  He fidgeted with the computer to open my file, and decided to start the questions.  He asked about an anthropologist that I had studied like the back of my hand and I started reciting everything I had memorized about him without even comprehended what I was saying. 

Then came the bomb drop: What is Levi Strauss’s take on organizational systems?  Yes, I know Levi Strauss by name, he is one of the most important anthropologists of the 20th century, but unfortunately I never got to that chapter in my book. Holding my breath I told him I didn’t remember.  Then came the second bomb, yes the part where the professor says “OK, now let’s talk about that book you didn’t read and have somewhat of a vague idea as to what it is just by hearing other people talk about it.”  I scrambled my way through that question with bits and pieces, and by relating back to another book I had read.  Then finally he adressed the book I had read.  The fighter in me took the reigns and I quickfired as many themes and facts from that book I could muster up.

At the end there was silence.  He fidgeted more with the computer, and afraid of what was ahead I asked if I could add some more details, and spat out any leftover knowledge about cultural anthropology that I had left.  He scribbled a number on my grading sheet, a number I was shocked to see: a 29.  I thanked him and almost ran out of the room with glee and fear that he might run after me and take it back.

And so ended my first Italian exam, only 5 more to go!

02
Jan

How to Smuggle Pizza Dough

By anr29 1 Comment
Categories: funny moments

When my foodie sister came to Italy to visit me, we took our own little food and wine tour around town, and one stop we had to make was the supposed best Pizza town, Nicola’s.  Her plan to find an original and thoughtful gift for her boyfriend that day had failed, until it hit her that she could bring a little bit of Italy to him in the form of pizza dough. 

As good as the idea sounded at the time, the steps to execute it were not quite thought through.  As the Italian speaker in our duo she prodded me to ask “Nicola”—and perhaps it was the real Nicola—for a piece of his pie no matter how much it cost.  Me, not being such an assertive person, felt the pressure to do this one favor for my sister, and so it went:

[in Italian]

“Uh… hi, yes umm we were wondering if it would be possible to have a piece of dough?”

“A piece of what?”

“Dough…pizza dough.”

The cashier looked at me dumbfounded, and as we waited for him to get the boss, which both my sister and I assumed was the real Nicola, we held our breath.  Nicola was a medium sized man with gray hair, wearing beige pants and a white dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, so as not to get it dirty while he flipped his pizzas.  He came over to us smiling, which somehow prompted me to repeat my question, if at all possible even more embarrassed than the first time.  By the look on his face it was obvious that this was the first time anyone had had such a strange request. 

                With somewhat of a chuckle he said, “No, I’m sorry but I can’t do that.”

As I translated this to my sister I suddenly became the mediator to her pleading.

                “Please, it’s a present for her boyfriend in New York, it would mean so much.”

                “Oh you’re going to make my pizza in New York?”

He turned to his colleagues and said, “These girls are gonna make my pizza in New York.”

As if the words ‘New York’ suddenly convinced him we weren’t recipe thieves from some rival pizza joint in town, he suddenly became glad to give us a piece of his original dough for us to bring to the big apple.  He packed up a big ball of Bologna’s finest into white cookie sheets and we said our grateful goodbyes. 

                Feeling a wave of relief Tanya and I decided to get a glass of wine at Zanarini’s in the center of town.  Trying to find parking in any city is quite a challenge,  so when we saw a space open in a driveway in  front of the shop we looked at each other wondering if was ok to park there.  But, when we saw another car park there we decided we were in the clear.  As we sat down outside, ready to unwind and order our vino, as if synchronized in a film, a police car pulled up and all three of the cars parked around ours hit the road.  Fortunately, it was just a coincidence, since the policeman seemed uninterested in our parking situation and went on his way. 

                Finally with a moment to relax we tried to come up with schemes to tackle the next problem to our pizza dough gifting plans: How to smuggle the dough onto the plane.  We went through your basic plan of wrapping the dough in Ceran-wrap and packing it in a jar of peanut butter so the drug-sniffing dogs won’t smell it, all the way to to stuffing it in a sacrificial teddy bear.  I could just imagine how that scenario would pan out: 

“No officer, that’s not a kilo crack cocaine in that teddy bear, it’s a kilo of Bolognese pizza dough.”

So, we decided to keep it simple, and two days later Tanya was serving her boyfriend 100% authentic Bolognese pizza.  Little did he know that the dough spent 5,000 miles sitting in her bra cups.

02
Jan

Chun Lee’s Six Degrees of Separation

By anr29 0 Comments
Categories: appartment life, culture, funny moments and people

There we sat at the dinner table, one Brazillian, one Bolognese, and one American, laughing hysterically over one childhood pastime that united us: Nintendo—Street Fighter to be exact.  As we reminisced about how at the age of five our thumbs had developed Carpel Tunnel  from excessive joystick use, Michely started making Chun Lee war calls, and Federico took the “Ken stance” with his hands parted forward ready to use his magic kung-fu powers on us.  The original shock that Chuck Norris is thought of as a god in Italy has faded as I hear jokes like: “Chuck Norris is so strong he doesn’t do push-ups, he’s just pushing down the Earth,” and “The Bible used to be known as Chuck Norris and Friends.”  I realized that even in different countries we were still connected by the same 90’s clichés of Nintendo, LA Gear light-up shoes, and the wonderful world of the Smurfs (aka in Italy).  No matter how far away we live there is always something or someone that connects us: Chun Lee was our sixth degree of separation.

The full extent of this culture clash was shown to me during this last holiday weekend.

When my mother imagined a Christmas in Italy for me, I think she fantasized things like going to midnight mass conducted by the Pope, eating a feast full of Italian delicacies and syrupy grappa, and perhaps listening to a choir of young children singing Italian arias guided by Andrea Bocelli. I laugh to think that my real Christmas Eve in Italy was spent at a house full of Brazilians eating a table full of Japanese food, and a pot full of Stroganoff (which is apparently not German, but a Brazilian dish—at least according to all the Brazilians I’ve met).  Instead of the typical background music of Jingle Bells and Santa Clause is Coming to Town, I was serenaded by a band playing Mas Que Nada and Agua De Beber.  I was happy to tell my mom that I think I got the deluxe Christmas experience—Brazilian Christmas experience, that is.  Then, seeing as I spent the entire Christmas day asleep, I was excited to let my dad know that the 9 hour time lapse didn’t make a difference, since in retrospect we both just woke up for our Christmas mornings. 

But the holiday strangeness didn’t end there; December 26th was the festive holiday of Santo Stefano, a holiday neither I nor my Bolognese roommate, Federico, knew much about.  I decided to have a day out on the town, thinking that if there was some sort of big festivity going on, I would find it.  Leaving my apartment I speculated due to the bleak, cold, and empty city, that in Bologna, the day of Santo Stefano actually indicates the first day of winter.  Luckily I had my camera to keep me busy, since nothing was open, and no one was out, which led me to wonder what everyone in Bologna does on this holiday.  Then, on my way home I passed through Piazza Santo Stefano to find a crowd surrounding the church.  Thinking I had finally found the answer to my cultural questions about this Bolognese holiday, I entered the small church of the saint, finding myself rather confused to behold a crowd of people listening not to the somber sounds of monks chanting, or a holy sermon, but rather…four men in kilts playing Scottish bagpipes.  Thinking that perhaps Scottish bagpipes played some sort of role in the history of Bologna or Santo Stefano I ventured to ask my Bolognese roommate to find out that, in fact, they don’t.  Yes the world is a strange and flavorful melting pot.

PS:          After waiting 4 months for internet we are finally going to get it December 30th… ironic that the company name is called FASTWEB—I think not. 

***PSS: Being January 2nd as I post this—sitting in an internet cafe—as you can see, we still don’t have internet at my appartment

27
Dec

Photos: Santo Stefano Day

By anr29 0 Comments
Categories: city life and photos
I had a photo day around town, here are the results:

"The real world of barbarians is not that which has never known art, but that which, surrounded by masterpieces, fails to appreciate and preserve them."

 

 

 

 

27
Dec

The Art of Coffee

By anr29 1 Comment
Categories: city life and culture
Tags:

Walking around Bologna during Christmastime is like entering a Thomas Kinkaid painting; everything is quaint and mass produced.  Streets lined with bright twinkling lights—check, tinsel covered street lamps—check, chestnuts roasting on an open fire—check, shops overflowing with jolly smiling Santa Clauses next to praying Virgin Mary statues—check.  Snow on the other hand seems to have invaded every city but ours, despite the cold that creeps through the cracks of my windows causing me to bundle in layers and waddle around like a penguin in my apartment.  One thing that always warms me up during these cold Bolognese mornings and nights is a nice cup of coffee brewed straight from the little metal mocha in our pantry.

Before coming to Italy I never drank coffee, in fact I hated it.  So when people told me that the coffee in Italy is like no place else, I had to take their word for it.  I find it ironic that a girl who disliked coffee, pizza, ice cream, and smoking decided to move to a place known for its pizza and gelato, and where everyone drinks coffee and smokes.   But after four months here I have learned to adapt.  Realizing that my original plan to swear off guys who smoked eliminated about 99.9% of the Italian population, I’ve decided to let that bad habit slide, and thanks to a house full of roommate smokers I can actually stand being in a room filled with cigarette smoke without holding my breath.  I have officially converted into a coffee drinker, with my twice a day cappuccinos, three if I’m feeling especially worthy, but still play my tourist card when ordering an espresso on a cold afternoon—coffee in the afternoon is a cultural taboo.  

Unlike in the US where coffee culture is dominated by Starbuck’s Venti cup caramel infused double shot, machippucinofrapiatos, in Italy simplicity seems to be the secret art of coffee.  Here when one asks for coffee they get a shot of espresso in a quaint little cup.  If you want to spice things up a bit you can upgrade to a macchiato which is an espresso with a dollop of schiuma (milk foam) on top, or a cappuccino, which is just a larger version of a macchiato. Then there’s my favorite, the latte macchiato, which is a shot of espresso in a glass of hot milk aka Italian’s version of my childhood favorite Cuban concoction: café con leche.  But the true magic of Italy’s coffee lies in a mini metal espresso brewing machine called a mocha.  This is what takes the same South American coffee beans used all over the world, and transforms them into delicious Italian elixir.     

I can remember being little and wanting to drink a cup of coffee as a symbol of being a “grown-up,” like those kids who always want a sip of wine only to find their taste buds squirming with tartness.  Now here I am strangely proud that I’ve developed this unhealthy habit, feeling a tad older in some silly way to have outgrown my bitter taste buds, and knowing that every time I have a sip of espresso it’ll be like having a little bit of Italy running through my veins.

 

23
Dec

Strikes Galore

By anr29 0 Comments
Categories: city life and university life

I walked out of class onto a movie set. I stepped right into a massive sea of college students marching down the university street, Via Zamboni. Somehow I felt injected into a radical hippie rebellion like in Across the Universe, but this was better—this was reality right now. As flares went off into the street, I saw a cameraman try and escape the heavy smokescreen to get a good angle on the march. The photo he took would be in the newspaper the next day.

In Italy there is a law trying to be passed that has everyone talking. If it does there will be a 50,000 euro cut from education, the University will be privatized, the number of teachers in elementary schools will be cut from 4 to 1, and foreign students will be separated into different classes. The University of Bologna is the oldest university in the world, and has always been open to the public; even today people are welcome to walk into a lecture from the street and take a seat with everyone else. Right now in lower level schools, kids have different teachers for each subject, who are specialized in the subject they teach. With the new law this will diminish to one general teacher who will be there for part of the day and then to aids who look after the children later on in the day. With many immigrating to Italy, there is a large population of young students who don’t speak Italian. The law proposes to put these children into separate classes, in hopes that it will make it easier for them to learn. It also wants implement a language test for all students who wish to take courses in Italian schools.

So basically everyone is going berserk, and I never thought I would see so many protests, rallies, and classroom takeovers in my life. It’s wonderful to witness people taking action and letting their voices be heard. Yes we have protests in the US, but nothing like this that I’ve actually seen. Days prior the whole Philosophy Department was taken over by students in a giant rally against the privatization of the University. Teachers decided to hold class in piazzas, and many of my lectures started out with a lengthy discussion of the latest events involving the manifestation.

Apparently this type of thing is normal in Bologna, which is said to be one of the more Leftist cities in Italy. Each month there is at least one bus sciopero (strike) to give the people a reality check as to how important public services are. Walking down the street and seeing the large posters scouring the campus walls makes me smile, because it feels like things are happening, and I get to see them happen in my new home.

14
Nov

Rainy Days and Homesickness

By anr29 0 Comments
Categories: homesickness

It’s been raining a lot in Bologna. Rainy weather has a weird affect on me; either I become really productive or I turn into a nostalgic hermit. Lately I’ve been the second, and it’s really draining me. I kind of get lost in this little world of mine, where society doesn’t exist and I’m left alone with my thoughts and faded memories that seem to have never existed in the first place. My window leads right out into a main street, so I’m always hearing the slush of cars speeding against wet asphalt. To some this may get annoying, but I love going to sleep with some sort of white noise in the background. Sometimes when I feel really homesick I close my eyes and pretend I’m back on the beach hearing the waves crashing on shore, at that early morning dawn just before I hit the surf.

I’ve found that I’ve lost any immunity against cold weather that I’ve built up over the years going to school in ice cold Ithaca (I guess it doesn’t help when I go back every now and then to a perfect 72 degree California). Instead I’ve learned to love the wondrous insulating powers of carpet, while I constantly walk around in socks on my cold tile floors—half to keep my feet warm, and half to protect them from the filth that seems to stick regardless of how much I sweep. So I sleep bundled up in a sweatshirt with the dust bunnies keeping my feet company. I find myself strategically covering myself with my blanket in order that there are no holes for the invincible mosquitoes to enter, but somehow they always seem to find another way to bite me in the most random places like the face of my palm, the tip of my pinky, or in between my toes.

Libraries when it’s raining are like malls during Christmas: full of people and surprisingly noisy. Everyone’s tired but somehow mustered up enough energy to leave their homes in order to take refuge among books, music and other people. But just like malls at Christmas, finding that perfect gift—or in this case that perfect comfy lounge chair in which to collapse and study—can be a tiresome challenge. There is this one coveted chair in Sala Borsa that I always try and sequester, but to no avail. It sits right over the balcony on the second floor so I can people watch, and is the only one with an open enough outlet to let my bulky converter fit. Unfortunately that seat was taken today so I sit writing this in the middle of the newspaper crowd, having trouble finding internet connection, while my battery is running out.

I think I realized the other day just how much love I have for my bicycle. I rode into town meeting up with a friend and his roommate to go to the mall. It’s a marvelous thing to see a mall when you haven’t in so long, and I have to admit I felt a little pang of homesickness for so many shops amalgamated into one large mass. OK maybe I’m going a little overboard, but I have to say I was more excited than I should be. Later on we drove to get a hot chocolate at this small but delicious cafe next to my apartment. This wasn’t your average cup of Nestle but a real genuine hot chocolate…mmm. Needless to say amongst all this warm goodness it started to rain, so I decided to go straight home. My bike on the other hand would be spending a bleak night locked up on an obscure street in center, right under a tow away sign. I woke up in the morning with a sick feeling that my bike had been towed or even more likely stolen overnight. If it had been towed I would be in utter shock that in Italy getting internet in your apartment takes more than 2 months but one unattended bicycle is confiscated in less than 24 hours. So pretty much I power walked to Via Marconi in hopes that my bike didn’t get stolen. When I saw the pink rusty paint of my bike I swore, like a mother to a lost child, that I would never leave it alone again. I should really name it.

10
Oct

Securing the Uptake

By anr29 2 Comments
Categories: funny moments and school


I woke up at the crack of dawn today (aka 8am), excited to go to my first lecture of Filosofie dell’India, Asia, e l’Orientale. Late as usual, I rushed to class only to find myself sitting, sweat rolling off my forehead, waiting for the professor to arrive. Unlike in the US where classes start promptly on the hour, there seems to be some sort of unspoken rule in Italy that classes always start 15 minutes later than usual. So promptly 15 minutes later, the professor arrived, and I went into studious mode as many usually do on the first day of classes. As she started rambling on in Italian, I tried to retain any sort of information I could, but my notes turned into random unfinished sentences and words I didn’t know. ‘Illocativa,’ ‘convenzione,’ ‘intuzione,’—what did any of these words have to do with the book on Hinduism that I started reading from the syllabus? I looked around me to see if maybe we were supposed to start off reading a different book, but then the professor started whipping out words like ‘impersonale’ and ‘indicativo,’ I knew I was nowhere near Siva with his three-faced yoga stance. No, I was definitely in some sort of Computational Linguistics class, surrounded by italian linguistics majors that actually knew what was going on, as I sat clueless with my notes entitled ”Filosofia dell’India, Asia, e l’Orientale” in big bright colored letters. It wasn’t so much of a sad situation that I was in the wrong class–what was sad was that it took me 15 minutes into the professor’s lecture to realize I was in the wrong class–there goes any progress I thought I made in learning Italian out the window!

So now came the interesting part. In a 3 hour lecture there is only one break, and that comes an hour and a half into class. I had one of two options:

a.) Make an embarassing walk out of the classroom (mind you I’m towards the front row), in the middle of the professor speaking, and only hope to never see her again.

b.) Sit through 1 1/2 hours of Italian Computational Linguistics, staring blankly at the board, and make my rapid escape at the 15 minute break.

So here I sit, looking as if I’m writing notes like a madwoman, when in actuality I’m writing this blog in my notebook and laughing at myself internally. Lectures are difficult enough just being conducted in Italian, so adding the factor that this one is on a subject I don’t even understand in my native tongue leads me to grasp about 10% of what’s actually going on. What is ironic is that the book the class is reading is by an American author, Paul Arice, so randomly throughout the hour and a half my ears would perk up to some English words, like “securing the uptake.” Even though I have no idea what “securing the uptake” means I somehow feel for a split second that I have the upper hand on all of these pro linguistic majors. In actuality this is just my diluted mind trying to make myself feel better for having been sitting in this mistaken identity class for the last hour and a half.

After I made my break for the outside world, I was able to check the net only to find that my Philosophy of India, Asia, and the Orient class changed its schedule to start next week. Boh!*

*In Italy, ‘boh’ is pretty much equivalent to our ‘I don’t know,’ an absence of thought, or even an ‘oh well.’*

« Previous Entries