Second Week of Class

I have just completed my second week of school and my third week in Italy. I would like to say I am starting to get a hang of things but that would be a vicious lie. I am learning more about what my classes will be like. That is for sure. Here is a brief summary:

Art History: My professor quotes Vasari like an evangelical quotes the Bible
Architecture: I had no idea I signed up for an architecture class that is worthy of giving a grad student credit.
Italian: Mi chiamo Sarah. Sono Americana di Seattle. Come stai? Ho venti anni. Sono intelligente. La lezione e facile.
Photography: WE SPENT TWO HOURS “LEARNING” HOW TO UPLOAD PHOTOS ONTO A MAC AND CREATE FOLDERS!! TWO HOURS. Anyone who knows how to use a computer well can do this in five minutes and anyone who knows me knows how frustrated I would be for the rest of the class.

So, my classes so far haven’t turned out to be quite as stimulating as most of my previous classes at Whitman.

I am also getting used to or maybe just getting frustrated with how things work in Italy which is to say inefficiently. Lines don’t really have a purpose. Italians get served before Americans. Prices change. You have to ask for the check like three times and then carefully review it for mistakes. My two Italian professors explain things in the same way repeatedly. I’m also getting kind of annoyed with my host mom. I guess she is looking out for me and is like typical Italian mothers but she just kind of nags at me like a stereotypical mom does (I’ve never had to deal with that). She like makes me change my outfit if she thinks I don’t look warm enough, finish everything on my plate and on the entire dinner table, wants us to keep our room a certain way. It is her house and I am grateful she is letting us stay here (she does get a very fair sum of money however). Italian men are my favorite people so far in this country. They are not creepy or very forward like everyone worried about. They stare but that’s about it—they don’t approach or just say “ciao”. They definitely are the most helpful people I have met—anytime I’m lost and am looking for a street I can just ask an Italian guy and they are always willing to help (this is not the case with young or old Italian women). I guess this is the stage of culture shock when you move past euphoria to frustration and rejection. I wonder what the next stage will be?