"After-work-celebration"

I see Frankfurt by day. Yesterday I drank a Coke that was canned in the Czech Republic and crossed the river Main to the whine of an old man´s accordion. In front of him was a little styrofoam cup.

The Kleiners´house is three streamlined hardwood floors beneath a red A-frame roof. It´s decorated by Ikea and numerous original pieces of art. Most impressive are the bookshelves -- after all, Lothar is a publishing house mogul. Maybe you didn´t know that though.

No word exists in English for what they call "after-work celebration." It happens each night when Lothar returns from the office, and involves a splendid dinner followed by hijinks in the garden (badminton, sprinkler games, soccer, a combination of all three, sometimes).

I have what seems to be an uncanny ability to lead my friends out of a translation pickle. The result: I get compliments on my English. The difference between "itch" and "scratch" was a little sticky.

Last night, Frauke and Lothar took me beer-tasting. The trains rattled by the place called "Endstation" -- incorrectly, because it´s far from the end of the line. Lothar and I traded college party stories -- mine were a little tamer, I think. I was talking about packing peanuts while he mentioned rolling kegs down mountains. But I taught Lothar the terms "beer pong" and "keying a car." While not useful language, it´s at least amusing. Later on he showed me breathtaking photos of his business trip to India and a crazy youtube video of Spain´s tomato festival.

Goethe wrote a version of "Faust," following the legend and Marlowe´s play. His house in Frankfurt is filled with his father´s legal volumes and prints of Rome and Venice. Pretty popular place for bookish types, it seems. The historian followed me through the rooms and swapped Palermo stories with me.

Tonight it finally got dark at 10pm. Lothar flipped casually through coffee-table books on Renaissance and Roman art. Frauke waterered the plants and talked over the fence with her neighbor. I just breathed in the air and listened to the sprinkler.

To cite a 90´s movie,
Shazaam.
-a

RVs and Russian Ringtones

My lessons are going well. I find it ironic that my sole purpose in this program is helping people overcome the one language I want to be speaking. Walking back through the graffitied tunnel that runs under the train tracks, I see the sun set on Florence's orange horizon.

"Obey your thirst," says the ubiquitous Sprite ad we know so well. In Italy, you are merely asked to "listen to your thirst."

Friday at the bar in Piazza San Jacopino, there were only a couple customers other than me and 3 other kids in my program. One lady, chainsmoking the whole time, leaned over a carriage only to gently lift out a pet skunk. You never know what you're gonna see here.

According to the folklore of my childhood, I'm turning into a carb. Whatever that is. Probably some kind of geometric-looking, polygonal shape I haven't seen since 10th grade chemistry class. Ah nutrition facts. They're a new addition to Italian food products, apparently. "Calories" are scripted instead as "energetic value." Why would you want to count energetic value?

The head of my teaching program has confirmed it. Baroncini Gelateria is the best in Florence. The worst? I don't know for sure, but probably the ones with the brightest colors and the cheesiest flavor names.

I wake up each morning to my neighbors' shouts and the slams of doors. My arms are mosquito bitten, and I scratch them as my alarm goes off. My ringtone? This tacky and annoying Russian-sounding tune. Cultural, I know.

I'd heard of this kind of chocolate before, but I bought a bar of Ritter Sport. It's German. I hate the name though, because after eating chocolate, there's nothing I'd rather do less than a sport. I'd prefer, I think, a nap.

I was thinking back to Viareggio the other day, some of the things I heard Serena's family say. One of her father's lifelong dreams is an RV roadtrip across the United States. The stuff of novels worshipped by hipsters and B-movies starring Robin Williams. It must seem weird to Europeans, then, that we Americans want to vagabond around their continent on shoestring budgets, wearing coffin-sized backpacks.

Salute.
-a