Mama Mia

A few nights ago I almost died. Serves me right for accepting a dinner invitation from a large Italian family.

Currently I am staying just north of Venice in a town called Conegliano visiting my old friend Sharla, her Italian boyfriend Giorgio and his lovely Italian family. It was his uncle Luciano's 50th birthday and we were all invited out for a meal. It seemed harmless enough, but what do I know?

The restaurant was pretty, the company vibrant and the wine continuously flowing from large ceramic jugs. Luciano was kind enough to call ahead and inform the staff that I was vegetarian, and they were ready. The bread sticks and then the fresh baked bread for starters was flowing as continuously as the wine. Next the mouth-watering mushroom bruschetta and then a beautiful plate of grilled eggplant, squash, tomatoes, potatoes, polenta and a large square of freshly melted cheese was delivered to me while the rest were served different cuts of meats, cheeses, spreads and breads. I was just finishing my massive plate, about to sit back satisfied with the meal, when Sharla leans over and informs me that what I had just eaten was the main appetizer and that they would soon bring out the starters for the main meals. Meals. With an 'S'. My face fell.

About that moment Giorgio and his uncle recognize my tortured facial expression and burst into loud Italian laughter before informing the family of my misunderstanding. What followed, after everyone stopped laughing at my expense, was the perfect combination of pleasure and pain. What followed was a nine-course meal of more breads, bruschettas, salads, spiced aubergine, garlic stuffed tomatoes, six or seven different cuts of meat for the other eight members at the table with whole roasted onions and lemons, a lovely, creamy fish plate for me called Baccala with more polenta than I ever dreamed possible, topped off with more breads, meats, cheeses, and potatoes.

Sharla looks at me with pity and shares a pearl of wisdom, clearly a victim of Italian dinners in the past. "Just keep eating until your jaw stops moving. Then you know you're finished."

After a stunning meal sparkled with laughter, I sit back exhausted and rub my poor belly. Espresso appears in front of me, to my delight, and we sit and chat and they poke at my tattoos and ask me questions about traveling. We sit and no food comes, and I am relieved. Bottles of Prosecco, Italian champagne, appear next, and then the cake. The most amazing cake in the world. In my disabled state I could only pick up my fork again, but after the first bite I could have eaten the entire thing. It was fluffy and light, rich and dense. Crispy in places and creamy in others. Lemony and buttery, chocolatey, layers upon layers of bliss. It tasted better than sex, probably closer to what babies taste like. This cake is proof that the Gods exist and love us.

We all lick our plates and sit back again, smiling. About that time my body informs me that it can't handle anymore, and Luciano informs me that the Grappa is on its way. First the regular Grappa, then blueberry. If you don't know what Grappa is, it's the pure alcoholic form from grapes. It tastes like burning rubber, but in a nice way. When they brought out Limoncella, a drink of lemon rind, sugar and more alcohol, my head was spinning and I was done.

The whole event lasted five hours, and I am grateful for having survived. We are invited to another family meal tonight, so in preparation I'm not going to eat anything today. Hopefully they'll have more cake.

Candy from a Baby

The alarm went off next to my head at 6:20 a.m. I slunk out of bed and lit a candle to see my way down the stairs in the mountain hut. In the kitchen I found what I sought: a large metal pot and long wooden spoon. I tiptoe carefully up the centuries-old staircase and into a room filled with children sleeping peacefully, their innocent little faces just now visible from the rising sun. I love teaching.

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGABANGBANG!!!!!!
GOOD MORNING CHILDREN!! IT'S 6:30 A.M. TIME TO GET UP UP UP!!!

It was unnecessary to get them up so early. It was also quite unnecessary to wake them up in that fashion. One kid jumped a foot in the air, a few screamed. Most just rolled over and moaned. There was no real reason for doing it, except simply that I said bedtime was at 10:00 and they had stayed up late talking.

I operate on the principle that every action has a reaction. A boy sprayed his deodorant into the girls room, therefore each girl gets a turn spraying the boys room with his own deodorant. The boys walked around with a strange powdery scent for the rest of the week. I find this method extremely fair and entertaining. I'm not a huge fan of rules, and I am definitely not their mother, so they are allowed to swear as long as it's in English. They are allowed to play in the mud if they don't track it in the house, and they can eat all the sugar they want until dinnertime. If I catch them after that, whatever they have is mine. So easy, like taking candy from a baby, literally.

And then, after a week of bonding and fun, they are gone. After a week of testing our boundaries, pushing our limits, living, laughing and working together, these little German children say goodbye and shake my hand. A few I would like to punch in the face and then sterilize, but most I would just like to hug goodbye, and thank them for the time we shared together. But no, I'm in Germany, and they just shake my hand. It's a bit weird.

After four very crazy weeks, eighty-nine children, and eight instructors and language assistants, it's time to leave the tiny village of Baad. Living in the Alps for a month has quite possibly made me weirder than I was before going in, but there's not much I can do about that now. I'm currently siting in Innsbruck, Austria and tomorrow my plan is to head south to Venice, Italy to catch up with Sharla, an old friend I used to work with at Fado in Austin.

Small world, huh?