Hooray For Useless Languages!

Today I went into my classroom and made the following list on the whiteboard. See if you can figure out what it all means.

International Cities:
Dubai, Budapest, Nurnberg, New York, London, Manchester, Paris, Lisbon, Bolzen, Rome, Florence, Bologna, Ancona, Milan, Sao Paolo, Dakar.

Professional Sports:
NBA, World Championship Sailing, World Championship Paratriathlon, Formula Indy.

Other Sectors:
Insurance, Toys, Tunneling, Engineering, Food and Bev, Wine business.

Did you get what they have in common?

My students couldn't figure it out either, so here the solution.

These are all of the cities (actually it is a partial list of just the sexiest ones) that I have visited for work in the sectors above (Formula Indy was not work but thanks to languages). I had all of these opportunities because I studied what other people called "useless languages."

The "useless" languages that led to these experiences were French, Portuguese and Italian.  I have lots of others I am working on with varying degrees of commitment as well: Albanian (specifically Kosovan), Triestino (yes, it's a language), Wolof, Slovenian, and, most recently, Swedish.

What are your useless languages? Who knows what doors they will open for you.

The Undocumented Bear

Note: This article has been updated for clarification and correctness. KS

I have a friend named Azim, who was my student a couple of years ago when he first arrived in Trieste as a refugee. We have run into each other on and off since then and now I am working with him and his friend Abbas to help them run their own micro business. 

Here is what I can tell you about Azim. It's actually not much because he would rather talk about the present than the past and I don't have enough cultural literacy to be able to interpret the information he has given me into something more. 

He is 32 years old. He was born in Afghanistan but his family fled to Iran because his country was at war. In Iran he lived in a refugee camp and then in the city of Asfahan. He was never recognized by Afghanistan as a citizen and he was not recognized by Iran, either. Not being Iranian, he was not allowed to go to school in Iran. He began working in a tailoring shop when he was 7 years old. He became an expert tailor. He learned how to read and write on his own. When his father died, he decided to go towards Europe. After a long and arduous trip he ended up in Norway where he applied for asylum and worked as a tailor for two years. When his number came up, he was denied asylum and sent back to Afghanistan because that was where he was born. Having never lived there and having no rights there as a citizen (because he was never recognized there), however, he decided to try again, this time he ended up in Trieste. 

Have you ever met anyone without a nationality? With NO CITIZENSHIP? Can you imagine what that must feel like? Now, I don't want to go on a political tyrade here, but I do want to humanize for a moment the refugee situation we are experiencing here in Trieste. 

So I met Azim when he ended up in my classroom. What impressed me about him was how hungry for school he was. He spoke English quite well, but he came to the beginner class, too, just so he could be around learning longer. When he told us his story, I understood why. Our kids don't understand that school is a privilege. 

Sometimes when we teach we go to the sewing machines. It is pure, hands-on problem-solving in English. Azim  became everyone's teacher. He could sew so fast, and was so at ease with fabric and needles and thread while I just bumble my way through the basics. Sewing is  an art and mastery is a pleasure to witness. From then on, we begged Azim to volunteer for us when we taught sewing to children. He was so patient with the kids and what a gift to see sewing as a skill that brings people together.  

After that, we saw Azim less. His English classes had finished and he was busy taking other courses and doing internships as part of the city's unemployment programs. Each time he hoped that he would get hired. Mostly, however, companies rely on these programs to help them get by, as times are still hard economically in Trieste. 

He came to my office one day to talk. I knew what he was going to ask. All of our refugees come back at some point desperate to find work. They love Trieste, they say, but there are no opportunities here. I know what he means. Contracts are very hard to come by. Ask any new graduate. It is very difficult to find a full-time job. Add to that being a foreigner and things are even more difficult. 

I try to spread the word to my friends and acquaintances that my refugee friends are looking for work and they give the same downward-tilted shake of the head and the sigh that say I know, these are tough times. 

Everyone tells them that, too. They say they want to go to the UK, Germany, Denmark, and we try to tell them, even worse than Italy right now! Governments have changed, there is no more tolerance, people don't want to help anymore. But this myth exists. Somewhere there is a job for me. 

But I don't believe that crap. Nobody wants to hire anybody these days. It's that simple. If you want to make it you have to create your own business. I have written about this here before, so I am sorry if I sound like a broken record, but THE FUTURE IS IN ENTREPRENEURIALISM, PEOPLE!! 

I could feel myself perk up with a little blast of Do-It-Yourself energy. 

YOU CAN SEW! YOU NEED TO MAKE THINGS!! YOU NEED TO SELL THINGS! YOU NEED TO RELY ON YOURSELF!! 

Duh, his look tells me, thanks for the MAN-SPLAIN, Karoline. As if I hadn't thought of that. 

He pulls out his phone, opens up the gallery and shows me photos of magnificent women's purses he makes out of used jeans. 

YES, I SAY! DO THAT! BUT NOT PURSES. Something else... 

We go back and forth for a while. He sticks on purses for a bit, I get stuck on baby clothes and baby blankets since my colleague is pregnant and I need to get her something. 

Then I get this BRILLIANT IDEA (and in this whole altruistic affair, let it go down in history that it was my dang idea!! At least that!!). BEARS. Yes, Bears made of Used Blue Jeans. 

He looks at me like I am wack! 

But at this point I have A VISION. I see the future! It is paved with teddy bears. And I remember that we have an embassy visit on Tuesday. 

Yeah, so, like can you make a teddy bear by Tuesday? And he is like, um, ok, I guess. And we decide to meet on Tuesday. 

In the meantime, I go back and forth on it. He will never do it on time, where are we going to get a pattern? What does this mean? How can he do this legally? 

And I make an appointment with an accountant, because if we are going to launch this super duper teddy business, we need to make it real, people! 

He basically tells me it can't be done. Unless they open a business and I am like duh, that is why I called you. I later found out it is even simpler than that if they start out as Hobbyists and sell at a few markets a year, but that is for another story. 

So fast forward to Tuesday. They come with TWO bears. One looks like a mouse, but I don't have the heart to tell him. Later in the meeting he says "One is a bear, the other look like mouse," so that cleared the air. 

We told the story. I threw some marketing magic into the mix. 

The symbolism of it all! Two hands up thumbs faced in, framing the pretend movie screen. 

A Bear (and a mouse)

A Refugee (and his friend Abbas, who sort of showed up and became part of the project)

What do we all need? Love, Security. 

Could these bears be the secret to both?

Fade out.

The embassy was enthusiastic and with American Corner Trieste they donated stuffing. The Salesian nuns donated used clothes, "Even the poor don't want to wear clothes that are torn and tattered, maybe the Teddy Boys can salvage something," said Sister Giovanna, and the Teddy Boys got to work.

They made 41 (forty-one) prototypes in about a week. Each one is marvelous and unique and dressed up with CRAZY COLOR COMBINATIONS. Seriously. They are gorgeous. They were the belles of the Fourth of July party we had on July 1st. Little people lined up while parents got out their wallets.

I thought I saw Abbas tear up when he saw the little girls choose outfits and then change them and change them and change them again. That was a turning point and perhaps the moment where he realized that Bears are kind of a big deal, and also that the CLOTHES are THE BEST!!

Then I thought about it. 

Bears, made in Italy, by men who are from Afghanistan but not really and Iran but not really and Trieste, but not really. 

Where will they end up? And where will they tell people they are from?

The bears are refugees too. They have no real documentation except the receipt we give people who  buy them. They do not have passports. Some will get stuck in suitcases and flown to distant destinations, especially since my mom got a hold of a picture of them and ordered ten for her friends and neighbors.

Another is on its way to New York next week.

Will they be turned away at the border?

If they are allowed to stay, will they be able to vote on important toy issues?

There are no clear answers yet. I will keep you posted.

Photo: Lucia Villegas

Creating a Garden on my Porch

If you have been keeping up, you probably know that my family and I moved into a real live house last November after 14 years of living in an apartment half the size with a view of a cement wall located on the first floor (which we Americans know is really the second floor) with absolutely no natural light to speak of. We used to call it our little cave, and when we were really down we would say we lived in a wine cellar. There were some good things about it, otherwise we would not have stayed so long. First, it was cheap and we could afford it even when we didn't have much money. As the years went on and we earned more, the expenses magically stayed the same, allowing us to save more money and eventually buy the house we happily reside in today. Let's just say ours has been a slow, upward trajectory with low expectations and modest returns. It's the get-rich-slowly approach that appeals to few but has worked for us. Our daughter misses that apartment because she had access to the (dark) front porch through a door out from her room (there are perks to living in a bedroom that was converted from a kitchen), there were loads of busses near the apartment, so we could come home for lunch and check on the dog (R.I.P. Luna), and we had fantastic neighbors. 

The only thing that place did not have was light. This meant we did not have plants. Well, we did have a couple of flourishing ferns for a while, but then we somehow killed those too. Something about watering them the day of a big freeze or something. Ooops. 

Fast forward, now we have SPACE and LIGHT and SPACE and MORE LIGHT. As you probably know, it is every Triestino's dream to live in a house with a "Toco de giardin". We do not have that. Instead, we have something like a courtyard where we can park two cars, and a porch off of our kitchen upstairs. This is what I intend to convert to my very own Toco de Giardin.

I started with plants my mother-in-law and sister-in-law gave us around easter: Basil, oregano, cilantro (per my request), and mint. I have since added geraniums (un toco de color!) to a flower box that will hang over the railing. 

My newest addition is tomato plants, and, get this: LETTUCE! Dudes, I am growing salad. Apparently it will be ready for eating in one month, then I can replace it with autumn salad (really! Things can actually grow in autumn here?! Hello, we are not in Wisconsin anymore!) and then endives or some other winter greens (a whole new world!). Wooo hooo! 

It's so exciting. I will keep you updated on our progress.

Welcome to your new home, little Buddies!!

Signing up for the Trofeo

I did something courageous last week. I signed up for the Trofeo di Trieste, which is a series of nine trail races around town and up in the carso. I have Always wanted to do it but felt like I needed to be in better shape to compete. I wanted to be thinner and faster and then knock everyone's socks off at race one.

Surprise suprirse...Never happened. The years continue to tick by and I just get fluffier and slower. So I decided to just sign up. I reasoned I could use the races to shame me into getting fit.

The first race was on Sunday in Basovizza. It was a 12k with about 8k of the most boring and straight trail you can imagine, not even one curve. BOOOOOOORING! The rest was a little more exciting even if there was a hill in there that kicked me in the pants pretty good.

I brought up the back pretty well, I must say. At some point I was running neck and neck with a friend of mine who has survived a stroke (hats off!!), and behind people who were about 30 years my senior. I decided to embrace the fact that I am out of shape, but I am running anyway (How do you get back into shape if you don't?).

I also had plenty of time to recognize and reflect on how many people in Trieste run these races year after year and never miss even one. There are some seriously ANCIENT runners in Trieste, and many, actually, MOST of them are kicking my ass.

Let's hope that I get my consistency on, too, and start kicking ass again, too. In the meantime, I feel very proud.

By the way, if you are interested in getting into the running life in Trieste, I highly recommend it. I have mentioned it before, but Triestini make friends through hobbies, not work. It's a great way to practice your Italian and meet new people. Italians love to run in groups, so if that is your gig, you can Always get into one of the groups that meets in Basovizza on Saturday mornings, for example, or Barcola during the week. I found they are open to new people, too. To run in the races you do have to have a medical exam and fill out specific forms, but it's Worth it.

If you are not into running, try a new sport, there are tons of groups that are willing to take you under their wing!

Trail Running for Dummies

I could write that book because I am the Dummy.

Chapter 1 working title: "Sign up for an impossible run in the mountains and hope that your fear will make you run again."

The content would explain how to have your husband (who is in much better shape than you because he has a running group he runs with every weekend) sign you up for a SKY RACE (yes, that means exactly what it sounds like: RUNNING IN THE GD SKY, as in UP A FRIGGIN' MOUNTAIN for 12 kilometers and down for two!!) that will take place exactly MUCH sooner than any decent training plan can prepare you for (especially if you have done essentially no running since about, say, 2014).

Chapter 2. Run for Two Weeks and then Have Someone in the Family (not you) Catch the Flu and then Use that as a Convenient Excuse to Stop Running again COMPLETELY.

No content here, the title says it all. (Don't mention the fact that the Flu Sufferer started training again as soon as the fever went down-- besides the point).

Chapter 3.  (Guilt sets in,we must have full disclosure) Flu Sufferer Goes Back to Training, but NOT YOU!

Chapter 4. Race Day

Learn an hour before the start that the trail is completely covered in snow and that you will have to BUY and WEAR metal spikes that stretch over your running shoes or you will do the entire downhill part of the race on your BUTT.

Chapter 5. Starting place.

The group of participants is actually small enough and professional-looking enough that you will most probably finish last (which is your destiny you big fat loser!!). This is what true mountain people/ultra marathon habitués look like. Enjoy the view and get ready to fake an injury before the starting gun.

Chapter 6. Find Out They Won't Give you that Kick Ass Race Pack Unless you Actually Start the Race.

Don't play dead just yet.

Chapter 7. You May not Finish Last After All, but Please Finish!

There are a couple of slow pokes you can easily pass on the way up (walking mostly with no energy for deep complaining). The man with the prosthetic leg is ahead of you, but clearly he is an incredible athlete, so just get over it.

Chapter 8. Mountains Scare you and That is OK!

Get to the top, down some shitty cookies, slam a hot tea and start going down. Go mostly sideways, make a little squeak/scream with every slip/step. Admit that you are a flatlander, let the phony slowpokes pass you. Eat their snowy dust. Don't let it get to you.

Chapter 9. Don't Listen to the Kilometer Marker Dudes.

They always say You're Almost There!! They are totally lying. Tune them out.

Chapter 10.  Finish the Damn Thing, 

Get the hell out of town and hope you never see these people again. Take 3 ibuprofen before your legs (which have not been communicating with your brain for about 5 kilometers) even feel the pain. 

Chapter 11. Take a Red-Faced Selfie and Facebook it like you Won it!!  

The End.

Send the Kids Skiing!

There seems to be a stark contrast between parenting styles in Trieste.

On the one hand, there are the mothers who see themselves as combat soldiers in a constant struggle to defend their children against their tyrannical teachers who assign too much homework, and the schools that provide inadequately delicious food to fuel their children. They monitor their children's time, schedule them abundant play time so they can be children. They vow to never let their children ride the bus unaccompanied by an adult until at least 3rd year of Middle School and are the administrators of the parents' whatsapp group.

Then there's our group of parents from Little Sweety's first grade class. Case in point.

We get a little flyer one day about a ski class for the kids. Five saturdays from 6:30am to 6:30pm. Not much more info on the sheet than that, which is an invitation to call. So we did. And the information was the total price, and how to participate.

Simple:
1. Drop your kids off (with the skis they rent or buy ahead of time)  in a big parking lot at 6:30a.m.
2. Fetch them at the end of the day.
3. If you give them 6 euros they can eat lunch.
4. Bus costs 12 euros total for one day.

No info on what they are supposed to bring, or what to wear (I have skiied twice in my life. Not an expert).
No form to fill out (oh yeah, we'll do that next week), no emergency numbers for any Just in Case situations. No possibility to pay (hah?) before the kids go to their first lesson, our babies, without us for a whole day.

Saturday morning the kids, who are a little nervous, hop on a giant bus with Slovenian licence plates that is (hopefully) heading to a place in Italy where people ski two hours away.

And all of this seems, like, Fine, at the moment of drop off.

And, frankly, ALL DAY as I got more stuff done than I can remember in recent history on a Saturday. Time flies, in fact, and since 6-year-olds don't have phones, we don't really have any updates, so it goes even faster!

The lady on the phone said they would be back between 6:15 and 6:30p.m..

It is 6:15 on the dot and we are waiting with the other parents in the parking lot. We exchange comments like Is this normal? Who are these people again? Do we have a phone number for them? Do they have ours?

I start to wonder if the over-protective mom-squad was right. What if they don't come back. What have I done.

Then, at 6:29 the bus rolls in, the kids get off, they are happy and bursting with energy. They see a patch of ice and immediately go and try to make snow balls out of it (we live in Italy, remember) and throw them at each other. The chaperones are cool as cucumbers. They say the kids were good. They mostly listened, only a couple of them got lost, but then they found them, so, yeah, it was a good day.

But... can we pay?
Well, we are really tired now, how about next week?

Awesome. Can't wait for next Saturday!

Put on Your Dancing Shoes

I always wondered where people dance once they have taken all of those lessons. Now I know: the SAGRA. This is the sort of outside party that the villages around Trieste take turns having to raise money for cultural events in their paese. You can go for dinner and have grilled civapcici or chicken or ribs and french fries and there is usually a great quantity of beer and wine to be had.

There is also live music and dancing. The music ranges from folky Triestine to 80s pop. The band will have at least one accordion. The senior population will ROCK OUT in front of you-- slow rocking-- but rocking all the same.

A Triestine favorite is the Line Dance. It is always the same one. It's like the Hustle with less soul. Let's say it's more like country line dancing. If you join the line, great. Try to get in the middle of the crowd so you don't end up in the front line when the group turns. They can do this one for hours and it seems to defy genre.

Watching everyone the other day, and seeing a group of small kids out on the dance floor, it reminded me of an American wedding, maybe the only time where everyone dances and nobody cares (Thank you, Booze!). And then I thought. Dang, if you know how to dance (just having the courage to try will suffice), you can always have a good time.