Being an Au Pair

Before one becomes an au pair, one should consider carefully the demands of the job and whether one is suited for the lifestyle.  I've been thinking about this in the past week because Emi is about to leave for home and a new French au pair is about to arrive.  I am quite content after almost two months of living here, but both Emi and the other girl I worked with before have said they were quite ready to leave after one month.  I don't know how the next girl will be, but I myself really don't feel that way!  I feel happy and, honestly, lucky to be here.  I've been pondering what the differences could be between those girls and myself, and the following are my thoughts in stream-of-consciousness form.  If anything is confusing, leave a comment and I'd be happy to clarify.

1) Temperament.   I actually enjoy being with kids for moderate periods of time. I think of them as less-mature equals (is that possible?) meaning that I take their games seriously, I try to talk to them as other human beings rather than little angels or little devils, and I seriously try to understand what they are thinking.  Now, this may come as a surprise, but not all au pairs I've encountered like to play with children.  That presents some difficulties, no?  Our particular family is rather protective of the children, meaning we stay at home a lot.  Besides the trip home from school, swimming lessons, and the weekly trip to the children's museum, we don't go out a lot.  That leaves lots of one-on-one time between us and the kids, and as I might have mentioned before, they don't have very long attention spans.  I take this as a fun challenge to create new games and teach them new things.  While it can be exhausting at times, the moments of genuine enjoyment, for me, outweigh any drudgery.

2) Attitude.  I only work five hours every day, so no matter what the kids (and occasionally the parents) throw at me, I have nineteen more hours to eat and play and sleep and forget about all the negatives.  And I do!  Seldom do I truly feel bummed about my situation.  I can think of one or two times it's happened.  Once was when we took the kids to school in the morning.  I was a little down in the first place, because I had just learned that we would be doing this once or twice a week.  That wasn't in my original work agreement, so the idea took some getting used to.  Adding insult (literally) to injury, the boys were very, very, very naughty on the tram.  They talked in loud voices, they nearly jostled other passengers out of their seats, and they pointed rudely and laughed at an old man.  They wouldn't listen to Emi and me when we asked them to stop.  I was just depressed over how bad they were!  When we left them at school it was not on good terms, and the situation weighed on me the whole day.  The only other scenario in which I get bad feelings about the job is when someone (either my fellow au pair or another girl who knows the family) brings up the struggles of the job and how difficult it can be.  I just don't like to dwell on it, thank you very much!

3) Expectations.  I've already mentioned this, but I only have to work five hours every day.  Sure, I work Saturdays, but then again Sundays are completely free.  Completely!  And seriously, it's only five hours a day.  As a teacher, I may be in front of my students for five to six hours every day, but then there's one or two hours of prep, at least two hours of grading, plus after-school activities and the time it takes to communicate with parents and students.  Lesson planning and grading seriously encroach on the weekends.  So this job, it's a luxury!  Good hours and low stress.  Well, low stress in my free time (remember that part about forgetting about the problems).    Despite being entrusted with two little lives every day, I feel less of a burden of responsibility as an au pair than as a teacher.  I don't know exactly why, but I do.  When I think about the demands of adult life, I think I've got a pretty sweet deal here.  I'm sacrificing some things, like steady month-to-month savings and an apartment of my own.  But, then again, I don't have to pay rent and I don't have to cook.  For one school year and a chance to live in a foreign country, it's an unbeatable opportunity.

In short, if you have some real life experience which can serve to provide you with accurate expectations, yet still feel able to adapt to different living and work situations, and -- let's not forget the most important thing -- like to be with kids, I highly recommend becoming an au pair!

Italian and French

I returned to Italian class this morning, after having missed week and a half due to the chicken pox.  It was was great and I got to review pronouns: direct, indirect, and combined.  Now, unfortunately, I will go another week and a half without class because of school holidays.  We actually get a week off from the language school, ourselves, while the boys get a week and a half off from their school.  This is all because of the All Saints holidays (or les vacances de la Toussaint as it says on the French school calendar).  Pfff!  Forget Halloween!  I'll bet many American kids would gladly trade in one night of trick-or-treating for over a week of school vacation.

After class, I went to Ladurée!  It was as beautiful and as tasty as I imagined.  And it wasn't too crowded, either.  I went with Léa, another French au pair, who was just as excited as I was about macarons (and who coached me on my French pronunciation).  Here are some photos of our expedition:

On the corner in a rather posh section of town. 

 Beautiful window displays, full of macarons.

 My beautiful bag and box of eight macarons which, I am a bit embarrassed to say, cost €14.  Think of it as a continuation of yesterday's celebration.  That's how I'm thinking of it.

From left to right: blood orange, licorice, marshmallow almond, hazelnut, coffee, raspberry  and pistachio   You may notice that there are only seven.  That's because I had already eaten the rose petal macaron.  It was so good.  It really smelled like a fresh flower (and might have tasted like one, too, for all I know).  Actually, I ate one bite of it.  Then a gypsy man came up to me asking for money or something for the little girl asleep in his arms (do they drug those children?  They are always sleeping, the poor things...) and I was so taken aback that I shoved the rose petal macaron into his hand.  I have never given anything to people begging on the street.  I don't know what came over me, or if he even appreciated the cookie.  Anyway, that's why it's not in the picture.

Raspberry!  I ate this one next because it had become a bit crushed on the journey home. I think there were crushed raspberries inside.  That's how good it was.

These were the only ones left at the end of my rampage.  To be honest, I ate the coffee macaron after I took the picture.  I reasoned with myself that I could eat four and still have half left.  And technically I'd only eaten three...right?!

The rest of the day, the parts we weren't working, we spent with Emi's mom and her mom's friends.  We had some coffee together around mid-day, then went out for drinks in the evening.  Now I'm off to bed because tomorrow morning we have to take the boys to school.  Good night!

Celebration!

Today was a red-letter day.  I didn't actually write on my calendar in red letters.  (Is that what the saying refers to?  I never completely understood it.)  Nonetheless, today was really special because I left the apartment after a week and a half of being cooped up inside.  Phew.  Never again!

I put on jeans!  I put on makeup!  Then I went to GiNa, a cute restaurant near Piazza di Spagna.  It wasn't really a traditional Roman restaurant, more fresh and trendy.  The ambiance was light, bright, and airy.  Here's how my table looked as I waited for my food:

I read about it in some "insider's guide" as a great place to have lunch with your girlfriends.  My girlfriends weren't available so I took myself.  It wasn't the cheapest place, but for some reason I haven't had occasion to spend money recently -- hmm, whatever could have happened?! -- so I was way under budget for this month.  I had a delicious salad, as pictured below:  

Look at that delicious goat cheese.  It was lightly warmed and soooo good.  I also saw that you can reserve a picnic basket to take with you for an afternoon in Villa Borghese, which is just up the hill from the restaurant.  Cute!  (It costs €40 however.)

As I walked back to meet Emi and pick up the boys at school, I stopped at Ciampini to get gelato.  Mariacarla had recommended it to me when I told her I was making a gelato tour of Rome.  She was right.  My flavors of choice were dark chocolate along with figs and walnuts.  So good!  Not too sweet but full of flavor.  Behold:

Then, after a good afternoon with the boys, I set out once more.  It was a red-letter day, after all, and I wasn't going to let any opportunity slip by.  This time I went for an aperitivo.  This is a nifty custom in which one pays a fixed amount (tonight it was €8.50) for one drink and a buffet of food.  Some places you get one visit to the buffet, other places are all-you-can-eat.  The quality of the food also varies.  I went to Fluid, a bar near Piazza Navona that Emi had told me about.  It's well-known for its aperitivo and features pretty substantial food on its buffet (pasta, vegetables, etc.)  I thought it would make a nice supper.  Here's what I ate:

That's white wine, by the way, even though it says "martini" in huge letters.  Afterwards I got some eggplant and some meatballs.  I wasn't quite sure if it was one of the all-you-can-eat places, but nobody seemed to mind.  It was a good meal!

Now I am tired and happy.  Unfortunately, I can already feel my legs aching.  What a bummer.  I started running again at the beginning of this month (I had to save up my money for running shoes, first) and just before I got the chicken pox I was really getting into it.  In fact, the day before the virus hit I had gone on a nice forty-minute run along the river.  (That was partly because I deviated from my route and got lost.  It took me longer than expected to get back home.  Teehee.)  Now I have to start over.  Oh well, a new challenge.

Oh, and if you didn't get enough food images today, tomorrow is the grand opening of Ladurée (a Parisian tea room famous for its macarons,  light almond meringue cookies filled with ganache or something equally decadent...maybe I will have pictures tomorrow).  I am so excited because I have been longing for some good macarons.  There used to be a bakery in Annapolis that sold them, and from time to time I would drive the half hour downtown just for the special treat.  What luck that a Ladurée should be opening in Rome during my time here!

Out

I do hereby resolve that tomorrow I will go out, even if it's just to walk in the fresh air.  I might have one or two spots that haven't gotten a scab, but they're hidden away on my back under my shirt.  I think everyone's tired of me being sick, anyway.  The family shouldn't protest too much.  If I don't go out, tomorrow will be the tenth day that I haven't left the apartment.  That's just unfathomable.

I get into all sorts of trouble when I'm not allowed to go out.  I haven't been exercising in any way, shape, or form...and consequently have been getting out of shape.  My body is convinced that it needs three hearty (and I do mean hearty) meals a day, but it's really too much food when I am idle.  Speaking of which, everyone knows that idle hands are the devil's workshop.  Do you think I started my grad school applications during the time I was house bound?  No!  Of course not!  Instead, I re-taught myself how to find TV shows and movies online, then watched them for hours and hours and hours  So I've become not only physically but also mentally lazy  It's horrible state of affairs.

The only good thing to come of being stationary is that I restarted this blog.  And I'll continue tomorrow, don't worry.  Maybe I'll even have more interesting things to write about.  Okay...a domani!

Practice Makes Perfect

Tonight I am practicing the art of a short post.  It's 10 p.m. on Monday night, and I don't have time or inspiration for something longer.  If I don't write at all, however, I start down the slippery slope that ends in utter blog silence.

Tonight I told Grandpa Pietro about all the blogs I read.  I was practicing my Italian.  Earlier he'd asked me if I liked to speak Italian, and I said yes, of course!  Then he pointed out that he was around all week and that I could talk to him whenever I wanted.  So I took my little introverted self out to the living room and we had a nice conversation.  It's always a splash of cold water on my happy little parade (mixed metaphors?) when I realize that I don't actually speak Italian very well.  When I read things on the internet, I understand most of it.  When I watch TV, I can get the drift of the story.  When I speak, however, I am slow.  I have to stop and think a lot, and even then I make silly mistakes.  I completely understand my mistake and how to correct it, even as the other person is explaining it to me.  I have to remind myself, when my ego is feeling picked on, that it was still a mistake.  There's a difference between knowing how to do something and being able to do it.  I haven't really mastered word until I can use it easily in a sentence.  And how can I use it in a sentence unless I'm talking?  Oh, language assimilation must be so much easier for extroverts!

Now you can practice using the comment box... ;)

The Grandparents Come for a Visit

Yesterday marked one week since the arrival of the nonni -- the grandparents!  Pasquale's father had to have heart surgery, and the family knew a good doctor in Rome.  So, nonna and nonno drove up from Naples last Saturday to spend a few days with the family before the surgery.  Pietro and Manu were very excited in anticipation.  We heard all sorts of tales like "My nonno holds me on his shoulders!"  We had just met the other set of grandparents, Mariacarla's parents, who are also very nice but perhaps a bit more feeble.  In comparison, these grandparents are young and vigorous (albeit in need of valve repair).  Anyway, they arrived a little after lunch on Saturday, allowing Emi (my current French colleague) and myself to finish work early.  That turned out to be the day I started to get sick, so I happily returned to my room to take a nap before taking the bus out to visit Anna.

The main thought in my head when I sat down to write this post was the scary story I heard in the aftermath of grandfather's surgery.  He went in on Wednesday and came home twenty-four hours later.  The procedure itself seemed fairly routine: they made a small incision near his groin and another in his chest, so it was minimally invasive.  But here's what shocked me:  he was awake for the entire procedure!!!  I don't know if it was some fluke, or if this is standard practice in Italian medicine, but this man had heart surgery without the benefit of general anesthesia.  He told me, shaking his head like someone who had just witnessed the brutalities of a war, "Dura, Katie, dura."  It was rough, Katie.  I believe it, man!  That's like Civil War medicine.  Well, except for the highly sophisticated surgical technique.  But really?  No general anesthesia?!  I almost wouldn't believe it, except for how worn out he looked when he returned home.  Also lending credence to his tale is an blog post I just read, describing the story of a woman and her small child who had to have their orthopedic rods removed without the benefit of pain relief.  Nothing.  I assume that the grandpa at least had local anesthetic; maybe I shouldn't assume.  I shudder to imagine.

Anyway, the grandparents are great.  I was a little uncertain about the grandma's personality at first (she didn't talk to us much the first day, but I think that was just confusion over language) but she is great.  We celebrated her onomastico, or saint's day, on Monday night.  We had cake and ice cream in the living room with the neighbors.  I felt guilty, eating all that sugar when I was sick...but I quickly got over it.  So can any Catholic friends guess her name?  

Speaking of names, the family keeps up the Italian tradition of naming a little boy after his grandpa.  So the grandpa's name is also Pietro (which creates a bit of confusion in the house, at times).  Pietro, the six-year-old whom I babysit, is actually the fourth Pietro in his family.  The grandpa is the third.  And the first Pietro Fava was born in the 1800s.  I can't remember the specific year I was told.  The grandpa tells me all about their family and their home in Naples.  He tells me when all the football matches are on, and who won.  He willingly corrects my Italian.  Both grandparents are always asking me how I'm feeling, checking out my chicken pox, and reminding me not to scratch.

I will be sad when they leave.  Actually, I think the grandmother has gone home for a few days, but the grandfather can't go home until he feels well enough to drive.  It could be another week.  We'll see.  In the meantime, I like having him around.  It never hurts when he cracks his belt to scare the kids.  Or tells Emmanuel to be quiet or a witch will hear him and come to eat him.  :)

Life in the Big City

This morning I didn’t go out.  Tomorrrow morning I won’t go out.  I will be so happy when I recover from these dastardly chicken pox and get to out again.  I should have a coming-out party, in the style of nineteenth century debutantes.

But two weeks ago I went out.  I noticed that day, for the umpteenth time, what a nice place Rome can be.  Although it is Italy's biggest city, its atmosphere is not what I would call chaotic.  It's almost tranquil.  It's no small town, but it still feels like a neighborly community.  

During my first month here, I had taken the tram over the river to visit a potential language school.  In the middle of Piazza del Risorgimento, where I was awaiting Tram 19 to take me home, I watched homeless man plodding along.  Before long he stopped, sat down on the ground, and then lay flat on his back, as if giving up the ghost.  It was a very hot day, but he lay down in the sun and not in the shade.  Not normal behavior, to say the least.  Barely had I though all these thoughts, when two women and one man approached the scene.  They found a bottle of water and began to revive him.  They sprinkled water in his face and then actually forced him to drink.  I was impressed that they’d take such action with a stranger, who was not directly their responsibility.

Last Sunday was another example of neighborly behavior in the city of Rome.  I was supposed to meet some friends for a walk around the city.  I set out early to find a nice café  to pass some time and have a cappuccino.  I stopped at one nearby my house, which I have walked past dozens of times but never had time to try.  The only other customer present when I came in was a rather ancient lady who had dressed herself up and come down for Sunday morning breakfast.  The barista and owner were treating her with the utmost respect (something else I love to see in Italy is the courtesy towards women and elderly people -- and when you combine those two groups and add a religious habit, wow!  I wish you could have been on the tram on afternoon when my friend and I got on with a group of nuns.  People were literally jumping out of their seats and insisting that the sisters sit down.)  The owner had just brought over a bag of fresh fruit for her.  I decided to sit down, too, even though it usually costs more than standing at the bar.

This is the cappuccino I received.  Look at the fancy chocolate pattern on top!  This doesn't happen in a more crowded bar.  When I got up to pay, the man at the register whom I presumed to be the owner told me to wait and then fetched me a fresh, ripe persimmon!  (My favorite!  I didn't know that they grew in Italy, but I have since enjoyed them several times.)  He also only charged me one euro for the cappuccino at the table!  Sunday morning special?  I said to myself that I would go back, but so far the opportunity hasn’t presented itself.  And now I’m house-bound, at least for a couple more days.  Perhaps I that's how I will celebrate: a return to Caffé Fontana.

Hopefully those anecdotes were able communicate a bit of the charm that Rome holds for me.  Just look how happy I am to be here!  (This was one week before being hit with the plague.  I may never look like this again...)