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SUMMER TRAVEL: LIVING THE LANGUAGE
SEND US YOUR STORIES!
Language teachers love to travel abroad, and summer is the preferred time to take off. It is fun to discover new countries and new cultures but teachers tend to prefer traveling to places where their target language is spoken. These experiences not only enrich the teachers but also their students.
Examples and more info below
July 2010
A RARE VIEW OF ROME: Learning Italian in Quick Time
By Frances M. Sanfilippo
From my hotel window I watched Rome awaken in the hazy morning sunshine. I could feel the promise of surprises in this magnificent city. I sipped the brew of espresso with warm milk and nibbled on a fresh croissant as I thought of the wonderful sights I had already seen. It was my 6th day in that city of treasures. I had been to the popular sites – the Coliseum, the Forum, the Trevi Fountain, the Vatican - and I was thinking of the new experiences that might be waiting for me The events that followed changed the entire course of my trip.
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From http://graphics.stanford.edu/
projects/mich/villa/villa.html |
Shortly after leaving the hotel, I had an unfortunate encounter with a “motorino” (small motorcycle) as I was crossing Piazza Colonna. Normally there was a policeman directing traffic in this chaotic circle. Today he was not there. The traffic came streaming at me from all directions. All of a sudden, I was knocked into the air. One of my shoes flew off. I landed on the pavement with a thud. As I lay on my back in shock, several people rushed to my aid. They cautioned me not to move. I soon found myself in an ambulance that took me to the Ospedale San Giacomo (a public hospital) and then on to the Casa di Cura Quisisana (a private clinic).
At the Ospedale I was placed on a gurney in a drive-up outside of the building. There I strained to answer a policeman’s questions as I tried to formulate questions of my own in Italian. Once inside, I tried to discover what my injuries were and how they were going to be treated. X-rays were taken and I found that the femur head of my left leg was fractured and had to be stabilized surgically in order to heal. I was wheeled to a long room where there were several other patients with families caring for them. The atmosphere was quite sad. An attending doctor told us that I would get good care there at no cost to me. However, because it was very crowded, the Casa di Cura Quisisana was an option. I chose the Casa. Mauro, a sturdy ambulance driver, had me hold him in a bear hug as he lifted me onto a stretcher and cautioned, “Non mi bacia signora, sono sposato.” I was not to kiss him because he was married.
At the Casa, I learned Italian faster than I could have with tapes and a tutor. I added ‘prosthesis’ and ‘titanium pins’ to my vocabulary. I was able to say “Is surgery necessary?”
“What medication am I getting?” “It hurts.” “The bed pan, please.” “Thank you, nurse.” “Does anyone speak English?” The reply to this last question was usually “No.”
I worried a bit as a resident stabilized my foot with a plaster cast which looked like airplane wings. He began to argue with his assistants. They became so involved with their problem that they almost forgot that my leg was being held in the air by my toes. Actually, needing his hand to emphasize a point, the holder let go for a moment (no harm done) and apologized profusely with a truly contrite, “Scusi, signora, mi dispiace” (Excuse me, ma’am, I’m sorry). I indicated that the discussion had me worried, whereupon the raised voices calmed to assure me that I need not be concerned, all was well. And the animated debate resumed. At this point I just wanted to return to the USA. However, my better judgment opted for treatment in Rome. A move at this point could further damage my leg.
At the clinic, everyone was kind and helpful. The doctors were marvelous. The operation was scheduled and I was able to communicate that I preferred a local anesthetic. The anesthetist, who had studied some English, obliged and I watched the surgery on a monitor. The anesthesia wore off almost immediately afterward with no ill effects. Throughout the procedure the surgical team worked quickly and efficiently, adding a comment now and then that kept me in good spirits. The chief surgeon quipped that since he had used titanium screws, I would not have to worry about the metal detector at the airport. One assistant asked, “Come sta?” (How are you?) I answered, “Bene, come va?” (Fine, how’s it going?) - a little word play about how I felt with his reply, “I’m ok, you’re ok.” (in English). The doctors may not have spoken much English, but they were certainly quick-witted and well–spoken with words they did know.
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| From http://www.amnotizie.it/notizie/index.php?start=24 |
I remained in the hospital for six days. My meals were a treat – hospital fare but with the special touch of Italian cooking. I had heard that you can not get a bad meal in Rome and I believe it. The morning pot of hot coffee with a pitcher of warm milk and some delicious rolls were especially welcome. The cleaning personnel opened the drapes and raised the Roman blinds to present me with an extraordinary view. Their warm, upbeat attitude was contagious. At one point, the senior member of the crew teased me with a tickling gesture toward my foot which was dangling with weights at the end of the bed. I flinched as expected, but the joke was a happy distraction from the pain I was feeling.
While I was enjoying the hospitality of the Casa staff, my husband was seeking help in getting a flight home and having funds transferred so that I could leave the hospital. The bill
had to be paid before I was released. He went to the US Embassy for assistance and found the grounds heavily guarded. At an adjacent building, he was introduced to an English-speaking Italian lawyer who was most helpful. With the collaboration of our daughter and our tour agent in the US, we obtained a direct flight home.
The adventure was a unique experience and I look forward to continuing the trip tha ended so abruptly. (Our original plan was to travel from Rome to Sicily where we had reserved a car to explore southern Italy.) Fortunately, our travel insurance covered the missed part of our itinerary. As tradition has it, the coins I threw in the Trevi Fountain assure our return. Besides, the young doctor who was in charge of my care jokingly promised me a motorino ride on my next visit as we wished each other, “Ci vediamo”, “Arrivederci”. (See you, Good-bye.)
- FMS
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June 2010
Le Cinema: Going to the Movies in Paris
By Rebekah Bray
 In the U.S. there are all sorts of movie-goers. There are people who purchase tickets ahead of time on Fandango and those who wait until after the previews have begun to arrive at the theater, people who camp out for the premier night and people who are buying popcorn as the movie begins, people who slurp their drinks and text during the film, people who laugh at (in)appropriate moments and people who comment, people who stay through the credits and people who fall asleep. I’d like to think that I am a somewhat normal American when it comes to going to the movies, with a mix of getting there early and late, eating, and seeing the bloopers at the end of the movie.
But when I went to le cinema in Chatelet les Halles to see Robin des bois (VO), I was in for a surprise. Since we were in the area, we decided to purchase our tickets well before the movie started. Although I knew that Robin Hood was the movie I wanted to see, I wondered what else was showing, so I looked around while my friend, Jean-Marc, got the tickets. There are posters for each film posted, slightly larger than a legal size of paper, that are just publicity. To find out the length of the film, the actors, and the plot, there are computer printouts posted on a board in the middle of the waiting area to consult. After selecting a movie, you can either purchase your tickets from the desk or at the little kiosk machines, just like in the US.
We got to the movie early, which was a good thing because it was packed. People were cutting in line (sliding in on the side), then in order to pass into the screening room itself, we had to file one by one. Sadly, though, people did not realize how small the door was and many people were squished in, two at a time. We finally got into the theater about 15 minutes before the movie began, and there was nothing on the screen. In fact, only two trailers / advertisements played before the movie began. Normally, if you get to the film 20 minutes ahead of time in the US, there are ads until the previews begin. 
Finally, the movie began. No one spoke once the movie came on. I knew that most people would be watching the subtitles (which have jokes in different places), so I tried to keep my eye on them while I watched the movie in English; Version Originale (VO) means that there are subtitles because rarely are films dubbed anymore. As a semi-frequent movie-goer, I know when to laugh out loud, when to keep it to myself, when to gasp, sigh, and recoil in surprise or fear. I followed the conventional rules for each of these, but in the packed theater, I was the only one who moved or made a noise except for one joke about sex that was well translated in the subtitles. There were several places where I thought laughing was appropriate (if you’ve seen the movie, the time when Marion and Robin are discussing her husband, a knight, and their wedding night), but no one else made any noises.
When the movie was over, some people stood up but no one left the theater until most of the credits were over. I asked Jean-Marc if this experience of not talking and moving was normal.
He replied, « Ici, on n’a pas la droit de parler: on te casse la gueule si tu fais ça. » (Here, you don’t have the right to talk – they would kill you.). Because I did not believe what he said, I insisted that we attend a different cinema for an independent film. The only difference in this smaller theater was that the room that we were to see the movie in at 9 pm had a movie in there that ended at 8:55 and we weren’t allowed in until 9.
So, be careful not to talk or move, no matter what happens in the theater!
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May 2010
SUMMER TRAVEL: LIVING THE LANGUAGE
Language teachers love to travel abroad, and summer is the preferred time to take off. It is fun to discover new countries and new cultures but teachers tend to prefer traveling to places where their target language is spoken. These experiences not only enrich the teachers but also their students.
We would like to encourage you to share your stories. In the Speaker’s Corner collection we already have some interesting travel stories written by teachers.
We have some more stories in the works.
- Frances Sanfilippo finds herself learning Italian very quickly after an accident in Rome landed her in the hospital for an extended stay.
- Beckie Bray is back in Paris delving into the culture there and will soon share new impressions with us.
- Carlo Mignani is trying to find out how Italians spend their vacations and how their habits differ from those of Americans.
Please send your personal travel stories to Christine for inclusion in the Culture Club’s Speaker’s Corner. And we always welcome stories about your trips abroad with your students.
Also please consider sending photos for the monthly Where in the World? Mystery Contest and recipes for the Banquet Hall.
Thank you! Merci! Grazie! Gracias! Danke!
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From January 2010
Nocturnal Adventure in Paris:
A French Teacher’s Panic Turns to Glee
By Lois A. Jarman
 Lois Jarman is a foreign language educator in Frederick County, Maryland. We appreciate her sending in this article for publication in the Culture Club’s Speaker’s Corner. We always welcome contributions from teachers in the trenches.
I was recently winding up a ten-day trip to Ireland, the UK, and France with some of my students. We were a group of sixteen and were spending our last evening of the trip in Paris. We had ascended the Eiffel Tower, cruised the river Seine on a tour boat and were dining outside at a wonderful café in the Place de Tertre at Montmartre. We had just finished our crèpes with whipped cream and were sipping diabolo fraise. It was a glorious night and my students were relishing the experience of the French café and outdoor dining. Our waiter was quite jovial and patient as my students used their imperfect French to order and to make polite conversation with him. It was indeed pleasant.
Eventually, I signaled to the waiter that we would like to pay the bill. We collected the necessary monies and left the café. As we stood in the square, my dear friend, one of the trip chaperones, said, “Isn’t the last train back to the hotel at 12:45?” I looked at my watch which read 12:20 and then, in a panicked tone, I yelled, “Run!” Our descent down the hill was at lightning speed. In all my visits to Montmartre, I had never moved on those stairs that quickly. We ran down the street to the metro station. Fortunately, we all had previously purchased our train tickets, so we moved rapidly through the turnstiles. My entire group of sixteen jumped onto the first train that arrived at the station. It was not long before we realized that we were heading in the wrong direction. “Off at the next stop,” I bellowed.
The next stop was the Gare du Nord, but it was already 12:50am, and I knew that we had missed our train. Trying not to let my students see my panic, I pretended to be calm as I led them to the door of the station and out to a group of gendarmes gathered near a van in front of the train station. I explained to them that I had carelessly missed the last RER train to Noisy Le Grand and that I needed to get my students back to our hotel. The policemen conferred and then agreed that our best bet was the bus. They politely pointed me in the direction of the nearest bus stop and off we headed. It was now well after 1 a.m., and I was walking through the streets of Paris, in the dark, with my bewildered group. I played the “I have everything under control” role convincingly …for a while.
By the time we made it to the bus stop, our Tour Director had called me on my cell from the hotel, concerned that we had not returned. He proceeded to tell me that the safest option for our return was to go back to the Gare du Nord and herd together four taxis. He estimated that the cost would be around fifty euros per car. I had not a centime on my person as I had spent the last of my cash at Montmartre. I turned sheepishly to my students and asked if they would be willing to pitch in whatever they had managed not to spend on the last night of our trip and that I would need to find an ATM to get the balance. Fortunately, one of the students had plenty of cash remaining, so we rushed back to the train station to search for our cabs. 
As luck would have it, there were four cabs parked directly in front of the train station. I proceeded to bargain with the cabbies for a price. We agreed on what I thought was an outrageous price but by this time it was already past 2 am, and I was desperate. We piled into the vehicles, one adult and three students in each. And we were off.
The reality of the situation hit me hard once we were en route and I started to cry. The cabbie asked me what was wrong and why I was crying. I told him that I had let my students down and that I had put their safety in jeopardy and that I felt awful. He told me to stop crying, that he could not stand to see a woman cry. Then he proceeded to tell me that we were perfectly safe and on our way back to the hotel. To stress our safety, he continued by telling me not to worry because he had a gun. The gasps of the students were audible. As the cabbie reached between the two front seats to retrieve his gun, I thought to myself, “Can this possibly get any worse?”
‘Hysterical’ does not begin to describe my laughter and that of the students in the rear seat, when our dear French cabbie pulled up a bright yellow and blue “gun.” He showed it to me with a “no worries” grin across his face. Just then, we came to a red light and stopped. The second cab, carrying my dear friend and three other students, pulled up right next to us. With the windows down, the two cabbies began to converse. Then our cabbie raised his weapon and “shot” his colleague. The brightly colored gun was indeed a water gun. The roar of laughter shook both vehicles.
Then the cabbies started a chorus of “course, course.” When the light changed, we were off, racing through the streets of Paris at roughly 2:30 in the morning. The students were laughing hysterically. And so were the cabbies and, much to my surprise, I was, too. The streets of Paris were deserted. It was the pre-dawn hours of Bastille Day. And two wild cabbies were racing through the streets, making an American teacher and her students feel, well…safe. I had no doubt that these two crazy Frenchmen would deliver us to our hotel, safely…and in record time, I might add.
We were back at the hotel well before three in the morning. Our Tour Director was waiting outside the hotel for us when the mad cabbies turned the corner into the hotel drive. Photos were taken with our new friends and we said our good-byes. I turned to apologize to my students for the disaster I had caused because I had carelessly lost track of time.
“That was the most awesome cab ride,” they exclaimed. “What a great way to end our trip.” And they were off to their rooms, giggling and recounting the event, without hearing my apology.
And so, in twenty years, when my students will recall with fondness their trip to Europe in 2009 with Mrs. Jarman, my guess is that all they will remember is the cab ride…and all the laughter.
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