Les vacances scolaires

It is les vacances scolaires in the French school system (16 February to 2 March!!). The Frenchman and I spent one week skiing in the Dolomites. While we were skiing, between falling down and sobbing to the poor ski instructor, "I want my mommy!", the Bambina was learning how to ski. Having clung to the Tirolian, Germanophone ski instructor for the entire five days of ski lessons, she finally decided to venture down the ski piste alone, in snow plough position, during the last fifteen minutes of the last lesson. For that, the Bambina earned a medal, which she has hung proundly on her bedroom wall.

And now, we are back home and have one more week to keep the Bambina occupied before she returns to her école maternelle. Unfortunately, most of her classmates are still on vacation and her buddies in the Italian school system are - in school. They don't get a two-week break in February.

Which leads me to ask myself: what is with the French and their two weeks' vacation from school every seven weeks? And why didn't we take this factor into account when choosing a school? I think the Italians have the right idea having school all year long with no breaks except at Christmas, Easter and the summer. Finding something for your children to do during a two-week period every seven weeks of the school year is a big pain in the behind.

Of course, were we in the socialist paradise of France, we could send the Bambina to the local centre de loisirs every day during school vacation, 0830 to 1630. It is 100 percent subsized, free, and public. God bless their socialist souls. Being stuck in the French education system in Italy definitely has its drawbacks.

Then again, being in the French school system in Italy has its advantages - the ski pistes were practically empty in the Dolomites last week...

A week in Austria

Well, not really. In fact, we were in that very northern, mountainous part of Italy called the Sudtirol. But it might as well have been Austria. The people speak German (their mother tongue - they only learn Italian at school), the landscape and architecture look like a scene right out of the Sound of Music, the food is Austrian and the people are, well, not Italian.
"Do you prefer to speak German or Italian?" I asked the hotel owner.

"Lieber Deutsch", was his reply.

The Frenchman, in his oh so French "everything must be centralized" understanding of the world, was aghast. How can the Italians stand having people in their country for whom Italian is not their mother tongue, who prefer speck to parma ham and who seem not to care at all for the idea of, well, fitting in (or, dare we use the term, assimilating).

After all, what did the French do once they (unjustly, some would say) reacquired Alsace after World War I? Forced the German-speaking Alsacians to become French, of course! Out of the question to let the Alsacian culture survive! Now, when you meet person from Alsace, even if his last name is Steinbock or Schmidt or Apfelbaum, he is French. Alsace is awash with a kind of cultural Stockholm Syndrome - they adore their French captors to the point of denying any other possible origin of their sauerkraut and spaetzle dishes, their black forest architecture that speckles the Vosges and their "eastern" (read German) accent when they speak. So you had better not even suggest that he has anything other than French blood in his veins, because as far as he is concerned, he is the most French of all the French.

But I digress. Back to sudtirol. Sudtirol is definitely not Alsace and the Frenchman recognized this fact as soon as our tires hit the regional border. The signs are bilingual but, well, the German comes first and the Italian is often (gasp) written in smaller print. The man at the ski rental shop could speak Italian - that was clear. But he had to really think about it when he did and his first instinct was always to respond in German. I am told that the mountains a bit further to the south in the region (we were in Luson - about 100 km from the border with Austria) are more truly bilingual but you still notice the distinct Austrian flavour.

So when we returned to Rome, we had a chat with a few people here in Rome about how they feel about having non-immigrant citizens whose first language is not Italian.

The universal response went something like this: "They hate the Italians. They would rather be in Austria. And they are really ungrateful because they get more money in the form of subsidies than the entire south of Italy put together. And they collect their own taxes because of their 'special status' that they have by law". In short, they are annoying.

To which I responded: "Okay. Er, so why doesn't Italy just give the sudtirol back to Austria?"

To which they answered: "Are you kidding me? We fought wars to get that land!"

accents

Just a couple of days ago, the Bambina and I had the pleasure of meeting Everyday Yogini and her little bambina, Clara, who happens to be just three months younger than the Bambina.

Now, apart from listening to me, the Bambina doesn't get much other exposure to English(everyone else around her speaks either French or Italian). So I have always been curious as to how developed her speech and language was for her age (in English, that is). Little Clara has spent most of the three years of her life in the United States, so I was eager to listen carefully to how Clara's speech had developed.

Conclusion: I didn't notice much difference in vocabulary but BOY, do their accents ever differ. Clara's accent is all-American. Her r's are fully rounded. Her vowels are long. She says "girl" "geeerrrrelll". A real American.

The Bambina, on the other hand, has an accent that is somewhere between New Jersey and East London. I have no idea how she ended up that way given that the person she hears speak English (that would be me) has a fairly boring run-of-the-mill English-speaking Canadian accent. Maybe from her (British English) nana, who visits periodically. The Bambina says "guhl" for "girl" and "duh-ty" for "dirty" and even "no-ooo" for "no". It's all very cute - but I hope she grows out of it. She needs to speak her native language like a normal person. I don't mind if her accent ends up being British-English, but let it be something native, not some wild concocted accent based on hearing three languages a day.

Maybe I'll send her to English summer day camp.

carnevale vs halloween

One of the things that thrills me about living in Europe is that they don't do Halloween here. Now, most of my American and Canadian friends looooove Halloween. You just mention the word and they sink into the abyss of nostalgia, relaying to you a year by year account of their favourite childhood pasttime while your eyes glaze over.

Not I. Call me a party pooper by I can't get into a festival that encourages children to knock on complete stranger's doors at night, beg for candy, and then stuff themselves full of junk for the next month or two, rotting their teeth and stacking on pounds.

The one positive aspect of Halloween is the dressing up, which is why I think that carnevale is a great idea. Less sugar, less pigging out, more focus on the costumes.

Today is mardi gras and there is a festa at the Bambina's school. In preparation for this big day, I suggested to the Bambina last week that she dress up as a ballerina. Great costume for her and easy for me - she would just wear what she wears to dance class every week, with a little bit of make-up to boot! And as all of the Bambina's girlfriends planned to go as princesses, at least as a ballerina, she would distinguish herself somewhat. Perfect.

And then yesterday, when I reminded the Bambina that tomorrow was the big day and she would go to school as a ballarina, she popped the big news.

"I don't want to go as a ballarina!" she yelled.

Uh oh, I thought to myself. She wants to go as a princess. I will have to go buy a princess costume.

"I want to go as a LION!" she said.

A lion? She wants to go as a lion?

And then she roared! She really did want to go as a lion.

So I spent yesterday procuring a lion costume (borrowed from a friend) and some face paint. She refused the face paint in the end.

And today we arrived at school. Would you believe, every single other little girl in her class was dressed up as a princess? But not my Bambina. She was a lion!