Stumble Stones: Rome's smallest monuments

Rome is full of huge reminders of the city's ancient past; statues, ruins and buildings all jump out at you, begging to be noticed and admired. But even the quietest streets have stories to tell.

I walk the same route to and from work every day, but it took me two weeks to notice two golden squares among the cobbles of one street. It was raining, so I was keeping my head down, and then I saw them - sort of glinting against a background of grey. So I stopped to look, wondering if they were part of an art installation, or gave information about the building they were placed outside.

The stones are a memorial. They each sum up a life in very few words, haiku-like in their simplicity. 'Here lived Lionello Alatri' reads one; the other is for his wife Evelina. Three dates follow; the date they were born, the date they were deported (to Auschwitz), the date they were murdered.

I found out later that the stones form just a tiny part of a project spanning eight countries, with over 40,000 stones and 84 in Rome. Each commemorates a Holocaust victim, with a simple inscription on the gold-plated stone outside the person's former home.

The artist behind it, Cologne-born Gunter Demning, wanted to give back a name to the victims who had been reduced to a number, returning them symbolically to the home and neighbourhood that was snatched from them. 

They are called Stumbling Stones, Stolpersteine in German, because the idea is that you literally stumble over the slightly raised cobbles, and are forced to remember. Demning says that stooping down to read the details is a kind of bow of respect to the victims.

Today the apartment block where the Alatri's lived is an office building. It's in one of Rome's priciest districts, full of businessmen in suits who seem to be in too much of a rush to notice two golden cobblestones.

I found a website with information about Rome's Holocaust victims, where I found out Lionello had dedicated much of his life working for Jewish institutions, and helped many Jewish refugees who fled to Rome from countries under Nazi control. He also owned a textiles business, but was forced to resign once Italy's racial laws came into force. Shortly afterwards, he and Evelina were taken from their home and deported to Auschwitz. After the week-long journey, they were judged unfit to work on arrival, and were both gassed to death.

It also contains a copy of the last letter Lionello wrote, which was thrown out of the train window and later found by a railway worker. Most of it is very matter-of-fact, and even optimistic. It opens with the words 'We are leaving for Germany' and goes on to explain how much the landlord was to be paid each month for light and gas bills, and various other financial affairs to be put in order.

He tells the reader 'I ask whoever finds this letter, for the sake of humanity, please do these things. Keep courage, like we are.' The letter ends with a sudden burst of emotion: 'I am dismayed.'

Lionello Alatri

The 10 best words in the Italian language

Studying languages at university left me utterly unprepared for real life in Italy, mainly because we focus more on the literature side of things than actually speaking words. I arrived armed with several ways of saying 'alas' in fourteenth century Tuscan, and, for inexplicable reasons, a lot of tree related vocab, but unable to decipher the average Italian menu - hardly the best tools for making friends.

On the plus side, perhaps out of pity for the fact that my chat in Italian was comparable to that of a medieval and socially challenged tree-hugger, most of the Italians I've met have been all too eager to help me learn their language.

Mostly this has involved laughing at my accent (no change there, then) and helping me craft the perfect insults and hand gestures necessary to confront the drivers who try to run me over each day, but I've also learnt lots of new words. Some are more useful than others, some are just really quite funny, and I'm 99% sure none of them were used by Dante. These are my ten favourites so far.

"vestirsi a cipolla" 
= to wear several layers of clothing
This literally means "to dress oneself like an onion", and I first heard it from my host mum in a discussion about English weather. She innocently enquired 'But don't you have to dress like an onion during English winter?', which, frankly, baffled me. At first I thought she'd got us confused with the French (who all go around on bicycles in stripy tops and onion garlands, so I've heard) but eventually it transpired that she was talking about jumpers and winter coats rather than vegetables. Makes sense when you think about it, sort of, and it's a cute little phrase.

"che figo/fico!"
= how cool!
This is used all the time. It literally means 'what a fig!' but in Italian can describe anything from a snazzy scooter to the British monarchy to your outfit. But it is a compliment - you just have to be careful the final 'o' doesn't come out as an 'a', or you're saying something entirely different...

"gattara"
= crazy cat lady
I've seen a fair few candidates for this description whilst out and about in Rome, so it's not surprising they have their own word for it. The Italians already find it hilarious that I'm called Cat (Catherine is a bit much for them as it tends to morph into 'Cazzzzzerina'), so I'm doing everything I can to stop this becoming my new nickname.

"beccare qualcuno"
= to hit on someone
'Beccare' means to peck, so this seems particularly appropriate having witnessed the insistence of certain Italian menfolk.

"avere una faccia tosta"
= to be tough/determined
I've heard this used a lot in the context of young people in Italy at the moment, who are faced with soaring unemployment rates in the wake of the economic crisis. It literally means 'to have a tough face' and sort of makes it sound like the Italians are planning to deal with the problems in their economy by way of a staring contest or something.

"sbrodolone" 
= someone who is a messy eater
I love how Italian manages to convey certain ideas in a single word, usually one which is lots of fun to say. This one comes from the verb 'sbrodolare' meaning to spill or dirty, so together with the suffix 'one' it translates as 'a big spiller'. Brilliant.

"stare fuori come un balcone"
= to be out of it like a balcony
This can mean 'out of your mind' (like the more commonly used 'fuori di testa') but in Rome seems to be used mostly to mean 'drunk'. It reminds me a bit of Michael McIntyre's 'gazeboed' sketch, and I hope to introduce it to the English language.

"limonare" 
= to make out with someone
Granted, 'lemoning' sounds a lot nicer than most English slang for kissing - the abolition of the word 'snog' is long overdue - but that doesn't make it any more normal. An alternative verb I've heard used is 'pomiciare', which literally means 'to polish with a pumice stone' and really doesn't inspire much confidence in Italian kissing techniques.

"precipitevolissimevolmente"
= as fast as you can
One of my favourite things about Italian is the endings which modify word meanings - for example, 'accia' meaning 'bad', so a 'parolaccia' is a swear word and 'linguaccia' is sticking your tongue out, and 'issimo' meaning very'. It sums up the Italian tendency to go a little overboard; nothing's ever 'fine' or 'OK' here, it's always 'benissimo!' or 'bellissimo!' which can be tricky for a Brit to come to terms with, trained as we are to reign in all emotions and apologise at any given opportunity. Apparently this is also the longest word in modern Italian - try saying that precipitevolissimevolmente.

And finally...

"Boh!"
It roughly means 'I don't know', but must be delivered along with your finest dumbfounded expression, palms upward, eyes wide and generally looking as though the person you're conversing with has just asked you to explain string theory. It's so much fun to say, and if you perfect this, you are basically a fully fledged Italian.

Going to the beach in November

Last weekend, my first in Rome, I took a train to Sperlonga beach, determined to make the most out of the last drops of summer. We arrived to find the beach totally empty, with just miles of sandy coast (plus loads of stray cats, and an ice cream vendor who looked at us with mild confusion when we went to buy gelato) for company.

 Although it was still just about what you could call 'beach weather' at the start of November, for Italians it was already way too cold, and by this time they had all retreated back inland. There seems to be a very narrow range of acceptable temperatures for the average Italian, whereby anything below 20 degrees is cause for hibernation, but the August heat sends them rushing to the coast for the sea breezes.

Sperlonga is the beach getaway of choice for most Romans - back in the day, even Emperor Tiberius had a villa there. During the summer months it is crammed with rows of sun beds and umbrellas, which seems to be the norm for Italian beaches; all the popular resorts are absolutely packed over summer during the mass exodus of Italians to the coast.

Different hotels or private beach clubs divide up the beach between them, fililing their patch with rows of deckchairs and sunloungers, and you'd be hard pressed to find a secluded spot. But when we went it was almost deserted, and it was beautiful.

The village itself doesn't seem nearly as commercialised or spoilt as Rimini, remaining on the low key end of the spectrum. A walk up the steep and winding path to the village, which sits on top of a hill, offers a vantage point over the port, various stretches of beach, and miles of ocean.

Unusually for Italy there were brightly coloured flowers everywhere, draped over people's walls and terraces. It looked a bit like the setting of Mamma Mia, and you half expected Meryl Streep to pop out from around a corner and burst into song - but it was silent.

The houses are whitewashed, and take on a subdued orangey glow as the sun sinks lower. We watched the sunset over the water before finally getting the train back to Termini - it only took about an hour and a half, but couldn't have seemed further away.

Rome, sweet home: Moving in!

Flat hunting in Rome is not for the fainthearted. At first I was surprised by the sheer number of apartments available, especially given my criteria of a three-month period, and a location in the centre of Rome, but many of these were quickly eliminated as it became clear they each had their own special 'quirks' (read: reasons not to live there ever ever). But today I finally moved in to my new home for the next three months, much like a real grown up.

In Bologna, I cheated a bit on the house finding front, and my host family came to the rescue - never underestimate the importance of having some locals on your side if you plan on getting anything done in Italy. For the first month I stayed in their converted attic, then for the second they offered me my very own independent flat. Although this was a bit retro in some ways - the water heater was a blue gas flame beneath the tank, which made terrifying gurgling sounds any time I dared turn it on - it was lovely, really big and in a nice area just outside Bologna's city walls.

I loved the whole moving in thing. Even cleaning the bathroom was pretty exciting (I suspect the novelty of this particular task may wear off soon though), as was doing my first food (or more specifically, cereal, tea and biscuits) shop. The neighbours were great, by which I mean someone on the ground floor had an Aristocats welcome mat, and the lady who lived opposite was very kind when I had a near-breakdown on my doorstep because I couldn't unlock the door. I may have been using the wrong key.

The downside of the smooth start to my year abroad accommodation-wise was that it made the Rome situation all the more terrifying, especially as Italians seem to be utter Internetphobes and everything has to be done over the phone, rather than in nice easy Word Reference-able emails. Being forced to check vital details and negotiate on the spot in another language is a true sink-or-swim situation...but I'd like to think I managed to swim, or at least tread water in a panicky, uncontrolled manner, splashing water around unnecessarily and looking like a lunatic but ultimately staying afloat. The flathunt involved charging round the different neighbourhoods of Rome, checking out dubious decor, pretending to understand various contracts and definitely-not-legit suggested payment arrangements, and having awkward conversations with potential future flatmates. Many of these were unfortunately yet more creepster men in their thirties, keen to tell me how much they'd love to live with an English girl.

Naturally, in the end I chose the first apartment I'd got in touch with. It's in a nice, studenty area and really close to the other two girls who are here from Oxford, as well as being opposite a metro station. The flat is shared with four Italian students, which is basically the holy grail in terms of language learning (assuming I summon up the courage to get off my laptop and interact with them once in a while, of course).

My view is uninspiring - it's of a wall - but now Daylight Savings have hit (in typically unorganised Italian fashion which completely messed up my flat-viewing schedule that day, I might add), I'll be out of the house most of the time it's light anyway. My room here is also the smallest out of the approximately sixty three thousand that I saw, but the tiny-ness isn't really a problem since I only have 23kg of possessions to my name here. The problem was that most of the others I found were just rooms to rent in someone's flat. Some were absolutely gorgeous and in amazing buildings, and one had a pet parrot and a roof terrace overlooking the Colosseum which I did fall a tiny bit in love with. None of the landladies were happy with any visitors at all though, and I didn't really seeing the point in paying a lot more for a bigger room if I can't invite people round to show it off. This room feels like it's properly mine - my very own bit of Rome.

One of the best bits about my new home is the front door to the building, which is very old and grand, and fancily decorated. In Italian, the word palazzo (palace) is used to describe apartment blocks, and it feels quite apt every time I walk through the two-storeys-high door to come home. Overall, what with finding somewhere to live, and starting my new job tomorrow, I'm feeling quite the adult. We'll see how long that lasts.

When in Rome: Moving into the eternal city

Follow my blog with Bloglovin Some of my favourite things about Rome so far include: the opportunity to use the phrase 'when in Rome' completely unnecessarily at least six times a day (see title), the fact it is still very much suncream and gelato weather in late October, and the way that almost whichever direction you walk in, you can't go more than a few minutes before coming across some huge famous attraction or other. Even though my first two days here have been taken up with my frantic search for a home, I've already passed many of the city's landmarks by accident, the Colosseum at nighttime being a fave.

The Colosseum by day...

...and night

The househunt itself has been enlightening, stressful and thus far fruitless. Having never had to deal with classified ads or landlords - once again, Oxford has left me woefully unprepared for the real world - the task is about a million times harder in a foreign language. I had no idea where to look, what questions I should ask, and I hate hate hate talking on the phone to strangers.

My first viewing brought me unwittingly into the heart of Rome's gay district. A tip: 'friendly', when said in English, can often mean 'gay friendly' in Italy - I hadn't realised this, so when people told me this was a friendly area, I'd just thought "that's nice! And it's pretty - look at all the rainbows." Apparently the specifically designated Gay Street di Roma is a recent development and was opened as an area where gays and lesbians can feel at ease, following protests over two men allegedly being arrested for kissing in public. That might sound incredibly backward for a democratic European country, but it must have been a massive milestone for Rome's gay community to finally be acknowledged and accepted in the Catholic-dominated city. And it's a great area, right by the Colosseum but not overwhelmed by it, bustling with bars, cafes and of course tourists.

The apartment however did not appeal; not only was the decor very, very pink, with a life size painting of two naked ladies in what would have been my room, but the flat was to be shared with a middle-aged man who spent the entire time chain-smoking and telling me I didn't need to worry about him because he wasn't even at home most nights if I knew what he meant. On to the next viewing then.

After two days of searching I was beginning to despair; one apartment was lovely but much too far from the centre, I arrived at another to be told it had already been taken, whilst the other three were shared with just men. This was made creepier in one case by the fact the advert had stipulated it was available specifically to female students, leading me to presume it was an all-female apartment and to get excited for girly bonding with my new flatmate besties - only to be greeted by two men in their thirties. Hmmmm.

But my final appointment today was the winner by far. The apartment isn't in the neighbourhood where I really wanted to live (Monti), but is less than a 10 minute walk away, shared with 4 other students, and generally looks lovely. I've got two or three final places to see tomorrow but have my fingers firmly crossed for this room. I'm hoping that in the next couple of days I'll be able to get my accommodation finalised, get fully settled in, and finally get down to some intensive sightseeing.

Bye bye Bologna

Today I arrived at Year Abroad Destination Two, Rome, equipped with half my bodyweight in luggage and expectations based almost entirely upon The Lizzie McGuire Movie. I'll let you know how that little pipe dream works out. It feels surreal that my first two months are already over, but I'm sure I'll be back in Bologna at some point.

As linguists we are told right from the start to avoid fellow English speakers like the plague; in practice this is impossible. Every so often you need someone who understands the importance of an orderly queue, a good cup of tea, and the occasional dose of sarcasm, and having English friends has been invaluable for situations when cobbling together a sentence in comprehensible Italian required a group effort. But as Bologna is such a small and friendly city, I ended up easily meeting far more Italians than internationals anyway, much to my surprise. My week began with a visit to Ravenna with one of them, Martina, who lives there and goes back home each weekend. I was introduced to her mum and boyfriend, and got to see some of the mosaics I'd missed the first time around, including those in the amazing Basilica of San Vitale, where Martina's cousin got married a few weeks ago - it must have been the most gorgeous wedding! She also took me me the beach at nearby Cervia. Like Rimini, this was practically deserted, but still beautiful, and we visited the huge port with rows and rows of yachts, big and small, before going to a Brazilian themed bar for apperitivo.

Sassy cherubs

The international theme continued throughout the week, as a group of us were beginning to grow weary of Italian cuisine. I feel almost blasphemous for saying it, but even the delicious diet of pizza and pasta can start to feel ever so slightly restrictive when eaten day in day out. So on Monday we organised an international dinner. The menu featured two types of pasta made by the two Italians (so so good), followed by shepherd's pie in an attempt to show them that British cuisine ain't all bad. The familiar comfort of a homey, English dish was very much appreciated - I'm still receiving the weekly menu emails from college, and though I never thought I'd get homesick for their mushroom-heavy dishes, there's a slight pang of nostalgia every time the word 'pie' or 'pudding' crops up, two concepts of which Italians seem completely unaware.

Where in any other European city you'd easily find food from any corner of the globe you fancied, in Italy you're spoiled for choice with pizzerias and osterias serving dishes 'just like nonna used to make', but anything that's even a touch more exotic is conspicuously absent. Opinionated at the best of times, food is one issue on which Italians will not budge - it's a matter of pride. They are the best, end of, and seeking out foreign cuisine is like searching for a needle in a pasta-stack. But search we did, and this week we discovered, tucked away down side streets, a Japanese/Chinese all-you-can-eat restaurant, a great Indian place complete with elaborate decor, and a Bavarian brewery-style pub, where we went for my last meal.

I got my fix of Italian fare on Thursday, when I went back to my lovely host family's house for dinner, which was tortellini in brodo (broth), a traditional Bolognese recipe. It had been freshly made by a local restaurateur; apparently he hadn't had any ready for sale, but after my host mum told him she had an English girl coming to dinner who 'needed to learn about proper food', he had agreed completely that this was a critical situation, and whipped some up just for me. I'm still unsure whether to be offended or flattered, but it was good pasta so I'm prepared to let it go. Apparently the tiny tortellini are known as the 'belly buttons of Venus' (mmm, appetising. To be fair it sounds a lot less gross in Italian) because they're so tasty. Literally the food of the gods.

So after a brilliant and delicious last week, it was onwards to Rome. So far I've only seen the two roads from the station to the B&B where I'm staying until I find a flat(/resign myself to life on the Roman streets/assume a new life impersonating Italy's best-loved pop star) but first impressions: everything is big. Everything. The whole centre of Bologna was walkable on foot, and thanks to my host family going out of their way to help me, everyone else I met there, and obviously the amazing food, I managed to settle in completely, and do everything I wanted to before I left. It was the perfect setting for the start of my year, and I'm now slightly overwhelmed by the idea of living in a new, massive city, but excited to get cracking with the next bit of my year abroad, Roman style.

Lessons learned from an internship in Italy

Somehow or other, I've stumbled through my two months in Bologna and am moving on to Rome on Saturday, so it's probably time for an update on the actual reason for me being here: the food my internship.

My tasks as an intern have ranged from the basic to the bizarre, and my success at coping with them has similarly varied. I'm finally getting the hang of foreign keyboards and feel much more confident with my spoken German and Italian, but the jury is out on whether this is due to a tangible improvement, or more just the fact I've given up caring about whatever horribly embarrassing mistakes I'm making and everyone else has given up trying to correct me. Unfortunately I can't rule out the latter. I did realise some way into an email exchange with a colleague that I'd been addressing him as a female.

But learning to swallow your pride and getting on with it is a rite of passage during year abroad, and you have to be able to stride confidently into any and all opportunities for practicing 'the language', whether this means chatting away to old ladies at the bus stop (check), burdening shopkeepers with your complaints about Italian bureaucracy (check) or jumping at the chance to answer the office phone and speak to clients, even when sometimes it turns out to be your colleague's bemused mother (check - oops).

It turns out there's no more effective way to learn a new bit of vocab than getting it completely, hilariously wrong the first time around. In a country where the inability to roll your 'r's can result in asking for minced dog rather than mincemeat, the occasional awkward conversation is inevitable. Two gems of wisdom I learnt the hard way: frozen food doesn't have preservativi in it, because that means condoms, not preservatives (if we're being picky, I think it can actually mean both, but from experience is best avoided), and if you fail to pronounce both the 'n's in the word penne, you'll find yourself referring to a certain part of the male anatomy which you probably don't want to be telling new Italian friends you love to eat.

It's not just the language barrier to contend with; there's a whole host of tiny but suddenly vital details which are completely different in the Italian workplace, from the keyboards to which kind of coffee is acceptable to have on your coffee break. Apparently cappuccinos are strictly for breakfast only, and my colleagues didn't even try to suppress their horrified expressions the first (and last) time I had one at my desk. The Italian directness takes some getting used to as well, and they normally weren't shy to point out any mistakes I made, in my language, coffee choice or otherwise. I was asked to change one of my poster designs for the Institut, because the picture I used - a standard Clipart-style image of smiley children having the time of their lives in a classroom - had "too many different ethnicities, and Italians won't relate to it. We don't have political correctness in Italy." It makes sense from a marketing perspective of appealing to your target audience, but I can't imagine being told something like that in an English office.

Another unexpected hurdle came when I was asked to update the office accounts. Having given up both Maths and IT at the earliest possible moment in my school career, this isn't exactly my strong point, but I was willing to dust off my skills, and thought I could at least navigate the basics of Microsoft Excel. I thought wrong, and ended up spending a frustratingly long time failing to get a column of costs to add up automatically, hardly the most difficult of tasks. After around 30 minutes of self-doubt, wishing I'd spent Year 9 IT lessons doing something other than the Impossible Quiz, and eventual desperate googling with search terms along the lines of 'Excel sum not working why do Italian computers hate me waaahh', I realised that =SUM needs to become  =SOMMA in Italy. Turns out Cady Heron was wrong, math isn't the same in every language.

The majority of my time was spent assisting the Cultural Director, who organises events to promote Germany and German culture in Italy. I've helped to set up some of the art and photography exhibitions, concerts, readings and shows which have been going on at the Institut. Although the Bologna branch of the Goethe Institut is small, it was exciting to be involved in these events, which attracted far more interest than I'd expected - probably due to Bologna being so full of students.

The usual repertoire for sorting out these events is as follows; contact the performers, artists or whoever else is involved to finalise details, write and send out a press release, create a programme, done. But for a German chamber music concert last weekend, our boss decided to crank the workload up a notch, requesting that the song lyrics be put together into a booklet with translations in Italian alongside them. Fine, except that while some of these were easily googlable, others were less so, and I had to devote several mornings to honing my skills in translating Brahms lyrics into Italian. I didn't attend the concert to see how my efforts went down with the audience, but in the likely case of discrepancies/errors, I'm claiming poetic licence.

Overall, in true chaotic Italian style, my job's been a bit of a mixed bag, but I feel I've slotted into the Italian working world with ease...OK, maybe not. I still stick out like a sore thumb with an English accent, and the job's had its difficult, dull and downright embarrassing moments, but for the most part it's been interesting, and has taught me a lot; a few valuable lessons, and many more things I never thought I needed to know, and probably didn't. As a leaving present, my colleagues gave me a book about the history of the Goethe Zentrum, which will be a nice reminder of my first fumbled foray into Italian life, and my 2 months working for the association.