Ciao, Springfield

E benvenuta a Firenze. A Springfield girl takes on Florence, Italy.

Last summer, I was in Springfield, surrounded by the comforting sights of the Landers Theatre, Central High and other old haunts. I mulled over what seemed like an impossible decision: go to grad school for a teaching degree in America, or accept a job offer with a TV show in Florence, Italy.

I took the job. Who can resist a World Cup champion?

With a one-way ticket and a work visa, I changed overnight from Springfield kid to on-camera host on See Ten Tourist Television, which is to Florence what The Vacation Channel is to Branson. Bright and early every morning, tourists and residents tune into See Ten TV to have a friendly journalist (at times, yours truly) tell them why Florence is the greatest city in the world. We showcase the best in arts, culture and cuisine with terrific little snapshots of the area in English and Italian. This isn’t my first experience living in Italy, but it’s definitely the most permanent. There’s no turning back with a contract that states, more or less, “hired in perpetuity.” It’s all very Italian: The economy’s on the brink of collapse, the government’s about to fold, but your employer takes you as his lawfully wedded employee for a period so long it can’t even be defined!

See Ten’s a great gig. I wear a number of hats, from actor to producer, writer to consultant. The latter seems to be my most valuable role. I keep my colleagues on track by substituting “Russian Folk Ballet” for the headline “Caucasians Dancing!” and suggesting that abbreviating exhibitions with “Xbit” might get viewers confused with another popular TV show. On any given day, you can find me filming in a Renaissance palace or in front of a painting by Leonardo daVinci, directing a video shoot at a country club or spa, or interviewing actress Anne Archer and those wacky sexagenarian shock artists Gilbert & George at an art show where painters vie for prizes with names like “Mixed Media Involving Paper.” My favorite experience at work so far has been a sunny day at the Pistoia Zoo spent feeding giraffes, spying on lions and cavorting in a cage with lemurs!

All in a day’s work, but the glamour, if glamour it is, is only skin-deep. I am an immigrant here, a legal alien. Say all you want about wine and fashion, but the real art that Italians have taken to prize-worthy levels is bureaucracy, and immigrants like me get to see it in all its glory. Take the Immigration Office, for starters. The atmosphere is part Titanic, part DMV on steroids, with a disgruntled cop at the heavy wooden doors barking orders like “Make way! Let women with babies through!” as the crowd surges forward with its paperwork filled out in triplicate. My landlord had to sign an affidavit taking responsibility for me “just in case” I turn out to be a terrorist. The best of Italy’s myriad forms has to be the Self-Certification of Non-Mafianess which goes something like this: I solemnly swear and affirm that I am not a Mafia don. Love, Johnny the Knife. Iron-clad, right? If there’s one thing that troubles the conscience of the criminal underworld, it’s lying on a form.

But in for a dime, in for a euro. This is my home now. I’ve even decided to continue my studies here, with the U of Florence as my new alma mater. It’s exciting, even with oral exams known as interrogations and academic advising that boils down to, “Sure, those classes sound okay!” Sometimes, I long for my halcyon days as a theatre major at Missouri State. Is college with no campus and no mascot still college? And more importantly, will the university teach me how to be more Italian, or how to understand a culture where they don’t know who the man in the moon is, where when I say I’m from Springfield, people are convinced that I live next door to the Simpsons, and where instead of good luck you say, “In bocca al lupo”—in the mouth of the wolf! Lest you think too much is lost in translation, here’s the standard reply, a reflection of Italy’s cheerful fatalism: “Crepi il lupo”—hope the wolf croaks!

So wish me well and throw me to the wolves. I’m going to need all the luck I can get.

Mind Your Cabbages

Blow off some steam—Italian style. All you have to learn is the word for cabbage. Cavolo (KAH-voh-low) bears a striking resemblance to a four-letter word much in use in this, shall we say, patriarchal society. It seems to be an appropriate exclamation in almost any situation, so go ahead and try it out on your friends. —Emilia Carlson

Cavolo!    
Literally Translated: Cabbage! Culturally Translated: Goodness! Wow! Oh, my!

Fatti i cavoli tuoi!    
Literally Translated: Make your cabbages! Culturally Translated:  Mind your own business!

Quelli sono cavoli miei!    
Literally Translated: Those are my cabbages!  Culturally Translated: That’s my own darn business!

Testa di cavolo!    
Literally Translated: Cabbage head! Culturally Translated: Idiot!

Che cavolo è?    
Literally Translated: What the cabbage is that? Culturally Translated: What in the world is that?

Eh, sì, col cavolo!    
Literally Translated: Yeah, right, with cabbage!  Culturally Translated: The heck I will!