Friday, or How the Snow makes Italian People go Mental

WELL. What a weekend. I was beginning to think that all I'd be able to share with you this week was my searing analysis of the pros and cons of Italian television (which I still fully intend to write, by the way, lest you were beginning to get anxious- my in-depth comparison of Italian Deal or No Deal versus its English counterpart promises to be a real highlight), but fortunately life became rather more eventful on Friday. For Friday was the Advent of the Beloved.

Rather a sweet story, actually- he had been telling everyone we know about his original plan to rock up and surprise me, but due to his adorable inability to keep a secret (and his typically academic administrative skills, i.e. crap) pretty much the first phone call I received when I got off the plane two weeks ago was him excitedly squealing, "Guess what I've done! Guess what I've done!" I don't know how tricky it was for him to keep up the charade, but on my end it was essentially a question of lying to my mother daily, pretending to be oblivious when she said cryptic things like, "I'm SURE this weekend will be great!" (you could practically hear her doing a conspiratorial wink to no-one in particular) until eventually the night before he was to arrive she finally gave up and said, "You know, don't you?" (Me: "GOD yes. Please make sure he remembers to bring my pyjamas.") In any case, it goes without saying that I was pretty excited. But, as we know all too well, Fate hates me.

I wonder if you happened to know offhand that this Friday morning Rome had its heaviest snowfall for thirty years? The little man in his military uniform on the Rai-Uno weather that morning conveniently failed to mention the possibility of this, and so I was left to find out the hard way. The sweet little flakes which began at 7.45 ("How LOVELY! SNOW in ROME for VALENTINES DAY! DELIGHTFUL!") had worked themselves into a full blizzard by the time I left the house thirty minutes later. My lack of umbrella resulted in an unsightly stream of mascara running down my face and an even more strained walk to Termini than usual with GPN.

Granny had departed by this point (leaving me surprisingly bereft at the loss of the endlessly cheerful spectre who was forever frightening the life out of me by her silent appearances at peculiar times), and GPN had morning classes that week, meaning that despite the fact that neither of us would actively choose to accompany one another anywhere at all, necessity and timing compelled us to trudge in stony silence to the metro each day. I say trudge- she would bound along like a perky but racist Yorkshire terrier, a frankly dreadful combination with my perilous slipping about on rain-slicked cobbles and tobacco-induced hyperventilation.

Conversational highlights included:

Me: "My hair straighteners broke this morning."
GPN: "Oh. But your hair doesn't look any different."
Me: "Yeah, but... You don't feel quite right, do you?"
GPN: "Yes. Hair is important."

and

GPN: "I took the trash out this morning. We should probably clean the kitchen."
Me: "Yes. Yes, let's do that." (I didn't clean the kitchen. I have no intention of cleaning the kitchen.)

Not so stimulating, in short, but tolerable. That morning, however, of course the smug cow had an umbrella, and having made a frankly half-hearted and unconvincing offer to share (Me [shivering and possibly hypothermic]: "No... It's fine... Don't worry... Go on without me, I may be some time...", GPN [visibly relieved, making her evident warmth and dryness all the more irritating]: "OK then! It is quite a small umbrella!"), she merrily skipped onwards, occasionally breaking the silence with such sharp observations as, "You are quite wet, aren't you!" as I pondered what would be the swiftest and most effective way to kill her (impaling her on her sodding umbrella would have been ideal, obviously, but it wasn't pointy enough).

I arrived to class five minutes late (implausibly, today was the one day upon which everyone else had decided to turn up on time, giving me a full and appreciative audience for my grand entrance), resembling nothing so much as a seriously disgruntled snowman, which delighted my Smart-Arsed Teacher.

S-AT: "Aaaaaah! BiancaNeve! Benvenuta!"
Me: "Fuck off."

Such a dripping wet spectacle was I that the Well Meaning but Overattentive Japanese Lady who sits next to me unexpectedly whipped a tea-towel out of her handbag (who the fuck carries tea-towels around?) and began dabbing frantically but ineffectively at my person.

WMbOJL: "Stai bene?"
Me: "I would be if you would be so kind as to get that tea-towel out of my face."

Such was the general state of excitement at the relentless snow that S-AT had essentially lost the entire class before we even started, and so his valiant attempts to drum up any interest in the Past Remote tense were inevitably met with fifteen people, as one, gazing dreamily out of the window and thinking in unison, "SNOW! Lovely SNOW!" (except me, obviously, I was still plotting the grisly murder of GPN and hoping that the Beloved hadn't met his untimely demise being run over by a careless scooter owner who had slipped on some ice). Realising that he was fighting a losing battle, S-AT did what any sensible (or just lazy) educator would do- he flung open the windows and let his students frolic about taking pictures for a full twenty minutes.

I made a half-arsed attempt to appear enthusiastic, I really did, but as I was freezing my tits off and frankly underwhelmed I contented myself with huddling cross-armed in my chair muttering, "It's only a bit of bloody snow", while the septugenarian Brazilians skipped about giggling like schoolgirls. I think one of them actually made the fatal error of taking a photograph of me in her giddy state (poor thing didn't know any better), and I truly hope that the hideous scowl she inevitably captured is an image she will treasure always.

Once order (of sorts) had been restored, things only got stranger. Capitalising, no doubt, on the festive mood created by the inclement weather, S-AT decided that the most fitting way to illustrate the proper usage of the Past Remote tense would be to play an Italian pop song from the sixties which I can only describe as Fuck-Off Mental. Sung with religious fervour by a man who sounds like he may well burst into tears at any minute, it is an unholy cross between a medieval folk song and some bollocks you would have heard at Woodstock belted out by a stoned and obliviously tone-deaf hippy which seems to last for around forty minutes.

The gist of the lyrics, or so I understand it, is that this blokes father went to a market and ill-advisedly bought a series of animals who proceeded to fight amongst themselves at length, and then the Angel of Death gets involved for no apparent reason, and presumably everybody wishes that they'd just stayed at home. Very intense and highly repetitive- in short, the sort of song which would make you feel like you were going out of your mind at the best of times. I attempted to attach the link to give you some idea, but being technologically illiterate I failed miserably, and so I urge you to search YouTube for "Alla fiera dell'est" by Angelo Branduardi, and I defy you to disagree.

As if listening to this testament to the fact that there is no God were not enough, S-AT had devised an ingenious game whereby upon the second listening (SECOND! PURGATORY!) we all swapped seats whenever this nutter sang certain words, forcing us to trot across the classroom every ten seconds, revelling in this enforced jollity. The Brazilian ladies enjoyed it. Warmed me up a bit, I suppose. Didn't help my increasing loss of sanity one little bit. Breaktime, finally, at which point I wisely thought, "Bugger this for a bunch of bananas", and slid precariously to Termini to retrieve my long suffering Beloved from his harrowing hour-long bus ride (not as harrowing as my morning, clearly). Cue emotional reunion, tears and cuddles, and one overpriced bottle of wine on the Via Cavour later I was feeling almost normal. Naturally, all the fucking snow had melted by this point (WHY?? Of all the three-hour periods that Mother Nature could have chosen for the downpour, WHY THAT ONE??), but by and large I was now too cheerful to be resentful, and mostly convinced that it was all uphill from this point. Wrong again.