![]() The tourists are mostly gone, and the Campo is quietly buzzing with Sienese life: Conversation at tables, and couples walking hand in hand. But tonight, it’s simply a warm October evening. It’s here on the Campo that the famous Palio horse race is run twice a year, in July and August. Students and teachers meet at the lovely Fonte Gaia, the fountain on Siena’s Piazza del Campo. I get all the conversation I can handle the following evening, at one of the local experiences Saena Iulia excels at. He leads me into the language with logical progression and simple conversations. ![]() I’m delighted by this patient and cheerful man. This school and its students are an integral part of his life-both inside and outside of school hours. Over the next three weeks, I learn that it’s not just business with Mauro. My days with Sabrina will be followed by lessons with Mauro, the school’s founder. She’s pleased I’ve brought the flash cards I’d made from my internet study. Sabrina will be my teacher for the first few days. For this week, at least, I’m the only beginner. Soon enough, it’s time for Sabrina to assesses my skills. They each have their own reasons and passions for learning to speak Italian. Richenda, who splits her time between Italy and London. We get to know each other much better over the course of our individual stays, but for now, reverting to English is comfortable and informative. We commandeer the sofa and claim it as the English-speaking safe zone. The teachers then spirit away some students to assess their language skills. While the others chat around me, I stare into my little shot glass of espresso and then roam the room pretending to study the pictures on the wall-anything to avoid talking.Įventually, one of the teachers gently engages me. Not having conversational Italian makes me uncharacteristically nervous and shy. I’ve had just some basics, learned from a few weeks with a language app. Just outside the window is the magnificent layer cake of a cathedral they call the Duomo.īut just my luck, everyone else here-to varying degrees-is much more experienced. About 12 of us students and teachers are gathered in one of the school’s high-ceilinged classrooms. This is when new and returning students are welcomed, assessed, and launched into their learning. I jump feet first into the school’s Monday morning meet-and-greet. So, that’s where I headed for a full language learning experience. ![]() Lucky for me, Siena is just a short plane trip away. I’d like to be as immersed in Italy’s culture as I am in Ireland’s. Still, I often find myself longing for the Tuscan sun. I’ve had five very happy years here, and plan to stay. Ireland tipped into favor because of our shared language. When planning my solo move to Europe, two countries made the shortlist: Ireland and Italy. I can simultaneously roll dough and speak Italian! This informal cooking experience is delicious-for flavor, for friendship, and a sense of accomplishment. I’m speaking a good amount myself, and I’m delighted. Even though I’m just a beginner, I understand just about every word spoken by these more advanced students. So far, I’ve had just three weeks of instruction at Saena Iulia, Siena’s school of language and culture. My fellow students and I are having a great laugh. And, indeed, my fellow students and I are having a great laugh. That sounds like the beginning of a joke. I’m here with two Italian language instructors, and three new-found friends-an Australian, a Montrealer, and a Brit. No amount of walnuts would make me less bitter about finding myself in Elettra’s pot. She tells us these are to make the boar less bitter. She also threw in a few whole, unshelled walnuts. Earlier, in our school’s kitchen, Elettra added red wine to the boar’s marinade, along with thyme sprigs, garlic, and celery. It’s been slowly cooking away in a copper pot after marinating for the day. This will be followed by a large piece of wild boar. These thick ropes are destined to join others in Siena’s signature pasta dish, pici. Lines of perfectly formed pasta grow as we lay them out on the well-scrubbed table. The dough seems foreign in our hands until, all of a sudden, it isn’t. Thankfully, my fellow dough-rollers are equally flummoxed. I try different pressure along its length different ways of rolling it on the table. Isn’t rolling-out a skill I’d mastered in kindergarten? My rope is oddly lumpy a far cry from the elegant strands served up in restaurants. This should be simple: Roll a ball of dough into a long thick rope. Things are not going well, and I’m a bit taken aback. I’m in Elettra’s tiny kitchen five floors above Siena, Italy.
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