All posts by Deirdre Straughan

Elementary School: An Italian Experience

Rossella’s five years of elementary school took place at Parco Trotter, where she had also done scuola materna (preschool). We had been spoiled by a great scuola materna experience; elementary was… not so great.

I’m reaching the conclusion that the quality of education hinges almost entirely on the quality of teachers. And there’s the rub. Until recently, becoming a teacher in Italy did not require any teaching qualification. To teach middle or high school, you had to have a college degree (laurea) in the subject you would teach; to teach elementary school, you didn’t even need that much! There were no requirements for teacher training classes or actual classroom experience, and apparently little opportunity for teachers to learn any techniques at all, let alone new ones. This has now changed, but there is a large body of teachers still in the system who cannot be dislodged from their jobs or even required to upgrade their professional qualifications. As far as I can tell, what little they know about teaching, they have learned on their own or from colleagues.

Of course, some people manage to be wonderful teachers without formal teacher training, and some are motivated to learn more about their profession even when not required to. But, without some system of professional qualifications in place, individual capability and motivation guarantee nothing: parents can only hope for fate to assign their kids some of those few, great natural teachers.

We had no such luck.

Parco Trotter had four sections of each grade level, with two “fixed” teachers per section for the major subjects: one taught math and science, the other Italian, history, and geography. These two were supposed to remain with the same section of students from first through fifth grade, and parents had no choice about what section their child was in.

In Rossella’s year, one section was blessed with the kind of teacher beloved by both kids and parents: enthusiastic, involved, creative, and very energetic, especially considering that he was about 60 years old. His class got to do all sorts of fun and inspiring things. Two other sections had teachers who were at least competent, if not wildly original. Ross’ section, however, got the shaft. For administrative reasons, they had about six teachers in the first three years. This profoundly upset many of the parents, who felt it extremely important for the children to have the same teachers for all five years. However, as one friend pointed out from painful personal experience, having the same teacher for five years is not necessarily a good thing – what if she hates you?

I agreed with him on that point, and in any case wasn’t concerned about stability at school; I feel that stability is the responsibility of the parents. I was more interested in teaching ability, but I, too, was doomed to disappointment. Of the two “fixed” teachers we finally ended up with, for 4th and 5th grade, one was merely competent, the other downright embarrassing.

Ross’ grades were poor. Remembering that I, too, had earned mediocre grades through elementary school, I wondered if her problem might be the same as mine had been: sheer boredom. For middle school we decided to find a far more challenging school, hoping that this would get her interested in learning. The school we chose turned out to be the wrong one, but that’s another story.

…I abandoned this article yesterday morning, not sure how to tie it all together with some other thoughts and observations on Italian schools. We were out for lunch (between various house-related errands in Lecco), and with our post-lunch espresso were given sugar packets printed with quotes from Arturo Graf, a late 19th-century Italian poet, critic, and educator. My packet said: “Great is the teacher who, teaching little, sparks in the student a huge desire to learn.” Amen, brother.

next: elementary school exam

A Day in Bollywood…in Locarno, Switzerland

We had a tremendously fun day yesterday. Thanks to Tom Alter, the Woodstock alum I mentioned a while ago, we got to hang out at the Grand Hotel in Locarno, Switzerland, where an Indian film is being shot. It’s a complicated thriller called “Asambhav” (“Impossible”) involving several gangs of malefactors plotting to kidnap India’s president. Of course there’s a resourceful and daring Indian secret service agent to step in and save the day, and a former Miss World to fall in love with him and help him beat the baddies (one of whom is played by Tom).

The hero is drop-dead gorgeous Arjun Rampal, a supermodel-turned-actor who happens to be a graduate of Kodaikanal, Woodstock’s sister institution in south India. He’s a thoroughly nice guy, whose ego seems not to be inflated by the fact that he’s a heart-throb to zillions of Indian girls (many of whom have websites dedicated to him).

Naseeruddin Shah, Rossella Laeng

I liked Arjun, but was thrilled to meet Naseeruddin Shah, one of India’s finest actors, familiar from my university days. Our Hindi professor used to show us films, mostly depressing ones such as “Aakrosh,” about a mute sharecropper whose wife is raped by a landowner. Naseer played a young lawyer trying (and ultimately failing) to achieve justice. More recently, Naseer is familiar to western audiences as the father in Mira Nair’s Monsoon Wedding, and about to become more so as Captain Nemo in The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.

Why Locarno? Tom told me that the Swiss government very actively promotes and supports Indian filmmaking in Switzerland. Indian filmmakers love the locations (yes, India has plenty of mountains, but they are far less accessible than Swiss ones), and bring business to the area (e.g., some technicians and equipment are hired locally, and one of the stuntmen is a bouncer at a local disco). The cast and crew, about fifty people, have taken over the Grand Hotel, a lovely old relic of a bygone era, soon to be consigned to some ignoble fate (possibly as a casino). To keep costs down, the team brought their own cooks from India, so we had an excellent Indian lunch and an endless supply of chai(Indian tea: tea, milk, and sugar are boiled together).

Rossella Laeng, Arjun Rampal

We got to watch a bit of filming, a single shot in which Naseer runs down a staircase, stops at the bottom, and shoots the guy following him, who falls theatrically, if unrealistically, over the bannister. This was maybe ten seconds of film, but it took four hours and dozens of people to set it up. Tracks were laid for the main camera to dolly along. Lighting had to be set up just so. Mattresses were laid to fall on. The stuntman was wired with a blood packet, detonated remotely by a gunshot technician whose partner handled the guns and made them go bang. The stuntman repeatedly practiced running down the stairs and getting shot, but stopped short of actually falling over the railing.

No one minded us tourists standing around, though director Rajiv Rai was worried that Rossella might be scared by the noise of gunfire. Not a chance. She was too busy soaking it all in, with an eye to her own future career in film.

Finally everything was ready. Down runs the man in the black mask (Naseer), followed by a pudgy bad guy (or was he padded?). Exchange of gunfire (not that loud, really, in spite of the enclosed space), blood appears, pudgy guy finally pitches forward over the railing onto the mattresses. End of take. Applause. Then everyone began setting up for the next shot, at the other end of the hallway.

We decided to go for dinner rather than wait another four hours to see the next shot. The restaurant had paper placemats, so Rossella drew her impressions of the day’s events, including Arjun getting beaten at tennis by the local top player (an attractive young woman). When we got back to the hotel, Ross hid while we presented this to Arjun, who chased her down, pretending to be angry, but insisted on keeping the cartoon.

Changing Homes in Italy

Anyone who has had the experience of setting up a household in Italy will wince at the list of things we have to do in the next two months: sell the family home in Rome (emptying it of many years’ accumulation of books – this is a family of professors! – furniture, etc.), set up the new apartment in Lecco, get our daughter through her middle school exam, send her off to summer camp in the US, then, finally, move our own stuff from Milan to Lecco. Oh, and in the midst of all this I may be starting a very demanding new full-time job. (The second interview went well, now I’m just waiting to see the money.)

Setting up simple household utilities in Italy used to be an arduous process. As one friend put it, getting a phone line installed required “a recommendation and a bottle of whiskey.” The recommendation would ideally be from someone with contacts inside Telecom Italia, to ask the folks there to be nice to you. The bottle of whiskey would be a “gift” to encourage the technicians to get their job done, but you might need another bottle to tide you through the months-long, completely unnecessary wait!

Things have changed. I called Telecom Italia last week about a line for the new apartment in Lecco. The place has been inhabited before, so the wires are there, but I wasn’t sure all the plugs were working, and the line was of course disconnected. The lady said that a technician would call me in about ten days to make an appointment. Actually, he called me two days later, when I happened to be too far away from Lecco to meet him. So we made an appointment for yesterday morning, 9:30. When I arrived at 9:15, he was already standing outside waiting for me. Turns out some repairs were needed to two plugs, but within an hour all five plugs and the line were working. In the meantime I called the electricity company from my cellphone. After reading the relevant numbers off the meter, I was shocked to be told: “Okay, now just cut the plastic seal and flip the lever; it should already be working.” There’s gotta be a catch. This is Italy. It can’t be that easy.

On my way back to the railway station, I was delighted to find near home a good polleria (a butcher shop specializing in poutry, selling cooked and uncooked chicken, other kinds of poultry, and rabbit). There is also a new, American-style coffee bar offering different types of coffee (Ethiopian, Kenya, etc.) – unheard-of in Italy! I had just had a coffee, so didn’t go in to check, but maybe (said she wistfully) they make a decent cup of American-style “long” coffee. I like espresso, especially when I’m in a hurry, but there are times when nothing beats lingering over a huge, steaming mug. That would be great, and very unusual here. In every bar I’ve seen in Italy so far, if you ask for American coffee you get espresso in a large cup, with hot water added. Yuck. This new coffee bar looks like nothing I’ve seen in Italy, not even in Milan. Which perhaps proves that Lecco is not as provincial as the Milanese would have me believe!

more moving | moving again!

Rubber Ducky

A little while ago I was wandering around Amazon.com, looking for a mother’s day present for my mom. Bath stuff seemed like a good idea, so I went to the “Health & Beauty” store, which turns out to be Drugstore.com. How could I resist taking a peek at “Sexual Well-Being” (yes, it’s very prominent on the page)? Vibrators and sex toys? Wow. What is America, ahem, coming to?

Then I just about fell out of my chair laughing. I Rub My Duckie Waterproof Personal Massager – They may be older, but rubber ducky’s still the one.”

This is one of the cleverest pieces of marketing I’ve seen. Any American woman around my age is familiar with Sesame Street (original home of The Muppets). Before I ever lived in the US and saw the show, I had a Sesame Street record (bought at the PX in Bangkok), which included Bert’s song: “Rubber ducky, you’re the one, you make bathtime so much fun. Rubber ducky, I’m awfully fond of you…”

Frequent Flier: The Strange Perks of Business Class

Over the years I’ve lived in Italy, I’ve ended up travelling to the US far more than I ever expected, mostly for work. The first such trip occurred soon after Incat Systems moved to California, in late 1993. I was the technical writer, so I had to meet with the engineers from time to time, and later with other sorts of colleagues. I got into the habit of flying to California four times a year, sometimes staying for extended periods and visiting other parts of the US as well.

My first day at the US office, Whitney, the new American vice-president of the company, asked me if I’d flown business class. The idea had occurred to me, but I didn’t think the big boss would want to pay for it, and had been afraid to ask. “Next time, fly business,” said Whitney. “I’ll take care of Fabrizio.” I was nervous about this, but no one complained when I booked a business class ticket for my next trip.

When I saw Whitney, he immediately asked: “Did you fly business class?”

“Yes.”

He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially: “Good. Never look back!”

And I didn’t. I continued to fly business class on long-haul flights (Europe to San Francisco is at least ten hours), which meant that I was more likely to arrive in working order than if I had spent the trip with my long legs cramped into a cattle-car seat. I racked up the frequent-flier miles, initially on KLM, which we had habitually used for family trips. One of the perks of KLM business class is a gift: a little Delft china house full of gin. I have a shelf of them (still full of gin), but we never figured out how you’d get the big palace (half a litre’s worth) that we saw on display at Schipol airport.

Sometime during all those years of flying, I responded to a piece in theInternational Herald Tribune about business class service on various airlines. I was trying to be funny, something about how on Alitalia there’s no personal video, only a single big screen, so they had to edit James Bond for the family audience – which made the film quite incomprehensible. This letter was printed in the paper. I hadn’t mentioned why I travelled, merely that I worked for Adaptec. So they quoted me as “an executive for Adaptec, a California company.” I guess they figured that anyone who flew that much had to be an exec.

Just as I was beginning the (later aborted) move to California in 2000, British Airways put fully-reclining seats into business class. I have never been able to sleep on my back, and in a partially-reclining seat it’s very difficult to lie on your side. On BA, I was able to really sleep on a plane for the first time in my life – and I needed that sleep. So I became a BA frequent flier, and made so many trips that I shot to Platinum level within six months.

The California thing went sour, and I made my final flight home to Milan in late March, 2001. I was so physically and emotionally drained that, driving my rental car to San Francisco airport, I was seriously afraid that I would have an accident. But I made it, dragged my 200 pounds of luggage to the BA check-in, and collapsed in the lounge. I was grateful to crawl onto the plane, where I wouldn’t be responsible for any person or task for at least 12 hours.

The purser came to greet me: “Ms. Straughan, we see that you’re a very frequent flier with us, and we want to make sure that you’re happy. If there’s anything at all we can do…” I was impressed with this display of customer relationship management, and didn’t tell him that this flight was probably my last, through no fault of BA’s.

I haven’t flown much since quitting Roxio, and never business class. I’ve used up the mileage I’d accumulated on various airlines (not only on myself and my family), but haven’t acquired much new mileage. BA has steadily demoted me; now I’m at plain old Blue level, so I no longer get preferential check-in (I’ll miss that) or lounge access.


Received by email:

“Hi Deirdre,

Just stumbled upon your site whilst reading about travel to India (LP thorn tree) and ended up spending half an hour browsing the various sections! It was very interesting to read your travel experiences but also the Op/Ed pages. You must put in quite some time, my compliments. The reason for sending you a message is this:

“…we never figured out how you’d get the big palace (half a liter’s worth) that we saw on display at Schipol airport.”

A friend of my parents used to be a board member of KLM (now retired). He told me once that this special bottle/house, depicting the royal palace on Amsterdam’s Dam Square, used to be presented to KLM business class passengers flying on their birthday! Of course I don’t know if this is still the case but I thought you might like the answer to your mystery.

Keep up your web site, best regards,

[name deleted for privacy]”