In Italy, there is a slight role reversal between students and their teachers.
First, my classes commonly do not start on time. The hour marked on our schedules seems to be more a suggestion than a rule. At times, when I feel as though I have arrived egregiously late, the professor has not yet arrived to school, or is casually sipping espresso in the teacher’s lounge. Class begins when he or she is in the mood for class to begin.
I learned this first when I came huffing into class, peeling off sweaty layers, numerous mi dispiaces rolling off my tongue. My Italian language professor looked simultaneously annoyed and worried and told me to calm down, that the class was just chatting. In the language classes I have experienced previously, the conversation section of the lesson, masked as free flowing, undoubtedly ended as a structured discussion, during which we all contributed formulaic answers about favorite sports and vacation plans. In class here, however, we truly are “just chatting”. Every Thursday at the beginning of class we discuss our plans for the weekend. When one student mentions he is going to Rome, my professor enquires about the student’s likes and dislikes, what he plans to see on his trip. Then, before our eyes, the professor creates an impromptu itinerary on the board, complete with a scribbled map! (I assume she believes each of us will transcribe this into our notebooks for future use).
Once the professors do arrive, the lesson’s delayed commencement is quickly forgotten due to the distracting nature of their dress. My Dante’s Commedia professor wears a tattered white linen shirt with a dust-colored suede vest. He looks as if he is ready to play an updated version of the poem’s protagonist, and similarly makes a hellish journey from Genoa to Siena each Monday to teach our class. To complete the look, his perfectly manicured graying handlebar moustache wiggles as he reads Dante’s words back to us in Italian with immaculate inflection.
My history professor, who orates on the Black Death in a hauntingly deep octave, makes up for the macabre nature of his subject matter with his spirited wardrobe. He sports a crisp (could it be corduroy?!) crème blazer with a thin multi-striped tie magnificently thrown around his neck. Pinned on the blazer is a gem that would delight a magpie, proudly proclaiming his allegiance to his contrada (Siena is split into 17 districts, each with its own logo and idiosyncrasies).
My bespectacled Sienese Art History teacher dons outfits that are fashion spread ready, colors complementing and flirting with each other. One day she wore all grey, in an array of varying shades, each of the somber hues was utilized and announced. I was convinced she was truly in the know when, during a field study to the Palazzo Publico, she turned to me and said she loved my nameplate necklace. “Like Carrie!” She exclaimed with animation.
Although my teachers come to class looking sharp and put together, they are often dismantled in other manners. Approximately twice a week, I am startled by the abrasive chime of my professors’ cell phones. At the entrance of the sound they look surprised and shaken up. Upon realizing they are the source of the noise they fiddle with their devices, punching its buttons maliciously, as if the instrument was bestowed upon them that day, a ridiculous burden. In America, this faux pas is commonly reserved for students, making me assume teachers here have more pressing social lives than their American counterparts.
This discomfort with technology is further exhibited as my professors tinker with the classroom computer’s power point and DVD applications, requesting the class’s assistance in locating the volume control. While furiously clicking the computer mouse on no particular icon, my Black Death professor turns to class, smirking, “You may see, Italians are not liking of the technology”.
