Never Trust a Thin Cook and Other Lessons from Italy’s Culinary Capital

Back to High School

“ You want me to teach high school kids?” I ask the principal of a local Modena high school. “They’ll eat me alive!” He assures me they are very well behaved and respectful , but I remember attending a year of Italian high school in Brescia and my out-of control classmates. The students stay in the same classroom all day, so the teachers must enter enemy territory. I tell him I have to mull it over. My Italian friends Guido and Sonia say I must accept immediately. They tell me that many friends have studied for months to take a huge exam with nearly a million other Italians to get a job as a teacher. Only a couple hundred positions in schools will be open, making their chances a statistical improbability. The school offered me the job without any sort of qualifications, simply because I’m a native speaker. I meet with the principal again and explain that I’m technically not allowed to teach in Italy since I don’t have a work visa. He looks concerned and tells me, “We are a public institution, and everything needs to be as clear as the light of day, so I will ask the school accountant if you can work here.” The principal informs me later in the day that the accountant (“he’s very good”) found a loophole in the law that allows me to work part-time. On the one hand, I’ll be working for the government schools; on the other hand, Back to High School 191 the government can throw me out of the country because I’m illegal. Another Italian irony. When I arrive for my first day of classes, an ambulance is parked in front of the school, and a student is being hauled out on a stretcher. No one seems too concerned, however. I ask if she’s OK, and one of the janitors tells me, “She just passed out; it happens all the time.” Classes are half English lesson and half wrestling match. Once I finally calm the students down, they are very good at expressing themselves—like Fulvio, who reads a poem in halting Shakespearean English about medieval sword fights to the confused class. When I finally do understand what they’re talking about, I try to correct their choice of words. They, in turn, correct me by showing the British word in their textbooks: timepiece , trainers, braces, jumper, and so on. We read about a British entrepreneur who likes to smoke and “is obsessed with fags.” The first lesson, I ask them what important monuments I should see as a tourist in Italy. Although this seems like a fairly serious topic, they manage to find a way to turn it into a ridiculous lesson. One insists the Leaning Tower of Pisa is in Florence, much to the amusement of his classmates. They don’t put even the Colosseum in Rome, the duomo in Milan, or St. Peter’s in Vatican City on the list. The soccer stadium in Milan is near the top of the list. This sparks arguments about the best players, and some of them pull their team scarves out of their backpacks to wave around. The principal interrupts one of the classes of older students, who are preparing to go on their gita scolastica, or school trip, to Paris for an entire week. The gita scolastica is a timehonored tradition in Italy. At the end of nearly every year, 192 Back to High School each high school class ventures to another city or site for a day or two of fun and alleged education. The principal explains , “The insurance didn’t work out for your trip, so you have to promise to be on your best behavior.” The students put their right hands over their hearts, raise their left hands, and say, “Giuro, we swear we’ll be good.” I’m amazed the principal accepts this and lets this wild group invade France. When they return, I ask if they visited the many museums and monuments on their itinerary, but they spent most of their time at the Moulin Rouge and then slept during the day. I feel sorry for the poor teacher who had to accompany them. I ask if they at least ate some great Parisian cuisine. “Ugh! Fa schifo! French food is awful. We ate spaghetti every night, and even that was barely...