I started today, la festa di San Giuseppe. My poor tutor has been plunged back into the world of Vatican politics. Naturally I had to fight through great thickets of mental Polish to get at the wandering flock of superannuated sheep that is my Italian vocabulary. Amusingly--for my tutor--I invariably said "ale" (Polish for "but") instead of "ma", just as I used to say "o" (Italian for "or") instead of "lub" or "albo" to my Polish tutor.
Afterwards I went to Elm Row and Leith Walk on a hunt for zeppole di San Giuseppe. I bought some cannoli in case I couldn't find the zeppole. As a matter of fact, I did find zeppole, but the cannoli--from The Sicilian Pastry Shop--were better.
On the bus home with my pastry boxes I listened to Max Pezzali and 883 on my phone, but I had a weird feeling of 1980s dejà vu more in keeping with this song:
Once again I was back in Mrs Angelini's senior Italian class on the third floor of the Tudor-Gothic fort that was my high school, wool plaid kilt sticking to my thighs. Someone in class wrote an essay about "Terra Promessa." I could probably write an essay on Italy in the 1980s even though I didn't get there until 1998.