Wednesday. It should be the high point of the week. You’ve reached the midpoint, the center, the peak. It means you’ve finished the first half. It also means you can see the second half. But I guess the downward slope isn’t an exciting thing to see (must be why turning thirty sucks so much, being over the hill and all… not that I would know… I’m going to continue now…). Wednesdays for me should be fun. Half the week is indeed over and, added bonus, there is always a party in the piazza on Wednesday nights for all the Italian young to come out, booze and chat. Wednesdays have succeeded to be the low point of my week, every week. At least next week, Wednesday will be a holiday. Thank God for Catholicism (yea, I know, it’s ironic. I’m half Jewish. I think that Catholicism is probably the worst part of Italy. But let’s just leave it at a comment and explore days of the week not world religions).
I woke this morning knowing I wanted to do my laundry and knowing I had a class. I massed my dirty clothes together and shoved them into the washer before heading out the door to initiate my morning routine. I let the clothes wash, spin and soak on there own.
The night before I had had a strange dream. I was back at Harvard and was once again a first year student, although I knew deep down that I had already done the first year thing before. This time however, I was Italian and no one understood what I was saying. It was strangely foreign, I found myself floating down Massachusetts Avenue in a boat that stopped at the Quad to pick up new students and pause for a meal service of french fries. I woke up feeling weird, foreign, and not really knowing what to think.
Class yesterday had been interesting, I had understood the lecture and left feeling quite content. I arrived this morning half-expecting the same. I sat in my chair staring at the computer start menu projected onto the screen for a good half hour as the techie tried to continually click the same cancel button to get things working again. The teacher had tried to upgrade from projecting slides to showing us a powerpoint presentation but the Fates were obviously not on her side. So back we went to slides, sitting in pitch black, trying to take notes while the professor rambled on not about the slide but about neoimpressionism and eventually winding the digression into futurism, at which point the techie came back.
Regardless of being able to use the computer, the professor plowed on through with her slides, talking to us in the dark. After a few minutes, what must have been the microphone started letting out polyrhythmic squeaks. After acknowledging the change in our auditory space and pausing for a few seconds, the professor decided it would just be fine to continue with the lesson for another 15 minutes before concluding with the end of her slides. All the students left a little confused, ears ringing.
I arrived home to anxiously open the washing machine (you have to wait a few minutes after shutting it off to actually open the door) to get my clothes outside to dry. To my horror, there was my underwear one pair once completely white, and another once trimmed in white, turned completely pink, and now trimmed with pink. That’s what happens when you put in a red t-shirt with your wash without thinking twice. My roommate thinks the underwear is cute, saying that I had acquired new garments without buying anything. As I cursed the red t-shirt, I strung it and the other clothes out to dry and made myself lunch. Madonna, Mamma, Porca Miseria, Dio (guess you can’t keep religion out of the swearing in Italy).
All bundled together, my frustration set me off into a bad mood. Goodbye productivity and wanting to read some literature this afternoon. I decided that, like any sane human being, I could take a break and watch some Grey’s Anatomy. Mother soon calls on cue for her 2-3 timeslot and out flows my thoughts about my dysfunctional day and my dreams telling me perhaps I am not happy in Italy. Conversation with parents leads to Stefan feeling slightly wrecked: why is he in Italy? What is this experience all about? What’s the point of doing the reading and attending the lectures if, in the end you don’t really understand?
Another episode of Grey’s Anatomy, a piece of chocolate and a sequence of yoga later and I’ve collected myself. Wednesday’s are tough because it’s a point, a discernable midway point to the week, a tiny peak on which to balance and see the entire world stretching out below. It makes you stop and think, which is always a dangerous thing. Regardless, it makes me stop and think of my purpose, my expectations, my dreams. Considering all those things, balancing on that peak of midway, it’s easy to lose your balance.