Reportage Post Week Two

Today, we walked from Piazza Libertad to the Alberghiero, where Daniella went to school to be a tour guide. We were welcomed by a man with hair past where the neck meets the back and his co-worker, who reminded me of the secret service with Ray Bans darker than night and the ear piece to talk to the Director, who we met at Elisa's party the weekend before. I smile at the teenage girls at the front desk, dressed in matching uniforms and spoke better English than my Italian. To the right, the kitchen, with four boys younger than me laughing at my misshapen lump of dough: a jagged edged circle. I thump the rolling pin in the pimpled boy with the earring in front of me, and sigh. He wraps the end around the pin, trying to smooth it out, the boy next to him tosses flour to destickify it. Side glances at a snickering Jenna prove that my pasta will never live up to the standards of this cook. I think about how grateful I am for High School and the opportunity to go to College, where my work lives up to my standards.
In the other room, where we migrate like herded cats after scarfing down too thick strigoli, there is a group of teenage boys and a girl at the front of the room, dressed in graphic tee-shirts from surf shops and Hollister, awaiting instructions from a saggy pants teacher with a buzz cut. He looks like a friend of my mothers, her trainer from Chicago, with the sleeves of tattoos and bulging triceps. It makes me miss home, this Italian teacher of American Bartending.
Working Flair for two shots and Sex on the Beach is basically one person throwing bottles of Skyy Vodka in the air and jumping up and down in sync with bad Pitbull Zumba music. The row of added American stress bores into the stand from Bartender Stars, not blinking, not wanting to miss the drop of cranberry juice that spots the table.This is their final. I realize I would much rather have a cranberry scantron in front of me, than a twirling cranberry bottle.