06/23/2011 81 °F
Last night, I went with my host family's dad to listen to him sing Italian cover songs with two of his childhood friends. They performed at the second home of Charlie, the more extraverted of the three. To get to the house, we went through two or three little towns. These towns were quite impressive. The old buildings were on an incline and were built against each other for support. (It was getting dark so I didn't get any good pictures.) There were also beautiful stone churches hidden at each town center. Charlie's house was about a mile away from the last town we passed, hidden by the thick foliage of the surrounding area. Behind his house, he had a field of sunflowers.
Now, I must explain to you the comical aspect of the evening. The host dad, Michele, is Albanian. He speaks Italian with a very thick Albanian accent, or so I am told. So, we had three Albanian men speaking Italian, one who studied In England and knew about two handfuls of English words, and then there's me. I speak an awful mix of English, Spanish, and Italian.
I spent the first ten minutes concentrating on figuring what the song lyrics meant, and the rest of the time laughing at the men's foreign antics. Like typical men, they dedicated songs, made fun of each other, and drank. Every song they played was cheesy and spoke of love, it was very entertaining. They were a lot better than I expected them to be.