The Long Haul

My first impressions were – you’re too big, too fat, you’re carrying way too much weight and there’s no way you’re going to move.  No, I wasn’t surveying the damage done by seasonal indulging but looking at the shiny new Qantas A380 that was going to transport me back to Australia for yet more seasonal indulgence.  I’ve made the longest of long haul journeys so many times now to have become almost blasé about the whole thing. Of course there is always a pang of excitement when stepping aboard a plane ready for another adventure.  While there is glamour to traversing the globe in a matter of hours the truth is for those of us consigned to cattle class there isn’t much in the way of glamour.  In fact after the excitement of take off you really need to put your head down and just get through the next 20 odd hours of transit.

Australians are used to the notion of long transits (it takes about 5 hours to fly from one end of the country to the other) and being so far away from anywhere you know that most trips are going to take the best part of a day.  To most of the Europeans I have met the thought of more than four hours in a plane is an unendurable endeavour.   It’s by no means fun but it’s really not that bad if you prepare and after twelve years of travelling between hemispheres I've got this long haul thing down to an art.  What type of book to choose, what clothes to wear, and given that upgrades are as rare as hen’s teeth, where the best spot in the economy cabin is.  In a strange way I actually look forward to the flight as my life is usually so hectic and disorganised that the enforced sitting and doing nothing for twenty hours is a welcome break.  

I have often thought how the act of travelling is a state of mind and atmosphere all of its own.  Over the years I have been through many airports (I think about 30) and the atmosphere in them is always the same.  Once you get past the security check to the airside it feels as if you have already left whichever country you are in and entered the country (or absence of country) of travel.  The transit lounge is full of people waiting wearily for the time to board the aircraft that will take them to an exotic location or back home to familiar surrounds.  Duty free is full of the same bottles of Bombay Sapphire and Chanel No5 that you saw at the point of departure.  There is always the one store stocked full of things that supposedly reflect the culture of the country you have just been in – Harrods in London, Ken Done and boomerangs in Aus, leather and dulce de leche in Argentina, and so on.

Once finally up there in the atmosphere looking down at the world below the clouds I can’t help but imagine that the plane has somehow escaped time.  That by merely taking off and joining the system of invisible airborne highways and byways, that are unmarked save for beacons planted in the middle of nowhere, has taken us out of the earth bound concerns of morning, afternoon and evening; of going to work and what to cook for dinner. Up there all that matters are hours; how many since take off and more importantly how many to your destination.  Watching the oversize plane make its painfully slow progress across the onscreen flight path becomes a small obsession.  The little plane flies over such exotic places as Tashkent and Samarkand that I long to set down in these mysterious places to explore.  At times plane travel seems brutal in picking you up in one place and setting you down on the other side of the world with not a thought to the wonderful places in between.  I’ve long harboured a dream of travelling over land from Spain to China, making the trek from Mediterranean through Central and Eastern Europe across the point where Europe and Asia meet and then over the steppes of central Asia and into South East Asia.  I’m curious to see if I notice the faces, food and cultures changing or if they gradually blend from one into the other – one day perhaps I'll  get round to it.

When at last you do set down in your destination you have to then recover from the flight and the fact that you have gone from one time zone and season to the opposite.  A swim and a shower in my experience is the best way to get over the flight as for jet lag, well that takes a bit of effort.  According to the experts you need to give a day for each hour of difference to come to terms with the new time but for me that’s way too long. The only effective solution I have found is just to force yourself to stay awake until a time deemed reasonable for sleep in your new location.  It’s tough for a couple of days but then you’re right.

    

So very suddenly I am back on the other side of the world in Australia and back in Melbourne.  Back in familiar surrounds where beer comes in pots, people smile and the footy (Aussie Rules of course) is a religion.  There have been reunions aplenty with more yet to do.  As I write this looking out the window at the brilliant sunshine listening to the comforting sound of a tram trundling past I wonder about my funny little life in Treviso half a world away – I wonder if my life in Treviso even exists.   

I give up

It’s a micro climate I’m told, the strange combination of factors that has resulted in this part of the world being meltingly hot in the summer and blisteringly cold in the winter with ridiculous levels of humidity throughout the year.  The hot and humid weather never really bothers me but cold is something I live in fear of.  Get temperatures into single figures and I become the kind of person that lives up to the whinging stereotype that me adopted home holds of British people.  Winter in the Veneto has always been this looming event whose inevitable arrival I have dreaded.  Not just for the cold and humid temperatures that bite through you or the bitter winds that smack you in the face but the knowledge that I can either suffer stoically through the event or start dressing for the weather.  And here lies the problem.

Melbourne gets pretty cold and normally the arrival of the winter months is seen as a opportunity and I look forward to the twice yearly ritual of the wardrobe turnaround when you put wash and put away the t-shirts and summer dresses and pull out the jumpers and thick socks that you haven’t seen for the last five or six months.  I see the cooler months as an opportunity to dress better given that you are required to wear so many more clothes.  When I say Melbourne gets cold I mean Melbourne gets cold for Australia and here with the ever lowering thermometer suddenly my winter clothes look stupidly thin.  Recently everyone seems to be concerned with my preparedness to cope with a Trevisan winter.  I’ve often been asked if I have a warm coat and you know I actually thought I did.  But of late my usual Melbourne winter coat while being ultra stylish in its modern minimalist aesthetic is proving painfully inadequate and I have been forced to consider alternatives. 

When the first signs of cold weather appeared Trevisans en masse (I’m not sure if there is a set date for this or if the Trevisans have some kind of sartorial telepathy) pulled out their puminos.  A pumino is a big puffy, padded coat that while keeping you snug does run the danger of making you look like the Michelin man.  For a while it seemed as if every shop window was full these monster coats.  If like me you don’t particularly like the pumino there is a popular alternative – fur.  Here there doesn’t seem to be any stigma or controversy about wearing animal pelts and I’ve never seen so many women in fur.  Now obviously I’m not going to wear fur so it looks like the pumino is my only option if I’m going to get through the winter.  Unfortunately being short (I make pygmies look tall) and svelte not being an adjective you would use to describe me I look pretty stupid in one of these big puffy numbers.  I also think they’re pretty ugly so the prospect of owning one is quite distressing. 

Winter 2011/2 Big, puffy coat and gumboots

Get one, wear it through the winter and then put it at the back of your wardrobe and forget about it until you need it again was the advice I was given and it was with this in mind that I went out in search of a pumino.  I quickly realised that if I was to be warm I would have to give up any notions of style – these coats just look stupid on me.  They’re not cheap either and when push came to shove I couldn’t face the thought of spending 100+ euros on something that made me look like a cross between the stay puft marshmallow man and a sleeping bag.  I’ve never really thought of myself as a fashonista preferring to dress for comfort and mood rather than the latest trends yet I surprised myself by being prepared to suffer the cold to avoid the marshmallow look.  That was until the temps really started dropping and I soon realised that I am prepared to sacrifice a bit of style to the greater good of being warm.  I was hoping to ride it out until the sales kicked in post Christmas but no luck, it’s just too cold to wait.  Still being tight fisted or prudent enough not to spend my hard earned money on something that will render me a visual joke I’ve borrowed one from M.  Yes it’s super warm and puffy and yes I am giving up on style – for the next few months at least.

He was only a cruise ship crooner

the award for headline of the year goes to The Daily Telegraph

Since my acquaintance with this country a certain Mr B has dominated the political landscape, so much so that it seems strange to think he’s no longer there.  While many an Italian was rejoicing at the demise I wonder if the countries satirists were thrown in a pit of despair at the loss of such a rich vein of material.  But then again Mr B had become such a parody that there really was no need to add satire.

I have always wondered how Italians came to elect (three times) a man for whom the word buffoon seems to have been invented.   Italian politics are a complicated and opaque world and certainly not one that I can begin to sum up in a superficial blog nor would I have the arrogance to suggest I am qualified to do so.  Given that he first came to power after the reigning government was exposed as having its hands in so many tills that the prime minister fled the country perhaps he did seem like a breath of fresh air.  The fact that he owns several television stations and newspapers did help PR matters.  Or were the Italians seduced by the narrative of the vacuum cleaner salesman and sometime cruise ship singer pulling himself up to be a media mogul and one of the richest men in the country?  Who can blame them for thinking that maybe some of that magic would rub off but once in power things where a different matter.   There’s a quote attributed to Pope Leo X which I’m often reminded of when I think about Mr B and his time in office.  From his seemingly endless partying, appointing a string of MPs whose main qualification for the job was a pretty face and breasts, to the changing of laws to suit his business interests or avoid prosecution the cynicism of Pope Leo to me perfectly sums up the last few years of Italian political life - "Since God has given us the Papacy, let us enjoy it." – substitute a couple of words and I think you’ll have it.   

Once in power and, at least in my opinion, showing himself to be at best hopelessly inadequate and at worst corrupt he was voted back twice to form the longest serving Italian government since Mussolini.  Why?  You could argue it was a lack of an effective opposition or it could be the appeal to self interest or did all the favourable media coverage lead the country to think he was doing a good job?  Well the reason was – Oh hell search me I have no idea, it really is mind boggling that he was voted in once let alone three damn times.       

At the end of it all Mr B wasn’t brought down by any one of the number of personal, political or business scandals that became so common that one didn’t even raise an eyebrow but by the enormity of the European financial crisis.  Once the crisis turned towards Italy his demise was swift, watching his leaving I got the impression that B is genuinely bewildered as to how events turned against him.  From being the astute media player suddenly the populist touch deserted him.  Many Italians were angered by his glib assertion that everything was ok as the bars and restaurants of Italy were full without a mention of the growing hardships caused by austerity measures.  B has left the country with one hell of an overdraft, rising unemployment and the (temporary) suspension of democracy – the current and polar opposite Prime Minister Mario Monti was appointed to the position by the president.  The country like much of Europe is in a mess and one that will most likely get worse before (if) it gets better.

As for Mr B have we seen the last of him?  Will he be happy to retire to his villa or is he plotting a return.  He has kept himself busy releasing an album of co-written love songs just a week after leaving office.  Given that now he is out of power his immunity from prosecution has gone and that his party is still the biggest in Parliament it’s hard to believe this is the end of him.  I personally don’t think it will be too long before the perma tan returns – just long enough for the public to blame the current government for the continued economic hardship that’s my guess.  “Men are so simple and so much inclined to obey immediate needs that a deceiver will never lack victims for his deceptions.” Machiavelli
            

Crash, Bang, Wallop

This week I’ve been asking myself do different nations hear differently?   No I haven’t been listening to the Italian charts (although whenever I am unfortunate enough to catch the latest top ten hit I do wonder if a large percentage of the Italian population is tone deaf – but I also I wonder that whenever I’m confronted with the fact that Coldplay have a career.)  When travelling through various countries one of my personal joys has always been the different languages I have encountered and the little tricks I’ve gathered to cope – whilst navigating the Japanese transport system I quickly learnt to match the symbols on my ticket to the departures board with not a single mishap, when in a little town in the Tamil speaking part of India meeting a local who spoke no English and me only speaking Panjabi, of the multitude of Indian languages, we found that we could communicate in Italian of all languages.  As well as dealing with the new words and grammatical constructions there is the host of vocal and onomatopoeic sounds that make up a language.  While I expected words to be different I never really gave a thought to the onomatopoeia. 

In the UK and Aus (I hasten to add other English speaking Countries) the onomatopoeic word for a dog bark is woof, here dogs don’t woof woof they bau bau! Birds don’t go cheep cheep they cip cip and frogs don’t ribbit they cra cra.  It’s not just the world of animal sounds that are different, if an English speaker cuts their finger they will exclaim ouch or ow an Italian will say ahi or ahia as they apply pressure to the injured digit.  Crack a joke to a native English speaker and you will hopefully hear  ha ha or hee hee try to be funny in Italy ah, ah, eh, eh, ih, ih, or uh, uh is what your ego will be wanting to hear. Tuck into a Raji curry and yum yum or om nom nom is what I want to hear from an English speaker and gnam gnam from my Italian friends.  When it comes to bodily functions once again we are in a linguistically different world, an English speaker will fart or burp and an Italian will prot and rutt respectively.  Hearing brrrring will have me leaping for the phone and Italian will only do so if he hears a drin drin.  I knock on a door while my Italian chums toc.  In Australia my floorboards would creek here they cric crac.

These onomatopoeic sounds seem so hard wired and often come from instant emotions that I cannot believe that I would ever be able to make them part of my lexical repertoire.  Yet when I talk to my long term expect friends I’m amazed that they do make the Italian exclamation when in pain, or just generally pissed off while driving.       

These differences while unimportant do make me wonder, do we hear sounds differently or is it just out different languages that result in the divergent interpretations?  The Japanese language has no L sound and Japanese speakers have great difficulty in identifying and pronouncing when speaking English.  Studies have shown that as newborns Japanese children can hear the L sound but as they grow and the brain develops to acquire language skills they lose the ability to identify the sound due to not hearing it spoken.  Does this explain why different nations interpret the same sound differently?  One theory of linguistic development argues that language developed from early humans making onomatopoeic words from the sounds around them.  I’m way to ignorant to speculate on such things but this week once again I have been reminded what an amazingly rich, complex and beautiful beast language is.          

Not in Kansas now

One of the little pleasures I’ve always gotten from travelling is experiencing the many differences between the new place and my usual habitats.  Of course you expect the big things: language, driving on the other side and wasting a good portion of your life in a Kafkaesque bureaucracy but there are many little things that while generally not better or worse are just plain different.  So today I thought I would regale you with some of the little differences that I didn’t expect to find:

People don’t read on trains: being a not infrequent train traveller I have had much time to observe Italian train customs and unlike their British or Australian counterparts the Italian commuter does not have his head buried in a paperback (or more recently an ereader.)  Whenever I have taken a journey, be it a long haul flight from Aus to Britain or just a short tram trip to work I’ve taken the opportunity to get a couple of chapters read (and as I was generally taking the 86 or 57 tram it was also a good way to avoid any accidental eye contact with a junkie or general crazy person) here people seem content to stare out the window.

Table of contents are at the back of the book just before the index: a little trifling matter but being used to the whole; front cover, dedication page, table of contents, main text, bibliography and finally index the Italian (not sure about other countries, please feel free to enlighten me) tradition of having the contents page at the back threw me a bit.  Yes, I do find it strange to read the book, get to the end and then find the page telling what’s in the book but there you go – if anyone can tell me why it’s like that I would love to know. 

     

It’s not just driving on the right people walk on the right too: It seems that whichever side of the road a nation drives on they will walk in the same manner – never noticed this before.  Now I’m used to the left and here people drive and walk on the right.  As you might expect this causes quite a few occasions where I have to get out of the way of someone who is adhering to the correct pedestrian etiquette.  Unfortunately I am also used to stepping aside to the left and the Italians to the right thus resulting in moments of endless polite shuffling as we both try to get out of each others’ way and continue on ours.

Plastic bags:  at my local supermarket I am no longer asked if I want a plastic bag. I’m one of those people who brings my own cloth bag.  I am very much in the minority but at least there is an effort to discourage plastic bag use by way of a 10c charge.  When it comes to the fruit and veg aisle I find myself despairing.  Let me state my position these items do not need a plastic tear if you even look at it bag:  a whole pumpkin – it comes with its own protection,  a single apple or any other single fruit, ginger; that skin will do more than the plastic.  While I’m on the rant if the fishmonger has put your salmon fillets or whatever in a plastic bag, then wrapped the whole thing in paper and then kindly placed the package in a carrier bag you do not need to tie the handles together and put that bag in yet another bag.

    

Toasters: Italian toasters don’t pop up.  Instead of the pop up mechanism you have to put your bread in a metal clamp like contraption and lower it into the toaster. Not better or worse just different.

The concealed drip rack: the most glorious difference, to me one of the greatest inventions and why the hell has no other country I have had the pleasure to experience got one in their kitchen?  No longer do my dishes sit on the work surface taking up valuable space and endlessly reminding me that they need to be put away.  Now they are carefully concealed above the sink, not asking to be put away but waiting happily until I have call to use them again.  Honestly I do not wish to work in a kitchen without one ever again.  That and the marble worktops which now mean I no longer find myself in the situation where I’m holding a red hot tray straight out of the oven, burning my fingers because I couldn’t be bothered to find the oven gloves and am using a tea towel that’s barely adequate all the while poncing around looking for the damn trivet.  

The concealed dish rack, a genius idea

Views from the bottom of the glass

Make a list of the things Italy is famous for you would have to include:  Food, fashion, a prime minister that makes Caligula seem like the quiet bookish type and of course some of the world’s finest wines.  This week I’ve been musing (and gathering data in the field) over the difference between the drinking cultures here and the ones I’ve experienced.  I make no secret of the fact that I like a drink, be it wine, beer, port, whisky, gin, vodka (especially that yummy polish Bison grass one) and thanks to a couple of visits to South America I’ve even revived a love for tequila after one bad night when a student and  17 intervening  years.  I like the taste of a deep red, the crispness of a white the yeastiness of beer and I need to stop before I get lost in a train of thought more appropriate to Oz Clarke than a blog about Italy.   

It’s no surprise to say that the drinking culture here is very different.  The first thing I noticed was how different points of an evening are marked by different drinks.  The early evening is spritz time, with food it’s wine and after coffee one of a seemingly endless list of digestives.  The Italians make an array of ridiculously delicious wines and since my arrival I have come across many a new variety of grape.  Alcohol is also much cheaper meaning a good bottle of wine doesn’t have to be an investment and with the average drink in a bar costing 2 euro, a night out is not an expensive prospect.  From what I’ve seen all this cheap booze does not result in much public drunkenness.  In my time here I haven’t really seen any from the locals (the expats are a different matter) and it’s been a relief to not have to deal with the attentions of an over imbibing male – yes I mean Ted.  On Saturday night a gang of us headed out to the annual fair for the evening.  Amongst the dodgems, shooting galleries and food stalls there were a liberal number of drinking venues.  T noted that had this been the UK there would have been at least one drunken altercation and a lot of booze fuelled bumper car driving.  As it was people were just enjoying a glass of wine with their roast chestnuts or a beer with their barbequed sausage and despite getting home near 3, I woke up the next morning without a trace of a hangover. 

The prodigious drinking that seems to characterise nights out in the Anglo countries is frowned upon here.  One night while out with some Italian friends a member of the party commented on how much I drank as sipped a post dinner digestive – it was my fourth drink in about as many hours.  While at times I find this aspect of the culture uptight it is nice to be able to savour the taste of a really beautiful drink and not have worry about losing the best part of a day to feeling like a bar room floor.  My friends here have fallen into two camps – those that don’t really drink and those that like to party.  I know that a night out with the moderate drinkers will most likely include a comment about my taking a second glass of wine and as for the other group (especially if M and T are involved) that needs a good self preservation instinct.  

  

In Aus and the UK drinking is very much a social lubricant, you’ve something to celebrate you have a drink, you’ve had a bad day you need a drink, you’re feeling a bit meh so you have a drink, you need a bit of Dutch courage – yep, you guessed it.  The social culture in these nations is revolved around pubs and bars.  Often these places become second homes and for me who has spent the last 12 years away from family I’ve found the atmosphere of a friendly local essential to keeping the spirits (pun half intended) up.  That's not so different here the bars are all full of a Friday evening and every occasion seems to be punctuated with the raising of a glass.  The big difference is that no one seems to need to medicate themselves to the point of oblivion.  I’ve often wondered what it is about the culture in the UK and Aus that has us drinking to the point of cognitive failure – not that we are unique.  Whilst in Japan I lost count of the number of Japanese salarymen I saw getting wasted in a post work bonding session.  Here I’m enjoying the emphasis on quality rather than quantity and as ever the sharing of a drink in the company of wonderful people.     

Bamboccioni

I grew up in a small Hampshire village and for as long as I can remember I was itching to leave the place.  There was a wider world out there and I wanted to be part of it.  Like many of my friends I couldn’t wait to “grow up” and branch out on my own, which to me meant leaving the constraints of the parental home, being independent and learning to rely on my own resources.  This rite of passage happened at 18 when I left home for University in London.  When I left I’m sad to say I never really gave a thought to how my parents would feel, two older sisters had already moved out and I could assuage any empty nest guilt as my much younger brother was still there to keep my mum occupied (something he was doing very well.)  I never moved back (aside from a few months between overseas stints.)  Most of my friends have similar stories with the need for independence and the stretching of wings resulting in leaving home somewhere around the late teens or early twenties. 

Recently I came across this article (http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-14995588) which got me thinking about things here.  A few months ago a student was telling me about how he had recently split from his girlfriend and was hunting for an apartment.  I assumed that this heartbroken man (in his early thirties) was living with his girlfriend when the relationship foundered.  It was only later that I learnt that he, despite have a seriously good job, was still living with his parents (he also hadn’t split up with the girlfriend but I’ll leave that whole thing for another time.)   Once he did move out there was a litany of stories of his various domestic disasters that it quickly became clear that his mum really did everything for him. 

Their called bamboccioni (overgrown babies) those that continue to live in the parental home long into adulthood – the term was coined by a government minister who admits he didn’t learn to make a bed until he was 30, when he left home.   Many of my friends and students still live in the parental home well into their 20s and 30s.  EU statistics (yes I’ve done my research) show a whopping 64% of Italian 18-35 year olds still live in the family home (21% in Germany.)  The average age for moving out of home here is 36 (a good 18 years after me.)  When I ask Italians about the reasons for the late nest flying one of the first things mentioned is the high unemployment and the cost of setting up on your own.  Both these issues cannot be refuted.   The average wage in Italy is half that of that UK (these stats may be a bit out of date now.)  Having said that according to the Institution of population research of those 20-35 year olds in employment 45% still chose to live at home.    As for costs, setting up on your own is a pretty pricey endeavour which is why I and most of my peers shared homes and split costs but the culture of share accommodation doesn’t seem to exist here.  When I’ve mentioned it to people I’ve usually been met with horrified looks.  Why would I live with strangers when I could live with family? 

So if it’s not just economics keeping Italians at home what is it?  It comes as no surprise to say that Italians place more emphasis on close family ties and with the collapsing birth rate (most families have just one child or two at most) keeping that one child close and giving them the best is only natural.  One report I read concludes that adult children stay at home because they genuinely have it good: 

“Every desire seems to be satisfied without any particular responsibilities....

...The rules imposed by the family on young people do not seem very burdensome - except for having to come home for meals, a rule which can partly be avoided if advance warning is given of a later arrival.  Young people are also looked after handsomely: most of them have their expenses covered by their parents who tend to satisfy them without any major limitations while they have no responsibilities as regards the running of the home.” http://www.demogr.mpg.de/Papers/workshops/000906_paper01.pdf

Now that all sounds really cushy and having had my fair share of financially stressful times the idea of not worrying about money seems idyllic but I wonder what effects this prolonged childhood brings.  At a pretty young age I learnt to rely on myself, how to manage money and the value of it.  I learnt that bills never come at a good time, cleaning the oven is always something you leave until it really can’t be avoided and I have a good few flatmate horror stories.  Living in share accommodation has taught me how to live with other people how to negotiate the sharing of a space and the collective responsibility of making the project work, all things I think you need to learn well before you move in with a partner.  I’m glad I learnt these skills at a young age I’m not sure I would be as successful at learning it all now.   Although the concept of my staying at home longer is as alien to me as leaving home at 18 is to many of my Italian friends I’m beginning to wonder if in the UK and Aus we rush too fast into adulthood.  Families here do seem closer and kids seem grow up slower.

Monoculture

Really how many do you know?  Is my standard response when a student informs me that they “hate Chinese people.”  Predictably enough the answer is always “well I don’t actually know any but....”  Sadly all too often in my day to day adventures here I’ve come into contact with attitudes that I had long since consigned to my past when growing up in 70s and 80s Britain.  As well as not liking a full quarter of the world’s population I have been informed (in all seriousness) that Indian food is extremely unhealthy and not fit for consumption (it doesn’t seem to bother a billion Indians but there you go) and a few times I’ve had to explain just why the term nigger is offensive.  When L informed her work mates that she was having Indian food cooked for her one evening she was warned that she would be served dog (if you do insist on using tired racial stereotypes the Chinese serve dog, us Indians run corner shops OK?)  For the most part the comments I have come across are due more to ignorance than anything nastier but it has jolted me a little out of my everything is cool mindset and back to challenging such views.  These attitudes are not a total surprise many an Italian still shudders at the memory of Berlusconi describing Obama as tanned (pretty ironic Silvio considering your permanent orange state.)  Not that a pome can be feel too superior about Italy’s leader we do have the Duke of Edinburgh with his own take on inter cultural understanding.  But I was left speechless by a sign on a souvenir cart in Venice which read “These pictures are toxic to Chinese people.”  Now putting aside the fact the items on sale were probably made in China and that the bankrupt Italian economy will probably be owned by China very soon the sheer irrational hatred in the sign does make one think about the culture here and while I abhor the sentiment I'm sad that someone feels so much anger and distrust not just for an ethnicity but perhaps for a world that is changing too rapidly to comprehend.

For most of the last century Italy was a country of émigrés and it is only really recently that the wave has reversed.  It has taken many years for places such as the UK and Australia to embrace multiculturalism and it’s not a completely won battle, Australia has yet to find a way to heal the damage caused to its Aboriginal populations and I don’t believe any country has a humane policy towards asylum seekers.  It seems to me that Italy is only now beginning explore how different communities will exist as a whole.   While immigrants are mainly from former Italian colonies in Africa and more recently Eastern Europe there is a small Chinese presence and an even smaller sub continental one.  From what I’ve seen the separate cultures generally keep themselves to themselves.  When I visit the Chinese grocers I am the only non Chinese face and likewise the African and Sri Lankan.    Most likely the next generation will have very different attitudes and experiences of other cultures; they’ll have to as the movement of peoples is a fact of our globalised world.    

Surprisingly the harshest and most casual racism (not sure I can call it that maybe prejudice is a better term) has been reserved for Southern Italians.  It is not uncommon to hear the things akin to “what do you expect they’re southern.”  When I first got here people (and even friends) would say “You know they’re Southern” no I don’t know what does that have anything to do with it?  I suspect that what it has is the notion of other people getting things they don’t deserve and taking away from those that do.

   

Growing up in the UK and living in Australia for the last 10 years I am used to living amongst different nationalities and ethnicities so it has been a bit of a shock to the system to find myself living in a monoculture.  While I had reconciled (or so I thought) myself to the notion that I wouldn’t be able to get a steaming bowl of Pho in my new abode (and yes it is unexpectedly painful) I didn’t really think about the other effects of monoculturalism.  As well as the host of ethnic food (which I know my Italian friends are sick of hearing about and I understand that it’s Italy and I won’t be able to pick up wonton wrappers at the supermarket) I’m missing hearing a myriad of languages.  I loved sitting on a Melbourne tram hearing people talk, Cantonese, Arabic, Sudanese, Vietnamese and wondering what these strange sounds mean and I miss exploring the different ethnic suburbs. These whimsies are mitigated by the joy of living in a picturesque medieval town, having Venice just a short train ride away and yes all the yummy Italian food.  It takes a long time and a lot of challenging of entrenched ideas and fears to get to the point where different cultures can coexist and even evolve together to create a new culture – can anyone honestly imagine Britain today without curry? – and each country writes its own story in this regard at the moment I think it’s too early to predict what will happen here, tough economic times don’t help the situation.  I hope that Italy takes the path of acceptance and celebration.

Farewell Orsetta

Last week with more than a little regret I said my farewell to my job.  After just a few months I’ve found myself moving to another school here in Treviso.  This first job was a wonderful entry into the teaching life allowing me to ease into a new industry and provided a welcome atmosphere while I got myself through the initial shock of finding myself living in Treviso – never be let it said that I think through things before I do them!  Even after just five months I’m almost nostalgic for the good times.  Yes days were long and at times infuriating (any students reading this I would like you to know it is most annoying to spend your unpaid leisure time inventing and writing a new and interesting lesson, making teaching materials only to have you not show up to the lesson .  I shan’t name names – we all know who you are) but looking back it was an invigorating experience.  While you could never say teaching is a physically demanding job never the less each day I would come home exhausted.  When you are in a class there is not a moment of wondering attention you need to be thinking of the next activity, anticipating what problems students could have, listening for pronunciation and grammatical errors, thinking of ways to explain the language and deciding what things to correct there and then and what to tackle later.  There’s not a moment to even think about what you are going to have for lunch, dinner or mid afternoon snack! 

My real regret is leaving the wonderful people I’ve been lucky enough to work with.  Over the years I have had a really eclectic working history a brief list of which includes: bar hand, puppeteer, stage manager, bookstore manager, Christmas decoration coordinator and I’ve even managed a brief time in the corporate world variously working for major banks and international accounting firms – don’t ask me how but they paid really well.  I’ve generally been lucky with my work places and have always found myself working with nice people and my school was no exception in fact it’s been one of the best.  With any new work place it takes a while to find your feet and build the friendships but it was only a few weeks before I was affectionately called orsetta – which I’m told means bear cub.  While it’s nice (and even necessary) to work in a friendly place to be in an environment with like minded people has been a breath of fresh air.  My fellow teachers have with me a shared love of words, language and teaching as well as an equally screwy sense of humour.    I will miss my days there – the quick trips for a sneaky prosecco between lessons, the what if humans had a blow hole conversations and being called orsetta.

So this week I’ll be starting my new job with another school.  This will be another trial by fire with me now having to write my own lessons and teach larger classes as well as getting students ready for exams.  If my new colleges are half as nice as my last I shall count myself lucky indeed.            

The cool change

Last night after a couple of hours enjoying the sun I found myself sitting in a beach side bar surrounded by many of my new found Italian friends, GM was providing the tunes, we were all six shades darker than two months ago and many of us had that sleepy eyed look of time spent in the sea air (or as in my case from getting home at a ridiculous hour the night before and having to get up and go to work at an early hour with a small devil playing death metal in your head.)  Towards the end of the evening for the first time there was a chill in the air that necessitated an additional layer – oh horror! does this mean the end of the summer?

When I returned from the UK I found my little part of Italy experiencing a bit of a heat wave with temperatures reaching the high 30s.  Treviso felt like a ghost town with many of the businesses shut for the holidays and most of the residents taking to either the mountains or the beach.   Having lived in Australia these past few years I’m used to high summer temperatures but not the humidity.  While in Melbourne I’m happy as Larry with temperatures in the mid thirties here the humidity makes it feel ten degrees hotter but at least you don’t feel as if your eyelids are slowly burning off your face, which is one of the delights of a Melbourne heat wave.  So with temperatures reaching the stupidly high, an empty town and newly back from the traumas of a week with family there was not much else to do but make a start on the small library that I had managed to amass in one week. 

Since leaving university many (we won’t mention how many) years ago I have not had a lazy summer, having always found myself working through the hottest months.  So this summer has been quite a revelation.  While this year has been a million miles away from my usual summer of bands, backyard barbies and festivals I have discovered the benefits of, well, not doing very much.  The long, lazy hot days have been so enjoyable that I can’t bear the thought of them ending.  I hope there is another little burst of summer before the autumn kicks in.

By the end of the week the trickle of residents returning turned into a flood and suddenly Treviso was full again.  While I really enjoyed my half week of solitary idling it was good to see friends again all relaxed and with the shininess that comes from lazing in the sun.  That first evening a bunch of us got together for drinks and food, talk was of our summer adventures, coming plans and the imminent start of work.  There was music in the piazza and although the evening was still gloriously balmy the shops were full of autumn fashions.  The nights will soon begin to get darker and the weather cooler, more than at any time in my life I wish the summer wouldn’t end.

London's Burning - Welcome back

London's burning

Driving away from Stansted airport watching the plume of black smoke billowing over London and the squadron of helicopters hovering ominously overhead I wondered what circumstances drive people to such wanton disregard of others and the ugliness of pack mentality?  But I had just flown ryanair and had experienced firsthand the mob at work.  In a piece of wonderful timing, this last week I have been in England.  Two days before my arrival and the country exploded in a mass of riots and destruction that is all too depressingly familiar to anyone who, like me, grew up in 1980s Britain. 

Forgoing London I went directly back to Southampton (scene of my growing up and were it not for the accident of birth I would have no reason to visit the place) to watch events unfold on the BBC.  Having lived in London for three years while at uni (at the start of that rather embarrassing “cool Britannia” nonsense) many of the devastated places are familiar to me, I know what the streets look like and can recollect the sense of tension in the air.  I have always said to people that one of my abiding memories of my years in the capital was the feeling that at any moment things could turn nasty and like many others experienced some nasty situations while there. 

Now I’m not going to make what would be an ill informed pronouncement on the causes of the riots.  Britain has enough politicians doing that already.  Things really couldn’t have happened at a worse time, the clock had ticked to one year before the London Olympics (how the Olympic organising committee will be squirming in their seats) and most of the government were on holiday overseas – giving the impression (perhaps unfairly) that the politicians were fiddling (or in this case being told to get their own coffee by Italian waitresses) while the country burned.  When they did realise it was all going tits up they rushed back en mass and the blame game began, it was the predictable old social depravation, lack of jobs or educational opportunities to the left and blame the parents, schools, criminal underclass on the right.  Really you didn’t come all the way back to tell me that.  Watching the polies on the beeb I was struck not by the differences in what left, right and middle had to say, to be honest I stopped listening to them very quickly but the one thing they all had in common; they all seemed to have hired a serious looking suited man whose sole aim was to stand behind them and emphatically nod his head in agreement with whatever the speaker was saying, thus giving the impression that it was some sort of mind blowing genius thought that must have been sent down from above (well I say all of them but funnily enough the prime minister and deputy prime minister haven’t spent a lot of time meeting the people.)   After seeing so many of these nodders I kinda started to want one, it would be just great for your self esteem to have someone in the background agreeing with your every utterance.   

A good example of head nodding

Another head nodding experience - not sure if I believe this one as much

The press local and foreign have taken to labelling the events as the British riots which, I have to say is wholly inaccurate and insulting to the other nations of the British Isles.  The riots have been an exclusively English event with no drama in Scotland, Wales or Northern Ireland where, ironically plans were drawn up to ship water cannon to London if the trouble continued!  Amid all the comment and conjecture aimed more at voters than the victims it’s a pretty sad state of affairs when the most reasoned and intelligent response to events comes from Russell Brand.  London has been the focus of attention twice in recent months.  The two events highlight the vast chasm of extremes that is modern day Britain.  At one end there is the pomp and privilege of the royal wedding (how long ago does that seem?) and on the other is the wanton destruction and looting of the, for want of a better word, underclass.  Much has been written about the aspirational nature of the goods looted: sports shoes, TVs etc  for me one of the saddest sights was amid the ruins of a city high street with every shop smashed and looted one store was left intact and untouched, Waterstones.  Then again why would you read when you can watch the x factor on your new 42 inch plasma?

Having been an expat for so long and visiting the UK intermittently over the last twelve years I have watched the country change.  So great are the changes that sometimes I feel like an alien rather than a returning pome.  Many things have improved – the country has become more multicultural for example but many things remain stubbornly unaddressed or swept under the carpet.  Whether people will have the guts to admit mistakes and look to proper solutions or will they, as I suspect, go with knee jerk, ideological reactions remains to be seen.   So not the best week to be in the UK and the weather was crap.  

My two worlds meet

Lately I have been blessed with not one but two visits from Australia.  The antipodes being so far away it is always a treat and fill up for the soul to get a visit.  It’s great to see dear friends again and I wonder what they think to find me happily ensconced in Italy, it is always a little strange meeting people who you know from one life in another (a bit like the awful embarrassment when a child of seeing your teacher in the real world or was it just me who thought they disappeared in a puff of smoke at the end of the school day only to rematerialize the next morning when the bell rang?)  Being the quasi local I make it my mission to show visitors around my “for now” home and have pretty much perfected the Raji tour of Venice, which can involve any combination of history, art, architecture, islands and of course bars – there’s always bars, bars are the constant. 

So familiar is Venice to me now that it is only when showing people around that I remember the delight of discovering it for myself not too long ago.  When travelling into to Venice on one of these little expeditions I realise how fortunate I am to be blasé about going there.  Truly it is a luxury to be able to say “I really can’t be bothered to go to Venice today.”  The first of my visits was from R and her husband who rocked up to Venice for a week.  I like to think that I know Venice and can find even the smallest out of the way place without recourse to a map, when R suggested we meet in Gucci I had no idea of its location beyond the “it’s bound to be in San Marco somewhere.”  A quick google and I discovered that I had past it dozens of times without noticing along with every other high end designer shop that I have no business looking in – it seems I have selective blindness.  As I was early I couldn’t help but take a quick look around.  Stepping inside it was obvious to all concerned that I did not belong (I’d have looked less conspicuous playing for the All Blacks) and I have to say the clothes weren’t that great a perfect example of the fact that money doesn't always buy you taste. 

Greeting R again after six months was a joy and while her husband spent the afternoon watching some kind of sporting event we eagerly chatted and wondered the back streets of Castello.   After months away it was refreshing to have the easy banter with someone you have shared experiences with.  R quizzed me relentlessly on my adventures and life in Treviso and noted that with my new found love of domesticity I seem to be nesting.  Usually I would dismiss such notions  as ridiculous – Raji doesn’t nest she is an explorer of the world - but coming from someone with a PHD in psychiatry I can’t help but wonder.   After a day and an evening of exploring, eating and drinking the time to say goodbye came all too soon.  As joyous as reunions are the goodbyes are very hard and I felt quite melancholic.  Just as I was about to give in to those lonely feelings I ran into my Venetian friend T who always seems to have a cheery smile and an infinite amount of patience with my terrible Italian.     

S crossing the Grand Canal by tragehtto

This week saw the arrival of S my old flatmate from my time as a Melbourne resident.  S and I had shared a house for a year and despite this are still talking.  Once again I had the strange sensation of my two lives crashing into one another as the person I was more used to seeing in a little workers cottage in North Fitzroy was suddenly here in Treviso.  Over spritz and dinner we caught up with tales of our friends, relationships made and broken, babies born and other events in what is becoming an increasingly faraway place.  The next day and yet again it was a tour of Venice (something that I never seem to tire of doing.)  We packed in quite a lot in one day: the bascilica, the rialto markets, a few islands and even some of the biennale and S was suitably impressed.   

To give S a bit of a taste of life in my new found home I thought it would be nice for him to meet some of the locals.  GM joined us for a drink and as both he and S are DJs the conversation fell into a language of genres, equipment and mixing that soon all I was hearing was blah blah blah.  Next evening after a day at the beach (quite why S who lives in a country blessed with amazing beaches wanted to head to an Italian beach depressingly peppered with cigarette butts and lined with deck chairs in a faintly Germanic neatness I wasn’t sure) it was a night out with my fellow teachers and various friends.  The evening was a bit of a last hurrah as school was about to close for the summer and we are all heading off for the hols.  S noted that he was quite impressed that I had built a life here in such a relatively short amount of time and in many ways it makes it all the more real for me to have friends come and experience it.  To my new found Trevisan friends S thought you were the best and if you ever find yourself in Melbourne has offered to play host.  

The next morning bleary eyed from lack of sleep and a little too much cheer it was time for yet another goodbye.  As many goodbyes as I seem to make they never get any easier and are always bittersweet.  For future reference I keep them short and don’t make much of a drama: a hug and a bon voyage that’s me.

Weddings, Parties and Bar Mitzvahs - further adventures in food

Recently I had my first ever cooking commission!  Since my arrival here I have been discovering the joy of cooking (or it may just be an obsession with eating) and have often used friends as human guinea pigs for my kitchen endeavours.  While nothing has been a real disaster I am far from considering myself a good cook so it was a surprise to receive an email from GM requesting my services for his pre dinner drinks.  He would inflict my cooking on his friends? Either my abilities are better than I give myself credit for or I’m a novelty.

Having accepted the commission I was immediately thrown into a panic, it’s all very well dreaming up dinner ideas and inviting people over to sample the experiment but this event demanded success and I was to have an audience of Italians to impress.  From my experience the Italians are very discerning food critics.  If they like your food they’ll tell you and if they don’t like it or think you got something wrong they’ll tell you (none of this “It’s really delicious but I’m just not hungry” sparing of feelings.)  In his email GM had mentioned that there would be some experienced cooks among the guests – suddenly the pressure was on.  So panicked was I at the thought that I mistook GMs compliment about my abilities as an insult (it was only on rereading the email today that I got the complementary nature – thanks so nice of you to say.) 

Now I had to decide on the food.  My guidelines were for something light, tasty and good with beer.  There was also the expectation that it would be “ethnic” – a table laden with olives, salami and cheeses would not have gone down well.  A quick consult with some foodie friends back in Melbourne I settled on a largely middle eastern/Jewish themed spread (with a bit of South East Asian to take advantage of a fresh batch of Ts home grown chillies.) 

Friday evening and once again my apartment was filled with the aromas of roasting spices and the whole place fell into chaos as I simultaneously tried to make an abundance of food and prepare the next day’s lessons.  By the time I cracked a beer and gave up for the night most of the food was done and the lessons largely unplanned. 

The next day after work and a bit more preparation it was over to GMs apartment where all was being readied for the event.  By the time guests started to arrive (late, just to confirm the Italian stereotype) dips and dukkah were on the table, the spinach and cheese triangles in the oven and I was about to start making the larb.  A steady stream of guests made their way into the kitchen to check out the activities.  Joining the festivities after a quick ten minute kitchen tidy I was surprised to see most of the food gone.  Had I under catered? No, it seems the food was a success!  There followed some very technical questions about the cooking and I almost burst with pride when I overheard a guest comment that despite the fact we were heading to an agritourismo (a restaurant that serves food grown on site or sourced locally) for dinner after he couldn’t resist eating more.  For my part having cooked the food I really had no interest in eating it!  At the agritourismo there were yet more delights to taste although the owner was perplexed and vaguely insulted that no one was eating very much.

I think we can conclude that the evening was a success.  Next time (should there be one) I hope I’ll be less nervous at the prospect.  It was quite fun but as ever you always wish you had more time to make something more elaborate (or that you had access to more ingredients.)  So, if I ever decide to move on from teaching maybe there is a future in cooking – Rajis’ catering service: weddings, parties and Bar Mitzvahs.      

La bella figura

I have a dress, an old thing that has been with me since I was 21, long past its best it still fits and has become my default outfit when I don’t plan to go anywhere or do anything of a day.  This morning when I realised that I was without milk this was the dress I threw on to run out to the supermarket.  Turning the corner I was confronted with a fashion culture class in the form of the typical Trevisan signora.  Despite it being early on a Sunday the signora was perfectly presented in a pink suit, accessorised with bracelets, earrings, necklace, make up applied; not a strand of hair out of place, and most strikingly wearing a towering pair of black heels (pretty impressive given the cobblestones.)  Our eyes meet in mutual incomprehension for my part I was trying the understand why anyone would spend so long on getting ready for a Sunday and no doubt she was wondering how the hell anyone could let themselves be seen in such a ratty old dress

It’s called La Bella Figura and is the Italian art of presentation.  That is to always be well “turned out,” and the Trevisans certainly take this to heart.   Treviso is home to those fine purveyors of multi coloured knitwear Benetton and as well as their flagship store my new high street shops are the likes of Max Mara, Gucci and Ralph Lauren.  A couple of weeks ago returning late from a glorious afternoon of sun, sea, beer, and ping pong at the beach I was surprised to see the shops of Treviso still in full retail swing – It was long gone 10pm.  It was the annual white night.  The first day of the summer sales when the stores stay open to midnight and the Trevisan population shops like, well much like it does the rest of the week.  Italians take their dressing seriously – well you would when you have to maintain the reputation of being one of the most stylish nations on the planet.  

A walk through the main square of an evening you quickly notice how everyone (local) is impeccably dressed.  The women wear towering heels and figure hugging clothes, jeans are tight, whites are whiter than white (all the better to show off that summer tan.)  The hair is perfect and the jewellery, for my taste, just the wrong side of east coast rapper blingy.  The male Trevisans’ look can be described as sports casual.  Labelled polo shirt with collar turned up, jeans, slacks or long pressed shorts and what I consider to be one of the world’s ugliest looks; moccasins without socks.  Just the moccasin itself would be bad enough but the whole long trousers and no socks topped off with the moccasin I just find so distressing. 

My old home Melbourne considers itself quite a stylish place and in Australia Melbournians are famed for their distinct style embracing every shade of black.  You may laugh but its true Melbournians wear almost exclusively black.  Get us in a room together and look down, the effect is akin to a drawer full of socks.  It’s not then surprising that I look a bit different to the average Trevisan.  Since arriving here my look has often been commented on.  Italians take notice of what you’re wearing and are not shy in telling you what they think.  Walking around town I have become accustomed to the very deliberate and in no way furtive manner in which the Italians look you up and down.  And it’s not just women who comment, a friend’s boyfriend recently told me that he liked the way I dressed (which is largely dictated by what is currently clean.)  Given that my clothes are more likely to come from Kmart than Prada I felt that was a small triumph for affordable fashion. 

While the thought spent on appearance can only be applauded especially after any visit to Venice where the overwhelming majority of tourists sport ill fitting, flesh exposing and badly accessorised clothing (really people I’m all for comfort but does being on holiday give you the excuse to dress badly?  Surely you must have something decent packed in those oversized suitcases that you do insist on dragging around.)  I can’t help but notice how the idea of a stylish bella figura has resulted in everyone dressing the same.  Even across generations; when I first arrived I was taken aback at the sight of a parent and teenage child dressed in identical clothing now I don’t bat an eyelid.  Fashion like much else in our world is becoming increasingly homogenised a wealthy Trevisan dresses much the same as their equivalent in Britain (the Sloane ranger) and Australia (anyone from Toorak.)  While at times I find dressing up fun and like how my choice of clothing reflects my mood for me the perfection of the Italian ladies is just too much work (and let’s face it in my case pretty unattainable) I really can’t be bothered to spend the time and effort to look perfect and if I need to run out to get some milk on a Sunday morning I’m not going to worry about matching my shoes to my outfit.  There’s a lot to be said for the time saving benefits of relaxed chic.

As fashion is seasonal expect me back in a few months with my thoughts on the autumn looks!

Teaching: quite surprising really.

Now that summer is well and truly here the pace at work has slowed thus greatly benefitting the cause of going to the beach.  Teaching has been and continues to be a surprisingly rewarding experience.  When I decided to give teaching English a go the plan was one of practicality, how the hell was I going to earn money in a foreign country?  The thought never entered my head that I would actually enjoy the job.   My first few weeks at the school were a real trial by fire.  Being new to teaching I wanted time to prepare lessons and make sure that I understood the language points before being faced with a student but I was confronted with 10 hour teaching days without a break between lessons let alone for lunch.  Thankfully the other teachers were amazingly supportive through my first panicked weeks.  When I first started I felt like the worst teacher in the world but slowly I am getting into the pace of the work and can begin to anticipate problems students will have with the language.

The students are a mixed bunch ranging from people learning for pleasure, people sent to learn by their companies and those learning to improve study or job prospects.  There have been some unexpected moments in one lesson I asked a group of students to give me a list of what is healthy first answer, “making love is healthy” - some Italians can’t help but live up to their stereotype.  Being asked out on dates seems to be another hazard of the job and has recently necessitated the invention of a boyfriend.  The one thing I learnt very quickly is to never let a conversation class stray into Italian politics which is too emotive a subject for a harmonious lesson. 

It’s only since teaching English that I have begun to comprehend what an amazing (and infuriating) invention language is.  I have always loved literature and words but now, rather distressingly, even grammar is exciting.  It’s nice to find myself working with like minded people who will happily discuss the relative merits of a semi colon or the significance of the Oxford comma which, for the record, I believe has it’s uses - we’re probably not the most exciting bunch of people to hang out with.  Recently I headed to Venice for a lecture by the famed Michael Swan – the author of “Practical English Usage” the ESL teachers bible.  Now to most people spending three hours listening to someone talk about teaching English grammar would be slightly less preferable to having teeth extracted without an anaesthetic but I found it inspiring and left promising to become the best teacher I possibly can be.  Talking to experienced teachers I begin to realise what a seductive world English language teaching is.  Once qualified the world becomes you oyster, the teachers I spoke to had worked in Japan, China, Chile, Bolivia, Spain, Saudi Arabia, Vietnam and the list goes on.  A quick look at the daily job listings finds opportunities in such far flung places as Bhutan, Tanzania, Thailand and Kazakhstan. 



Yes I did get my copy of "Practical English Usage" signed and yes I understand this renders me incapable of being cool - EVER.



For now I am happy enough in this little place in northern Italy.  I’m still finding my feet and feeling my way in this job.  Not having ever followed one line of work long I do wonder if my present enthusiasm will continue but there is a great sense of satisfaction as I watch students learning.  Last week some students asked me to explain one of the trickiest grammatical points for learners of English; when to use the past simple or the present perfect.  Four months ago I would have withered into a shrivelling mess at the question but not this time.  It took five minutes and two sentences before one of the students said “you've made it really clear.”  I don’t think I have ever been prouder in my working life than at that moment – the students aren’t the only ones learning it seems.             

A difference of opinion

Having dealt with an as per usual late train, the lack of air conditioning in the hot and humid summer heat, the army of travellers crowding the carriage brandishing oversized luggage (seriously how much do you need to take on holiday?) I had come to realise that this evening was probably not going to change GMs mind.  There’s one place here whose fame and reputation looms large over all else and my chum hates it.  Yes Venice, in most other places cities like Verona and Padua would very rightly be the major attraction but when you have Venice down the road all else pales in comparison.  So much has been written about Venice that I don’t feel that I can productively add anything.  The idea of a beautiful city built on water is so crazy and dreamlike that if Venice didn’t exist someone would have to invent it.  It seems to me that no one has an indifferent view of Venice – you either love or hate it, me and GM are on opposite sides of the fence.  From my first moment on the lagoon I’ve been hooked.     

When I compare the glorious Venetian past to the Venice of today I can’t help but feel a little sad at the decline of the grand city.  From being “Lord of a quarter and a half a quarter of the Roman Empire” with a population of 180,000 at its height to the Venice of today its population down to 59,500 and shamelessly pimping its past glories out for the tourist dollar.  The city is a work of art and when not overrun by visitors it’s a joy to wonder and explore.  In an almost Faustian pact the tourist is both Venice’s survival and its death.  Without the money that visitors bring the city would have no hope of keeping financially afloat (bad pun I know) but their numbers make life almost impossible for Venetians to live.  Prices have risen so much that many can no longer afford to live in the city and chose to leave, with them goes the infrastructure such as schools and hospitals needed in a functioning city.  If the population decline continues at this pace in 20 years there will be no Venetians left and the city will have become the theme park many already think it is. 

While it would be lovely for Venice to return to being a living and working city I fear it may be too late.  Why would you spend the money and put in an infrastructure to support a living population when you have the guaranteed income from tourists.  The Venetian authorities themselves do this cause no favours.  When I arrived the cities’ residents were fighting proposals to extend the capacity to accommodate yet more mega cruise liners.  The proposed changes would have seen the closure of one of the last living pieces of Venetian heritage; the Rialto markets which have been trading in their current location since 1097.  How could Venice’s politicians possibly consider such action?  A big fat load of cashola that’s how.                       

GM and I first met in Venice in the autumn of 09, he was doing a favour for a mate offering to say a hello to me and show me around.  Well after a gap of a year and a half GM again made it to Venice. Food was our mission and Venice’s only Indian restaurant.   We were on public transport as parking near Venice is, like much else in the lagoon outrageously expensive.  Stepping out from the train station in high season is not the most pleasant of experiences.  You need to keep you elbows out and your wits about you to dodge the suitcases, backpacks and lost looking people.   The city drowns in tourists thus rendering any walking pace above snail like impossible.  A carefully chosen left and we had left the crowds for the relative quiet of the ghetto.  Over the course of the evening GM regaled the many reasons why he dislikes Venice – it’s expensive, crowded, dirty, a nightmare to get to and when there to get around and so on and on and on.  A lot of what he said cannot be argued with but much as I mentioned the beauty and peace of the place at night, the sheer glory of the grand canal he was not to be budged.  Sadly the restaurant only served to confirm GMs views and for once I was in agreement the food was bad and overpriced.  On the train home to Treviso and once safely off the lagoon GM noted that the best thing that could happen to Venice is for sea levels to rise before the completion of the flood barriers – Wow, he really doesn’t like Venice.      

Of patience and bureaucracy

Moving always entails a modicum of paperwork and setting up in another country certainly does.  My chosen country being Italy I knew I was in a trying time.  Having been here for a few months now I am surprised how quickly I have gotten used to Italian bureaucracy.  When I first arrived it seemed as if you couldn’t do anything without someone asking to see your i.d.  I wouldn’t have been surprised to be asked for “documento” when entering a public toilet.  Once I had been offered a job I had to get down to the encounters with officialdom that I usually try to avoid.  

The first thing was to get a codice fiscale.  A Google search brought up a page on how to fake the all important number and thus avoid the engagement with Italian bureaucracy.  As tempting as this was I thought it best to do things properly.  To get the number I had to go to the Agenzia delle Entrate, which in Treviso is housed in a large complex of civic buildings that look faintly ominous in a 1984 kind of way.  Finding the correct building amongst its identical siblings was surprisingly easy.  My first triumph was explaining my mission and actually having my Italian understood!  I was given a form and a number and told to wait.  Despite arriving first thing in the morning the offices were already packed with people clutching numbers in the vain hope that they would be out of here sometime soon.  I wondered if many of them had spent the night waiting for their number to be called.  Having had dealings with Italian officialdom in the past I had come prepared with a book and some snacks and happily settled down for the wait.  97 pages in and it was finally my turn.  I headed to my assigned desk to find a bureaucrat slumped in her chair looking like the will to live was ebbing away with each passing minute.  Once again I explained my purpose, handed over my form and after a few questions I found myself successfully codice fiscaled.

Seeing as that had only taken half a day I decided to open a bank account but expecting lighting to strike the same place twice was a bit ambitious.  In Italy you need a work contract to open an account and at that point I didn’t have one.  When you mention that you are going to open a bank account everyone relays horrific stories of the ineptitude and errors of the various Italian banks that I stopped asking for recommendations and just walked into one.  I was quickly ushered to a desk and a lovely lady who photocopied all my documents and filled in a surprisingly large number of online forms.  When she went to get the final forms for me to sign I was dismayed to see her return with a significant portion of Brazilian rainforest.  Looking at my face the bank clerk smiled “don’t worry these aren’t all for you.”  She then peeled two sheets of paper off the pile, handed them to a college and proceeded to get me signing.  At first I carefully read each document making sure that I wasn’t signing away the rights to my first born child or something more serious but then to get me out of there just signed away.  Bank account done!    

The Italian government requires all foreigners to register their stay if they intend to be in Italy for more than three months.  Dreading the next encounter I left it until my three month deadline was approaching before tackling this one.  Getting to the offices of the commune I pushed the button for a number P5, the screen said P1 – I’ll be out a here in no time I thought.  Forty five minutes later the screen still said P1.  I headed over to the P counter (which was empty) and informed the gentleman quietly reading that I was here to fulfil my bureaucratic obligation.  “That’s the H counter today”  I was going to suggest that perhaps a sign may have helped but seeing as I’d already interrupted his peace I feared he might stab me with his biro.  Over at the, also empty, H counter I came across the staring into space bureaucrat and said I wished to fill in the residency forms.  “Do you have a number?” 

“I have this number”

“That’s a P number this is the H counter I need an H number”

“But there’s no one here”

“I need an H number”

Making a mental note to double check if Franz Kafka was Italian, I headed over to get the required H number.  As soon as I had the all important H13 in hand my staring bureaucrat pressed his button H13 to the H counter.  There he had the by now familiar folder and relevant forms.  Once again photocopies were made of all my documentation – rental and work contracts, passport, codice fiscal and the forms filled out.  The next week I had to head out to another office outside of Treviso fill in yet more forms and have yet more copies made of my documents.  There is only a visit from the local police to check I live where I say I live and then my travels in the world of Italian bureaucracy will hopefully be over.

NB Kafka was definitely not Italian but did work for an Italian insurance company.