Return to Italy or call me Francesca

In the cold light of reason I should not be here..... really, truly.  I like order, efficiency, things being done with the minimum of fuss and bureaucracy.  I like honesty and I have too many feminist principles to be in a country that would have an aging permatanned, sex obsessed and let’s face it obviously corrupt old man whose only contribution to the world is the addition of bunga bunga to the lexicon as its president.    

And yet on a Melbourne day that required the first post summer wearing of a coat I said my goodbyes and headed to the airport for yet another epic flight.  After thirty six hours in transit, little or no sleep, four airports and regret for the declined Valium, I was deposited at Venice Marco Polo airport on a blisteringly cold March morn.  Low spirits were lifted by the appearance of GM in the arrivals hall.  The friend of a friend GM had naively offered to look out for me when I arrived in 09 little knowing that  year and a half later he would be collecting me and putting me up while I sort myself out (NB GM is the kind of friend everyone should have.)  Back at his apartment in Treviso I quickly passed out on his sofa – GM was polite enough not to point out that if you are putting  up a homeless traveller they should at least provide entertainment rather than just taking up couch space.   

The next day it was straight on the train to Venice.  I have been in Venice three times none of which have been high season.  Stepping out of ferrovia I was horrified to be confronted with my beautiful city packed to the rafters.  In all the rush to pack up my life and get a plane I had completely failed to realise that carnival would be in full swing.  What should have been a twenty minute walk to San Marco took well over an hour.  Tourists filled every calle sporting cheap masks that, no doubt, had a made in china sticker discreetly removed before purchase.  With all its fascinating history I have always been surprised that Venice chooses to celebrate the symbol of its decline and decadence – carnival has always left me cold and now as it invaded the city I regard as my own I hated it but a step inside the cathedral reminded me of why I love this place.  At once so unbelievably beautiful and at the same time you have to remind yourself that much of the glorious interiors are the result of thievery (mainly from the sack of Constantinople.)  Even the patron saint himself whose church I was now standing in was pilfered from Alexandria.  Venetians have always had an eye on the hard economic realities and I can’t help but imagine that as well as religious sanctity and political advantage the body of an apostle would have commanded a fair profit in pilgrim tourism (call me cynical, you wouldn’t be the first.) 

First evening and GM wanted to introduce me to his friend L.  So jetlagged. surreally tired and running on far too much coffee I found myself in a trendy Trevisan bar listening to tunes DJ’d via ipod amongst the lights of Trevisan society who it seems consisted of wealthy older women in ten in inch heels sporting children as fashion accessories.  L recently spent a year in Wangaratta teaching Italian to the locals and despite this still pines for Australia, especially Melbourne.  So much so that she cannot believe that I would leave the delights of Melbourne with its endless laneway bars, endless ethnic foods and endless music for the Veneto.  In fact over the next few weeks whenever I expressed an incredulity for aspects of the Italian experience she would point out with the same sense of the bizarre “You moved from Melbourne to Treviso,” the barely disguised subtext being – you idiot.   

On Sunday GM and L took me for a day out.  I have always loved riffling through the things people no longer want and the flea market at Padua was the perfect place for me.  First stop was breakfast in a pasticceria.  Italians not being a great breakfast culture (certainly not a Sunday morning hung over plate of poached eggs, toast, beans, bacon, spinach, mushrooms and three flat whites kind of culture) it was cappuccino and local Venetian pastry fritello.  Despite it being early the place was filled with the kind of woman for whom the spending of three hours fixing hair and applying six inches of make up on a Sunday morning was a basic necessity.  There’s no nipping out in your trackie daks it seems.   One such overly coffered woman accosted GM and asked about the two ladies he was with – where are they from?  When she asked “what is your name”   I mentally took a breath and ran through my usual dialogue in these situations.  Do I say my name and go through the whole rigmarole of repeating it three times, pointing out that it is Indian but I was brought up in the UK and now live in Australia or do I make life easier and just say a western name? 

Western name,

oh fuck, the only one that comes to mind is Sharon, that's not going to work.

Oh fuck it, here goes –

Raji. 

Francesca?

No,

Raji.....

.... it’s Indian. 

By early evening it was time for the first spritz since my return that aperitif that is so synonymous with the Veneto.  Not sure if it was the alcohol warming my belly, the cosy dark bar or being amongst friends but it seemed only logical to be back.  Still only three days in I still had it all to do, there is a job to find, a place to live, the seemingly Kafkaesque bureaucracy to deal with and a language to learn but for now all seemed right.