The office Christmas party

Now to be honest I wasn’t really thrilled to be heading to the wastelands of the Veneto on a Sunday morning for an event billed as family day – especially as I needed to make empanadas for my own Chritsmas party that night. Recently I have been teaching in a large chemical company out in the middle of industrial Marghera and they invited me to their Christmas event – not a big booze up but something called family day.  I was sure that for anyone with kids it would be a nice opportunity to see where their parent works but for me who usually spends Sunday mornings in pyjamas, sipping coffee and reading the papers it was a big ask.

        

I was expecting a big kid’s party – jelly, ice cream and a lame Father Christmas.  I’m happy to say my expectations were entirely confounded.  The company had gone all out for the event (if I ever have a big party I’m getting these guys to organise the event.) There were 1500 people there.  The main presentation room had been converted into a theatre where kids shows were performed by a troupe of actors hired for the day.  There were tours of the plant and kids could take a ride in a fire engine.  There was popcorn, candy floss, and gifts of goldfish and orchids.  Booze was plentiful but in the manner of every Italian party I’ve been to it was drunk moderately.

When came to the food all thought of moderation went out the window – this was one hell of a feast, there was salads and pastas aplenty, cheeses and cured meats of every kind.  And I don’t think it a gross exaggeration to say that a heard of pigs had given their lives for this feast.  While the Italians are quite reserved when it comes to drinking put them in the vicinity of a buffet and all politeness goes out the window.  It’s everyman for himself and you better be tough with a good set of elbows to get yourself to the porchetta.  When I did finally get to the business end of the buffet the food was as excellent as I’ve come to expect from this country – unfortunately I haven’t yet had enough frontline experience to take full advantage of all the goodies available.  In fact I admitted defeat after a single sortie.       

Most of my Christmas parties have been quite boozy affairs (well most Anglo/Australian events tend to be booze heavy.)  And drinking in the presence of your boss is generally never a good idea.  I have witnessed the aftermath of morning after hangovers, unfortunate post drunken shame and the desperate facebook search.  As I left the party I wondered if this is a better way to celebrate – non of the people there that day would have come in to work to embarrassed to look their work mates in the eye, no one will worry about the next performance review and all the big revelry can be saved for your real mates. 

Wilkommen a Bolzano

“Most people get home at this time.”  Read the message.  And it was true that usually if I’m awake at 4am I’m either having a very big night or lying in bed having some kind of existential crisis.  Today it was neither, I was up at 4am completely sober and getting kitted out for a trip up the mountains.  When I agreed to go to the mountains with J I hadn’t really grasped the prospect of catching a 5.30 train so I was very impressed that we both managed to get to the train station and not roll over and go back to sleep when our respective alarms sounded at 4am.  The trip was a bit of an epic first stop Mestre where there was enough time for coffee before catching our connection to Verona where we got the train for the mountains.  Three hours after setting off and we finally made it to our destination Bolzano.  

Fairytale buildings

Leaving the station I was struck by two thoughts one I was extremely glad that I had thought about the temperature and rugged up and two I wondered if we had crossed a border without realizing it.  This felt more like Germany than Italy.  All the signs were in German and cars stopped at the zebra crossing.  Our first port of call was a cafe where we listened to everyone speaking German as we ate strudel.  The architecture was a world away from the arches and loggias of Treviso.  This town was definitely more central European than Mediterranean.  Walking around the place I couldn’t shake the feeling of being in a fairy tale as retold by the brothers Grimm and half expected to turn a corner to find a gingerbread house.  

The big draw was the Christmas market that had opened the day before.  Strolling around the stalls selling glass baubles and Christmas fairies the Germanic feeling was reinforced by the band kitted out in traditional Prussian gear striking up in the main square.  By 11 we were totally down with the Germanic vibe and seeing as it felt like mid afternoon to us it was time to partake in a piping hot mug of vin brulee – or rather gluhwein and some sausage and sauerkraut. Most of my friends will attest that I am not the best person in low temperatures (in fact I’m a complete whinging pome at anything below 10 degrees) but taking a stroll in this mountain town surrounded by snow covered mountains, with a crisp air and a bright winter sun it didn’t seem so bad – lashings of warm wine probably helped.  Spending practically my whole life on islands (UK and Aus) it felt strange not crossing water to get to another culture (apologies to Wales and Scotland.)  I find the idea of borders interesting how one culture blends into another.  I wonder if the Bolzanans feel Italian or Austrian?  Or then again maybe they don’t even think about it.  

beginning to feel the Christmas spirit - or is that just the wine?

By late afternoon the early start was beginning to hit us and our energy was flagging.  I’ve always said that Christmas is a place and not a time and sitting outside a little bar, through an arch and down an alley, next to Christmas trees, with blankets on our laps and the last glasses of gluhwein warming our hands and bellies I really felt like I was there.  As the light began to fade it was time to begin the epic journey back to Italy and Treviso but I’m looking forward to a return to this Germanic part of Italy.   

Frittelle and a timely reminder

Last Wednesday I got to the end of a planned lesson with some time to spare and I was beginning to run out of ideas so I asked my group to tell me about the festival in Venice (many of the students live in Venice and had attended the morning events before work.)  I knew that the festival of the Madonna della Salute was happening as we spoke but hadn’t thought about it too much or intended to go given that it was a ‘school’ night and that I had been once before.  My students started to tell me about the festival and the one thing they kept emphasising was that the festival wasn’t simply a Venetian festival but it’s “our festival.”  As if the Venetians; having lost so much of their city (and their quality of life) to uber tourism have managed to keep this one thing for themselves, something which they are loath to give up.

The festival of the Madonna della Salute was, as my students informed me instituted in the 16^th century.  Venice had been delivered from a devastating outbreak of the Plague and in thanks built a church dedicated to the Madonna.  The church is unique in that every statue adorning the facade depicts a female saint (a fact that my students were very impressed that I knew.)  During the festival a bridge of boats is built across the Grand Canal to the church.  On the morning of the festival there is a procession from St Marks to the church for a service then throughout the day people visit the church to light a candle and then walk across the temporary bridge and make their way to St Marks. 

There wasn’t much of this story that I didn’t know but I had forgotten one important fact which when I was reminded meant that I simply had to go to Venice that night.  That something was frittelle.  A frittella is dough that is deep fried and then covered in a mix of lemon juice and sugar and is a delicious as it sounds.  Carnivale has its own version which comes in a ball and is only available for those few weeks of festivities in February outside of Carnivale they are flat.  I hadn’t had a frittella since the end of Carnivale and couldn't wait until February for another one so as soon as five o’clock hit I hot footed it to Venice. 

When I arrived  I could immediately see why my students had called it “our festival.”  For once Venice seemed full more with Venetians rather than tourists and students.  Whole families were out not only to visit the church but to enjoy their city.  As I made my way to the church I made small detours to some of my favourite places.  The little bars were doing a roaring trade in spritz, cicchetti, and conversation.  The evening had the chill of impending winter meaning everybody was wrapped up warm and the bars looked more inviting than ever.  The whole atmosphere of the place was different and I remembered this was how it was when I fell in love with it a few years ago.

When I got to the church the festivities were coming to an end, the whole place smelt of candle wax and all the attendants hands were covered in the same.  As the final sermons were being spoken I headed out to the street selling nuts, dried fruits and other festival delicacies and got myself the biggest frittella I could find.  Mission accomplished I headed back home – with a brief stop for a spritz with a friend.

For me Venice is now at her best, the crazy hoards are gone and the icy cold winds are yet to start.  The autumn fog makes the city look magical and walking the empty streets is a joy. In the last few weeks I've been spending increasing amounts of time in Venice and of late J has joined me for the odd night out – she’s very impressed that you can still have dinner and a few drinks in the city for 10 Euros.  Having Venice so close does mean that it becomes - if you can believe it – one of the mundane things in your life.  It’s good to have moments like these to remind me how special it is and how lucky I am to know it so well.   

Sciopero

Sciopero was a word I learnt very quickly post arrival in Italy.  It is a common occurrence here and usually results in my plans being messed around but two weeks ago the sciopero was on my side.  It was a beautiful sunny, warm autumn day and the 3 hour sciopero meant that instead of spending my morning in the industrial wasteland that I’m currently teaching in I could enjoy the glorious weather and spend my morning looking at ducks with young P and his dad. 

Sciopero is a strike and is something that occurs with frustrating regularity here – usually once a month and usually on a Monday or Friday (not that I want to read anything into the adding of a day of industrial action next to the weekend.)  Not being used to so many strikes I was never aware of them until I rocked up to the train station ready for an adventure only to have my plans thwarted.  After one too many cancelled journey I now I keep an eye and an ear out for announcements – especially as I am currently to commuting to work again. 

Unions are much stronger here than in the UK or Australia and it often seems as if everyone belongs to one.  I’m a great believer in the union movement and would never argue against the right to strike.  And I’m not going to make what would be an ill informed, superficial and ultimately pretty glib account of the situation here (hell I’ve got plenty of other things to be ill informed about) but I do wonder why this country has so many strikes. 

Having been here for a while now and seen so many strikes I wonder if a strike has entered the everyday of the Italian experience.  They seem such a normal part of life that you wouldn't even think of asking what issues people are striking over.

This strike was called to protest against austerity measures but that morning as some people gathered in the main piazza for speeches I couldn’t help noticing that the bars where unusually full of people drinking spritz.  But I’m just an observer and no way near qualified to really comment of such things. 

As I left work today I was told that I may have trouble getting into work tomorrow, when I asked why?  The reply came “didn’t anyone tell you?  There’s a strike.”  

Zero Zero Sette

 This week feeling the need for some mindless entertainment we headed to the cinema.  The new James bond adventure was our chosen film.  We would have to watch the film dubbed into Italian given that being such a small place Treviso doesn’t have an audience for English language films.  There is one cinema that often shows movies in their original language but it wouldn’t stoop to showing such commercial fare as the latest bond outing. 

I’m only now getting used to dubbing, in the UK and Australia the general practice with foreign movies is to keep the original dialogue track and add subtitles.  When I have caught a piece dubbed into English it has been so uniformly bad that I have grown up to have a rather snobby attitude to the process.  In my time here I’ve seen enough dubbed entertainment to begin to reassess my opinion.  I started watching TV as an aid to learning the language and while I tried as much as possible to watch Italian productions there is so much American television on the screens here that I invariably ended up watching some of those as well. 

The first thing I noticed was that dubbing here is completely different to what I had experienced before – they have separate actors for each character.  Not sure if it’s a cost cutting measure but in the UK they seem to hire one male and one female actor and get them to dub every character of their gender.  Not only in Italy do they hire a full cast of actors but many actors exclusively dub one actor.  As well as that they are also very good at finding a voice to match the actor they are dubbing.  By hiring proper performers and carefully selecting voices the productions have managed to keep the spirit of the original show – you’ll be happy to know that Gordon Ramsey is still a tosser in Italian. Watching American or British shows is not such a trial and as my language skills have improved I have begun to forget that I’m watching a dubbed show.

As for Mr Bond – something that is so British being in Italian was a bit strange but it wasn’t off putting.  Despite a year in Italy I’m still no way near fluent but I could follow the action – (ok it’s not David Mamet) but the jokes came a little too fast for my Italian so I missed much of the subtlety.  Of course I would have much preferred to watch the film in the original English, as good as the Italian dubbers are it is hard to hear another voice coming out of Judy Dench’s mouth.  All in all not a bad experience and I have resolved to try to get to the cinema more often.  Oh yeah and the movie wasn’t bad either.

Rather endearingly Italian cinemas still observe the interval. 

And it's only going to get colder

 As much as I have been in denial the evidence is now irrefutable.  I’m not sure what it was exactly that led to the admission.  Was it the overnight 12 degree drop in temperature? Was it the first appearance of vin brulee in Treviso? Was it witnessing the first of the Christmas lights being installed?  Or was it having to flee Venice at siren sound to avoid the 1.4 meter high water? Whatever it was there’s no doubt about it winter is here and given the time and severity of the temperature drop it looks like it’s going to be a long and very cold one. 

I find it depressing to think of having to get through the next four months of cold wet weather.  I’m not one for winter sports – unless sitting under a blanket with a pot of tea and a good book can be classed a sport  - and at times like these I begin to think of my home in Melbourne and the fact that they are heating up for the summer.  When I talk to Trevesians about the winter months they happily inform me what a mild winter is was last year sending me into heart palpitations.  I mean I know how cold it was last year – there was a temperature gauge outside my building and for two straight weeks it didn’t get above zero and I can’t conceive of any way you could describe that as mild.

This year I’m determined not to be caught short in the warm clothes department – given that I’m now in possession of six coats (can’t believe I own six coats and it would have been seven were it not for the fact I gifted one away) this year I’m stocking up on winter woollies – hats, jumpers, socks you name it and most pressing of all a good set of gloves, I can’t believe I got through the last winter without adequate hand coverage.  The other important thing for the cause of getting Raji through the winter is a good stack of reading material for the hibernation – any recommendations?

Not that winter is all bad – there are the roast chestnuts and warm spicy wine, Christmas markets in picture postcard towns, misty mornings in Venice and warm inviting bars.  As lovely as that is I can’t pretend that I’m not waiting for the day when I can return the hated puffy yet warm coat back to its home in the forgotten part of the wardrobe (next to the clothes that don’t fit after a year in the vicinity of awesome gelato.)

Back from Brazil

No I haven’t been in Brazil but things have been a little stressful in Raji’s world of late finding myself at one point simultaneously homeless and jobless as well as having a little crisis of confidence resulted in me taking myself out of the blogosphere for a time while I got my shit together but rest assured that having sorted a few things I’m back with my little dispatches from the front line of Italian life.

Before the summer I was planning to give up my small town life and head into the bright lights of a big city.  Rome looked like the big contender – there were sniffs of jobs and share accommodation was plentiful.  As much as I love Rome on my last fact finding mission I realised that I didn’t feel it and I began to ask myself why after a year of hard work establishing myself in Treviso finally getting to the point of knowing and feeling comfortable in the place, having made great friendships am I leaving?  There was also the heartbreak that leaving Venice would bring.  I have to say that even after a year and a half countless visits and hundreds of hours in the place I’m still as in love with it as I always was (why I can’t fall in love with a place that has cheaper real estate I don’t know.)

I came to realise that I was planning to move for no other reason than habit and let’s admit the ample distraction a move would provide from the larger things in life that I really need to start thinking about.  So after a mounted campaign by my Trevisan/Venetian friends I decided to give up the idea of a move a stick with the Veneto for a little longer but as a nod to my ever present urge to bolt I would try to find a place to live on the lagoon. 

Now I understood that renting in Venice is a very different prospect to renting in Treviso.  For the cost of my apartment in Treviso I knew I would be looking at renting a room in Venice.  What I didn’t realise was that that room would be an overpriced poky little place with broken furniture.  Given that I wasn’t prepared to share a room, share with anyone under the age of 30 and I have reasonable expectations of hygiene my search proved much harder than I had anticipated.  All friends, acquaintances and general random strangers were enlisted to the cause of finding me a home.  After a month of searching and viewing countless apartments and being truly shocked at the places people are prepared to pay to live in I had still come up with nothing (worth living in.)  As much as I dream of living in Venice living in a hole would just be depressing.  So staring imminent homelessness in the face I gave up on the Venice dream and decided to look once more in Treviso.  The upside of this being I can continue to live alone, which is more than a small consolation.

Being just two days away from being on the streets my search was a little urgent to say the least and by rights I should have taken anything I was offered be it tiny, run down, in an annoying part of town etc.  So given the precariousness of my predicament I really don’t deserve the apartment that I'm now writing from.  Just as panic was setting in I was taken to view a spacious place slap bang in the centre of Treviso.  The main square is two minutes behind it, the fish market is two minutes in front of it and disastrously for my liver it’s between five or six of our regular bars.  I instantly knew that I had to have this place (and not just simply because I really had to take a place.) Excitedly phoning J and D as I was drawing out the deposit I breathlessly told them about the size, the five floor to ceiling windows, the huge marble bathroom, the acres of wardrobe space, a dining table big enough to host ten people and excitement on excitement my very own dishwasher.  Oh and I nearly forgot there’s a centuries old fresco in the bedroom.

With all the stress of the last few weeks I've barely noticed that the summer has ended.  The temperatures are dropping, the mornings are getting misty and the boots and coats are out in force.  Treviso has erupted in mushroom stalls, radicchio is back in season and best of all the roast chestnut sellers are back.  While it’s not Venice (by a long way) I very happy in my palace of an apartment and I'm looking forward to the dinner parties I'm going to throw but I’m also aware that over the next few months I have to make some big decisions about my life, home and the general all round big picture.  At present I'm a mass of confusion and wonder if I’ll ever find an answer but I’ll keep you posted.     

Tales of two capitals

There is a novel set in London called Neverwhere. The London of neverwhere is much the same as ours but different – the Angel Islington is an angel called Islington, Baron’s court is a royal court.  The effect is to make you take a second look at something that is quite familiar.  You begin to wonder just why it is the way it is and question whether you know the place at all.  I had the same experience recently when I returned to London.  For someone used to the London of “what do you want?  There you go.  Now fuck off,”  Stepping off a plane and being offered help with directions, watching people fall over themselves to assist a new visitor trying to fathom the intricacies of the ticket machine instead of huffing disapproval and being told by a railway employee a cheaper way to navigate the London transport system was a paradigm shift, this looked like London, smelt like London but sure didn’t feel like London and yet it was – it was London in post Olympic glow and hell was it a nice place to be.  This not the first time I have experienced the Olympic effect (I was in Sydney for the 2000 games where like London pre Olympic cynicism gave way to enthusiasm, good humour and general all round helpfulness) and as cynical as I am about major corporate let’s make money fests disguised as we’re a friendly and socially conscious company there was no escaping the fact that the games had brought a lot of cheer to the city.  There was the pride in putting on a good show (and avoiding any fuck ups,) welcoming people from around the world who were intent on having a good time and the joy being able to watch amazing feats of human endeavour on your doorstep.  In these times of austerity it was good to see London getting it’s monies worth from the outlay on flags and bunting being able to use them for the Royal wedding, Golden Jubilee and the Olympics. 

    

It’s not just the Olympic afterglow that’s changed the UK’s capital, London is very different to the city that I lived in for three years.  There are cosmetic differences – the city is cleaner than it used to be (thanks to an IRA ceasefire meaning we can now have public bins) and there are lots of new shiny buildings (the shard being the newest.)  The city has been gentrified – the old warehouses that 20 years ago were beginning to be developed and were as likely to house artists as city elite are now million pound apartments with fancy coffee shops and restaurants below.  Bricklane which used to be just cheap Indian restaurants, ethnic fabric and yummy Indian sweet shops as well as the cheap as chips 24 hour begel bakery has changed.  Yes there is still ridiculously affordable sub continental cuisine but now we are in a world of self conscious retro clothing stores, young designers waiting for their big break and trendy coffee shops that let’s face it can’t do coffee.  Now I don’t want to be a London (or England) basher but we need to face up to reality.  The English can boast many accomplishments – penicillin, the theory of relativity, the works of Shakespeare – but making coffee is not one of them, I’m not sure why but they just can’t do it. Over the course of my week I began to resent an addiction that lead me to pay two pound plus for a bitter hot beverage, drowned in pints of overheated yet badly frothed milk.  Coffee culture is something that’s exploded in London – you could always get a (badly made) cappuccino in Soho and the Edgeware road was the place for the super strong tar like Turkish variety but London is now packed to the gunnels with trendy coffee shops that my daggy self finds too much hard work to be in – by trendy cafes I mean the type that think it’s post modern irony to display pictures of the latest reality TV celebrity next to an artfully thumbed copy of Rimbaud.  The staff are usually well tattooed and trained to sneer at you if you order the wrong coffee before heading outside for a rollie.   

Edinburgh - check out the cloud coming in.

After a week in the sunny, friendly and not quite London London I realised that as fun as it was I couldn’t afford to be in it and headed to another of the UK’s capitals Edinburgh.  Like London Edinburgh was also full to the brim – the Edinburgh international Arts festival being in full swing.  As well as the international visitors milling around the city was full of every type of artist, writers, comedians, actors, film makers, circus performers the list goes on.  Walking down Princes Street I was asked to spare a pound by a poor dishevelled looking person, I wasn’t quite sure if he was homeless or an artist.  Edinburgh is much more a Raji kind of city (aside from the temperature) it’s small, beautiful and very atmospheric.  The people are lovely and thanks to mid century migration from Italy(I had such a head spin when a man named Gino said “what can I get for ya lassie” in the broadest of broad Scottish accents) is a place that knows how to make coffee and in contrast to where I had just left understand cafe culture comes from it evolving spontaneously rather than deciding that now it’s the alternative and cosmopolitan thing to do.  I had come to Edinburgh to catch up with S my old flatmate from Melbourne and her boyfriend H.  S and H are taking a sabbatical in the Scottish capital.  After a long overnight coach journey (I can’t afford British trains) it was a fill up for the soul to be with faces not seen in far too long a time.   Catching up on events and people from home made me very wistful for the easy conviviality of Australia and long to be with dear friends again.  S and H are both, like me, book fiends and over longs nights drinking pint cans of cheap beer we waxed lyrical over our favourite authors and books.  This was all too much for me and realising that I needed to get a bit of book time in me and spent a huge part of my time at the book festival.    

A wee dram

It’s been a while since I delved into the world of books but it’s nice to see that book audiences are the same the world over.  They’re super polite, will laugh at anything – including the lamest of jokes, during the q and a session someone will invariably stand up and start with “As a writer myself” and then proceed to ask the most irrelevant question.  As silly as it all is – I mean books by their nature are solitary endeavours to create and consume so more often than not the poor author resembles a startled bunny in the face of an audience of 100 people but it was fun to share book talk with like minded people and pick up a couple of books to see me through the next few months.

Scotland is famous for so many things – tartan, haggis, deep fried mars bars, heart disease and of course whiskey.  For my “things Scottish” indulgence it just had to be whiskey.  Sipping  a warming glass of the golden liquid in a cosy pub was the best way to warm me in the Scottish summer (I kid you not) and the best was to spend our last night together –it was just a little silly to add beer and prosecco to the occasion.  After too brief a time it was time to leave this gracious city and my dear friends.  With sore heads and promises to see each other soon it was time to say goodbye and once again make tracks.  I hope it’s not too long before I can visit the place again.

Writing Venice

Once again I found myself killing time in an Airport, given that I can’t afford an overpriced and let’s face it gaudy Burberry or Louis Vuitton bag or a Bulgari necklace I, as I always do, retreated to the bookstore.  There amongst the airport editions of the latest bestseller (is it me or should 50 shades of grey always have been a softback?) were a good number and by no means comprehensive display of Venice books.  I began to wonder if Venice is the most written about place in the world.  Do the books on Rome, London, Paris or New York even compare to the Venetian cannon?     

As well as travel guides there are; history books, sumptuous art books, architecture books, the expat replanted or fish out of water books, the come to Venice and fall in love books (which I stay away from being a cynic when it comes to romance,) cookbooks and novels set in Venice.  Very few of these books, certainly of the ones available in English, are written by Venetians.  Obviously there are more books in Italian and I am beginning to get to the point where I can start to read parts of them but the amount of English speaking Venitophiles are astounding.  There has always been Anglo Venitophiles, Brits, Americans etc who came to Venice and added their jottings to the literary story of the city.  People like Byron and Shelly for whom the decay and faded glory of the once great republic provided ample inspiration.  Or the venerable John Ruskin whose work documenting the beauty and uniqueness of Venetian architecture kick started the endeavour to preserve the city that continues to this day.  Ruskin was one of those people (a bit like myself) who was captivated by the place and famously spent his honeymoon in the city largely abandoning his wife to spend his days drawing and documenting city’s buildings.  The resulting “Stones of Venice” has become one of the classics of Venetian writing and something I can’t get through it.  I’ve tried a couple of times but so dry and humourless does Ruskin seem that he just comes across as a bit of an insufferable bore.

Today the process of foreigners writing about Venice continues and I wonder if the likes of Byron and Ruskin began a process of intellectually taking Venice away from the Venetians and turning the place into a museum.  So much has been written about the place that I wonder if you really need to get on a plane, and pay inflated hotel rates to experience it.  When you do make it there will your romantic expectations leave you disappointed with the reality of crowded streets and tourist menus.  People who set pen to paper tend to do so out of love or curiosity so there is a tendency to over romanticise the city.  Maybe that is what the public wants – the fantasy of gondolas, glass and masks.  Perhaps that’s why there aren’t or we don’t read so many local voices. 

The reality of Venice is much more fascinating than the romanticised version and I find that the city has a host of delights and pleasures that no writer that I have as yet read has captured that.  I would love to read something that explores the mundane and even the sheer bloody annoyances of the place but maybe that’s not what we want maybe we need Venice to be our fantasy.

That August feeling

Living in Treviso if you weren’t possessed of a calendar or the kind of mobile phone that is increasingly organising your life you would still know when it was the first of August.  As soon as the date ticks over from July 31st into August a small army of dormant road workers rouse themselves from their hibernation and rip the hell out of the Treviso streets.   The usually peaceful city erupts in the noise of jack hammers and diggers and driving becomes an adventure as you wonder if you will ever make it past the endless detours and actually get out of the city.  August is the designated road work and general housekeeping month due to the fact that it also coincides with the annual mass exodus from Treviso.    

Unlike anything I have experienced in my non student life Italy has a very marked holiday day period.  The heat and the incredible humidity makes life in the city a bit of a trial meaning that residents take the opportunity to get out of town to more pleasant environments.  Over the last few weeks my students conversation has turned to their plans for August which either involves going to their house in the mountains, going to their place at the beach or going to Sardinia.   As soon as August hits the exodus starts the city begins to feel empty – this weekend the mass departure will happen leaving a ghost city behind.  Many of the businesses close as well, causing much consternation to those of us who are still here and are unused to businesses shutting their doors for one day at Christmas let alone a two or three week period.  With the stifling heat and the ghost like quality my over active imagination can’t help but think that in this period Treviso feels like a place where the some kind of nuclear disaster has cleansed it of its human population leaving the buildings as monuments to their former occupants.  Occasionally you may spot the odd post apocalypse survivor scuttling between shadows – well I did say I have an overactive imagination. 

For those of us without a holiday home in fresher climbs these few weeks are frustrating.  Your favourite bars are closed and there’s no one about to drink with anyway.  In Venice the problem is exacerbated with many of the good bars closed and the spike in tourist numbers resulting in a higher concentration of tourists in fewer venues.  Any relief from the heat and humidity that a museum visit would bring (although I do visit galleries and museums to see the exhibits one can’t deny that they often have awesome air conditioning) is negated by the sheer number of sweaty people disturbing your contemplation. 

What to do in this period given that your work has dried up and there’s not much to do in the city and there aren’t people to do it with?  Well make like the locals and get out of town is a good bet.  While I’d love to go down south to Sicily or Puglia the fact that they will be packed and I resent paying high season prices puts me off.  There is also the not so small matter of me having to find a job and a home meaning that relaxing on a beach is a bit of an unaffordable luxury at the moment.  In a couple of weeks the holiday period will be over Treviso will start to populate again and thoughts will turn to the end of summer and the coming Autumn – I hope that I’ll have worked out a few things by then.       

Goodbye casa del mago

When locals ask me where I live and I explain that I’m in that cute little palazzo near the university the standard response is – “La casa del mago?”  My little building is famous in Treviso for once being home to a TV magician and no one can quite believe that the mago has given way to this little hobo. As well as being the former abode of a minor celebrity the little palazzo is also the most picturesque residence in Treviso – the downside of which is regularly opening your front door to find tourists photographing your building (not the best of surprises on a Sunday morning when you’re just nipping out for milk.)   Small as my apartment is it has a bucket load of character but tonight my apartment doesn’t feel like home – more like an empty shell.  My clothes are packed, the fridge almost empty and I’ve donated the contents of my lovingly collected spice cupboard to T and E.  After 16 months I’ve come to the end of my time in this little place.  

   

When I took the apartment last year I really didn’t give much thought to how long I would be here – I just needed to get out of where I was staying and took the cheapest central place I could find. It was also a bit of a bonus to find the other apartments in the building empty – I really had the place to myself.  I’d never lived alone before and was curious to try it in what was a new and exciting place.  Prior to this place I’d been moving pretty constantly for a few years so I really didn’t imagine staying in one spot so long.  There have been so many delights to solo living; setting up the kitchen just the way I like it, not having to worry about disturbing other people, knowing that when I come home and shut the door the place is mine and of course not having to worry about my state of dress. 

Naturally there have been times when I’ve missed having a flatmate – someone to make you a cup of tea when you come home tired, to watch a movie with, to talk you down from a frustrating day and to nurse you when you’re sick (have a hangover.) But these things aside living alone has much to recommend it. 

Despite my best efforts over the year I seem to have amassed a crap load of stuff.  When I arrived in Italy I came with two suitcases (admittedly they were heavy enough to blow the Qantas baggage allowance.)  During these last few days of packing I seem to find endless things to pack.  More than once I’ve cursed my book habit and now vow to go digital in the near future.  Looking at the stuff I have to move tires me and I almost convince myself to stay out of sheer laziness.  In the immediate future I’m going to couch surf with friends and then – well who knows.

Farewell my little home

When I look back and peaceful nights at home, the meals I’ve cooked and the friends I’ve hosted I realise that I’ve been really happy here.  For a time it really was a home and I'm going to miss this place.  I'm not however going to miss nearly getting killed by a car speeding round the blind corner every time I walk out of the gate.  My only regret is that I never got round to having that aperitivo in the front yard that I was always planning.   I’m going to miss the soothing sound of the canals on either side of the building, having a kitchen to myself, and not having to worry about my state of dress.  As I write this I have no idea of where I’m ultimately going I only hope it will be as good to me as this place has been.   

Night thoughts on coffee

This week I seem to be going through one of my intermittent bouts of insomnia.  It’s something that I get from time to time for no discernible reason and after having it for a few days I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.  Many friends and acquaintances on hearing of my sleep deprivation are quick to offer impromptu counselling sessions – what’s on your mind, any problems, changes in diet- in an attempt to get to the bottom of the problem.  I prefer to not worry about it figuring that I have to sleep at some point and you know I can use the extra hours to do something useful like write an overdue blog entry.    My only worry about these little episodes is just how much coffee I am going to get through and what is this going to do for my already significant addiction?

I’ve been a coffee drinker since I was a child – family have reminded me countless times of me ordering a coffee as a five year old when all my siblings were drinking hot chocolate.  For as long as I can remember my morning ritual has been to wake up drag myself out of bed, make a moka (a stove top coffee maker) of coffee before attending to anything else.  So great is my love for the buzzy black liquid that I would give up every other beverage (yes including all alcohol) before I would give up coffee.  After so many years of consumption I have to admit that I’m am addict.  If I don’t get my hit in the morning I become listless, get a raging headache and was once horrified to note an employee warning others that it’s evil Raji on a day that I had failed to get my morning shot.

I sometimes think that my leaving the UK really was just a journey to find good coffee – the English really can’t do coffee (I say English as from my experience the coffee in Scotland is pretty darn good.)  My youth was a nightmare of freeze dried instant horror that whatever it is cannot be called coffee.  More recently the country has exploded in Starbucks and the like which is uniformly horrid, over roasted, bitter and watery.  

My adopted home prides itself on its coffee but when I mention Aussie coffee culture to the Italians they look at me as if I’ve been sipping flat whites on the Moon.  The difference as I see it is this:  like Australia coffee in Italy is a lifestyle.  It seems as if everyone begins and punctuates the day with one but what it isn’t is a status symbol.  Aussie cities are renowned for the types of coffee they drink – Melbourne is a flat white town, Sydney the latte while Brisbane is the frivolous cappuccino – oh you drink a tall espresso? Well you’re an inner Melbourne hipster then – and heaven forbid you order the wrong type in the more effete urban centres.  The only coffee faux pas you could make here is to ask for a cappuccino past breakfast.  Baristas have been elevated to a status once reserved for celebrity chefs with anger management issues.  The modern trend has been for the increasing scientification (yes made up word but I can’t think of the real one) of coffee – the Italians go nuts when I describe cold filter or syphon coffee and they really lose it when I tell them about places in Melbourne who will analyse your palate and recommend a single source coffee that matches your taste profile – yes that’s you sensory lab – no wonder Starbucks was a dismal failure.

Here, as the Italians tell me coffee is just coffee, like everything else the Italians consume the emphasis is on quality but it’s not over thought.  You may always buy your favourite brand at the supermarket but on the street you’re not going to avoid a bar because it serves Lavazza and not Illy.  What I’m enjoying about Italian coffee culture is the whole new array of ways to mainline caffeine.  In addition to all the regular cappuccinos (served without chocolate of course,) espressos, macchiatos, etc the Italians have a host of other serving methods – of late given the temperatures I’ve been enjoying cafe freddo (iced espresso,) coffee granitas, coffee gelato but my current discovery and obsession is cafe affogatto – a shot of espresso serves over a ball of vanilla ice cream – it sounds so very wrong but trust me it’s a winner.  The only coffee item I have turned my nose up at is coffee yogurt which really is foul.    

When I came to Italy I had got my addiction down to one a day (admittedly that one was a pint) but over the course of the year my consumption has steadily increased.  There’s my morning coffee, the mid morning between lessons one, the meeting a friend one, the it’s six o’clock and I’ve another three hours of lessons to go one and now there’s the I’m really tired but need to stay awake ones.  If I mentioned my coffee consumption to a doctor in Australia I’m sure the reaction would be – are you crazy? But here six or seven shots a day don’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary – makes you wonder if health advice has more to do with national characteristics than scientific research.  As I write this in my fourth night of interrupted sleep I hope it’s not too long before sleep reasserts itself and I can get my coffee consumption back under control.

Ironically this is being written on tea – made in a pot of course.

Moving on and pastures new

I’ve been resident in Treviso for well over a year now and lately I’ve been having one of those looking back and assessing periods.  After a year I can now say that I’ve become regular face (I don’t think a blow in can ever consider themselves local.)  I’ve got a wonderful bunch of friends and many of the locals greet me on my way around the town (by locals read bar owners.)  I’ve managed to make a living and enjoy the delights of life in Italy.  While it happens so often that it shouldn’t be a surprise but once again it is the urge to bolt has hit and I’m now thinking about leaving my little piece of Northern Italy for pastures new.

Treviso is a wonderful place to live and I do wonder if I am making the right decision but of late the place has begun to seem a bit small.  I’ve begun to miss many of the things that city life brings – a mix of cultures, late night events, exhibitions, live music etc.  One of my colleges, T always says that Treviso is a great place to live but that you need a reason to be here – and I don’t really have one. 

Given that I’ve decided to move on – just where to?  Do I return to Aus now, do I pursue one of the endless teaching positions in China or do I find somewhere else in Italy?  Italy seems the illogical choice given that the place hardly seems a long term prospect and the logical step would be to return to Australia where the sun shines and the people are warm and friendly.  As tempting (and lucrative) as heading to Asia is I’m not sure I should complicate my life further by adding another country to the mix.  But I can’t quite get this country out of my system (as much as I try.)  Living here has been so much fun even with the everyday hardships and the at times loneliness.  So I’ve decided to give life in a city a go and see if I can get the crazy idea of Italy out of my system. 

On announcing my decision to friends a whole host of places where suggested – and not simply for the fact that it  would suit me.  J is lobbing for Rome, T loves to visit Lecce in the south and the shopping is good in Bologna according to L.  Many of my Venetian friends have advised me not to go no further south than Tuscany, warning me of the perils below!  I’ve begun to call it the Tuscan line below which according to many of my friends the country is filled with laziness, inefficiency and corruption.  I’ve never explored the south having only visited Naples a very long time ago and I like the idea of seeing the southern part of the country.  Looking at pictures of Lecce deep in the heel of the country I feel the need to see it but I’m not sure I’m brave enough to go to the scary south alone at least not without knowing a bit about it first.  Rome is ideally located in the middle meaning that I can get to most places in the country in a couple of hours – great for weekends in the south.  After a year in sleepy Treviso will Rome be too big, fast and chaotic? Not to mention expensive.  Bologna has a reputation for good nightlife.  Then there’s always Florence – oh the list is seemingly endless.   

When I think about leaving my comfort zone and my familiar surrounds I wonder if I’ll find such a wonderful group of friends in another place.  In Treviso and Venice I have made friendships with many great people that the thought of our relationships changing to visits rather than weekly or daily meet ups saddens me.  I love meeting J for a daily coffee and chinwag and then there’s T for whom, like me the muppets are not only much loved friends but also a moral compass – who else will I be able to quote muppets too!  Who else can I have long conversations about just who was the best muppet show guest?

I also wonder if I can leave Venice.  My whole reason for heading to Treviso was too be near Venice and after so many visits I’m still in love with the place.  Of late on every visit and every time I watch the light play on the water I think to myself how can I leave this.  There is still the dream of living in Venice but sadly the practicalities defeat me.

So the feelers are out for a job and notice has been given to my landlord – all I need is a job and a place to live.  I feel a mixture of excitement and trepidation about the move.  I’m excited by the thought of exploring new streets and seeing new and wonderful things and trepid about leaving friends and finding my way in a new place.  A student recently asked me how many times I’d moved house and counting it all up it’s been 20!  A place to call home seems as far away as ever.  While the thought of packing up my life, saying goodbye and doing all the hard stuff again in a new place tires me I can’t seem to do any different – perhaps one day I’ll be able to settle somewhere but to be honest I’m not counting on it.

The Footie - Italy v Germany 28/06/12

Good evening,

I'm sitting in one of our usual bars (colonnetta) in readiness for one of the most important events of the  year.  While Messrs Monti and Merkal are nutting out the economic future of the continent the Italians are more concerned with the important stuff - the footie.  As Germany and go up against the Azzuri in the European Championship semi final I'm going to attempt to blog my way through the next 90 (give or take stoppages and extra time) minutes.  Apologies in advance but I'm no football expert.  Joining me are JH, and a bar full of nervous looking Italians.

8.40 and the teams come out, the bar is filling up.  Anthem time – lights out in bar.  Unlike the English players the Italians seem to know the words to their anthem.  First impression the striking difference there is remarkably little alcohol on the tables.

8.50 and we off.- Am wondering how long it is before the commentators use the words efficiency and German in the same sentence.  Germany have possession and have already looked like they are going to score - Raji has already uttered whooooo

A free kick to Germany outside the box.  Good save from Buffon, interesting point the time is not on screen - how long do I have to sit here? No friggin idea.  

note from JH "Germany are on them like flies on shit" - Anglo language just what I'm used to.

Italians have possession for about two minutes a bit of excitement in the bar Germany retake and it's back to business as usual.

10.42 mins and my attention wavering.

11.57 and Germany nearly score in the bar they're complaining about the goalkeeper - the hero of the last game - how fickle.

15.53 - did I really just see one of the Italian coaching staff smoking in the dug out?

16.57 Italy shot on goal - brief piece of excitement and a round of applause.  Starting to look two sided for the first time according to JH and another great shot.

19.23 ITALYYYYYYYYYYYY!  photos, screams, and one nil to the azzuri!  Lots of goal celebration and hugging amongst the Italian team.  Word in the bar is if Italy win then Merkal will make sure the country pays.

24.55 and JH has gone to get me another prosecco

26.00 2nd prosecco for me and the 1st for JH who is ignoring the fact he is on antibiotics - have told him on his head be it.

28.26 nothing worth writing about according to JH

31.50 - shirt pulling on Balotelli causes some consternation amongst the Italians -  the fact that Mario Balotelli seems to have gone to the barber and asked for a Brazilian is troubling me more.

33.56 Italy endanger the German goal but player falls down in box - third whooooo from me.

35 ish another good safe from Buffon - now a hero again

ITALYYYYYYYYYY! Balotelli again looks like it's bad news for Italy and the Euro - bet Monti will have a smile on his face as he greets Angela tomorrow. In the bar the Italians are laughing at a weeping German fan on the screen.

The only German in the bar just asked JH and me if we are supporting Germany.

JH just did a mock German accent - hoping it's the only one of the night.

OK 40th minute only another five until half time apparently

JH just asked if he looks German - not sure why

Italian player on the ground cry of AMBULANCE in the bar - looks like patrons know the whole simulation thing - Note to fellow English teachers am using the technical term simulation which I learnt  in New English File intermediate lesson 1B, narrative tenses.

One minute of extra time - this is not fair

46 minutes and the half time whistle blows - mass exodus for a smoke.  We think that the Germans are not playing as well as they should - note we is JH here.

HALF TIME - Bar staff wondering just what the hell I'm doing.  JH thinking the Germans will make a comeback in the second half - can they do it?  are Italy in the final?  how many proseccos will I get through?  lets see

Players emerging,nicotined up fans returning to tables - my drink getting low

Germany has made a substitution apparently

and the second half is off!

Still no mention of German and efficiency - The germans have brought on Klose - Raji wants him to get a near miss on goal so she can type it's close from Klose.

Near miss from the Germans - not Klose unfortunately

47.50 - Italian with a face full of ball - looks painful

48.59 Germans look like they've come back with a bit of purpose - yes we may be single handedly keeping the Euro afloat but this is serious.

50.52 two empty glasses on the table - time to send JH to the bar

51.40 shouting in the bar - not sure why JH and I debating who pays for the next drink.

52.50 - if anyone's interested it was me

Note from JH "Germany are just falling to pieces" - not looking good for the efficiency quote that I'm after.

56.53 close up of Italian player and I notice what a terrible stripe effect the Italian shirts have - looks a bit 80 woman's office casual - not sure it's the look the Italians are going for.

58.40 Mario that really is a stupid haircut

60.00 and yellow card for an Italian defender - Bonucci - he looks suitably pained.

62.18 - all the players are sporting black armbands - it's an anti racism thing according to JH.  Raji is wondering if the Italian cartoonist who portrayed Balotelli as King Kong got the message.

63.50 - Italian player just easily gave possession away and Raji just felt affronted

67.56  Balotelli down - cramp JH informs me - time for the magic sponge.  Di Natale ("of Christmas" which makes me like him all the more) on for Balotelli

70.12 all those proseccos are beginning to hit, thinking of food.

70.52 from JH "Germany are out of this match"

71.32 JH informs me that the Poms say two world wars, one world cup when the English play Germany - and I'm remined why I don't barrack for any team.

74.54 - what's wrong with just passing it!  two Italians in the box German defender trips over his feet and they don't score - should have passed instead of going for glory for yourself - teamwork people!

77.29 - lost concentration and am laughing at funny posts on facebook

79.27 "the Germans are playing rugby"  JH 10.25 28/06/12

80.00 brief bit of excitement undermined by about 30 players slipping, tripping and generally falling down -yes it's keystone football

82.15 - Raji surprises herself by knowing and understanding the offside rule - where did that come from?

84.00 need to pee, can I hold out for 6 minutes plus extra time?

85.47 - JH off on another prosecco mission

87.27 camera cuts to fans dressed as super Mario - nice way to break the stereotype!

89th minute don't see the Germans coming back from this - Monti can start getting his gloating face on

90th passed 4 mins of extra time - seriously need to pee

Penalty to Germany - Handball in the box apparently.  Germany score! suddenly game is on again

Balotelli with hoodie on and head in hands - yes I would too if I had that hair

20 seconds victory in the air, this bar is about to errupt - YESSSSSSSSSSS!

Italy are in the final = bar playing we are the champions and a guy I don't know just kissed me.

Post game - you would not believe the queue for the bathroom - cazzo

Ah Tuscany!

Morning view

Sunday and once again I found myself on a freccia heading back to Treviso.  I didn’t expect to be on one of Italy’s rather efficient (yes I did just use the words Italy and efficient in the same sentence) trains this weekend.  Little did I think on Friday as I was making the weekly trip to the armpit of the Veneto that I would be spending the evening having dinner with Melbourne friends in a restaurant garden in the Tuscan countryside. 

My friend R and her husband B have been in Italy since May, they come to Italy every year for the warmer months – escaping the Melbourne winter and call the town of Lucignano home for this period.  Between lessons at the mineral powder company R called and suggested that I come down to their little town in Tuscany for the weekend and I couldn’t think of any reason not to.  After lessons T rushed us back to Treviso (J couldn’t face any more trips to Werhnam Hogg so Fridays are now on the road with T and Raj.)  I ran home threw a few things in a bag and jumped on a train.  By early evening I’d made it to Arezzo where there was a grand reunion with R and B before a drive to their small piece of Tuscay. 

Contrada colours

Driving through the Tuscan landscape I felt a world away from the Veneto.  Seemingly endless hills filled with olive groves or vinyards.  Tall, feather like cypress trees that act as absurdly picturesque exclamation marks to the beauty of the place.  Lucignano sits on top of a hill overlooking a valley; the town is tiny (perhaps 200 inhabitants) and like every other medieval Italian town utterly charming.  Being so small the place takes about 10 minutes to walk around, physically that is.  R has been coming here for many years now and is a quasi local which means any walk around the town involves stopping and chatting with everyone you meet.  Lucignano like all of the towns I visited over the weekend was festooned with flags in the contrada colours.  The town is divided into different quarters called contradas.  In times gone (not too sure what the situation is now) the contradas would have their own church, take care of the young and sick in their quarter etc.  This period sees many festivities culminating in a contrada dinner where each quarter hosts a street party.  Wandering around the towns of Tuscany covered in a multitude of flags I began to think about the loyalty people must have not just for their region, country or town but for their neighbourhood.  With this fierce loyalty is it really a surprise that national unity is so often questioned in such a young country? 

The first evening and I was introduced to the small yet established expat community of the town – Americans and Brits who have somehow found this little town and either make annual visits or live here permanently.  It seems to me that there are two kinds of expat: those like R and B who engage with the locals and become part of the community and those who don’t learn the language and live in a sort of bubble only socialising with other English speakers.  R is certain that the bar where they drink makes its entire year’s profit in those three months when the expats are in town!      

Saturday morning and after coffee overlooking the valley we headed out to visit some of the other gorgeous towns in the area.  Cortona, our first stop, sits prettily atop another high promontory over looking yet more rolling hills.  Cortona itself is a beautifully preserved medieval town with winding streets and steep gradients.  It was this town that an American woman bought a rundown old villa, restored it and wrote a book called “Under the Tuscan sun.”  Evidence of the book’s success can be seen in the number of tour buses pulling up, the real estate prices and the new American University in the town.  Next on our little tour was Montepulciano – another picture postcard hill top medieval town.  Walking its steep streets I couldn’t help but think of the feet of engineering and labour it must have taken to build these towns.  Although of the same era Tuscan medieval architecture is a world away from the Venetian.  With its large windows and half Middle Eastern half Romanesque arches Venetian buildings feel light and delicate as opposed to the solidity of the Tuscan buildings.  The fact that almost every town had its own imposing tower and heavy walls is an indication to the uncertain times that people were living in. 

Tower and Cypress trees, where else but Tuscany?

That evening after yet more glorious food with B watching 22 grown men kick a ball around a field R and I sat on the terrazzo drinking beautiful Tuscan wine and watching the light over the valley fade into night we both talked of our Italian adventures and ruminated on just how ridiculously enjoyable our Italian experiences are.  Often while going about my day to day activities I have a moment when I think to myself how nice life is and it’s good to know I’m not the only one who finds it so.  Sunday came around all too soon and after a lazy morning coffee with the expats, a couple more ridiculously scenic towns and lunch it was time to say our goodbyes and for me to head back up north.  Getting back to Treviso I felt like I’d been away for days.     

In praise of idleness

For most of the year my weeks have been full of lessons, if I wasn’t teaching I was planning lessons.  If I wasn’t planning lessons I was going between lessons in school, in state schools, in companies or in student’s homes.  There wasn’t much time to catch up with friends and colleges.  If we could manage to synchronise our diaries for a coffee it was invariably a quick rushed affair before having to head off for the next lesson.  Over the last few weeks exams have started and courses have begun to end and we’ve found ourselves in the strange but not unpleasant situation of actually having time.  After months of running around like a blue arsed fly to suddenly find myself with free time is a welcome change.  Such is the novelty of time that I don’t quite know what to do with myself.  I have this constant feeling that I should be doing something or going somewhere but there is little to do and going anywhere generally requires forward planning and a bit of organisation. 

So how have I taken to filling my days?  Well for J and I coffee has become a long, leisurely and pretty much daily event.  At some point in the day one or other of us will send a message and a cafe or piazza chosen and a time appointed.  There over coffee in the warm sun we will spend a good amount of time shooting the breeze.  Despite speaking to each other practically every day we never seem to run out of conversation.  Sometimes T or J will join us but more often than not it’s just the two of us.  Together we talk about the past, plan our future endeavours, console each other when the trials of the Italian experience get to us and laugh – a lot. 

Coffee is often followed by galato, a stroll around the town and most dangerously shopping.  Now I have never considered shopping a pass time – it’s more of a necessary evil and I’ve always wondered how people can name shopping as an enjoyable activity but of late I have been alarmed to find myself enjoying the experience.  In our afternoon rambles J and I have tested perfumes, looked at clothes and bought make up together.   Just yesterday we made an unplanned purchase of sandals.  While it’s fun to have someone to indulge in girly pursuits (something I have never really allowed myself to do,) J and I often laugh about our afternoons.  How a world away they are from a few weeks ago and we wonder if we have begun to live up to the stereotype of ladies who lunch!  Ok we are more likely to shop in OVS (think Italian H&M) than Gucci but there is a definite shopping as entertainment vibe about us. 

So, long almost empty days, warm sun, good coffee in a picture postcard piazza, conversation, gelato and retail fun we really are living la dolce vita – I mean just substitute the Veneto for Tuscan setting and we could almost write the book about unsatisfied Anglos heading off to Italy, getting to grips with the different culture and learning the joys of life.  The only difference is we do have to worry about where the funds for all this are coming from and as much as I’m enjoying this I’m well aware it can’t go on forever and soon I’m going to have to put my head down and find something that will see me through the summer.  

NB This post is dedicated to J, a person who makes life in Italy so much better than it already is.     

The living in Italy days

Generally living in Italy is a whole sack load of fun but there are things to get used to and little idiosyncrasies to overcome.  The best way to look at these things are as a challenge – where else can you live where going to the post office  is a challenge or getting the internet connected an achievement.  Having said that there are those days when the challenges wear you down and every now and then there is a little break down – we call these the “I’m living in Italy” days. Days when you want just one thing to be easy or efficient, days when you long to be able to talk to someone who shares your experience, days when all you want is a hug from a loved one. When these days hit the only thing you can do is remind yourself that you chose to be here and get on with things.

It was in this mood that J called me on Sunday morning and we convened over coffee to talk.  Talking is about all you can do in these situations – Italy will be what it will be and none of us are arrogant enough to demand that it change to suit us but it is good to know that it is not just you who has days like these.  After talking through our various living in Italy stresses we had to think about just what to do for the rest of our Sunday.  Given that we were both less than enthusiastic about life at the time. On a whim we decided to hit the beach.  T joined us and after a rush home to grab togs and towels it was on the road to Jesolo.

 

Having been blessed with Australian beaches for the best part of a decade Jesolo comes as a bit of a shock to the system.   It boasts that it is one of the longest beaches in the world and I’m sure it would have been beautiful once.  Today it is over developed with ugly beachside hotels so much so that it actually makes Benidorm look picturesque.  Like many a European beach the acres of sand are covered with almost fascistly neat rows of sun loungers which cost a pretty penny to use.  The water is shallow and way to warm for me who has got used to swimming in the ocean but as it’s the most accessible beach from Treviso it serves as the default hang out for the summer.

Back in Treviso and feeling pretty shiny

As the season is not yet in full swing the place was mercifully empty after a walk along the beach it was time to do some serious lazing in the sun.  Snoozing and chatting in the warm sun watching T’s pale Scottish beauty turn to an angry shade of lobster red our souls began to revive and life began to seem beautiful again.  Like almost every seaside town Jesolo is filled with cheap souvenir shops selling tacky items that for some reason are the most desired objects for children – knock off sunglasses, animal figures made entirely of shells, paper thin sun hats and novelty ashtrays.  While I never want to make a purchase I love exploring the tackier side of tourist life.  A final stop at a bar where the Asian style sofas went part of the way to disguising the fact that you are actually situated at a busy roundabout in Italy then it was back to Treviso with our souls revived and newly purchased sunglasses on our faces. 

 As we got back to Treviso the sky darkened and the heavens opened.  Treviso was the same as we left it but our moods were up and ready for the next challenge that Italy will inevitably send our way.

15 go mad in Venice

Was tagged in Osteria ......... 

It used to be a case of wake up, see how you feel, drag yourself out of bed, mainline coffee and slowly piece events together.  Today thanks to facebook by the time your bleary eyes open the previous nights antics have probably been shared with a good couple of hundred people.  It’s with a very real sense of trepidation that you log on to the net, navigate to facebook and get ready to remove tags from photos your friends have kindly uploaded.  Last Sunday I woke to find my facebook page looking something like this:

Thanks to modern technology creating phones smarter than me every moment of the previous night seemed to have been documented and the list of bars I’d been tagged in was embarrassingly long.  Last week it was J’s birthday and in honour of the event a gang of us went to Venice.  The idea was a tour of bacari (traditional Venetian drinking establishments) and seeing that I am famed for knowing Venice I was entrusted with navigating the 15-20 of us to the best spots in town.  As ever getting more than four people together and on the same train is a feat of organisation and we were no different resulting in two of us arriving in Venice a full hour before the main party (we got the intended train I may hasten to add.)  When we did all meet up it quickly became apparent that everyone in our party was intent on having the same good time although I was dismayed to find at our first stop the British half of the table ordering prosecco and Italian side coffee – I mean geez guys. 

Taking in the beauty between bars two and three

Now to give you a bar by bar account of the night would be a little boring but as ever I was in my element taking people around this incredible city and Venice is the perfect place for a bar crawl – small enough to not need public transport, yet big enough to sober up between bars, in fact the only real drawback is the risk of falling into a canal.   This was the first time that I had shown locals around their own back yard and my Italian friends were most impressed by this Brit’s knowledge of Venetian topography and more importantly the best places to get a drink.  Venice is so full of history that inevitably almost every building has a story attached to it and one of the fun things about bar hoping in Venice is that you get to say things like “the next bar’s near Marco Polo’s house.”  I always get a kick out of saying things like that.    

    

The achievement of the night was getting our entire party on the last train back to Treviso – no small feat and although we all got on the same train we were not exactly together but that’s just a detail.  Arriving back to Treviso at 12.30 the sensible option would have been to wish J a happy birthday say our goodbyes and head home but we had been drinking for the best part of 7 hours and we all know ability to reason is directly linked to blood alcohol content so we carried on. 

Between bars five and six, err I think

Now let’s face it Treviso is not what you would call a twenty four hour city and most late night places close by two and by the appointed hour when most people called it a night there were three of us left standing and I found myself in Treviso’s very own slice of crazy.  They say that when you make it to the No1 bar you have been in Treviso too long.  It’s the only place to go if you want a drink at 7am.  Stepping into No1 bar is akin to walking into a David Lynch movie it is at once suburbanly normal, freakily nightmarish and surreally banal.  The decor is white- white walls, white floor, large white sofas.  My companions informed me that the place had recently been refurbished – prior the floors were covered in a red carpet that made the place feel like the red room.  The walls are decorated with cheap pictures on a native American theme in the corner entertainment is provided by an aging crooner singing hits from the 80s (that night it was Phil Collins and Peter Cetera)  with a tinny old casio keyboard that looks to be of the same era as it’s player.  As for the clientele, well that was the depressing part.  Sad middle aged men and over dolled up women for whose company payment is required.  There’s been a few times when I have felt myself straying into David Lynch’s world and I always try to attach the place to one of his works (thankfully I’ve never encountered easerhead and hope I never do.) No1 bar I would put somewhere between Blue Velvet and Twin Peaks.  

The next morning I work after a couple of hours sleep feeling a lot better than I deserved to (thanks in part to the drink ease and bottle of water I had left out for myself.)  Sunday would be about recovery.  Everyone seems to have their own recovery ritual and for me it’s coffee, water and a big bowl of nasi goreng.  There’s something about the greasy goodness of the fried rice, the chilli kick of the sambal oelek and the protein in the egg that makes the dish perfect after a big night.  My Italian friends can’t understand how I can eat such a meal at breakfast but it’s served the Indonesians well for years. 

Logging on the net to begin the remove tag ritual I was amazed to find that I’d slept through a rather significant earthquake.  The first of the (at rough count) 100 pictures of the evening were emerging as were stories of the morning after.  I spent the day much like everyone else snoozing, drinking lots and lots of water and declaring getting dressed a significant achievement.  That evening as many of us reconvened most people were accounted for and only one was missing in action that is, unable to get out of bed and all of us were operating on a low blue flame.  While I don’t think I can do a night like that again for a very, very long time it is worth noting that we only got through three of Venice’s sestieri so the crawl is only half done...

On the road with Jen and Raj

The dread starts on Thursday afternoons.  At some point J and look at each other and one of us says “I don’t want to go to tomorrow.”  Yet go we must and this week in a cruel twist of fate we had to make the journey twice.

Since J and I were thrown together by the same workplace we have shared many a mile on the roads of the Veneto. While there have been fun adventures in the mountains or to one of the endless picture postcards towns that Italy seems to specialise in for the most part our road trips have been the painful Friday ritual.  Our trips to the mineral powder company have become the sort of adventure we would sell our first born or avoid.  

     

Not that the trip is entirely bad, over the months and many an hour in the car together we’ve got to know each other pretty well.  Previous evening antics and coming weekend adventures are planned and discussed.  Past experiences and trials of living in Italy are dissected and all with the passing background of the always the same faceless middle of nowhere Veneto.

In driving terms after 5 years in Italy J has gone native.  Traffic lights are often more a guide to road behaviour than law and any kind of bad driving from other road users is greeted with a stream of invective that is quite unbritish. Not just swearing but the sort of gestures that leave no driver looking in the rear view mirror in any doubt about what J thinks of them.  Recently I have noticed the creeping Italianisation in myself – even as a passenger I now react to stupid driving as if I was moral affront.

Coffee or something stronger stop

Very early into our time we discovered that if we were going to get through this coffee was going to be an essential.  We quickly came upon our regular coffee stop – Vega Benzina, Scorze – (Vega Benzina is a service station.) At first the proprietors of this out in the middle of nowhere servo didn’t quite know what to make of two British women coming in for coffee at 9.30 every Friday but now we’re regulars.   As we sip our cappuccinos (and more than once plan exactly what we are going to teach for the next three hours) it’s not unusual to find ourselves surrounded by Italians knocking back a prosecco or something a little stronger.  Am I the only one to find it bizarre to find a fully stocked bar are a service station out in the middle of nowhere?  Am I the only one who finds it bizarre to see people enjoying a glass of wine or something stronger at 9.30 in the morning?  No wonder this place has such a problem with drink driving.

Our destination  - oh the horror.

Why do we hate the journey so much?  Well in part it’s the fact that for 3 hours teaching we use an additional hour going there and coming back.  The main thing is that our destination has to be the most depressing and desolate place in the Veneto.  I call it the armpit of the Veneto (it’s not even interesting enough to be the groin.)  The company we teach in has an atmosphere that’s two parts Wernham hogg and one part button moon and those three hours are the longest hours of my week.

The drive back is a relief and we both have a set of markers that mean we’re getting nearer to home – there’s the jogger who come hail or high water is always on the road, the oversize modal horse outside the riding shop, the sign that reads “sexy shop” (I can never seem to make Italians understand why that’s so funny) and finally the porta della pace which means we’re back and we can forget about Wernham Hogg for a week.