Reading

Escaping my little spot in Italy for the seasonal silliness I found myself in a not unpleasant little village in the English lake district.  There wasn’t much to do in this little village, especially when the weather lives up to its British billing.  One evening one of my very kind hosts passed a book on to me saying that I might be interested in reading about the main character’s struggle with learning Italian.  The book was "The Broker" by John Grisham and the perfect kind of throw away reading for my Christmas food and booze addled mind.  The main character is the disgraced broker of the title who for various reasons gets given a new identity by the US government and hidden in Italy where no one will find him until the government wants them to.   Wanting a place in Italy where no one would think of looking naturally the Americans dump our hero in Treviso.  I always find it fun to read novels or see films in places that I’ve been to – to read or watch characters walking streets that you know. 

Mr Grisham did a pretty good job of describing the city (although I made small allowances for topographical errors in service to the plot.)  It was when it came to describing the people and culture  that it became a bit frustrating – out came the old clichés of well dressed, beautiful etc etc that I wondered if the writer was being a little superficial or dare I say even a wee bit lazy.  To make matters even harder for himself Grisham writes in an Italian character whose job it is to help the hero’s transition into the country.  If you’re going to write a character from another culture I reckon you need to be damn confident that you know your stuff.  Therefore it’s an unforgivable error was that neither our hero nor his Italian fix it man comment on or try spritz!  I mean jeez John, that’s intro to the Veneto 101.

The more books and articles I read about this place. that I know so well, the more I notice inaccuracies and the more frustrated I get with writers glib pronouncements.  Reading about Venice is even more frustrating.  It seems as if every writer needs to make some sort of preamble to their piece which goes along the lines of – Venice is more than San Marco, over priced pizza and made in China glass, step away from the tourist path and you will see the real Venice – the subtext being I know the real Venice and I may point you in the few directions but you as a mere tourist will never really see the real Venice.  Then proceed to offer the same “non package tourist tips” – Castello is where the real Venetians are, have a drink in Dorsoduro etc etc.  Except this is no more the real Venice than a drink in Harry’s bar.  I know writers need to sell themselves and thus portray themselves as some kind of expert but I wish for once someone would say something like “I’m no experts but this is what I liked about the place and perhaps it may inspire you to explore a bit.

I have begun to wonder if anyone can write about a place without being a native or at least living and breathing the place.  As much as I love Venice, made an attempt to learn it I would never have the arrogance to say I know what makes Venice tick – that would take years of study.  There is a lot to be said say for fresh eyes and new perspective etc etc, it’s just that increasingly I’m losing patience with lazy writing and prefer to read accounts from people who have studied or lived the place.  I wonder what Italians think of all these interpretations of their country, city and culture – I hope they can indulge me just a little.      

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.)