La bella figura

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

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

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

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

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

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

Teaching: quite surprising really.

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

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

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



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



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

A difference of opinion

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

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

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

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

Of patience and bureaucracy

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

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

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

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

“I have this number”

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

“But there’s no one here”

“I need an H number”

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

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

Reflections

This week I have been in a very reflective mood, perhaps it’s due to the approach of the three month mark or maybe the initial euphoria has settled and now I must get on with the task of living here or maybe homesickness has finally struck.  Whatever it is I’m not quite sure, most likely it’s all of the above. 

As I sit in the surprisingly high spring temperatures with the first of the summers mosquito attacks launched it’s hard to believe that that icy cold march morning of my arrival was just three months ago.  So much of the time between then and now has been a blur of looking for and starting a new job, looking for and moving into a new home and reacquainting myself with this crazy place that now things have settled it has almost come as a shock that I'm actually living here! 

There is still so much to get to grips with that sometimes I think I’ll never manage it but then I walk out of my house on a gorgeous warm sunny morning and the world feels right.  Most days I notice something peculiar, frustrating or just down right funny that I wish I could share it with my dearly missed friends in Melbourne.  As much as I am thrilling to my experiences here sometimes the everyday difficulties wear me down.  From snap transport strikes putting your Sunday plans into disarray, to having to trawl through three stores to get ingredients to cook anything more exotic than Italian food or simply the culture shock of the Italian way of doing things.  This week I have really longed to be able to walk into the Pinnacle (my local) and just have the release of a few beers, playful banter with friends and live music, another thing I’m really missing.

Sunday arvo at the Pinnie

 Having left the UK twelve years ago I have come to terms with the ache of not having loved ones near and new technology means keeping in touch is so much easier but cyber hugs are no replacement for the real thing especially Lucas and Robbie hugs.  I have been waiting for these feelings to strike and in fact am surprised they didn’t hit sooner.  I’ve travelled enough to know these times are fleeting and it is a sign of the wonderful people you have in your life that you miss them.  Being a bit of a wondering soul my nearest and dearest are scattered all over the world from Europe to Australia, China to Argentina which makes the prospect of visits very exciting.  For now I just need to let such feelings pass and then get on with the next exciting escapade or bureaucratic nightmare that Italy holds for me.    

These three months have been intense and I need to give myself a break and understand that as much as I want it to not everything will come together immediately.  Patience has never been a strong point of mine and I often get frustrated with myself at a perceived lack of progress.  Rome wasn’t built in a day and I need to lighten up and give myself the credit for what has been achieved rather than focus on what still needs to be done. 

To the best bar at the end of the world and all who drink in her - well almost all, Ted's not included.

https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/The-Fitzroy-Pinnacle/211624392202875

NB: This post was written while listening to a particularly melancholic Tom Waits album

Rajis' Mobile Curry Service

It all started in my capacity as GMs house guest, I was looking for ways to repay the kindness and make myself feel better about taking advantage of a friend.  One morning a few days after my arrival while I was mainlining coffee GM mentioned that he had a cupboard full of Indian spices but had no idea what to do with them.   That evening GM returned to find his flat filled with the aromas of India and happily ate away.  Being of Indian lineage I am very used to people asking if I can make a curry and know I am supposed to have learnt the secrets to the art of Indian cooking from a mother steeped in its traditions but my mum although a good cook hated cooking and I only ever learnt the basics from her. 

Next on our food safari was an Indian restaurant in Mestre.  Not sure why but wherever I travel I always feel the need to check out an Indian restaurant.  I love to see how the cuisine is adapted for each nations' palate and am astounded that I am yet to visit a country without an Indian presence – my favourite so far was found in Buenos Aires- as for Mestre well it was quite good and hearing Punjabi (my parents language) spoken with a thick Venetian accent was a spin out.  Over the next few weeks we tried the world of ethnic eateries in Treviso – of which there aren't too many.  Quite a good Japanese, a pretty bad Thai and a few Chinese that range from ok to terrible, no Indian as yet.   

By now news of GM having a live in curry cook was beginning to spread and soon L was requesting in on the Indian resulting in a dinner of chole, tandoori chicken and aloo gobi.  The next time I saw the gang in Asolo my cooking was mentioned and it was suggested that perhaps they could come over to Treviso for a meal (which we have yet to do.)  When time came for me to move into my own apartment my parting gift was a curry lesson and the five kilos that GM noted he seemed to have gained during my stay. 

In my own apartment I had to think about building up my own store of spices.  This was a problem as they’re not easy to find here.  I soon came to realise how exotic my cooking is to the Italians.  I found a couple of Chinese grocery stores in Treviso and managed to get what I needed for some basic Chinese and Thai food but the Indian spices were proving a problem and you can’t find fresh chilli here for love nor money.  Then there was a little piece of luck in the form of an international food festival in Treviso.  One Saturday afternoon a bunch of us teachers from work (not sure what the collective noun for teachers is, how about a correction?) headed down.  Now the concept of “International” seemed to involve mainly Italian and central European cuisine but there was a spice stall and I stocked up on whatever I could.  In the food court I persuaded the owner of the kebab stand to sell me a jar of his Tahini – I had a hankering for hummus

The spice cupboard begins to take shape

With my new stock of spices I was keen to get cooking GM and L were all too happy to be victims of my culinary exploits.  With the recent hot humid weather I decided to move my curry making away from the north India of my mothers’ cooking and head down south where coconut and lemongrass (lemon zest in this case) add to the flavours.  I had also found a Bangladeshi store in Mestre where the genial owner saved me some precious fresh chilli.  When I mentioned I was cooking for friends he asked “Italians?” and was most delighted to find that yes I was cooking for the natives.   I’ve never made my own masala (mixed spiced) powder before but it really is easy and very satisfying.  As I roasted a mix of fenugreek, coriander, cumin, black pepper and fennel my apartment started to smell like a spice market.  The resulting masala was a world away from the Punjabi variety I’m used to cooking with. 

Freshly roasted spices

That done I packed all I needed and headed to GMs place, my apartment being the size of a cupboard GM had suggested we eat there.  It did also mean he didn’t have to go far to get home.  To add to the endeavour I decided to give making Indian bread a go to, so while I busied myself in the kitchen GM and L got on with consuming the hummus I’d made. 

The Masala

The resulting meal was on the whole a success, second helpings were taken and while not pretty the chilli, coconut bread was tasty.  I had to amend the chilli content as I am slowly building up my guinea pigs'tolerance but there was food, much talking and laughing.  When I moved here I had thought I would learn to make all that wonderful food that Italy is rightly celebrated for but it seems it's my Asian cooking skills that are going to be improved.  In a surprising turn of fate I have discovered that I quite enjoy the process of cooking and making food for friends, I like nothing better that working away in the kitchen while expectant dinners drift in to check out the alchemy.  So Rajis’ mobile curry service is up and running and available for bookings.

Need to work on the presentation but Friday nights feast

The Big Fat Indian Wedding

By now many of the guests will be enjoying a lazy rainy day in one of a number of luxury hotels.  Shakira and the Gotan project will have packed and left, the elephants will be on their way back to wherever it was that they came from, an army of workers will be beginning the task of cleaning up and the bride and groom will be contemplating a life together.  While most of the world’s attention has been taken up with certain nuptials in the UK organisation for the real wedding of the century has been underway in Venice.  This week Venice got its own dose of Bollywood glamour and excess in the form of the wedding of Vineeta daughter of the mega rich iron tycoon Pramod Argawal.

The local papers have been breathlessly reporting the staggering stats of this event and to quickly summarise:  800+ guests, three locations, two elephants, cooks and designers, djs and photographers brought over from India, flower designers from Paris, multi Michelin starred chefs, Shakira and dancers as well as the Gotan Project and a whopping 20 million euro for the whole shebang.  Almost every luxury hotel in Venice has been requisitioned for the wedding guests.  If all that wasn’t enough to get you crying about the lack of invite the entertainment for the big day has been months in the production and involved an “entire re-enactment of imaginary cities, a 17 by 8 meter canvas meticulously painted with acrylic colours by a specialist, that reproduces a famous Canaletto view of Bacino Marciano on a huge scale, chandeliers made of flowers, amazing lighting effects and more.” – Vogue Italia.  Speaking from experience subtlety is not a concept that is too familiar to the Indians.  My invitation getting lost, I was tempted to pull out my Indian outfit and see if I could crash the gig but even in the right gear I doubted my ability to pass off as a rich Indian glamour puss.  I really wanted to go the first night celebrations where as one Indian marriage website reports "Guests will dance with a submarine on their heads to the music of Gothan Project." 

 

Once a week I teach some lessons at the Consiglio in Venice and when I arrived last Monday THE WEDDING was all anyone could talk about.  While the Consiglio had much to organise for the event there was a great deal of interest in the sheer scale and lavishness of the shindig.  As well as the impromptu Indian pronunciation lesson I had to give there was much explaining of the process of the three day affair that is an Indian wedding  - made all the more difficult as I’m no expert having only been bored through the many I was dragged to as a child. 

Of course the Venetians have had dealings with India for well over a millennia.  The early Venetian merchants traded European timber and metal in return for spices from the sub-continent.  More recently the Indian movie industry has used the lagoon for some of its fantastic song and dance numbers.  In fact to me, this wedding had echoes of the lavish spectacles that Venice was once famous for.  While it may seem jarring to have the colourful excesses of Indian fantasy in Venice on second thought it’s a perfect marriage Venice itself is a fantasy city.  As divorced of reality as the most lavish of Bollywood movies where love conquers all and the right guy and girl always get together.  Anyone who visits Venice seems to come more for the fantasy of masks and gondolas than anything based in reality.  I can’t help but ponder on the irony of spending months and who knows how much money on painting a view of the bacino when the real thing is outside, could it be that Venice has become a place that lives more in our minds so much so that the image is more real than reality? 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRpf8kmEPnU



Sorry, Will and Kate who?