Monoculture

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

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

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

   

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

Farewell Orsetta

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

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

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

The cool change

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

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

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

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

London's Burning - Welcome back

London's burning

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

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

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

A good example of head nodding

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

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

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

My two worlds meet

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

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

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

S crossing the Grand Canal by tragehtto

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

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

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

Weddings, Parties and Bar Mitzvahs - further adventures in food

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

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

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

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

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

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

La bella figura

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

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

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

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

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

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