Not in Kansas now

One of the little pleasures I’ve always gotten from travelling is experiencing the many differences between the new place and my usual habitats.  Of course you expect the big things: language, driving on the other side and wasting a good portion of your life in a Kafkaesque bureaucracy but there are many little things that while generally not better or worse are just plain different.  So today I thought I would regale you with some of the little differences that I didn’t expect to find:

People don’t read on trains: being a not infrequent train traveller I have had much time to observe Italian train customs and unlike their British or Australian counterparts the Italian commuter does not have his head buried in a paperback (or more recently an ereader.)  Whenever I have taken a journey, be it a long haul flight from Aus to Britain or just a short tram trip to work I’ve taken the opportunity to get a couple of chapters read (and as I was generally taking the 86 or 57 tram it was also a good way to avoid any accidental eye contact with a junkie or general crazy person) here people seem content to stare out the window.

Table of contents are at the back of the book just before the index: a little trifling matter but being used to the whole; front cover, dedication page, table of contents, main text, bibliography and finally index the Italian (not sure about other countries, please feel free to enlighten me) tradition of having the contents page at the back threw me a bit.  Yes, I do find it strange to read the book, get to the end and then find the page telling what’s in the book but there you go – if anyone can tell me why it’s like that I would love to know. 

     

It’s not just driving on the right people walk on the right too: It seems that whichever side of the road a nation drives on they will walk in the same manner – never noticed this before.  Now I’m used to the left and here people drive and walk on the right.  As you might expect this causes quite a few occasions where I have to get out of the way of someone who is adhering to the correct pedestrian etiquette.  Unfortunately I am also used to stepping aside to the left and the Italians to the right thus resulting in moments of endless polite shuffling as we both try to get out of each others’ way and continue on ours.

Plastic bags:  at my local supermarket I am no longer asked if I want a plastic bag. I’m one of those people who brings my own cloth bag.  I am very much in the minority but at least there is an effort to discourage plastic bag use by way of a 10c charge.  When it comes to the fruit and veg aisle I find myself despairing.  Let me state my position these items do not need a plastic tear if you even look at it bag:  a whole pumpkin – it comes with its own protection,  a single apple or any other single fruit, ginger; that skin will do more than the plastic.  While I’m on the rant if the fishmonger has put your salmon fillets or whatever in a plastic bag, then wrapped the whole thing in paper and then kindly placed the package in a carrier bag you do not need to tie the handles together and put that bag in yet another bag.

    

Toasters: Italian toasters don’t pop up.  Instead of the pop up mechanism you have to put your bread in a metal clamp like contraption and lower it into the toaster. Not better or worse just different.

The concealed drip rack: the most glorious difference, to me one of the greatest inventions and why the hell has no other country I have had the pleasure to experience got one in their kitchen?  No longer do my dishes sit on the work surface taking up valuable space and endlessly reminding me that they need to be put away.  Now they are carefully concealed above the sink, not asking to be put away but waiting happily until I have call to use them again.  Honestly I do not wish to work in a kitchen without one ever again.  That and the marble worktops which now mean I no longer find myself in the situation where I’m holding a red hot tray straight out of the oven, burning my fingers because I couldn’t be bothered to find the oven gloves and am using a tea towel that’s barely adequate all the while poncing around looking for the damn trivet.  

The concealed dish rack, a genius idea

Views from the bottom of the glass

Make a list of the things Italy is famous for you would have to include:  Food, fashion, a prime minister that makes Caligula seem like the quiet bookish type and of course some of the world’s finest wines.  This week I’ve been musing (and gathering data in the field) over the difference between the drinking cultures here and the ones I’ve experienced.  I make no secret of the fact that I like a drink, be it wine, beer, port, whisky, gin, vodka (especially that yummy polish Bison grass one) and thanks to a couple of visits to South America I’ve even revived a love for tequila after one bad night when a student and  17 intervening  years.  I like the taste of a deep red, the crispness of a white the yeastiness of beer and I need to stop before I get lost in a train of thought more appropriate to Oz Clarke than a blog about Italy.   

It’s no surprise to say that the drinking culture here is very different.  The first thing I noticed was how different points of an evening are marked by different drinks.  The early evening is spritz time, with food it’s wine and after coffee one of a seemingly endless list of digestives.  The Italians make an array of ridiculously delicious wines and since my arrival I have come across many a new variety of grape.  Alcohol is also much cheaper meaning a good bottle of wine doesn’t have to be an investment and with the average drink in a bar costing 2 euro, a night out is not an expensive prospect.  From what I’ve seen all this cheap booze does not result in much public drunkenness.  In my time here I haven’t really seen any from the locals (the expats are a different matter) and it’s been a relief to not have to deal with the attentions of an over imbibing male – yes I mean Ted.  On Saturday night a gang of us headed out to the annual fair for the evening.  Amongst the dodgems, shooting galleries and food stalls there were a liberal number of drinking venues.  T noted that had this been the UK there would have been at least one drunken altercation and a lot of booze fuelled bumper car driving.  As it was people were just enjoying a glass of wine with their roast chestnuts or a beer with their barbequed sausage and despite getting home near 3, I woke up the next morning without a trace of a hangover. 

The prodigious drinking that seems to characterise nights out in the Anglo countries is frowned upon here.  One night while out with some Italian friends a member of the party commented on how much I drank as sipped a post dinner digestive – it was my fourth drink in about as many hours.  While at times I find this aspect of the culture uptight it is nice to be able to savour the taste of a really beautiful drink and not have worry about losing the best part of a day to feeling like a bar room floor.  My friends here have fallen into two camps – those that don’t really drink and those that like to party.  I know that a night out with the moderate drinkers will most likely include a comment about my taking a second glass of wine and as for the other group (especially if M and T are involved) that needs a good self preservation instinct.  

  

In Aus and the UK drinking is very much a social lubricant, you’ve something to celebrate you have a drink, you’ve had a bad day you need a drink, you’re feeling a bit meh so you have a drink, you need a bit of Dutch courage – yep, you guessed it.  The social culture in these nations is revolved around pubs and bars.  Often these places become second homes and for me who has spent the last 12 years away from family I’ve found the atmosphere of a friendly local essential to keeping the spirits (pun half intended) up.  That's not so different here the bars are all full of a Friday evening and every occasion seems to be punctuated with the raising of a glass.  The big difference is that no one seems to need to medicate themselves to the point of oblivion.  I’ve often wondered what it is about the culture in the UK and Aus that has us drinking to the point of cognitive failure – not that we are unique.  Whilst in Japan I lost count of the number of Japanese salarymen I saw getting wasted in a post work bonding session.  Here I’m enjoying the emphasis on quality rather than quantity and as ever the sharing of a drink in the company of wonderful people.     

Bamboccioni

I grew up in a small Hampshire village and for as long as I can remember I was itching to leave the place.  There was a wider world out there and I wanted to be part of it.  Like many of my friends I couldn’t wait to “grow up” and branch out on my own, which to me meant leaving the constraints of the parental home, being independent and learning to rely on my own resources.  This rite of passage happened at 18 when I left home for University in London.  When I left I’m sad to say I never really gave a thought to how my parents would feel, two older sisters had already moved out and I could assuage any empty nest guilt as my much younger brother was still there to keep my mum occupied (something he was doing very well.)  I never moved back (aside from a few months between overseas stints.)  Most of my friends have similar stories with the need for independence and the stretching of wings resulting in leaving home somewhere around the late teens or early twenties. 

Recently I came across this article (http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-14995588) which got me thinking about things here.  A few months ago a student was telling me about how he had recently split from his girlfriend and was hunting for an apartment.  I assumed that this heartbroken man (in his early thirties) was living with his girlfriend when the relationship foundered.  It was only later that I learnt that he, despite have a seriously good job, was still living with his parents (he also hadn’t split up with the girlfriend but I’ll leave that whole thing for another time.)   Once he did move out there was a litany of stories of his various domestic disasters that it quickly became clear that his mum really did everything for him. 

Their called bamboccioni (overgrown babies) those that continue to live in the parental home long into adulthood – the term was coined by a government minister who admits he didn’t learn to make a bed until he was 30, when he left home.   Many of my friends and students still live in the parental home well into their 20s and 30s.  EU statistics (yes I’ve done my research) show a whopping 64% of Italian 18-35 year olds still live in the family home (21% in Germany.)  The average age for moving out of home here is 36 (a good 18 years after me.)  When I ask Italians about the reasons for the late nest flying one of the first things mentioned is the high unemployment and the cost of setting up on your own.  Both these issues cannot be refuted.   The average wage in Italy is half that of that UK (these stats may be a bit out of date now.)  Having said that according to the Institution of population research of those 20-35 year olds in employment 45% still chose to live at home.    As for costs, setting up on your own is a pretty pricey endeavour which is why I and most of my peers shared homes and split costs but the culture of share accommodation doesn’t seem to exist here.  When I’ve mentioned it to people I’ve usually been met with horrified looks.  Why would I live with strangers when I could live with family? 

So if it’s not just economics keeping Italians at home what is it?  It comes as no surprise to say that Italians place more emphasis on close family ties and with the collapsing birth rate (most families have just one child or two at most) keeping that one child close and giving them the best is only natural.  One report I read concludes that adult children stay at home because they genuinely have it good: 

“Every desire seems to be satisfied without any particular responsibilities....

...The rules imposed by the family on young people do not seem very burdensome - except for having to come home for meals, a rule which can partly be avoided if advance warning is given of a later arrival.  Young people are also looked after handsomely: most of them have their expenses covered by their parents who tend to satisfy them without any major limitations while they have no responsibilities as regards the running of the home.” http://www.demogr.mpg.de/Papers/workshops/000906_paper01.pdf

Now that all sounds really cushy and having had my fair share of financially stressful times the idea of not worrying about money seems idyllic but I wonder what effects this prolonged childhood brings.  At a pretty young age I learnt to rely on myself, how to manage money and the value of it.  I learnt that bills never come at a good time, cleaning the oven is always something you leave until it really can’t be avoided and I have a good few flatmate horror stories.  Living in share accommodation has taught me how to live with other people how to negotiate the sharing of a space and the collective responsibility of making the project work, all things I think you need to learn well before you move in with a partner.  I’m glad I learnt these skills at a young age I’m not sure I would be as successful at learning it all now.   Although the concept of my staying at home longer is as alien to me as leaving home at 18 is to many of my Italian friends I’m beginning to wonder if in the UK and Aus we rush too fast into adulthood.  Families here do seem closer and kids seem grow up slower.

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.