The sun returns and I get a visit

A wonderful thing happened in Northern Italy this week – the sun came out and the temperatures hit the mid teens.  Winter is seems is coming to an end!  After the freeze of the last few weeks this unexpectedly early arrival of spring has been a joyous event.  My ugly Michelin man coat is already safely ensconced in the back of the wardrobe and the horrors of wearing it are beginning to fade.  Thoughts can now turn to a return to gelati eating and other warm weather treats. 

With the sun came another lovely and more personal event – I’ve had my first family visit!  Having a severe case of travel bug I’m used to and indeed welcome any opportunity to visit somewhere new but in my family I am the only one with such a condition. In my years overseas I haven’t had too many visits from the family – understandably a trip to Australia from Europe is a pretty major endeavour for anyone.  Being in Treviso, a place that is just a low cost airline fright (obviously I intended to type flight but seeing as I’m talking about Ryanair the first word does seem appropriate) from the UK and with its own regional airport I’ve been looking forward to playing host for once.  For so many years my relationship with the family has been maintained by my visits back to the UK that my siblings have never really seen me in my own environment (or whichever one I’m trying out.)  So this weekend with the visit of big sister I had the opportunity to show someone a bit of Raji world. 

Now what was I going to show her and what would need careful editing?  There’s not much to Treviso – it’s a pretty small place that to me is more of a place to be rather than visit.  Mostly it was just wondering – the fish markets, little laneways, looking at the faded frescoes on the buildings and talking – so much talking.  Of course no visit to Raji world is complete without a giro around Venice and some of my favourite haunts.  Sister was full of questions about my life and experiences in Treviso and I wonder if it’s strange to find your little sister established and happily living in a foreign country? Sister was quite impressed that on our wonderings I was greeted by so many Trevisans, “so many people say hello to you” to which I replied “yeah and have you noticed how many of them run bars?”  In fact that was a bit of a running theme of the weekend, stop into a bar for a quick drink and I was welcomed like an old friend.  Suddenly any assurances that I don’t drink that much fell on deaf ears.  Of course I was looking forward to getting sister to sample all the wonderful foods of which there is no shortage of in Italy.  T joined us for mozzarella in carrozza (a fried mozzarella sandwich yes I said fried cheese and fried bread yum) before embarking on one of those impromptu bar crawls that so often seem to happen with T.   

          

After a few days of walking, talking, eating and drinking we had both reached our eating and drinking limits and sadly it was time to say goodbye.  While farewells are always bittersweet it’s been fun having family here, playing host and it’s nice to know that a member of my family has a concept of my life as it is at the moment.  I hope she understands why I like it.        

Masks and Music

The scene in San Marco

This week my attention has been taken up with two very different Italian traditions.  One is famous the world over and the other I had no idea of until I came to Italy and both have left me somewhat bemused.  It’s well known that I’m a bit of a Venitophile and there’s not much I don’t like about Venice but when it comes to Carnevale I’m on the side of the neigh sayers.  I’m not sure why but the idea of Carnevale has always left me cold.  As I’ve found myself in the vicinity of Venice for this year’s festival I thought I’d give it a go and see if it was just mere snobbery that had me turning my nose up.   Most of the sources I have read attribute the origins of the Venetian Carnevale to 1162 and a military victory over the Patriarch of Aquileia.  The Patriarch was forced to send an annual tribute of livestock to Venice that was slaughtered in San Marco on Shrove Thursday.  As for masks their history seems to begin in the thirteenth century when men used to use the anonymity of masks to throw eggs at ladies.  I’m not sure why Venice took to mask wearing but the practice had a life outside of Carnevale with many histories recording mask wearing as a day to day occurrence.  It was certainly widespread enough for the authorities to legislate their use.  One theory to the masks suggests that in a society as codified as Venice wearing masks allowed people to interact with those outside of their social class – who knows?  After the fall of the Venetian republic Carnevale fell out of favour until the 70s when it was revived.  

   

Playing dress up

Carnevale today covers the ten days or so prior to Shrove Tuesday or as its known here Martedi Grasso (translated means fat Tuesday and from which we get Mardi gras.)  While the city is full of cultural events commemorating the history of Carnevale.  Piazza San Marco sprouts a big stage which hosts cultural entertainment (if you call the birdie song culture – and yes I did say the birdie song,) grand old buildings host musical events and then of course there are the balls.  But the main aim of Carnevale seems to be walking around with a mask.  Last night (the Saturday before Martedi grasso) was the big night and seeing as I had things to do in Venice I stuck around and had a look. 

The decadence of Cafe Florian

For anyone with a romantic idea of wondering down a dark Venetian calle only to find a mysterious masked stranger coming out of the shadows I fear you will be disappointed.  Last night Venice was rammed – hell I wondered how the city didn’t just sink into the lagoon under the weight of people.  Everywhere you looked there were people, people in masks.  There’s no denying the power of a mask, they are other worldly things.  Put on a mask and people walk differently and have the confidence to look a stranger in the eye.  Can you imagine being surrounded by hundreds of people in masks?  Well this is one of my problems, to pull off a mask you need to go the whole nine yards.  The drama of an ornate gilded mask is lessened when accessorised with the latest in sports casual wear.  There were people who did go all out with the dressing up and cafe Florian was full of them, having paid who knows how much for a ticket.  As I watched the spectacle of wealthy people dressing up and playacting seventeenth century Venice while the crowds gazed at them through the window I wondered if it was always thus.  Some things never change I suppose.  The locals seemed to have eschewed the mask and use the night as a big dress up party.  They, I’m pleased to say did put in an effort; endearingly their costumes were homemade and had a character and humour so lacking in San Marco.  On my journey through the city I came across; Alex and the droogs, various muppets and the ghostbusters (complete to ectopacks that looked a lot like vacuum cleaners.)  Of course the night was a big piss up and the streets and bars where full of rapidly inebriating people.  This inebriation has to be the reason why people were dancing to the dj tunes at the rialto which is where I gave up – look if you’re going to have this party and you’re going to hire a dj why hire one who thinks it’s alright to play cotton eye Joe?  Why? Where on this planet is that ok? 

The crowds outside waiting to gawp

Having had enough of the reverie I turned back to the little bar run by my friends F and H where you wouldn’t know it was Carnevale.   After couple of hours chatting it was back on the packed train, home to Treviso and the other great festival that was coming to a climax.   

            

For the majority of this week the Sanremo music festival has been in full swing.  Many countries have a popular music institution, the Christmas Number one in the UK or the Triple J hot 100 in Australia well Italy has Sanremo.  For the uninitiated, imagine the Eurovision song contest held over five days, consisting of entrants from one country and without the hours of voting.  Personally I find the Eurovision voting the most enthralling part of the competition and have often said that it is the best indicator of the current state of European relations.   Sanremo is Italy’s premier music competition and many of the names in the Italian charts and on the X factor judging panel are past winners.  My Italian is good enough to understand the content of most of the songs and it has been a predictable swamp of emotion sung by people who use vocal theatrics to cover the fact they’ve never experienced the emotions they’re singing about.  Talking to Italians I am unable to decide if the competition is taken seriously or is looked at with the same sense of bemusement that the Brits view Eurovision but I do remember when I first arrived being told by more than one Italian that the nation doesn’t take Eurovision seriously because they have Sanremo – but I thought surely no one takes Eurovision seriously?  It’s a curious experience watching Sanremo.  Not that I need any more evidence that Italian television is bad but the main talking point of this year’s festival was whether one of the presenters was wearing knickers  – I never thought it would be possible to actually feel your life ebbing away but Sanremo well done.    

Treviso

I haven't found much on the history of this but
legend has it that it once was a wine fountain.

It’s a cold morning here in Treviso.  Yesterday the temps were at almost Raji non function level but I did manage to get to Venice for a few hours of frozen carnival fun.  Today I’ve woken to a white world thanks to an overnight dumping of snow.  I getting close to my one year anniversary as a Treviso resident and it struck me that I haven’t written about the town that for now I call home.

Twinned with Griffith in Australia, Neuquen in Argentina, Sarasota USA, Guelph in Canada, about 3000 people live inside the medieval walls.  Sitting on the river Sile, the city of Tarvisium was declared a municipium by the Romans in 89 BC.  The history of the city is typically one of changing alliances variously falling under in no particular order the Lombards, Byzantium, the Frankish empire, Charlemagne, the Austrians and of course Venice under whom the cities fortifications were built.

St Liberalis is the patron saint of the city.  The legend of St Liberalis hails from somewhere around the 10^th century.  Fearing for safety of Christianity in the face of threats from Arianism and paganism Liberalis set off on a quest to find the Bishop Heliodorus who had educated him in the Christian faith.   Heliodorus had retired to an island in the lagoons near Altino and was living life as a hermit.  During his journey Liberalis while was asleep in a church an angel came to him in his dream urging him on in his quest and announcing his imminent death. Liberalis continued on his journey but was unable to reach his mentor’s island and decided to retire to an island and live the life of a hermit himself.  He soon fell ill and died.  Is it just me or is this a bit lame as far as saintly endeavours go?

Today Treviso is famous for Benetton whose founder hails from the city.  There is also a strong claim for Treviso being the birthplace of Tiramisu.  Treviso is a quiet little place – not much happens here and I can imagine it being deathly for teenagers.  I find it strange that I have found myself in this place where nothing happens and stranger still that I am enjoying the quiet life.  It’s a world away from my Melbourne life of Bands, Bars, galleries, backyard barbies and street festivals.  Here in Treviso I enjoy having the time I never seemed to have in Melbourne.  While being small (it takes about 20 minutes to walk, at slow pace from one end to the other) it is beautiful I always seem to notice something new in my wonderings. 

The High St

The centre of Treviso

Piazza Dei Signori

Cavalieri, Knights in English 

Loggia dei Cavalieri

One of the city gates

 

The moat

Life in Minus Degrees

Heading to work yesterday

There are sentences I never thought I would ever hear myself say – “do you have an extra small in this dress” to a Japanese sales assistant, “no I meant a cola” somewhere in Argentina and “excuse me when's the resurrection?” at the Holy land theme park, Buenos Aires (resurrection every half hour at the weekends.) Two days ago I added another to this list.   It was a bright Friday morning, the sun was out.  At the university J was waiting for me, ready for our Friday outing (teaching in a mineral processing company out in the middle of nowhere which we variously term Wernham Hogg or Button Moon.)  As I got into the car I remarked at how mild the morning was only to look at the temperature gage which read -1.  Mild at -1! By the time we got to the company a howling wind had rendered the temperature to somewhere around -6 – seriously effin cold.  This last week in Treviso temperatures have hovered around the zero or below mark and to my happy at 30 degrees self, life has been tough. It’s not just the temperature that makes life difficult with winds and high humidity it feels like the cold penetrates you so deeply that even when you do get into a warm interior the cold stays with you for ages. 

The waterwheel ices up

I always remember the European February as being a difficult month to get through.  The euphoria of Christmas and New Year long gone, icy streets, winter temps taking a further tilt downwards and living in a Britain that never seemed to be able to get its collective head around the concept that snow in winter is not a freak occurrence.  From memory there really was nothing much you could do, save wait for spring and the rain to start.  I’ve always found the cold difficult and winter does see me hibernating (I maintain that I was meant to be born in a hot country) and after so long in Australia I was seriously unprepared for a European winter.  Everyone said to me that your first Trevisan winter is the hardest and I think I understand why.  Once you’ve frozen your way through your first you’re gonna make sure you’re seriously ready for the second and get yourself kitted out with hats, gloves, scarves, piuminos, boots, thick socks, and jumpers.  When I arrived here at the tail end of last winter I had two coats, my Melbourne winter number and something lighter for the between seasons if you look at my wardrobe today you will now see six – yes six coats all of which serve a purpose at different temperatures (ok I admit the peacoat was an indulgence but in my defence I have wanted one for years.)

    

and for the curious - The resurrection begins

With temperature so low Treviso has been a strange place, the streets are unusually quiet.  Bars are half full and people who do venture out scurry to get themselves to the warmth of wherever they are going.  Bizarrely we haven’t seen any snow the weather forecasters have predicted it and the clouds have threatened it but there's been nothing, bar a few flakes.  While the rest of Europe seemed blanketed in the stuff our little area of Italy, for now remains snow free which doesn’t bother me I always hate it when things grind to a halt as soon as you get a dusting of snow.  There are positives to all of this, I have got through a sizable stack of reading, the weather is perfect to indulge in steaming hot cups of thick, you have to eat with a spoon, hot chocolate and fritelle (balls of deep fried goodness filled with cream or zabaglione that accompany carnival.) It won’t be long till the temperatures start rising but for now I’m in semi hibernation.

      

All in the Hands

There doesn’t seem to be such a thing as a quick trip to the post office here.  After many a fruitless and frustrating hour spent waiting to buy a stamp or pay a bill I have learnt to get my ticket, judge how long the wait is going to be and head off to do something productive like grocery shopping, housework or even give a lesson.   A few days ago I returned to the post office to find my timing almost perfect, one woman at the counter and one man in front of me.  After 20 minutes when the woman was still at the counter my comrade in waiting and I both simultaneously raised our hands in frustration and I realised, not without a little alarm that I am beginning to talk the Italian language of hands.

It’s a well worn cliché that Italians communicate almost as much with their hands as their words and coming from an Anglo Saxon culture that does not gesticulate much here at times it seems as if the locals are comically animated.  Watching Italians talk to each other using a seemingly endless array of hand gestures one could conclude that communication is at least 25% physical (perhaps more.)  Often it’s as if the hands have a life of their own so lively are Italian conversations.  All languages have their gestures from the hello hand wave, the thumbs up, Ok, fancy a drink, the search me shoulder shrug with palms raised upwards and of course the good old the two/one fingered salute.  The Italians have all of these but there is also a world of others that add intensity to what is being said, express frustration, or leave your audience in doubt that you think they are talking rubbish.  I wonder if Italians find telephone communication frustrating as so much of their language is physical.  Observe an Italian on the phone and it sometimes seems as if the gestures become more animated with body movements brought into being – almost as if they are trying to make the person on the other end see it – I bet they can’t wait for holographic phones!  Of course it’s on the road that the language of hand signals comes into its own.  I’ve not driven here but have spent a lot of time on the road with J, driving to lessons or on Sunday adventures and from my passenger side perspective I’ve watched drivers express annoyance at a slow set of traffic lights, their anger at fellow drivers for a real or perceived mistake.  Even J, after five years in Italy speaks in hands.  

As with all languages these signs have a subtly all of their own and it is hard for a foreigner to pick up on.  Use the wrong gesture and you may cause offense.  Because of this and partly because I’m English and we don’t do that kind of thing I have thought it best to leave the whole talking with the hands act alone.  But lately I have come to noticed that I have started to use my hands a lot more in conversation.  It started subtly with the odd palm raised fingers and thumb held together whenever I asked but why? Or WTF? And then it just grew to the point where now I feel I’m gesticulating wildly.  I hardly do it by Italian standards but it still feels weird yet strangely satisfying.  I’m a bit of a bowerbird when it comes to language and seem to talk on characteristics and phrases from wherever I am so I fear that this gesturing is now part of me.  I worry about a return to an Anglo culture and looking like a complete idiot so if I am talking to you one day and make use of a bizarre hand signal I ask you to be understanding.

Intimidating, moi?

They find it intimidating said J.  Funny but I’ve never seen myself as intimidating, kinda pathetically wimpy yes, but how could anyone find my scattered and clumsy self intimidating?  Let me explain.  Having lived in this little place for the best part of a year I’ve become a bit of a local face and the Trevisans are getting curious about me and my life. 

After the usual where are you from, what are you doing here etc comes who do you live with?  I live alone.  Do you cook and clean yourself?  Yes.  And who manages your money?  I do. What happens if you don’t have enough? I budget but if you need money who do you ask?  No one I deal with it.  My colleague J is in much the same position and last Tuesday taking advantage of an early finish for both of us, we mused over the strange reactions we get over a little too much red wine. 

I’ve already recounted in an earlier post the delayed nest leaving here in Italy (http://rajisphere.blogspot.com/2011/10/bamboccioni.html) and now  I'm no longer surprised when Italians tell me that they live at home, get all their meals cooked for them and their washing done.  What is surprising are the many untruths or half truths I've been told about domestic arrangements.  Guys (and I have to say it’s almost exclusively guys) have told me they live with flatmates only for those flatmates to be parents.  Another proudly told me he had moved out and was now finally living alone – he'd moved next door into an apartment bought by his parents thus allowing him to go home for dinner every evening (I bet cleaning duties are left to mother as well.)  When another told me he was living with his girlfriend I had to tell him that I don’t regard driving over to his girlfriends place with a bag of washing every weekend as living with her and yes the rest of the week was spent living with mum and dad.  It doesn't take long for these little half truths to unravel which just serves to make me think you’re a bit of a tool – I mean at least be honest and acknowledge how lucky you are to have parents willing to help you out or even say I like living at home.

      

So, why this bending of facts?  Well according to J, so strange do the locals find our kind of independence and self reliance that they find it intimidating.  Could it be that at some level the average stay at home Italian feels a bit silly to be still at home?  There is mutual incomprehension between the likes of me and the majority of Italians that I meet.  They do not understand how I’m happy to function so independently and I, well I wonder where in hell is it ok to expect your parents to continue funding you into adulthood?  J recounted to me the tale of one of her students, during the lesson she mentioned the use of an ATM card and one of her students commented “I don’t have one”  J made herself clearer, no not a credit card but just a normal bank card “I don’t have one.”  But how do you get money out of your account asked J “I don’t have a bank account.”  But how do you get your money? “My parents give me money.”  This student is not 14 but 25 – how can you be 25 and not have a bank account? How can you be 25 and still expect to get pocket money from your parents?  No wonder they find the likes of us so alien.     

No place like home?

It is Italy?

It’s an old joke (with a hint of truth) among my friends but the mere thought of a place has me excited – mention Mongolia and I’m already looking up the monthly rent for a centrally located, fully furnished yurt. As well as finding travel exciting I also enjoy the challenges of setting up in a new place – of putting myself in a situation where I have no job, no place to live and no friends and getting on with it.  There's always a sense of triumph after a hard few months when I stop and realise that I’ve done it.  But it’s the staying that always proves the problem.  Wherever I have travelled I’ve always tried to imagine what it would be like to live there and what kind of life I would make.  I’m drawn to so many places; I can see myself living on a sleepy Hong Kong island like Cheung Chau and commuting to the main island for work, drinking in the many bars of the mid levels and exploring the down and earthy Mongkok.  In Buenos Aires I’d be living in the bohemian suburbs of Palermo or San Telmo, wondering the many junk yards, frequenting melongas and seeing a therapist (when in Rome and all.)  In Japan I’m split between  Tokyo – where I would choose to make home in the punky Koenji or the small mountain town of Koya San where there isn’t too much to do beyond enjoying the gorgeous mountain surrounds.  There aren’t many places that I have visited that I couldn’t see myself in -Brisbane being the one that comes to mind.  For the last few years life for me has been full of travels to far off and largely wonderful places and as much as I have loved travelling (and still do) now I'm yearning for home, a place to put down some roots. But just what is a home and in my case where the hell is it?  My family are in the UK my closest friends are largely in Australia and I’m now living and working in Italy. 

The Indian term for a mixture of spices used in cooking is masala and in many ways that’s how I see myself, a little of this and a bit of that.  Many of the Italians I meet ask me what am I?  British, Indian, Australian and if I’m honest I’m not sure myself.  I grew up in the UK but have spent all of my adult life in other countries.  The majority of the last twelve years have been in Australia and there is an easy friendliness to Australia that I connect with.  Now I’m living in Italy and even though I love my time here I suspect that I want the world to function a bit too much to be Italian.  While I feel very at home here in Treviso and Melbourne has a big piece of my heart the one place I don’t feel connected to is where I grew up.  Not that it’s a terrible place – it isn’t.  I love to visit the galleries of London, and the Lake District is a gorgeous part of the world, but aside from dearly missed family, I simply don’t feel connected to the place anymore.  Of the things that define who you are very few are British for me:  my favourite bands are Australian, authors are Japanese and American, hell I even consider Vegemite the superior yeast extract.  Last night a Venetian chum pulled my date aside and said “she’s Venetian” (although that could be down to the fact I like a drink.)   

Or is it Australia?

My recent return trip to Melbourne and subsequent return to Treviso has brought all this into focus.  Stepping off the plane into a steamy Melbourne Christmas morning was like walking into the biggest bear hug from a trusted friend.  I realised how emotionally difficult I have found it in Treviso not being able to just go and see an old friend when times have been hard or I’ve needed someone to tell me to get over myself.  Staying in my old local and catching up with much missed friends, eating favourite foods and walking familiar streets brought home to me what a special place Melbourne is and how ridiculously good life there is.  My favourite band, the rather wonderful Blackeyed Susans are just starting their round of summer gigs and I would give anything just to sit in a bar with a coldie listening to Rob Snarski sing those great songs.  I spent a morning on a glorious Sydney beach with two close friends and their little boys.  I first met Lucas and Robbie when they were just hours old and it’s been a joy to watch them grow, develop personalities and explore the world.  In the ten months I’ve been away they’ve grown so much that I’m sad I’ve missed it and I’ve come to realise just how much I love those little guys.  My send off was so bittersweet that I began to wonder if I would ever make such lasting friendships in Italy.  Getting off the plane at Marco Polo airport after 28 hours of transit and breaking the cardinal rule of not getting on a plane after a few drinks I was feeling tired and a bit fragile.  Spaced out and waiting for the bus to I was trying to come to terms with the sudden time and temperature change when I noticed an Italian staring at me.  Just as I was preparing my most withering what’s your problem look I realised it was I who was just back from Xmas adventures himself.  I shepherded me back to Treviso where it was straight off to Ts birthday party and into my Italian life.  Back in the beauty of Italy, in my little apartment, seeing work colleges and friends, and sipping a spritz this place also feels right.     

I really just want to sit on the stoop and talk to Oscar

There is one place I really want to live and know I could call home but seeing as I’ve never found a way to get to Sesame Street I’m going to have to come up with plan b.  I wonder why I find this decision so difficult – I think it is partly because it seems so permanent and  I’m not sure if I believe in permanence anymore, all too often in my life things I have trusted and thought secure have fallen away to reveal themselves to be nothing more than thin air.  The older I get and the more places I see it gets harder to define exactly what home is. Is it a feeling or people rather than a place? With no real commitments or ties the world really is my oyster.   For all of my adult life I have been trying to negotiate this and it’s a long time to feel pulled in different directions, whether it’s just my soul getting a bit weary or maybe I’m tired of floating through the world but now I want to call a place home.