A Special Guest

Recently I’ve had the absolute joy of a visit from my dear friend K.  Introduced by a mutual friend while in Melbourne K and I quickly became fast friends with a shared love of travel, museums, words, fabrics, op shopping and cocktails.  As ever when I get a visitor a Raji tour of Venice is a must and seeing as K is a blogger herself she has written this piece describing a little of Raji’s Venice.

 

K my guest blogger

Friday night, and the Hotel San Gallo had been located just off St Marks Square, after about an hour negotiating maze of streets, canals and tourist-crammed walkways. (K was on her own here hence the hour – arriving after work I took 20 mins to get from the train station to hotel)

Our first action in Venice was to go out for coffee in San Marco. Coffee  punctuated our time here, as did aperol spritz and prosecco, the Italian bubbly. I could liken the weekend to a 3 day pub crawl, but I won’t—because having entered the Rajisphere, it’s more accurate to liken it to a personalised historical tour—with beverages. (really people I don’t drink that much-*fighting the tide of perception*)

After returning to our bright & comfy room with pressed metal ceiling and glass chandelier, we got a bit dolled up and hit the town. Rather than give you the blow by blow (or drink by drink) account, here’s an overview of what our evening included:

A quick giro (tour) through the basilica of San Marco, resplendent in gold Byzantine style mosaics and elegant marbled surfaces, with one pulpit for the priest, and another specially for the Doge, being the important person that he was.

Looking a little serious? or just thinking about the next bar?

 A bar Raji had recently spotted from the other side of the Grand Canal. The view of the Rialto Bridge from its own jetty was very nice. Not many establishments would have this view and still charge single figure prices for refreshments.

A fabulous little shop where I bought Venetian-made boots (who else has a tour guide with a built-in knowledge of one’s taste in footwear?!) (we aim to please!)

 A detour to see Marco Polo’s house. Here I learnt that the small piazza where it is located has the word ‘million’ in its name because of Snr Polo’s post-travel tendency to say ‘Oh I saw millions of those in (insert exotic discovered destination)

A visit to MiTi cocktail bar, acclaimed venue for a certain person’s recent Indian cuisine night, which was such a success she is being asked to give up her day job. (very kind of you to say but am a long way from giving up working for a living.)

Dinner at a place called (if translated into English) Paradise Lost, situated on a long canal in – ok let’s try this – Miseriacordia? (In Cannaregio on Fondamenta de la Miseriacordia but kudos on the spelling)  In the most northern segment of the main Venetian isles anyway.  Raji had phoned to book but the woman on the other end snapped ‘give me a name I can understand’. Hence we arrived to find our table for two booking for ‘Roberta’. Here we indulged in a fabulous seafood starter and some rather good pastas, while our neighbouring table had a huge cheese wheeled to the table (on a trolley, not by itself) by the chef who then ladled out  their pasta sauce from its molten interior. (I have never seen a cheese become its own serving vessel before. )

The night wouldn’t be over without a sambucca or three at the bar owned by Raji’s ‘Venetian Dad’ – a cheeky imp of an old dude who told us about dealing with the Acqua Alta (the once yearly spring tide that floods Venice) and who declared proudly that he was born there and so he’d die there.

Thank goodness I had brought a packet of NZ-made homeopathic hangover remedy Drink Ease, as we each knocked one back before going to bed at 2am. After waking with a reasonable clear head, I continue to swear by these.  (anyone else visiting from the Antipodes please bring additional supplies)

Our Saturday contained much wandering and crossing of bridges, and excessive photo-taking myself.

At the Rialto Market we rummaged happily though trash and treasures, alongside the fish & produce market that has been operating since the tenth century and is in danger of closing down due to ‘progress’. (danger thankfully now averted)

The Peggy Guggenheim Museum via the Accademia Bridge. I had never made it during my last visit to Venice n 1997, so it was delightful to experience it at last. It’s a small yet wonderful gallery, displaying not only Peggy’s collection, but photos of this radical lady in these rooms when they were her residence. I was moved to see her final resting place in the sculpture courtyard, where w also wrote a wish and impaled it on Yoko Ono’s ‘Wishing Tree.’

I wanted to take to the water in some form, and having already experienced a gondolier ride back in ’97 (albeit packed with a roudy Contiki group), we took an evening vaporetto ride. This is essentially a “bus” that travels the Grand Canal with numerous stops enroute. A ride after dark enabled us to view the mansions’(palazzi) piano nobile. No not a noble piano, but a floor or room of displayed grandeur. The lights are left on and the curtains drawn back to display a room’s gorgeous chandelier, paintings etc. My tour guide informed me that money is (was) poured into the presentation of these rooms, while the rest of the residence might be quite shabby.

Sunday morning coffee - Camera did a strange thing with
perspective here, I'm not THAT small

Sunday started with much-needed coffee in the sun, people-watching at the Rialto market. Then we just had to browse the stalls again, this time taking in the antiques in the fish market area. We followed this with a journey on foot to the Castello district. If you look at a map of Venice, you’ll see a green area out at the eastern tip. This was once home to the military and is now the site of the Venice Biennale (which is due to start soon) It is also home to many Venetians, being the quieter and more residential, not  so frequented by tourists. One aspect that was present was laundry drying on lines strung high across the narrow streets. From table-cloths to jumpers to undies, silhouetted against the sky or reflected in the canals. Naturally the residents’ smalls became content for our photo albums.

On our walk through the Castello, we were also stopped by some striking photos in a window—including the ‘Muppet orchestra’ that was noted recently in this very blog.(they've not yet made it to these pages) Inside we went, where we chatted to a Ukraine-born Jew who now had his workshop based here, where he skillfully added pop culture icons to historical uniformed portraits. We also loved an image of Yoda in Japanese army uniform. The photographer’s studio floor was covered in photos of the last ‘baby’ born in Chernobyl—now a young woman, standing in a decrepit room looking at the rusting cot she was born in. The photographer told us he is taking part in a project to artistically document the decomposing Chernobyl, and showed us a clip of his photos set to music – a vivid depiction of how a place decays once devoid of humans. Books had fallen to floors and become a strange curling carpet. Dust and soil had become so thick on exterior window sills that trees had taken root there. It was very moving .Here's a link to those haunting images

A peaceful Castello

I was also moved when we reached the furtherest point in the Castello that we could go. A quiet space in front of a church, with grass, a bridge, the gentle creak of many moorings, the open sea just beyond, and very few people.  A woman threw crumbs to a gull from a jetty that lead straight from her back door. It was very peaceful, and I understood Raji’s love for this city and its incredible history. During the weekend she imparted a whole lot of this to me and made my stay about 100% more interesting than visiting on my own.   Thanks Raji!

It was time to say goodbye to the gondoliers in their stripey jumpers, boater hats and leathery faces, the magnificent San Marco square with its population of tourists and pigeons, and the several thousand shops devoted to selling carnival masks. I feel so lucky to have had a glimpse beneath that touristy surface, thanks to yours truly who has all this just under an hour away. Our stay ended with a final stop at MiTi (we’d probably popped in here about 4 or 5 times over the weekend) and a vaporetto ride to the railway station.  Did I mention we also had bee-yootiful blue skies the whole time?  The icing on the cake.

It was a joy to share such a wonderful place with a good friend.  K left Italy yesterday and I already have the post visit blues.  I often wish Australia was geographically closer. It’s hard having the things you love most so far apart.  Thank you K for your visit and for a lovely weekend in Venice.

Opposites and extremes

Just before we all headed our separate ways for Christmas a bunch of us were having goodbye drinks in Treviso.  A passerby – who looked much like an extra from This is England stopped and said a few words to T. “Who’s that?” I asked to which T replied “Oh just a fascist.”  The strangest thing was that I didn’t bat an eyelid, by now I had seen enough fascists for it not to register with me.  In my recent experience  and being a bit of a lefty when a person is described as a fascist it is usually a jokey reference to voting for the Conservatives in the UK or supporting Tony Abbott in Aus but here fascist means fascist.  Italian politics is a seemingly impenetrable world of alliances and factions that one is exhausted just looking at it let alone trying to understand it.  One of the strangest things to me is the fact that factions and ideologies that the rest of the world has consigned to the past are still political forces here today.

 

Of course every country has their bone headed (Nick Griffin or Pauline Hanson anyone) extremist elements it’s just that I’m not used to people being so open about being pig ignorant.  It was not long into my working life here when a student happily told me he was fascist and I’m a little ashamed to say that I was so taken aback that I didn’t challenge his opinions.  Yesterday Treviso was in full St Patrick’s day celebration (go figure) and the place seemed full of skin heads and I mean full drainpipe jean and bomber jacket wearing skinheads.  Now most people here in Treviso are perfectly lovely, progressive thinkers but there is no denying that this far right element is tolerated.  I once asked an Italian acquaintance about this and his theory was that after the fall of fascism in Italy instead of going through a process similar to the denazification of Germany the Italian fascist parties simply changed their name and carried on in Politics.  Political discourse here in Italy at times has shocking levels of overt racism – I can’t think of another country where the leader of a political party could get away with calling people from Africa “bingo-bongos.”

The Communist club Venice

At the opposite side of the political spectrum is Venice which is staunchly left.  Maybe it is because as a port city Venice over the many hundreds of years got used to the mixing of different peoples or if they are just pragmatic enough to take money from anyone.  Many of my Venetian friends are proudly communist and abhor the proto fascist parties that Berlusconi legitimised by bringing into government.  Those that aren’t communist are most definitely to the left of the divide.  Recently a date attempted to “show” me around Venice only to be disappointed when I knew the place almost as well as he did.  After dinner he said he wanted to introduce me to a true Venetian character an old died in the wool communist – sadly this was yet another fail on his part as the died in the wool communist is my old friend L who I met on my first day on Venice 3 years ago.  Stepping into the back room of L’s bar leaves you in no doubt as to the political affiliation.  The walls are covered in flags and pictures from a lifetime of activism. 

     

I find it so amazing that two places that I know so well can be so politically different but then again having most recently lived in countries where the left and the right have so blurred as to become effectively the same party it is strange to come across such a pronounced divide.  

Spiceageddon - the mobile curry service hits Venice and I turn one

Having said goodbye to sister last week my focus immediately turned to the next week’s adventure.  If this was going to work it needed a plan so meticulous it would make the D day landings look like a last minute rush job.  I had agreed, volunteered, said yes before thinking, had one prosecco too many (will circle the applicable when I have decided which one it is) to cater for an evening of Indian food at a bar in Venice.  I’ve known F and H since my Venetian stint of 09 and their bar is a regular haunt whenever I visit the lagoon.  Not only do they have a good stock of tea but have a talent for making rather wonderful cocktails at quite unvenetian prices.  When the idea for a evening of Indian food came up the whole endeavour seemed a doddle – cook a whole lot of food, serve it to eager faces and have a couple of drinks, the fact that the chosen evening fell on the one year anniversary of the beginning of my Italian adventure made the whole thing seem perfect. 

Cumin, fennel, fenugreek, mustard and nigella seeds ready for the dal 

Interest was almost instant both among my friends and regulars at the bar.  As good as it was to know that I wouldn’t be cooking for nothing I do prefer to operate without expectation – I figure it’s easy not to disappoint when there’s no expectation.  Deciding what to cook was no problem – no need to reinvent the wheel on this one only tried and trusted dishes made the cut.  What I didn’t really think about was the logistical details.  Cooking for 30+ is a little different to cooking for the two or three I’m used to and having to balance all with long working hours meant that if I was going to pull this off I would have to forget all else for the duration.   The week became a blur shopping, chopping and cooking with every spare moment between lessons taken with some kind of food related task.  My kitchen was rearranged with all non Indian foodstuffs put away and the workspaces neatly divided by task – Ingredients-prep-cook and pack.  Thursday was the big day with an unbroken 6 hours of cooking which resulted four completed curries (Keralan beef curry, Burmese chicken curry, lentil dal with five spices and chickpeas done according to my mother’s recipe) and a small mountain of washing up to do before heading off to work.  That night after prepping the last dish and cracking my job done beer I felt quite proud not just for the amount of cooking I’d got through together with a day’s work but for the fact I’d managed to get it all in my tiny fridge – yes I am now a zen master in the art of fridge tectonics.  All that was left to do was Friday’s task of making a small mountain of rice.        

Flavourings of the feast

Friday was the big day, my one year in Italy birthday, Indian night and of course the day of J and I’s weekly trip to the mineral powder company.  As soon as I’d made it home from what I’ve affectionately termed the armpit of the Veneto it was straight into the rice making.  Two hours later and finally all was done and with the help of P and F we carted the mountain of food to Venice.  At the bar deep in preparation for the night I didn’t notice the arrivals.  I looked up to suddenly find the bar full of expectant faces.  And not just full of friends and acquaintances but real people as well!  Blimey – Indian food a popular draw it seems.  The next hour was a frenzy of heating and serving all fuelled by margarita.  The food went down spectacularly well, my ego was suitably boosted, the bar had a great night and most importantly of all people enjoyed themselves.  By the end of the night I was utterly spent but proud that all had gone well.  While the cooking hadn’t been a stress balancing it with working was a small handful and now that that stress was over the margaritas tasted good – way too good for someone who had six hours of teaching the next day.

Curry and cocktails 

It’s so hard to believe that a year has gone by since I said goodbye to Melbourne and made my way across the world to a small place in Italy.  In all the rush and activity I haven't had a chance to look back and contemplate my Italian year. Perhaps it’s best to simply enjoy the moment and leave contemplation for another day.

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.