16th of June 2010
The other day, as Giuseppe, Valentino and I were getting ready to leave for our daily bike ride, I was perched on my bike, one foot on the ground and one foot on a pedal, waiting at the electronic gates of our yard for Giuseppe to ready Valentino in the toddler seat of his bike.
Laika, one of our dogs, appeared from between the rubbish bins behind our shop. Laika has been with the family for seven years, since she was a pup. She is a mix of breeds: black wavy fur and in my opinion, has the face of a Labrador, with soulful eyes and gentle expressions.
The first time I saw Laika was a photo that Giuseppe sent me over the internet, before we had met. She was sitting, curled up in a blue bucket and looked very cute indeed. Giuseppe spoke of her often, telling me all about her gentle nature and how she quickly learnt how to stay within the yard when the gates were open or not enter the house even though his parents often leave the back door to the shop wide open all day, to access the bins and storage rooms.
Our decision to bring our dog Lupa, the Jack Russell terrier, from Australia was largely based on the fact that Laika is extremely gentle and intelligent. The idea that Lupa would learn the rules of the house quickly by having Laika as her ‘mentor’ helped to convince us that we were making the right decision.
And it was. Lupa seems to have matured a year within a few months and she found a friend in Laika.
They would walk daily through Valle, the local nature park, with Giuseppe’s brother Ettore and Laika would almost always return drenched from a swim in the lake and rivers.
Coming out from in between the bins, she seemed to stumble and I noticed one of her back feed was not flat on the ground, as she ambled awkwardly and slumped down again to rest. She had withstood being hit by a car about six weeks ago, but this affected her front leg which was now almost healed.
She had been to the vet again a few days ago for an eye infection, but this also seemed irrelevant to her present condition. I pointed out her weary state to Giuseppe, who grimaced and shook his head. “I don’t know” he sighed, “Poor Laikina”. And we reluctantly wheeled out of the yard and the gates closed behind us.
***
“Laika è morta” Ettore lit a cigarette and stared at the empty yard as we pedaled back up the driveway and halted to a stop.
“Where is she?” I asked quietly. We stored the bikes away.
“I don’t want to ask,” Giuseppe answered, and we went inside.
We passed Lupa on the way in, who, despite her earlier successful lessons from Laika, attempted to come inside the house a handful of times that night.
We supposed she was looking for her friend.
R.I.P Laika
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
20 Short, Zen and 20 and a Train Ride.
20 Short.
What a terrible day. I spent my day with a bunch of five year olds who made me almost want to cry. They didn't listen to a word I said, bar a few of the more introverted children, who sometimes listened and sometimes went along with the crowd.
This week I am relieving a teacher from the other campus of the Montessori school I am now employed at. Next month, I will start my own class of roughly thirteen children at the Nido campus, aged 18 months, together with another teacher who speaks fluent Italian.
But today, I have not gained much confidence for my ability to manage a classroom. There were children running in and out of the classroom, hitting each other and overall not doing what they were supposed to. Other teachers sympathised "It's Monday, they are always unsettled," "They don't know you," and other words of consolation. But by the end of my school day, at 1pm, I was inconsolable. I started off for the bustop in a huff.
However, I failed to calcuate train and bus times, this location being different from last week when I was helping out at my future work location, and I wound up at Mantova train station with a three and a half hour wait for my one and a half hour train ride home.
Now verging on tears, exhausted from my 5am start and my seemingly failed attempt at teaching, I called Giuseppe. I plonked my guitar and satchel down on the steps of Mantova station and sat down to wait for Giuseppe's forty minute to an hour commute in heavy traffic.
I counted the coins that we scraped together from his mother's car. He drove me to Cerea station this morning in her car rather than his because she needed her car parked at the front of the shop later that morning to do the vegetable and fruit pickup. Four Euro and 60 cents. Or centessimi. However you spell it.
I approached the girl at the bar while scanning the cigarettes on the shelves behind her. I was relieved to find a familiar brand at an affordable price: Peter Styvo's for 3.80 Euro. But I am an ex-smoker, purely on a post-smoking, nervous binge. Therefore, I also required a lighter. Which cost 1 Euro. Through broken Italian peppered with 'Thank you's' and 'sorry's, I managed to communicate what I wanted before realising I was 0.20 cents short. She waved me away, smiling as she took my coins, leaving the smokes and lighter on the counter as she turned away. Perhaps sensing my aura of 'I'm having a crappy day', she let me off. Finally, a plus for today, but it kind of cancels itself out, because I shouldn't be smoking.
Why is it, that when a negative occurs, I reach for another negative?
That’s all I have to say about today. I’m tired and extremely pissed.
Basta.
Zen and 20.
Shutup Michelle. What was I complaining about? I am lucky to have work, we’re in an economic crisis here!
I had simply forgotten how to gain respect from a class – because realistically, I haven’t had the experience since April 2009. That’s over a year of being away from a classroom. Of course there are rust spots.
This morning, I walked into the classroom determined, strong and calm... determined to make an improvement – in my classroom management skills, in my composure and my rapport with the students.
Success.
I achieved the above by reminding myself of the same fact twice, each with different perspectives.
1. They are only five years old – so they need affection, they need to feel safe and loved.
2. And – they are only five years old – yet they are still capable of being disobedient... 'furbo' in Italian; therefore they need clear, defined boundaries...
And then it comes full circle – they need strong boundaries in order to feel safe and loved.
When a teacher feels angry (and I feel that I can fairly generalise here) it’s because they are more so angry at themselves, rather than at the students.
Yesterday I felt angry at myself, angry for not being able to do my job properly, thus feeling almost hopeless. It’s those nagging questions: “Why can’t I manage them?”, “Why can’t I get them to listen to me?” and so on.
It takes time and bundles of patience, a level of patience parallel to the level of mind power and beyond required to break a pile of bricks with your head.
When this level of patience is achieved, it’s like achieving a kind of zen. You enter a special, protective dome where it seems that no amount disobedience or mischief can penetrate your fortress of calm. It’s awesome.
And so, today I am Michelle, Master of calm, the tranquil teacher, an achiever of improving rapport with my students. Because students sense your zen.
Today, all twelve students completed at least one or more Montessori activity. They achieved solitary work and also working collaboratively – fair and peaceful play.
At 10.20am, the classroom was then transformed back into a clean, orderly room and then a perfect circle of children seated on the floor formed, as if by some sort of magic or divine intervention.
I got the guitar out and every child sang in harmony and every child listened enthusiastically during the reading of ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’. They ate biscuits and listened while I played ‘Better Man,’ (Robbie Williams,) on the guitar, singing my own adaptation: “...I’m doin’, all I can, to be a better person...”
We changed into our ‘outside shoes’ and went to play. Three students needed to sit out for five minutes because of earlier mishaps, (hitting, interrupting and throwing water.) Two protested but remained nonetheless, one I had to cuddle as he cried, “Voglio giocare, voglio giocare!” (I want to play!) but I held him and we talked about how hitting is wrong and he said tomorrow, ‘domani’, he will not hit anyone. After lunch, he did hit another child, but so lightly a tap on the forearm that the other child simply furrowed their brow and walked away. Hence, a big improvement, since he did not even enter my classroom yesterday until after lunch – today I even got some smiles.
We ate lunch and the children started to call be my first name, instead of yesterday’s ‘teacher, maestra!’
I then explained that I had to leave early or I miss the last train home. I told them I was very happy – we had such a good day – and I am looking forward to seeing them tomorrow.
They applauded.
Tutto Posto.
P.S.: I paid back the girl at the bar 0.20 cents.
Train Ride.
Fields of poppies and lavender. Rice fields – stretches of water with tiny green stalks peeking out breathing air; acres of corn, peas – ploughed and sewn. Tractors. Tractor makeshift roads of two lines of trodden down grass, dirt and muddy tracks. Irrigation channels bordering, travelling up, down and across from lakes and rivers. Green. So much green. Red. Purple. Symmetry – lines of growing buds. The ground creeps forward under the buds, moving with the train, the oblique perspective. More poppies. Fields of. Lining the streets. Lavender. More green. Grass, green, lush between lines of trees – fir, willow, oak. Red. Green. Flowing water. Poppies. Streets. Street lights. Houses. Trees. More houses.
Station.
Giuseppe and Valentino, waving from the platform.
Home.
What a terrible day. I spent my day with a bunch of five year olds who made me almost want to cry. They didn't listen to a word I said, bar a few of the more introverted children, who sometimes listened and sometimes went along with the crowd.
This week I am relieving a teacher from the other campus of the Montessori school I am now employed at. Next month, I will start my own class of roughly thirteen children at the Nido campus, aged 18 months, together with another teacher who speaks fluent Italian.
But today, I have not gained much confidence for my ability to manage a classroom. There were children running in and out of the classroom, hitting each other and overall not doing what they were supposed to. Other teachers sympathised "It's Monday, they are always unsettled," "They don't know you," and other words of consolation. But by the end of my school day, at 1pm, I was inconsolable. I started off for the bustop in a huff.
However, I failed to calcuate train and bus times, this location being different from last week when I was helping out at my future work location, and I wound up at Mantova train station with a three and a half hour wait for my one and a half hour train ride home.
Now verging on tears, exhausted from my 5am start and my seemingly failed attempt at teaching, I called Giuseppe. I plonked my guitar and satchel down on the steps of Mantova station and sat down to wait for Giuseppe's forty minute to an hour commute in heavy traffic.
I counted the coins that we scraped together from his mother's car. He drove me to Cerea station this morning in her car rather than his because she needed her car parked at the front of the shop later that morning to do the vegetable and fruit pickup. Four Euro and 60 cents. Or centessimi. However you spell it.
I approached the girl at the bar while scanning the cigarettes on the shelves behind her. I was relieved to find a familiar brand at an affordable price: Peter Styvo's for 3.80 Euro. But I am an ex-smoker, purely on a post-smoking, nervous binge. Therefore, I also required a lighter. Which cost 1 Euro. Through broken Italian peppered with 'Thank you's' and 'sorry's, I managed to communicate what I wanted before realising I was 0.20 cents short. She waved me away, smiling as she took my coins, leaving the smokes and lighter on the counter as she turned away. Perhaps sensing my aura of 'I'm having a crappy day', she let me off. Finally, a plus for today, but it kind of cancels itself out, because I shouldn't be smoking.
Why is it, that when a negative occurs, I reach for another negative?
That’s all I have to say about today. I’m tired and extremely pissed.
Basta.
Zen and 20.
Shutup Michelle. What was I complaining about? I am lucky to have work, we’re in an economic crisis here!
I had simply forgotten how to gain respect from a class – because realistically, I haven’t had the experience since April 2009. That’s over a year of being away from a classroom. Of course there are rust spots.
This morning, I walked into the classroom determined, strong and calm... determined to make an improvement – in my classroom management skills, in my composure and my rapport with the students.
Success.
I achieved the above by reminding myself of the same fact twice, each with different perspectives.
1. They are only five years old – so they need affection, they need to feel safe and loved.
2. And – they are only five years old – yet they are still capable of being disobedient... 'furbo' in Italian; therefore they need clear, defined boundaries...
And then it comes full circle – they need strong boundaries in order to feel safe and loved.
When a teacher feels angry (and I feel that I can fairly generalise here) it’s because they are more so angry at themselves, rather than at the students.
Yesterday I felt angry at myself, angry for not being able to do my job properly, thus feeling almost hopeless. It’s those nagging questions: “Why can’t I manage them?”, “Why can’t I get them to listen to me?” and so on.
It takes time and bundles of patience, a level of patience parallel to the level of mind power and beyond required to break a pile of bricks with your head.
When this level of patience is achieved, it’s like achieving a kind of zen. You enter a special, protective dome where it seems that no amount disobedience or mischief can penetrate your fortress of calm. It’s awesome.
And so, today I am Michelle, Master of calm, the tranquil teacher, an achiever of improving rapport with my students. Because students sense your zen.
Today, all twelve students completed at least one or more Montessori activity. They achieved solitary work and also working collaboratively – fair and peaceful play.
At 10.20am, the classroom was then transformed back into a clean, orderly room and then a perfect circle of children seated on the floor formed, as if by some sort of magic or divine intervention.
I got the guitar out and every child sang in harmony and every child listened enthusiastically during the reading of ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’. They ate biscuits and listened while I played ‘Better Man,’ (Robbie Williams,) on the guitar, singing my own adaptation: “...I’m doin’, all I can, to be a better person...”
We changed into our ‘outside shoes’ and went to play. Three students needed to sit out for five minutes because of earlier mishaps, (hitting, interrupting and throwing water.) Two protested but remained nonetheless, one I had to cuddle as he cried, “Voglio giocare, voglio giocare!” (I want to play!) but I held him and we talked about how hitting is wrong and he said tomorrow, ‘domani’, he will not hit anyone. After lunch, he did hit another child, but so lightly a tap on the forearm that the other child simply furrowed their brow and walked away. Hence, a big improvement, since he did not even enter my classroom yesterday until after lunch – today I even got some smiles.
We ate lunch and the children started to call be my first name, instead of yesterday’s ‘teacher, maestra!’
I then explained that I had to leave early or I miss the last train home. I told them I was very happy – we had such a good day – and I am looking forward to seeing them tomorrow.
They applauded.
Tutto Posto.
P.S.: I paid back the girl at the bar 0.20 cents.
Train Ride.
Fields of poppies and lavender. Rice fields – stretches of water with tiny green stalks peeking out breathing air; acres of corn, peas – ploughed and sewn. Tractors. Tractor makeshift roads of two lines of trodden down grass, dirt and muddy tracks. Irrigation channels bordering, travelling up, down and across from lakes and rivers. Green. So much green. Red. Purple. Symmetry – lines of growing buds. The ground creeps forward under the buds, moving with the train, the oblique perspective. More poppies. Fields of. Lining the streets. Lavender. More green. Grass, green, lush between lines of trees – fir, willow, oak. Red. Green. Flowing water. Poppies. Streets. Street lights. Houses. Trees. More houses.
Station.
Giuseppe and Valentino, waving from the platform.
Home.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
The San Marchese Sicilian Working Driving Australian in Bovolone, Verona
Firstly, I'd like to thank all who have been reading this. Is that OK, to start a blog with a thank you? Is there a blogger code?
It's almost midnight and I'm wide awake. Today, I set about trying to make myself super tired so that I would sleep well tonight.
I woke up at ten though. I intended to wake earlier. Oh well. I woke up, brought Valentino down to change his nappy and Giuseppe made cafè lattès. We had breakfast together and after, I made scones. From my mother's recipe. Then I peeled and sliced three eggplants, salted them and set them aside. Then I chopped up a kilo of beef, marinated it and refridgerated it. Then we had lunch. After lunch, I started making the pasta sauce. Long story short, tonight we had dinner with the whole family and I was the cook. We ate penne with beef napoli sauce, almost like my nonna Lucia used to make. Penne with pieces of beef in the pasta sauce reminds me of Thursday night dinners at my Nonna's house when I was small. We went every week until I was maybe ten years old.
I also made melanzane parmigana. I've never attempted to make it before, and I didn't work from a recipe. So, it was far from what my nonna Nella used to make... when she made it I nicknamed it 'Heaven in a dish'. Nonetheless, it all turned out pretty good. A combination of San Marchese, (nonna Lucia, my father's mother,) Sicilian, (nonna Nella, my mother's mother,) and good ol' English/Aussie scones with whipped cream and jam, (mum's recipe.) A nice triptych of dishes that, in a way, kind of make up who I am.
Now I am the Australian living in Verona... Bovolone, to be precise, as quaint and friendly as any small town. People know who I am. It's pretty much how I imagined it. People wave, say ciao and ask me how I like Italy. I reply 'si si, bene, mi piace,' or something to that effect.
Tomorrow, I will start my new job, my first work in Italy. How appropriate that it will be at a Montessori school, a school that was born here, some 100 years ago or so. I like the fact that I will be the English teacher, the English speaker, yet I will inevitably learn more Italian because perhaps one or two teachers speak English there, but their English is very limited. Giuseppe told me to call him if I get stuck in translation. I told him to install an English-Italian dictionary on my phone. I don't think he got around to it yet, so it will be an interesting day.
The school is approximately fifty minutes drive away or atleast two modes of transport. The first step to transporting my way there though would be to somehow get to the next town, Cerea, because the train does not pass through here, nor does a bus go from here to there. I suggested that I bike ride to Cerea... but everyone dramatically replied 'No!' (That doesn't need to be translated, it's the same word, only with an 'o' sound like in 'dog'...) Apparently, a bike ride to Cerea is very dangerous, as there is only one, narrow, winding road that cars hoon down. I wonder if there is a direct translation for 'hoon'? There better be, because I love that word. 'Hoon' ...and 'lout' is also a favourite.
So, Giuseppe will drive me tomorrow for my first day. When I finish work, he'll pick me up and then I will commence learning to drive in Italy. I have to get used to three main aspects: driving on the right side of the road, driving manual and coping with the general hoon-like way the majority of people seem to drive here. My father would always say 'Watch out for the dickheads on the road'. He would be pressing his lips tightly together and breathing loudly through his nose with the thought of any of us, (my sisters and I,) driving anywhere outside a 15km radius of home. It's as if home radiated some sort of invisible protective dome and anything beyond it's boundaries was fraught with perils.
Oh and the signs are white or blue here, no Melbourne greeness. Traffic lights are half of the Melbourne traffic light population, as they are situated only on one side of an intersection. Sometimes you have to slightly turn your head to check the colour. And there aren't any give-way signs, they are for the most part, painted on the road, just a big upside down triangle, white outline.
I've been driving for twelve years. I'm sure I can handle it. Though I was looking forward to a bike ride every day, a purposeful one. When exercise becomes a part of travel, you hardly think of it as exercise. And a daily train ride. I love the train. I have read the most books in the least amount of time during times in my life when I have caught the train daily.
Well, I better sign off, I have only about six hours to get some sleep. Wish me luck! Notte!
It's almost midnight and I'm wide awake. Today, I set about trying to make myself super tired so that I would sleep well tonight.
I woke up at ten though. I intended to wake earlier. Oh well. I woke up, brought Valentino down to change his nappy and Giuseppe made cafè lattès. We had breakfast together and after, I made scones. From my mother's recipe. Then I peeled and sliced three eggplants, salted them and set them aside. Then I chopped up a kilo of beef, marinated it and refridgerated it. Then we had lunch. After lunch, I started making the pasta sauce. Long story short, tonight we had dinner with the whole family and I was the cook. We ate penne with beef napoli sauce, almost like my nonna Lucia used to make. Penne with pieces of beef in the pasta sauce reminds me of Thursday night dinners at my Nonna's house when I was small. We went every week until I was maybe ten years old.
I also made melanzane parmigana. I've never attempted to make it before, and I didn't work from a recipe. So, it was far from what my nonna Nella used to make... when she made it I nicknamed it 'Heaven in a dish'. Nonetheless, it all turned out pretty good. A combination of San Marchese, (nonna Lucia, my father's mother,) Sicilian, (nonna Nella, my mother's mother,) and good ol' English/Aussie scones with whipped cream and jam, (mum's recipe.) A nice triptych of dishes that, in a way, kind of make up who I am.
Now I am the Australian living in Verona... Bovolone, to be precise, as quaint and friendly as any small town. People know who I am. It's pretty much how I imagined it. People wave, say ciao and ask me how I like Italy. I reply 'si si, bene, mi piace,' or something to that effect.
Tomorrow, I will start my new job, my first work in Italy. How appropriate that it will be at a Montessori school, a school that was born here, some 100 years ago or so. I like the fact that I will be the English teacher, the English speaker, yet I will inevitably learn more Italian because perhaps one or two teachers speak English there, but their English is very limited. Giuseppe told me to call him if I get stuck in translation. I told him to install an English-Italian dictionary on my phone. I don't think he got around to it yet, so it will be an interesting day.
The school is approximately fifty minutes drive away or atleast two modes of transport. The first step to transporting my way there though would be to somehow get to the next town, Cerea, because the train does not pass through here, nor does a bus go from here to there. I suggested that I bike ride to Cerea... but everyone dramatically replied 'No!' (That doesn't need to be translated, it's the same word, only with an 'o' sound like in 'dog'...) Apparently, a bike ride to Cerea is very dangerous, as there is only one, narrow, winding road that cars hoon down. I wonder if there is a direct translation for 'hoon'? There better be, because I love that word. 'Hoon' ...and 'lout' is also a favourite.
So, Giuseppe will drive me tomorrow for my first day. When I finish work, he'll pick me up and then I will commence learning to drive in Italy. I have to get used to three main aspects: driving on the right side of the road, driving manual and coping with the general hoon-like way the majority of people seem to drive here. My father would always say 'Watch out for the dickheads on the road'. He would be pressing his lips tightly together and breathing loudly through his nose with the thought of any of us, (my sisters and I,) driving anywhere outside a 15km radius of home. It's as if home radiated some sort of invisible protective dome and anything beyond it's boundaries was fraught with perils.
Oh and the signs are white or blue here, no Melbourne greeness. Traffic lights are half of the Melbourne traffic light population, as they are situated only on one side of an intersection. Sometimes you have to slightly turn your head to check the colour. And there aren't any give-way signs, they are for the most part, painted on the road, just a big upside down triangle, white outline.
I've been driving for twelve years. I'm sure I can handle it. Though I was looking forward to a bike ride every day, a purposeful one. When exercise becomes a part of travel, you hardly think of it as exercise. And a daily train ride. I love the train. I have read the most books in the least amount of time during times in my life when I have caught the train daily.
Well, I better sign off, I have only about six hours to get some sleep. Wish me luck! Notte!
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Standby
This isn't really a proper post. I don't know how to start.
I have a list building up on things I want to write about.
Such as:
1.The time I stayed awake all night making melanzane in the jar with Giuseppe's mum, Teresa. It's a long process, a very southern method of salting the melanzane (eggplant,) letting it sit in vinegar and then finally layering it in jars with olive oil, garlic and oregano. The salting and the vinegar is four hours waiting time each, plus an hour each time for preparation, depending on how much you make. I made it once alone and Teresa was interested in learning how to make it. So, I found myself at 3am in the industrial kitchen with Teresa, the aroma of vinegar and garlic weighing heavily in the air as we patted slices of melanzane with paper towels. And we talked. A lot. My Italian, however improved, is still at basic level but I got by with animated expressions, gestures and a great deal of theatrical storytelling. We learnt a lot about each other.
2. Nella, my sister, came to stay with us for a week and ended up staying for two weeks because of an Icelandic volcano. I felt very strange with her being here - stoked, wrapped to see her, (for people living out of Australia, stoked and wrapped means really happy,) but it was like a George Costanza 'worlds collide'... because up until when she arrived, being here felt like a dream. Post Nell, it really hit me how far away I really am, more so... and how long it may be until we see each other again. Even if I only stay in Italy until the end of this year, it's still longer than we have ever stayed apart. Prior to this, it was a seven month stretch when she travelled through South East Asia. But then I think about when Lucia, my oldest sister, lived in Florence for three years. The time seemed to go by so quickly and Skype and the like always makes the world seem that bit smaller.
3. Valentino turned one year old on May 2nd. One year. He's really not a baby anymore. Here comes toddler time, already. He's been through eating solids, growing first teeth, walking - what's next... potty training? Talking? He says Mama, Papa, almost distinctively... and a word 'yowie' which I think is his way of saying 'I'm having lots of fun right now!'. Sometimes he seems to be speaking in a sort of Star Wars dialect. I really don't see how he can get any cuter but he seems to be increasing in cuteness every day. Sometimes we have to count back from twenty just to compose ourselves when he is just too wonderful. How did we make such a boy? We often ask each other. My dear friend Anna reminded me of a question she once asked me, a few years ago: "Who are you most inspired by?" And my reply was "I haven't met them yet.." When she approached me with a follow-up question, (which she almost always does, the natural journo that she is,) I expressed something along the lines of that my future child will be my inspiration. That's the best thing I've ever said.
I'm trying to make a pact with myself to stop whinging and moping. I know we all have to whinge and mope to a degree, probably a small dose is somewhat healthy for venting purposes, like a car with exhaust, but I am attempting to kick my arse if I do it excessively. Born in the year of the goat, I am prone to excess. Makes sense.
I've been playing video games. When I get into that mode, parts of my brain go into standby. But I think because they've been working overtime, they need to rest a little. Even when in standby, they are collating, analysing, doing stuff, (the part of my brain that holds the word I needed is in standby so I had to use 'stuff'.) When I go into gamer mode, it's because my brain is sorting stuff out. It needs extra resources to do so.
My point being, I have a lot of things that I want to do, but I just can't function well enough lately to do them. And I know why. When we arrived here, I made a big, long list for myself and set on a road steep and winding. Get a job teaching at an English school, tutor English at home, write a novel, co-pilot a creative project, learn Italian, learn to cook, become an athlete, learn tennis and write a blog. See Italy. On top of trying to maintain a small world by sending text messages, emails and calling in any spare moment. On top of being a mum.
That's first. And whether we stay here or not, if I don't learn Italian properly then our time here seems... well I did always say that I could only learn a second language by living it. In other words, bisogno parlare Italiano con Giuseppe ogni giorno. Perchè adesso, parla solo inglese con lui, e poi, non impari tanto.
It's all OK, tutto posto... I have to reshuffle.
Stand by.
I have a list building up on things I want to write about.
Such as:
1.The time I stayed awake all night making melanzane in the jar with Giuseppe's mum, Teresa. It's a long process, a very southern method of salting the melanzane (eggplant,) letting it sit in vinegar and then finally layering it in jars with olive oil, garlic and oregano. The salting and the vinegar is four hours waiting time each, plus an hour each time for preparation, depending on how much you make. I made it once alone and Teresa was interested in learning how to make it. So, I found myself at 3am in the industrial kitchen with Teresa, the aroma of vinegar and garlic weighing heavily in the air as we patted slices of melanzane with paper towels. And we talked. A lot. My Italian, however improved, is still at basic level but I got by with animated expressions, gestures and a great deal of theatrical storytelling. We learnt a lot about each other.
2. Nella, my sister, came to stay with us for a week and ended up staying for two weeks because of an Icelandic volcano. I felt very strange with her being here - stoked, wrapped to see her, (for people living out of Australia, stoked and wrapped means really happy,) but it was like a George Costanza 'worlds collide'... because up until when she arrived, being here felt like a dream. Post Nell, it really hit me how far away I really am, more so... and how long it may be until we see each other again. Even if I only stay in Italy until the end of this year, it's still longer than we have ever stayed apart. Prior to this, it was a seven month stretch when she travelled through South East Asia. But then I think about when Lucia, my oldest sister, lived in Florence for three years. The time seemed to go by so quickly and Skype and the like always makes the world seem that bit smaller.
3. Valentino turned one year old on May 2nd. One year. He's really not a baby anymore. Here comes toddler time, already. He's been through eating solids, growing first teeth, walking - what's next... potty training? Talking? He says Mama, Papa, almost distinctively... and a word 'yowie' which I think is his way of saying 'I'm having lots of fun right now!'. Sometimes he seems to be speaking in a sort of Star Wars dialect. I really don't see how he can get any cuter but he seems to be increasing in cuteness every day. Sometimes we have to count back from twenty just to compose ourselves when he is just too wonderful. How did we make such a boy? We often ask each other. My dear friend Anna reminded me of a question she once asked me, a few years ago: "Who are you most inspired by?" And my reply was "I haven't met them yet.." When she approached me with a follow-up question, (which she almost always does, the natural journo that she is,) I expressed something along the lines of that my future child will be my inspiration. That's the best thing I've ever said.
I'm trying to make a pact with myself to stop whinging and moping. I know we all have to whinge and mope to a degree, probably a small dose is somewhat healthy for venting purposes, like a car with exhaust, but I am attempting to kick my arse if I do it excessively. Born in the year of the goat, I am prone to excess. Makes sense.
I've been playing video games. When I get into that mode, parts of my brain go into standby. But I think because they've been working overtime, they need to rest a little. Even when in standby, they are collating, analysing, doing stuff, (the part of my brain that holds the word I needed is in standby so I had to use 'stuff'.) When I go into gamer mode, it's because my brain is sorting stuff out. It needs extra resources to do so.
My point being, I have a lot of things that I want to do, but I just can't function well enough lately to do them. And I know why. When we arrived here, I made a big, long list for myself and set on a road steep and winding. Get a job teaching at an English school, tutor English at home, write a novel, co-pilot a creative project, learn Italian, learn to cook, become an athlete, learn tennis and write a blog. See Italy. On top of trying to maintain a small world by sending text messages, emails and calling in any spare moment. On top of being a mum.
That's first. And whether we stay here or not, if I don't learn Italian properly then our time here seems... well I did always say that I could only learn a second language by living it. In other words, bisogno parlare Italiano con Giuseppe ogni giorno. Perchè adesso, parla solo inglese con lui, e poi, non impari tanto.
It's all OK, tutto posto... I have to reshuffle.
Stand by.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The Bike Ride
When we arrived, the trees were bare and the ground was muddy. Though the trees stand bleak and bare, the winter sun shines through the skeletal branches and everything seems to glow softly and subtlety, as if the world were candlelit. Tiny beads of frost catch fragments of sunlight, reflecting on the muddy brown and grey foliage scattered around, and the fog circles the scenery in the distance.
We walked many times through Vale, the biggest park in Bovolone, lined with tall oaks, bordered by the irrigation river and farmlands, complete with a lake in the centre, housing cute brown ducks and majestic white swans and nearby, a sectioned off farmyard with goats, chickens and horses. There is a restaurant and bar at the entrance of the park, joined by paths leading in and around and out to the crops and orchards further and further out along the river.
Then, it all went whooshing by. The skeletal trees blurred and tiny buds appeared. White blossoms sprouted, fell and coated the muddy ground. Green blades of grass shot up through the mud amongst the blossoms. Hundreds and then thousands of different shades of green leaves appeared and the longest stretch of straight path transformed into a great, green hall. The fields, ploughed and prepared with symmetric curves and patterns in the rich brown soil, boasted tiny green plants of next season’s produce.
I clasped the handlebars tightly, my forefinger poised, ready to hit the brake. The ground held muddy memories and deep, dried tyre tracks cut into the road made for a bumpy ride. A quick glance to my left and I smiled, my heart skipping a beat as the image of Giuseppe and Valentino rode into view, Valentino strapped in safely to the toddler seat behind Giuseppe’s bike’s handlebars. Valentino giggled, thrilled to be on a bike ride again, and perhaps more thrilled to see mum riding beside him and Papa’.
The world is green, growing and new; over and over again.
The fresh morning air rushed past my face, waking me up. And to think that prior to this, I was afraid to get back on the bike.
We walked many times through Vale, the biggest park in Bovolone, lined with tall oaks, bordered by the irrigation river and farmlands, complete with a lake in the centre, housing cute brown ducks and majestic white swans and nearby, a sectioned off farmyard with goats, chickens and horses. There is a restaurant and bar at the entrance of the park, joined by paths leading in and around and out to the crops and orchards further and further out along the river.
Then, it all went whooshing by. The skeletal trees blurred and tiny buds appeared. White blossoms sprouted, fell and coated the muddy ground. Green blades of grass shot up through the mud amongst the blossoms. Hundreds and then thousands of different shades of green leaves appeared and the longest stretch of straight path transformed into a great, green hall. The fields, ploughed and prepared with symmetric curves and patterns in the rich brown soil, boasted tiny green plants of next season’s produce.
I clasped the handlebars tightly, my forefinger poised, ready to hit the brake. The ground held muddy memories and deep, dried tyre tracks cut into the road made for a bumpy ride. A quick glance to my left and I smiled, my heart skipping a beat as the image of Giuseppe and Valentino rode into view, Valentino strapped in safely to the toddler seat behind Giuseppe’s bike’s handlebars. Valentino giggled, thrilled to be on a bike ride again, and perhaps more thrilled to see mum riding beside him and Papa’.
The world is green, growing and new; over and over again.
The fresh morning air rushed past my face, waking me up. And to think that prior to this, I was afraid to get back on the bike.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
blah
“…if it’s dark or light, just write…” wrote a great teacher and writer once. I’m sure he said it on more than one occasion too, as I sat amongst fellow writers and friends, scribbling notes and exchanging writing – the best school experience I have ever had… more than that… it’s up there with my best experiences.
I remember when I made the decision to start the Professional Writing and Editing course. I had been in a sort of limbo, a Arts graduate working in an employment agency as front desk operations. Why? Who the hell knows. I had been working at a book store in the city prior to this, one of my dream jobs for sure, but my quest to save money, which was never accomplished, steered me away from the book store as my boss there offered me a casual, un-stable working week of three days, sometimes two. Following this, when applying for jobs at the agency, the agency offered me a job at the agency. Indeed.
A great experience – I make it a point not to regret anything… though I really did loathe that job. The people were great, my boss was wonderfully bright and eccentric in an ‘elegant hippy’ way, (i.e.: “I grow organic vegetables, eat tofu and wear Prada” type). She told me a dozen colourful stories about her many adventures and interesting people in her life.
I believe that we had a love-hate relationship… no, not love-hate, those words are too strong… it was specifically more a ‘like a lot/ extremely annoyed’ by me relationship. I seem to have that affect on people sometimes.
She was amused by my, in her opinion, seemingly exaggerated calm composure. She would crane her neck around the doorframe of her office to glance at me, then chuckle, as I seemed to her to be extremely serene in an otherwise stressful environment.
Weeks went by, months passed and my calm became her aggravation. “I don’t see a sense of urgency in you when we are really busy!” she would say through gritted teeth, flicking her manic, red, Einstein-like short hair that seemed to become more static as the stress levels rose.
I would shrug and reply, meeting her gaze, “I know I don’t look it, but I am stressing on the inside.”
Then her eyebrows would arch dramatically, her eyes bulging and lips disappearing as she would wheel around on her heels and breeze back to her office, hands up in silent dismissal.
A few times she said something to me along the lines of, “You have a strong ability to focus on one thing, shut out everything around you and perfect what you are focusing on… unfortunately it’s not appropriate for this job,” she would sigh and then say, paced like a train slowing at the station, “You – just – can’t – multi-task.”
A few more months passed and she was hovering as I stood at the fax machine, feeding client’s resume’s through. The air was leaden with annoyance, uncomfortable silence and a slither of sadness so I blurted out, “I think I better resign,” before she could say I have to let you go.
“What will you do?” she asked with a soft voice and I knew we were back in like again.
“I’m going to do a course in Professional Writing and Editing,” I answered. I dialed the fax number and waited, staring at the blinking light.
When I looked up again, her hand was on her heart and her chin dipped down with a sort of sentimental air, “I think that would be wonderful…” she breathed, “...You have to be good to your soul.”
That was eight years ago. Well, eight years this December, to be unnecessarily precise. Looking back, I did do the Professional Writing and Editing course and that makes me feel really happy. Within it, I wrote stories, poetry and met like-minded writers who I shared and work-shopped words with, attended poetry readings and performances and even formed a poetry group with three friends. We hosted weekly workshops and performance practice, competed against other Melbournians and performed on TV. When our time was coming to a close, we were throwing around ideas and formats for our own anthology of poetry, a published work to commemorate our group effort and time together. Alas, it sort of evaporated before it turned into hardcopy and that was that.
Wow, that was a nice little trip down memory lane. I think it was Simon, from the above mentioned group and my then housemate, that once called me ‘Memory Lane Girl,’ when I spent an entire afternoon ploughing through mountains of semi-scrunched and crinkled papers of letters and poems, a decade old at the time. O-oh… this means I am trying to re-establish myself somehow. What? Where did that come from? I still feel dizzy, though everyone here keeps telling me that it’s really, really normal to feel dizzy here a lot in the Spring. No-one can give me the medical or scientific reason for this though. I am so used to every fact or theory being backed up with one. I miss my family.
Now I am… far. Far, far away, but for the internet connection that keeps me in touch in it's distant, out of touch way. And if there wasn’t the internet - well I wouldn’t be here. What’s that, a paradox? Now I can blame my ridiculously bad, at times, memory for… erhm… dare I say ‘big word’ meanings… on the fact that I am learning Italian on a daily basis and hear nothing but Italian – bar Giuseppe’s dialogue… parallel to this I am also being corrected by Giuseppe on my English grammar lately. Scary.
Ancora, mi sento male, perchè ancora sento mondo girrato…hmm come se dicè…’dizzy’….boh? E mi manchà mia familià tantissimo, e anchè miei amici perché quando Giuseppe andato lavoro, sono posso parla con Mamma Teresa, perche lei parlato con me piano piano e ho capito bene. Ma altro tutti personi parlato troppp veloce e anche più dialeto quello Italiano…. È troppo difficile per me. E anchè, quando Giuseppe lavore e Valentino dormito o vado passeggiato con Nonna, mi sento solo e più triste questi giorni. Stare solo. Voglio lavoro, voglio scrivere, voglio insegnare, voglio parlare Italiano bene, voglio sento comè donna, come mammà, comè adulta… ma non qui, e non adesso perché vivano come piccola ragazza – ancora… non lava miei vestiti, non polito nostra casa, non lavoro, non hai amici qui, non mi sembrare fare tutti decisione per mio figlio… sento inutile, e poì… sento tristè. Tempo, adesso sento veloce, troppo veloce, non ho tanto tempo, e sembra finire niente.
… but at least I can write in Italian! It may be very badly written Italian… but not bad for two months of informal learning – from knowing next to nothing, bar a collection of nouns, to being able to write the above paragraph. I am sure Giuseppe will laugh, (lovingly,) when he reads my errors. And I will smile because I remember all too well when I was laughing at him… and he had warned me then.
One of my best friends asked me last year, or was it the year before last? … if we are defined by our careers. She was researching, gathering information for an article. I replied ‘no’… we are defined by the people close to us. A career simply enhances who we are - but people are our core.
Now I sit at this Italian keyboard and 'just write'. The street outside is busy with traffic, motorino’s, small cars and big trucks. There is blue sky and subtly warm, Spring sunshine outside, but inside the air is cold from last night’s chill.
I hope I’m not misunderstood… my partner and my son are my core and they, if I may re-use a re-used phrase, they light up my life. Yes, like The Carpenters. Exactly how they sung it.
But today, I am tristè… because there are several other people who are an essential part of the above mentioned core. And today I feel very, very far away from them. In addition to this, I am also feeling very un-enhanced. In a word… ‘blah’.
I remember when I made the decision to start the Professional Writing and Editing course. I had been in a sort of limbo, a Arts graduate working in an employment agency as front desk operations. Why? Who the hell knows. I had been working at a book store in the city prior to this, one of my dream jobs for sure, but my quest to save money, which was never accomplished, steered me away from the book store as my boss there offered me a casual, un-stable working week of three days, sometimes two. Following this, when applying for jobs at the agency, the agency offered me a job at the agency. Indeed.
A great experience – I make it a point not to regret anything… though I really did loathe that job. The people were great, my boss was wonderfully bright and eccentric in an ‘elegant hippy’ way, (i.e.: “I grow organic vegetables, eat tofu and wear Prada” type). She told me a dozen colourful stories about her many adventures and interesting people in her life.
I believe that we had a love-hate relationship… no, not love-hate, those words are too strong… it was specifically more a ‘like a lot/ extremely annoyed’ by me relationship. I seem to have that affect on people sometimes.
She was amused by my, in her opinion, seemingly exaggerated calm composure. She would crane her neck around the doorframe of her office to glance at me, then chuckle, as I seemed to her to be extremely serene in an otherwise stressful environment.
Weeks went by, months passed and my calm became her aggravation. “I don’t see a sense of urgency in you when we are really busy!” she would say through gritted teeth, flicking her manic, red, Einstein-like short hair that seemed to become more static as the stress levels rose.
I would shrug and reply, meeting her gaze, “I know I don’t look it, but I am stressing on the inside.”
Then her eyebrows would arch dramatically, her eyes bulging and lips disappearing as she would wheel around on her heels and breeze back to her office, hands up in silent dismissal.
A few times she said something to me along the lines of, “You have a strong ability to focus on one thing, shut out everything around you and perfect what you are focusing on… unfortunately it’s not appropriate for this job,” she would sigh and then say, paced like a train slowing at the station, “You – just – can’t – multi-task.”
A few more months passed and she was hovering as I stood at the fax machine, feeding client’s resume’s through. The air was leaden with annoyance, uncomfortable silence and a slither of sadness so I blurted out, “I think I better resign,” before she could say I have to let you go.
“What will you do?” she asked with a soft voice and I knew we were back in like again.
“I’m going to do a course in Professional Writing and Editing,” I answered. I dialed the fax number and waited, staring at the blinking light.
When I looked up again, her hand was on her heart and her chin dipped down with a sort of sentimental air, “I think that would be wonderful…” she breathed, “...You have to be good to your soul.”
That was eight years ago. Well, eight years this December, to be unnecessarily precise. Looking back, I did do the Professional Writing and Editing course and that makes me feel really happy. Within it, I wrote stories, poetry and met like-minded writers who I shared and work-shopped words with, attended poetry readings and performances and even formed a poetry group with three friends. We hosted weekly workshops and performance practice, competed against other Melbournians and performed on TV. When our time was coming to a close, we were throwing around ideas and formats for our own anthology of poetry, a published work to commemorate our group effort and time together. Alas, it sort of evaporated before it turned into hardcopy and that was that.
Wow, that was a nice little trip down memory lane. I think it was Simon, from the above mentioned group and my then housemate, that once called me ‘Memory Lane Girl,’ when I spent an entire afternoon ploughing through mountains of semi-scrunched and crinkled papers of letters and poems, a decade old at the time. O-oh… this means I am trying to re-establish myself somehow. What? Where did that come from? I still feel dizzy, though everyone here keeps telling me that it’s really, really normal to feel dizzy here a lot in the Spring. No-one can give me the medical or scientific reason for this though. I am so used to every fact or theory being backed up with one. I miss my family.
Now I am… far. Far, far away, but for the internet connection that keeps me in touch in it's distant, out of touch way. And if there wasn’t the internet - well I wouldn’t be here. What’s that, a paradox? Now I can blame my ridiculously bad, at times, memory for… erhm… dare I say ‘big word’ meanings… on the fact that I am learning Italian on a daily basis and hear nothing but Italian – bar Giuseppe’s dialogue… parallel to this I am also being corrected by Giuseppe on my English grammar lately. Scary.
Ancora, mi sento male, perchè ancora sento mondo girrato…hmm come se dicè…’dizzy’….boh? E mi manchà mia familià tantissimo, e anchè miei amici perché quando Giuseppe andato lavoro, sono posso parla con Mamma Teresa, perche lei parlato con me piano piano e ho capito bene. Ma altro tutti personi parlato troppp veloce e anche più dialeto quello Italiano…. È troppo difficile per me. E anchè, quando Giuseppe lavore e Valentino dormito o vado passeggiato con Nonna, mi sento solo e più triste questi giorni. Stare solo. Voglio lavoro, voglio scrivere, voglio insegnare, voglio parlare Italiano bene, voglio sento comè donna, come mammà, comè adulta… ma non qui, e non adesso perché vivano come piccola ragazza – ancora… non lava miei vestiti, non polito nostra casa, non lavoro, non hai amici qui, non mi sembrare fare tutti decisione per mio figlio… sento inutile, e poì… sento tristè. Tempo, adesso sento veloce, troppo veloce, non ho tanto tempo, e sembra finire niente.
… but at least I can write in Italian! It may be very badly written Italian… but not bad for two months of informal learning – from knowing next to nothing, bar a collection of nouns, to being able to write the above paragraph. I am sure Giuseppe will laugh, (lovingly,) when he reads my errors. And I will smile because I remember all too well when I was laughing at him… and he had warned me then.
One of my best friends asked me last year, or was it the year before last? … if we are defined by our careers. She was researching, gathering information for an article. I replied ‘no’… we are defined by the people close to us. A career simply enhances who we are - but people are our core.
Now I sit at this Italian keyboard and 'just write'. The street outside is busy with traffic, motorino’s, small cars and big trucks. There is blue sky and subtly warm, Spring sunshine outside, but inside the air is cold from last night’s chill.
I hope I’m not misunderstood… my partner and my son are my core and they, if I may re-use a re-used phrase, they light up my life. Yes, like The Carpenters. Exactly how they sung it.
But today, I am tristè… because there are several other people who are an essential part of the above mentioned core. And today I feel very, very far away from them. In addition to this, I am also feeling very un-enhanced. In a word… ‘blah’.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Warm sun, Blue sky and Patatine Fritte.
Valentino rocked jovially back and forth in his seat, his sunhat casting shade on his tiny neck as he clasped the handlebars of his trainer bike. Giuseppe guided him down the footpath and I walked beside him, the brilliant blue sky a bonus backdrop to this scene - starring my two boys, father and son... and me, quasi cinematographer, snapping away with my new phone, trying to capture every moment.
We stopped at a café, which is typically known as a ‘bar,’ (and every bar or food outlet serves alcohol because there is no required liquor licence, yet I’ve observed that most people typically order coffee more often than alcohol...) Anyway, we stopped at a bar and ordered a delicious-looking fruit tart with glazed strawberries, two caffé macchiato’s, and a pizzetta. Here in Italy, you have to say caffé when ordering a coffee. If you order a ‘latté’, you will get a cup of milk, following a strange look from the barista upon your request. A pizzetta is a tiny pizza no bigger than the palm of your hand. Remember what I said in an earlier post: ‘etta’ = ‘small’.
This bar is renowned for its pastries, known as the best in town, made in-house and, to top it off, made fresh every Sunday. We timed it right.
Valentino decided to start pushing chairs around the bar, annoyed, because he was no longer travelling on the bike. So we sculled our coffees and reunited him and the bike, as he kicked the pedals that spun freely, his legs too short for his feet to reach them.
Giuseppe marvelled at my impressed noises, something like ‘Ooh!’ and simultaneous camera clicks as we passed landmarks and scenes so common to him in the town that he grew up in. He smiled warmly as the sun warmed our heads and the afternoon ticked on and seemed like two afternoons in one, because today the clocks changed for Daylight Savings.
He stopped and watched each scene that I captured, explaining it in detail like my own personal tour guide. We passed an old shed, build a mere metre from the train track at an intersection and he told me about the little old man who used to wait in there, his job was to let down the railway crossing gates manually.
Giuseppe bought some patatine fritte = hot chips, at a stall in the piazza. They sold patatine, panini, (bread rolls,) bibita, (soft drinks - or ‘soda’ for those living outside of Australia,) and a selection of beer. There were a few people sitting at the stall, (which looked a bit like a Kebab trailer back in Melbourne,) having a drink or eating patatine fritte, served in tiny white plastic containers with two wooden skewers, which I observed one woman using to skew the chips and eat them one by one.
We walked towards the fountain to find a bench to sit at. Two boys chased each other round and round the fountain – which was at least two car lengths wide. One boy had a small bike with trainer wheels and the other carried a toy robot. Valentino was impressed.
Vale and I walked alongside the fountain as Giuseppe picked a bench and sat, eating patatine. Valentino walked as I held his left hand and he giggled and shrieked, trying to get closer to the boys. He almost broke into a run. The only way I could get him to turn around and head back to Giuseppe, was to wait until the boys completed one lap around the fountain so they would pass us, continuing on in Giuseppe’s direction.
I sat down on the bench as Giuseppe stood, lifting Valentino up high as he squirmed, twisting and turning like a little cat, trying to catch sight of the boys again. So Giuseppe placed Vale back down to standing position, held his hand and walked him towards the fountain once again, Valentino pointing and shrieking with joy.
The bench was wooden and the wood was warm from the sun, I could feel it through my clothes, warming my back. I smiled – the sky was certainly brilliant, certainly blue. When some things in life don’t seem definite, there are always certainties to marvel at, certainties that make you warm; make you smile.
I crunched the guilt-free patatine, tasting the salt on my lips, the oil and the burst of flavour told me that this potato was growing in the earth not very long ago. Guilt-free, because it’s patatine... oh but I don’t mean to say it wasn’t deep-fried, or that it wasn’t potato, in all its high-carb glory. Patatine are, simply put, simply wonderful and there is something more wonderful about eating hot chips whilst warming yourself like a reptile in the sunshine, under a brilliant blue sky, in the company of those you hold dear, amongst others who are also out to soak up the sun and enjoy a relaxing, leisurely Sunday afternoon.
I had flashbacks of sitting at a park bench, under a brilliant blue sky in good company, vibrant green grass surrounding, with a white paper parcel of hot chips and potato cakes, or with beach towels and hot sand beneath us, or unravelling greasy white paper in the centre of the kitchen table, as others prepared the surrounds by equipping the table with bottles of tomato sauce, white vinegar and salt.
People know patatine, hot chips... however many different names they may be known by... if I may, I must state – other cities in the world... if they have restaurants and bars and fast food then there has got to be potato cut in strips and deep fried to perfection, and therefore there has got to be other people in other time zones sitting in the sun and sharing hot chips right now. And you can bet that they are enjoying a leisurely afternoon in good company.
We stopped at a café, which is typically known as a ‘bar,’ (and every bar or food outlet serves alcohol because there is no required liquor licence, yet I’ve observed that most people typically order coffee more often than alcohol...) Anyway, we stopped at a bar and ordered a delicious-looking fruit tart with glazed strawberries, two caffé macchiato’s, and a pizzetta. Here in Italy, you have to say caffé when ordering a coffee. If you order a ‘latté’, you will get a cup of milk, following a strange look from the barista upon your request. A pizzetta is a tiny pizza no bigger than the palm of your hand. Remember what I said in an earlier post: ‘etta’ = ‘small’.
This bar is renowned for its pastries, known as the best in town, made in-house and, to top it off, made fresh every Sunday. We timed it right.
Valentino decided to start pushing chairs around the bar, annoyed, because he was no longer travelling on the bike. So we sculled our coffees and reunited him and the bike, as he kicked the pedals that spun freely, his legs too short for his feet to reach them.
Giuseppe marvelled at my impressed noises, something like ‘Ooh!’ and simultaneous camera clicks as we passed landmarks and scenes so common to him in the town that he grew up in. He smiled warmly as the sun warmed our heads and the afternoon ticked on and seemed like two afternoons in one, because today the clocks changed for Daylight Savings.
He stopped and watched each scene that I captured, explaining it in detail like my own personal tour guide. We passed an old shed, build a mere metre from the train track at an intersection and he told me about the little old man who used to wait in there, his job was to let down the railway crossing gates manually.
Giuseppe bought some patatine fritte = hot chips, at a stall in the piazza. They sold patatine, panini, (bread rolls,) bibita, (soft drinks - or ‘soda’ for those living outside of Australia,) and a selection of beer. There were a few people sitting at the stall, (which looked a bit like a Kebab trailer back in Melbourne,) having a drink or eating patatine fritte, served in tiny white plastic containers with two wooden skewers, which I observed one woman using to skew the chips and eat them one by one.
We walked towards the fountain to find a bench to sit at. Two boys chased each other round and round the fountain – which was at least two car lengths wide. One boy had a small bike with trainer wheels and the other carried a toy robot. Valentino was impressed.
Vale and I walked alongside the fountain as Giuseppe picked a bench and sat, eating patatine. Valentino walked as I held his left hand and he giggled and shrieked, trying to get closer to the boys. He almost broke into a run. The only way I could get him to turn around and head back to Giuseppe, was to wait until the boys completed one lap around the fountain so they would pass us, continuing on in Giuseppe’s direction.
I sat down on the bench as Giuseppe stood, lifting Valentino up high as he squirmed, twisting and turning like a little cat, trying to catch sight of the boys again. So Giuseppe placed Vale back down to standing position, held his hand and walked him towards the fountain once again, Valentino pointing and shrieking with joy.
The bench was wooden and the wood was warm from the sun, I could feel it through my clothes, warming my back. I smiled – the sky was certainly brilliant, certainly blue. When some things in life don’t seem definite, there are always certainties to marvel at, certainties that make you warm; make you smile.
I crunched the guilt-free patatine, tasting the salt on my lips, the oil and the burst of flavour told me that this potato was growing in the earth not very long ago. Guilt-free, because it’s patatine... oh but I don’t mean to say it wasn’t deep-fried, or that it wasn’t potato, in all its high-carb glory. Patatine are, simply put, simply wonderful and there is something more wonderful about eating hot chips whilst warming yourself like a reptile in the sunshine, under a brilliant blue sky, in the company of those you hold dear, amongst others who are also out to soak up the sun and enjoy a relaxing, leisurely Sunday afternoon.
I had flashbacks of sitting at a park bench, under a brilliant blue sky in good company, vibrant green grass surrounding, with a white paper parcel of hot chips and potato cakes, or with beach towels and hot sand beneath us, or unravelling greasy white paper in the centre of the kitchen table, as others prepared the surrounds by equipping the table with bottles of tomato sauce, white vinegar and salt.
People know patatine, hot chips... however many different names they may be known by... if I may, I must state – other cities in the world... if they have restaurants and bars and fast food then there has got to be potato cut in strips and deep fried to perfection, and therefore there has got to be other people in other time zones sitting in the sun and sharing hot chips right now. And you can bet that they are enjoying a leisurely afternoon in good company.
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