To Sir With Love

I love my Italian teacher.

Ok, so he is much older than me and I love him in a completely unromantic and unscandalous way, but still… It is worth confessing. He is the Claudio of “Claudia & Claudio” fame, and is the most encouraging, empowering and good-humoured teacher I’ve ever had. Needless to say I am really enjoying his class. (Claudia is also a great teacher, though perhaps I admire her more for her sweetness and impeccable fashion sense than her charisma).

Right now I am sitting on my bed, listening to “Daughters” by John Mayer, and typing out this blog (into a Word document because my apartment has no internet yet!) My bed is a fascinating little piece of work. It’s what I imagine army cots to be like: minimalistic in size, comfort and appeal. If my bed at home is a king single, then this single bed must be the court-jester version. Or maybe it wouldn’t even be permitted into the royal court. Perhaps a more accurate description is, ‘the peasant single’. At any rate, I have vastly improved the quality of my sleep by purchasing a second blanket. Apparently the heating gets shut off in May and I am yet to discover an Italian bed that would deign to array itself in anything as practical as a doona.

Since yesterday I have been reflecting on the wonderful people I have met here in Siena. We have already discussed the fabulous Claudio (don’t worry, I’m not tempted to pull out my liquid liner and write “I Love You” on my eye lids like one of the students in that film!) but there are several others that deserve a mention also.

Sandy is the first girl I saw as I walked into the reception area of the school. She smiled, I smiled, and the rest is history. We have hung out together every day since. Sandy is Swiss and speaks enough languages to put Google Translator to shame. We see the world in a very similar way and I really appreciate how uncomplicated, kind and intelligent she is.

My roommate, Roberta, is an Italian law student who speaks no English. I told her that in a month’s time maybe we could have a proper conversation (better stay on top of my Italian homework!) She is clean, friendly and generous; and consequently, very easy to live with – thank God!

Caroline is another Swiss girl who is so much fun! There is always laughter and interesting conversation when she is around. The final mention goes to Julia, a young American girl who has only been out of high school a couple of years but has already attended universities in multiple countries. Though she is seven years younger, she is very sweet and easy to have around.

I could talk about the check-out-chick at my local supermarket, or the guy at the local tobacconist (the Italian version of the milk bar), but I’d be scraping the barrel for anything more detailed than: ‘I like them!’

That’s all I’ve got today. I’m pretty tired since Sandy and I joined a local gym and went for the first time last night. The day before that, I went to Assisi and the day before that, I did a six-hour trek around Chianti! I’m tired!! Think I may have to retire to my peasant single a little earlier tonight.

Hopefully once I get settled here I will be blogging more regularly. Until next time…

Arrivederci!

Claudia & Claudio

On the Monday just gone I commenced my 12 week course in the Italian language. I have two teachers: Claudia (cloud-ee-a) and Claudio (cloud-ee-o). You should know that, generally speaking, girls names end with ‘a’ and boys with ‘o’. I have Claudia for three hours and Claudio for one hour every morning. Classes finish at 1:30pm – che bellissimo!

As soon as class is over, all the ravenously hungry students escape the arctic cold of the classic Italian building (made from concrete, stone and… concrete) to get their hands on a panino or a pizza. Being from Melbourne – a kaleidoscope of cultures and cuisines – I was immediately struck by the lack of diversity in the lunch-time options.

Everywhere I turn there is pizza, panino, pizza, panino, coffee, panino, pizza, panino, coffee, coffee, coffee (You want what? Tea?!). It was a similar story with people’s names… Claudia/Claudio, Francesca/Francesco, Alessandra/Alessandro, Roberta/Roberto. Aren’t these the SAME NAMES that people had a thousand years ago? I mean, there are some English names that have stuck around for a few centuries (William, James, Emma), but there are also millions of babies born every year with names like, Tyson, Misty, Callum and Tiffany.

As I pondered these observations and chatted with my new (and wonderful) friend, Sandra, I realized that the Italians have maintained the integrity of their culture like no other nation I’ve ever visited. There’s pasta and wine shops everywhere and not a McDonald’s in sight. (I’m sure the ubiquitous McDonald’s has a franchise somewhere here, but it’s not so easy to find in Siena).

How the Italian girls maintain their figures is a mystery for the ages. They all eat as much biscotti, pizza, pasta, gelati and CARBOHYDRATES as anyone could handle, and yet they are tiny. However, after a couple of days of walking to uni (there are very few cars in this city because it’s small enough to walk around), I think I may have discovered a clue to their fitness. The inclines and hills are worthy competition for any alpine slope. As an Occupational Therapist, I can tell you that their 1:4 slopes do NOT meet Australian Standards! (Ok, so that’s not a substantiated measurement, but still, my lower limbs will be well toned when I leave here!)

The buildings in this city have stood here since they were built, pretty much. Some are literally a thousand years old. Many of the buildings still have the iron fixtures on them where they used to stick a flaming torch on the wall to light the street at night, and big rings that look like giant door-knockers where people used to tie up their horses. Amazing! I can just imagine the medieval scenes as I walk through these streets.

All Australians relate to the wonder of contemplating a place that considers our nation a very recent addition to the known world, but now that I am finally here, it dawns on me afresh every day. I am in Europe; a part of the world that had democracy, literature, architecture and philosophy before Jesus Christ was born, before Africa was poor, before Britain became civilized, and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of years before the wonky aesthetics of Federation Square were ever conceived.

I really do feel like I’ve landed in the middle of a story; the story of the world, which has been unfolding for a long time, but a story that I am a part of nevertheless. People who say that studying history is like living in the past, don’t know what they’re talking about. I don’t see how we can know where we’re going if we don’t know what has brought us to where we are. For me, this trip is about getting an education. Yes, I am being educated in a new language, but more than anything I am learning about history and life – my life. I’m here to ask myself, What do I want my life to be about? I think this is a question that we should ask ourselves no matter how old we are, and if our life is about something different to what we say we want it to be about, then we need to do something about that.

The Best Corn Thins Ever

Yesterday was my first day in Siena. I arrived at my accommodation, settled in, and then headed out to the supermarket for supplies. (Many thanks to my friend, Marcus, who introduced me to the iPhone application “Off Maps”, which helped me get there without having to open up one of those huge paper maps that scream tooooourist!).

Within seconds of my stroll through the intricate maze of narrow streets, I fell in love with this place. I have never seen anything like it. The entire city has been declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO, and it is easy to see why. I knew very little about Siena when I decided to live here for four months, but somehow I don’t think it is a decision I will regret.

Now back to the supermarket. It is a small-scale replica of the city itself; a tiny space comprised of narrow aisles packed with interesting items. I took my time milling around the shelves and trying to work out the Italian labels. Once again thank you to the iPhone for the Italian-English Dictionary which helped me choose my dinner.

The other items I purchased were: some UHT milk, a box of Kellog’s Special K, the supermarket’s brand of corn thins (you know, those things that are like rice cakes, only they’re made from corn instead of rice), a Kit Kat and some chocolate soy-milk prima packs. The UHT was awesome! Creamy and yum (kicks over Devondale for sure), and the Kit Kat ---- ohh the Kit Kat. I don’t know what they do to it over here, but it was the best break I’ve ever had. However… the piece de resistance was undoubtedly the corn thins. They are different to the ones in Australia and were basically… outstanding.

This pack of goodness got me thinking; if something as inconsequential as corn thins can bring such joy and satisfaction, what are we all working our tails off for? It’s not for corn thins that we kill ourselves. It’s for other stuff. Stuff that society tells us we need. Stuff that we convince ourselves we need. But do we really need it?

I remember when I was on a clinical placement at uni, my supervising therapist and I went to see a patient at her home. I got chatting to her son who was a middle aged man caring for his elderly mother. For some reason he started telling me about a book he was reading. He said something I will never forget. It went kind of like this:

“Humans have very few basic needs in life: food, water, shelter, warmth, and oxygen. So why do we spend our whole lives slaving away at work and not living, simply to acquire just one of those basic needs; shelter. Why do we do it? What about Native Americans who used to live in tepees or Aboriginal Australians in their well-built huts? They didn’t spend their whole lives trying to acquire a dwelling. They had more time for their families, for their community and for themselves.”

I have contemplated that conversation many times over the years and every time I do, I wonder how most of us can agree with him, and yet still feel we have no choice but to submit to trends like the capitalistic, all-consuming property market. Why do we settle for the kind of life we should have rather than the kind we believe in?

I know there are practicalities to life – investment, bills, security for retirement and all that – but there must be a point at which reality and ideals can intermingle to produce the kind of life that is more replete with corn thin-esque sighs of satisfaction, than mortgage repayment-esque sighs of resignation.

I’m not sure how to achieve this balance, but one thing I am certain of is this:

I am determined to eat corn thins.

It Baroque My Heart

Yesterday I ventured out to see the Trevi Fountain; a massive Roman water feature completed in the late 18^th century. It is a gigantic masterpiece of the Baroque period that, today, flows more abundantly with tourists than with circulated water. Having arrived there by myself via the Metro (the local underground train network), no one was around to prepare me for the sight.

I could not believe my eyes when I saw the hundreds of camera-clad bodies crowding around the base of the fountain. Not only did this detract from the beauty of the place, but it also made the fountain seem as though it was not a part of everyday Rome; it was just an unconnected anomaly to be gawked at. I am aware of the hypocrisy of what I am saying, as I, myself, was nothing more than a visitor with a point-and-shoot. However, I left wondering whether this place was ever just a regular Roman hang out.

Did people ever stop there just to have a break from the horse and carriage, or tie up a shoelace, or have a couple’s argument? Or has it always drawn a deluge of happy-snappers? Ok, so a hundred years ago perhaps it was more like a pack of amateur artists. I know it’s beautiful, and well, since coming to Rome I’ve decided that there’s no art form more beautiful than Baroque; but surely people have, at some time, treated the Trevi Fountain like any other bit of sidewalk.

Though I’m not quite sure what I think about all this yet, I do feel a sense of uneasiness about the whole phenomenon of tourism. How long have open-top buses and microphoned tour guides been the object of unceasing demand? Tourism has its individual and social benefits, to be sure, but coupled with consumerism, it has become an insane whirlwind of Contiki, cookie-cutter experiences.

Like I said, I’m not sure what I think yet, but the words of Ferris Beuller spring to mind:

“…isms, in my opinion, are not good. A person should not believe in an ism.”

- Ferris Beuller’s Day Off

Rome

Rome is a city like no other. Over 2000 years of mind-numbing history which includes an abundance of martyrs, gladiators, popes, emperors, master artists and great thinkers.

Unfortunately today you are more likely to encounter a gladiator outside the Colosseum who poses for photos with tourists and says things like, “Darling, you’re so sexy. What’s your name? Paradise?”

(Yes, that actually happened).

As for the popes: they are the reason the Colosseum is now a pile of bare columns and empty archways. The popes of history stripped many of the grand Roman monuments of their bronze, marble and whatever else might come in handy to make the Vatican the extravagant spectacle it is today. Don’t get me wrong, the place is impressive, but it’s kind of sad to think that it came at the expense of many other historical artifacts.

What about the master artists you say? Today they are con artists. From the street vendors who appear miraculously with dodgy umbrellas when it’s raining, to the locals who benevolently offer to help you at the self-service ticket machines at Termini Station. Of course if you accept their offers of help you are likely to discover it comes at a price.

Today I said no to one of these offers while purchasing my train ticket, only to receive a counter-offer:

“Would you like to kiss me?” asked a dirty (literally and metaphorically) old man.

“No,” said I with certainty.

“Not even one?”

“NO!”

Ugggh…

At least they leave you alone once you say no. How they would ever get a yes surely lies within the realm of the paranormal, but I guess you can’t stop them from trying.

Martyrdom seems to be abating in the ‘Eternal City’, however there are still some people dying for their beliefs today; namely those pedestrians who believe cars will stop for them at the designated crossing.

Thankfully the days of imperialism have ended, but I’m sure there are still some great thinkers around. One thing I do admire about this city is how it draws people who want to learn, to experience culture, and to connect with history. Hopefully during my time here in Italy, I will achieve a little of that.

So It Begins!

This post was written on May 7^th while in transit at Heathrow Airport London – we’ll see how long it takes me to find some affordable or free wi-fi so I can post it and still maintain my penny pinching, travelling-student values.

It was a tearful goodbye at Tullamarine Airport as I farewelled my family and a couple of friends. I wasn’t sure how I felt about leaving for at least a year. I felt sad about leaving my family and kind of numb at the prospect of the unknown. Still, I am convinced enough by the reasoning employed in making my decision and so I press forward!

When the plane took off and I looked out my window at the aerial view, the words of Dorothea MacKellar floated through my mind as I gazed down:

“I love a sunburnt country

A land of sweeping planes

Of rugged mountain ranges

Of droughts and flooding rains

I love her far horizons

I love her jewel sea

Her beauty and her terror

The wide brown land for me”

That last line was the main one ringing in my ears because the view of the suburbs surrounding the airport is quite brown, and well, kind of ugly. It is probably due to the "droughts" rather than the "flooding rains", but maybe it just always looks like that. Nevertheless, I do love it so I took my last glance at my home town and thought, “Bye Australia, I love you." Just as I thought those very words, we flew over a large rubbish tip. How romantic.

The flight was uneventful; which is a good thing when you are thousands of kilometres above solid ground. The guy in front of me insisted on having his seat reclined back onto my knees and there was a kid sitting behind me who kept thumping my seat. Glorious. The redeeming factor was that Laural and George, who were sitting next to me, were lovely and friendly.

After a reasonably quick stop over in Singapore, we boarded the twelve hour flight to London. This time I was next to a nice, elderly British couple who collected my snacks for me while I slept and nudged me awake when it was time for breakfast.

Meals on the plane really mess with your body because they’re not sure which time zone to honour. The first three meals fit well with my Australian body clock, but then, we were jolted awake by the arrival of another hot meal at, what would have been, the middle of the night if I was at home in my Melbourne bed. Not to mention the regular flow of "snacks". By the time breakfast came, all I could handle was Cornflakes.

Twenty hours of travelling + lots of food + little-to-nil activity + occasional turbulence = unnatural sensations in one’s gastro-intestinal system.

Right now I am sitting in a transit lounge at Heathrow Airport wondering at what the future holds for the British parliament (yesterday’s election results seem to be swinging the Conservatives’ way) and how I am going to kill the next four hours in this uninspiring waiting area.

Maybe I could amuse myself with the hand dryers in the toilets that blow so hard your skin shifts to make way for the torrent of air (like a sky diver’s cheeks flowing back past his ears as he plunges down towards the earth); or perhaps I could do some duty free shopping at Prada, Dior or Tiffany where it would require an entire week’s accommodation fees just to buy a bottom of the range trifle. On the other hand, I could just stay here typing with my legs crossed – getting pins and needles – while I employ a variety of paranoid strategies to keep my bags from being stolen or infiltrated by drug traffickers.

Yep, its gonna be a long four hours…

My Favourite Band Sux

In 2000, Lifehouse released No Name Face - a refreshingly raw album lacking only in cliches and the usual hit machine formulas. It might not have been the most astounding musical set ever to be released, but I believed the lyrics and I related to the stories. That is rare these days.

Their subsequent albums had some gems too, but there was always the token pop song. More and more stuff got added to Jason Wade's voice with each passing record, but still, the love was strong.

In 2010, however, something has gone terribly wrong. The uber-bleached hair, the uber-pop sound and the sometimes unbearable lyrics have drowned the vulnerability, originality and honesty that I loved so much.

Why do bands sell out to the mainstream?

Maybe nobody cares about this except me, but I can't help feeling disappointed...