Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Pick-Up Non-Artists


The “Priest”

It was only my second or third day in Europe and I was at a Metro station in Rome, waiting for the train. I saw a middle-aged African man in a priest’s get-up who looked lost and disorientated. I, assuming he may speak English, asked him if he needed a hand. He told me he was trying to get to the Colosseum so I replied that I was headed to that stop as well and could show him where to get off. It all seemed harmless enough and I was happy to help someone out. THEN! We got on the train and he started to ask questions about where I was staying. I said it was a B&B with a shared bathroom etc. So he asks me, “Can I follow you there and see what it’s like?”
           “No,” I said, proud of my correct reflex answer (my usual tendency is to be obliging). 
            “Why not?”
           “Because I don’t know you,” I said. The tone of his voice and the way he was looking at me was starting to freak me out.
            “Oh. Can I have your email address or your telephone number in case I want to ask you something later?”
            “No.”
            “Why?”
            “Because I don’t know you.”
            “Oh are you sure?”
            “Yeah I’m sure. Oh look, here’s the stop you want!” With that I jumped out of the train and ran up the stairs. I knew I was a lot fitter than him and would lose him but I walked home looking behind me the whole way. Ughh… It was a good experience to have early on because it made me much more wary when travelling on my own.

The Gladiator

I’ve mentioned the Gladiator before, but he deserved to be remembered in this post. Around the same time as the Priest – in Rome 2010 – I was staying at a B&B near the Colosseum and consequently had to walk past it every time I took the Metro. As I crossed the open area in front of the entrance to the Colosseum a Roman “gladiator”, who in that moment had no tourists to pose with, threw me this classic line (in a thick Italian accent) that I still chuckle about: “Hey darling you’re so sexy. What’s your name, Paradise?” Do you think he’s actually ever picked anyone up with that one?

The Hands-on Professor

There was a certain – married – middle-aged professor where I was contracted to teach some high schoolers. He couldn’t keep his hands to himself. He stared at me everywhere but in the eye and paid me repetitious compliments. I tried to be polite but when I finished working with that class and he asked for my number I couldn’t resist calling him on his crap. “Why do you want my number?” I said innocently but straightforwardly. “Oh, uh, you know, in case there’s some problem here and I need to contact you.” I assured him that the teacher taking over from me would be more than capable of handling any issues and if not, he could contact my boss! *Creep*

The B&B Sock Saviour

To cut a long story short… I left my socks at a B&B in Verona where I stayed with my sister before finding an apartment here. We moved onto the next city and the young Spanish guy from the B&B wrote to me to inform me of my loss. I told him I was on my way to Le Cinque Terre and would have to relinquish the socks. He wrote to me three times trying to convince me that I needed them. He even went to the trouble of detailing all the possible solutions for reclaiming them – every option depended upon me seeing him again, of course… Needless to say, I bought new socks!

The Ambos

It was 8am and I was walking across Ponte della Vittoria in Verona, next to the stop-start peak-hour traffic. The footpath and the car lanes are quite intimate on this bridge so you can almost hear the drivers cursing the traffic lights or singing along to tacky love-songs. I walked past the bumper-to-bumper cars in a purposeful yet distracted way. In my dream-like mental state, I heard someone say, “Buongiorno!” (Good Morning!) over some kind of loud speaker. I wondered what it was all about so I looked up and saw two ambulance officers smiling at me with all the self-satisfaction of two young guys who had just used the truck’s megaphone to get my attention! Only in Italy! All three of us had a little giggle and then went on our merry way.

The Little Grandpa on a Bike

The prize goes to my personal favourite… a sweet, little old man in his 70’s who was riding down the same street that I was walking down. He was going so slowly that I overtook him despite having no wheels. When I got near him, he had already pretty much ground to a halt. He saw me passing by, and said something I didn’t hear properly. I thought I’d better check seeing as he was elderly and might need a hand. I asked him to please repeat what he had said. He stopped fiddling with his bike and with both hands made a gesture of perfection, “Sei bellissima,” (you’re very beautiful). He had nothing else to say… He collected his bike and tottered off at the same break-neck speed as before. He made my day :)

There are several more stories I could share here, but this post is already too long and there’s only so much we can all take of these smooth operators! Maybe there’ll be a Part 2 some time! 

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Where I Live


I just got back from a weekend in Rome where I celebrated my 30th birthday with some very special friends. It was the best birthday of my life simply because I was laughing, eating, walking and chatting with people that I love dearly. They flew to Rome from London to be with me, knowing that I had just moved to a new city and may not have had anyone to really celebrate with! Aren’t they wonderful? I was also able to catch up with some local Italian friends ‘a cui voglio tanto bene’ :) It was fantastic!

I departed from Termini Station this morning, Verona-bound. As I stepped onto the train, my heart pumped out a strange and wonderful sensation that coursed through my arteries and gave me that tingly feeling in the guts that makes you smile. I can only describe it as a mixture of satisfaction, excitement and relief in one deep-seated hit.  It was something I recognised but had not experienced for a very long time… I felt like I was going home.

I’ve been travelling for two-and-a-half years now and during all that time, I have not stayed put anywhere longer than six months. I have lived in places for two, three, four months and then moved to another job, another flat, another city. However, as I got on that train to head back to Verona, I felt like I finally had a place to call home. A place where I could unpack my winter AND summer wardrobe because I’d be staying for more than one season; a place where I could put books on the shelves and own more than one suitcase-full of stuff.

Verona is gorgeous. It is an ancient city that has been dominated and developed by a myriad of people. You’ll see ruins and constructions still standing from the Roman to Austrian Empires. 

Every day I cross over the river at Ponte della Vittoria, and even if I have been wondering what on Earth I’m doing in Italy, I glance over to Castelvecchio on my right and the dome of San Giorgio in Braida on my left, and I know that I’ve made the right decision. It’s just so beautiful! Then in the evenings I walk along the Adige River listening to him rush by the soft yellow lights of San Zeno and I sigh contentedly… I live here.  














Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Farewell London


After a year-and-a-half of uninspired living in London, I have moved to Verona, Italy. There are many great things about Britain, but the constant grey and depressing weather eventually took their toll on me. The brown-brick buildings; the ever-insufficient footpaths replete with fast-moving pedestrians; the black stuff on your tissue when you blow your nose on the tube; the cold; the rain; the wind that renders your umbrella useless; and a lifestyle overflowing with all the things I would prefer to keep in my ‘seldom practiced’ basket (winter clothes in “summer”, the ever-present potato and thick-sliced bacon, and being the only sober person at the party, for example) finally turned me into a veritable malcontent. God bless you England, but I needed to get out!

I have to bring balance to the above by stating that I did love the parks, the politeness, the existence of the queue (Italy is yet to understand this concept), the Southbank, and mostly the free museums and galleries. When someone asked me what I would miss about London, I said, “My friends, and the National Gallery!” Some amazing pieces are there, and I could go and see them free of charge, as many times as I wanted. If I was meeting someone at Trafalgar Square, I’d often wander in for ten minutes to have a peek at my favourites… The Tailor by Moroni, The Boulevard Montmartre at Night by Pissarro, and everything by Canaletto!

In July I finished up my job as an Occupational Therapist at a swish private hospital in Harley Street and kissed my career and London goodbye. I went home to Melbourne for six weeks where there was more sun and blue sky (in winter) than I’d seen all summer in England! It was so refreshing to be home in the city that I still love the most.

I went to all my favourite coffee houses and laneways, visited my old regular haunts and walked along our Southbank. It doesn’t have the iconic landmarks that London’s Southbank is littered with, but it’s a really wonderful area of Melbourne. As I walked along the Yarra River, soaking in all the things I love about my hometown – every familiar building and every new development that I had never seen before – it was like someone had pulled out the defibrillator and stunned my heart back into action. I gazed down the river towards Flinders Street Station, inhaled deeply, emotionally, emphatically, and realised... I could breathe again.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

The Story of the Leaves


Somebody told me I should put some of my poetry on this thing so I picked my shortest one, just to test it out ;)

THE STORY OF THE LEAVES

Green leaf, turning yellow
Do you have any last words to say?
I suppose even if you did
The wind would carry them away
Your beauty promises barrenness
And your brightness impending doom
Do you despise the blossoms – pink and white
That in your place will bloom?
Brown leaf, breathing shallow
I’ll not cry over your demise
Though transience is moving
The pain we shared has made me wise


Explanation
This poem is about change and the transition. The green leaf turning yellow represents the approach of a new season. The outgoing season may wish to persist in speaking into your life without recognising that it is about to speak it’s last. However, the winds of change will carry even its last words as the new thing sweeps in.

Although the vibrant colours of the autumn leaves are beautiful, they “promise” the barrenness of winter, which is to follow. Autumn is a transitory season and the stark contrast between the season preceding it and the one succeeding it, creates a sense of loss and barrenness, not unlike winter itself. Even if the preceding season was unpleasant, change still brings with it a sense of loss and apprehension about the unknown.

The autumn leaves are just as beautiful as the blossoms, “pink and white,” but the difference is that the blossoms promise new life while the leaves are the symptom of an end. I wonder if the leaves are satisfied with their purpose or whether they envy their counterpart. I wonder if I am satisfied with their part, and can appreciate the function of both, or whether I despise certain season of my life even though they are necessary.

The brown leaf obviously represents the end of a season, which again conjures feelings of loss and the unfamiliarity associated with change. Though I may want to “cry” over the closure of one season of my life, the pain of that season and the lessons I have learned from the very process of transition has taught me that change is a necessary and natural part of life. 

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Parents Part 2: Compassion

As explained in an earlier blog, I've decided to jot down a few things I've learned from my folks that have influenced the way I think and live. I'm doing this partly because I'm an uber-reflective person and partly because, well, maybe I shouldn't be the only one who knows this stuff about them. Besides, parents don't get much encouragement and yet, it seems to me that being one is the hardest job in the world. This one's for mum.

My mum was the tallest in her class at the end of primary school... and then... she stopped growing. Now my twelve-year-old sister uses her as an armrest - just as I have for many years. She also informed me the other day that she is shrinking! Though she may be a small package, my mum manages to keep a very big heart crammed inside of her. When I think of her and what she has taught me more than anyone else, I would have to say that it is compassion... not just the kind that feels sorry for someone, but the kind that rolls up its sleeves and seeks to bring relief.

Ever since I was little, I noticed that Mum seemed to have a self-administered job description of visiting elderly relations (and even neighbours), cooking for or delivering groceries to sick family and friends, and losing sleep at night over the struggles of other people. Throughout my childhood years this all gave me the impression that it was normal to seek out and take care of the sick, marginalised and burdened people in one's circle. It wasn't until I was a little older that I realised, it wasn't normal at all... my mum was in fact... very special.

Now as an adult I have had hours and hours of conversations with Mum, listening to her sorrow over the ailing elderly people in our family and wishing she could do more. I don't know anyone who gives as much time to visiting and caring for older people, and she has done it ever since I can remember. As I look back on my own life, in light of the person she is, I see her influence in the choices I have made.

I'm an Occupational Therapist who has specialised in working with the elderly. When I talk about my job with others my age a lot of them say things like, "Wow, that must be really depressing" or "I don't think I could do that job, I would get too emotionally involved." Whether it was people close to her, or people she only saw once a year, Mum has always had boundless respect and compassion for the older people in her life. She takes her chances and dives in where others are afraid to get too affected. Working in the field myself, and seeing all the difficulties of ageing on a daily basis, that is something I really admire about her (at least I get paid to do it!)

Mum has taught me to put myself out for others, give practical help when needed, appreciate and respect people who have walked the Earth longer than you and don't let discouragement diminish the compassion you first felt in your heart towards somebody.

Thanks Mum, you're a really good one :)




Sunday, January 29, 2012

The Street Performer

It was a cold and drizzly day in Basel, Switzerland. I had a few hours to kill before meeting my dear friend, Shadi, and decided to have a hot chocolate before heading to the cinema for an afternoon film. I went to Starbucks... yes... ME... in Starbucks. Those of you who know me well will probably have heard me criticising the place mercilessly (apologies to my best friend who loves it) but it was convenient at the time.

It had been a hard few weeks leading up to this little weekend escape. Many things had gone wrong, and my life in London was feeling fairly bleak. As I sat myself down at a second-storey window overlooking the street below, I took some deep breaths and sipped my hot chocolate - Swiss-style. (By Swiss-style I mean that the look of disappointment and self-chastisement which usually follow a sip of Starbucks hot chocolate were lacking. It was Switzerland - the land where no bad form of chocolate exists!)

Things were already looking up... I settled into my chair, pulled out my journal and gazed out the window. There awaiting me was something very odd. I had box seats to the show in the street but it still took me a couple of minutes to work out what I was looking at. There was a tall man with khaki cargo pants tucked into his hiking boots, a pink jacket, and a Noddy-esque cap. He already cut a striking figure in the wet, cobble-stone street, but there was more. He had large cardboard signs that said things like, "You are beautiful" and, "Listen! Everything is possible! The only one who can stop you is your own self!" Next to them was a large teddy bear declaring himself to be "Winnie the PooR." Altogether, quite the spectacle!

I wasn't sure what his angle was yet. He was just standing there at first. Eventually he started to do 'warm ups'. For a good fifteen-twenty minutes I was confronted with moves like this:

Finally a couple of daring kids, who seemed to be around twelve-years-old, saw the juggling balls on the ground and asked to see some action. He picked up three of them, tossed one up in the air and covered his eyes with the other two as he dramatically "watched" the single ball fall to the ground. He got one of the kids to give it a try too, and he awkwardly did so. You could see by the look of satisfaction on his face that he was completely chuffed by their interest and finally started to toss a few balls around. Once he got going, he was pretty entertaining! Other passers-by stopped to watch as well. The arrival of each new small child inspired him further and he pulled out his whole bag of tricks for them.

After a while I realised: I was smiling.

A little boy, about three-years-old, walked up to him, and instead of putting his coin in the case, he boldly held it up to him and didn't move until he stopped juggling to take it. The Street Performer stooped down to receive it with a heart-warming smile and placed his hand on his heart to express his gratitude... All the difficulties of recent weeks disappeared in that one beautiful moment. I know you're going to think I am just a big girl, but a couple of tears may have welled up at that point. This random guy, who at first seemed to be missing from the local psychiatric ward, was so full of love and warmth to those around him.

With my hot chocolate well and truly drunk, it was nearly time to walk down to the cinema. I grabbed a few Swiss franks and headed downstairs where the little crowd had dispersed and the juggler was now on his own.

I crossed the street and went over to him. He stopped what he was doing and said, "Thank you!" as I dropped the coins into his case. I had a little speech ready, but thankfully he saved me from having to use my rusty German by speaking very good English himself. When I told him where I was sitting he said, "Oh you were the one up there!" I told him that I had been sad but he made me smile and I wanted to say thank you. He gave me a big hug and told me to stay positive and not give up! He was a "gypsy traveller" (as he put it) from Hungary who moved around a lot. I don't know what his story is, but he smelled homeless and obviously made his living by doing this sort of thing. It still amazes me when I think of how bright his smile was, how open his heart was.

If he could be like that in his situation, then I could certainly find a way to be so in mine.