Pellegrini's

I’m sitting in Pellegrini’s Bar in Melbourne’s CBD (Central Business District, or as they would say in Europe, “the centre.”) I’m drinking the worst hot chocolate of my life made by an under-stimulated barista who is currently yelling out in Italian, “2 Spaghetti Napoli, Maria!” but it’s ok… I get that hot chocolate isn’t their thing. I’ve come here because I miss Italy. This bar is an institution in Melbourne. It’s apparently run by a guy named Sisto, to whom several notes on the shelves have been dedicated. Despite being right in the middle of Melbourne in 2014, it, like many a bar back in Italy, is stuck in some brown-stained, technology-resistant yesteryear that retains ostensibly useless pieces of historic junk on the knick-knack cluttered shelves.

I’m talking about gems like this:

poor quality photo stealthily taken on my out of date smart-phone

My knee bumps up against the underside of the bar and splinters from cheap chipboard scratch at my leggings. I know I’m making it sound tacky, but it’s exactly this lack of pretension that lovers of the humble Italian bar flock to. It’s so contrary to the other aesthetically obsessed features of their beauty conscious culture. It’s a mystery I’m yet to figure out. I guess people love the dependability of its well-loved stools and benches, which have been a kind of stage for the place’s history to unfold on. If you hang out there enough, well, then they’re a part of your history too, and you want it to stay the same no matter how ragged or unfashionable it gets. You want to be able to depend on it. Why else would that dirty, unidentifiable piece of ancient “technology” be left rotting on the shelf long after its used-by date?

I’m not sure if being at Pellegrini’s is helping my nostalgia for Italy or not, but there is also a practical reason why I’m here on a Monday afternoon, writing to you about decaying furniture. It’s a complicated reason with many layers, and it’s responsible for my long absence from this blog. The simple answer is, I’ve moved back to Australia and am trying to pick up the pieces of my displaced life! I’m doing an intensive course in the CBD that will hopefully open up some job opportunities for me. I’ve decided not to go back to Occupational Therapy if I can help it, and stick to teaching English if I can. So far it hasn’t been easy to get steady work, though I have been working casually at a couple of places. Right now I’m also killing time until my first French class starts at 6pm. That’s an attempt at keeping my brain from turning to mush while I’m working inconsistently.

I said it was layered… I really hate cliché analogies like “layers,” but it’s apt.  The top layer is that I love my home, but I guess when I moved back here, I thought it would be easier. I thought it would be different to starting from scratch in a new city (which I did four times while I was away), but actually, it’s a lot harder than I imagined. I’m four years older. I’ve changed. Not just as a result of living overseas and “experiencing the world”, but simply as a result of getting older, of making mistakes, and learning new things. It’s impossible to fit back into the space I left when I first went overseas. I’ve changed shape, or size, or something. I have some things to resolve, and I have lots of things to figure out in this new place I find myself in. I feel like I’m walking along a dark path with only a candle. I can only see what’s one or two steps ahead of me, and it’s a long path out of the woods.

By the way, while I was writing all that stuff, the bored – albeit likable – waiter used the dirty, prosaic machine thing to call Sisto; it’s an intercom! Mystery solved. Wish all life’s mysteries disappeared with the touch of a discoloured plastic button. 

Andalusia

Just the name is poetic, don’t you think? I have just returned to Verona from a week in this region of Spain and I loved it! I didn’t really know much about Andalusia before I went, but then I do like to go to places being a little ignorant of what I’ll find. I feel like it helps me to have uninfluenced experiences and form my own real-life impressions.

Andalusia was incredibly beautiful, with its mixed architecture and melting pot of cultures. Arabs, Jews and Christians have all had their influence on the region’s history and present-day reality. I guess I always relate to places like that because I feel like a bit of a melting pot myself. I felt like their history really contributed to the open, welcoming mentality of the people. They are helpful, friendly and wonderfully warm. 

 

Seville

Prior to landing in Seville, the only real thought I had in my “Andalusia file”  (besides flamenco and tapas) was this quote from Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist:

“I left my father, my mother, and the town castle behind. They have gotten used to my being away, and so have I…  The levanter was still getting stronger, and he felt its force on his face. That wind had brought the Moors, yes, but it also brought the smell of the desert... It had brought with it the sweat and the dreams of men who had once left to search for the unknown... The boy felt jealous of the freedom of the wind, and saw that he could have the same freedom. There was nothing to hold him back except himself. The sheep, the merchant’s daughter, and the fields of Andalusia were only steps along the way to his personal legend”

La Mezquita, Cordoba

Like most people who read that book, I related profoundly to the main character, Santiago. Perhaps for me it is because my inner nomad has always been an integral part of who I am, and has informed some pretty major decisions in my life. I read The Alchemist last year during a period in which I  was experiencing the dichotomy of thought that I imagine afflicts most wanderers my age: Do I go home and live a “normal” life, or keep exploring the unknown with the 'freedom of the wind'?

The Alhambra, Granada

Being in Andalusia really painted the mental backdrop to that story for me. It reminded me of my own “steps”. Steps in a story… I’m not sure what the next chapter is about yet, but as I looked out the bus window, passing those mysterious hills, I couldn’t help thinking that the fields of Andalusia were part of Santiago’s story the way the river-stone streets of Verona are part of mine.

I left with a little reminder note in my heart of who I am and what I value – viva Andalusia!

Pick-Up Non-Artists Part 2

The Swinger

A couple of months ago a friend got me hooked on a game for smart phones called, Quiz Cross. It’s a trivia game with the option of playing with other random people in the world who have no nerdy friends and are looking for an opponent. Enter: “Sparkle” (full username not disclosed out of respect).  Her icon was that of a blonde-haired, cartoon chick and she was a formidable opponent. My icon is my facebook profile picture because I lazily used my facebook account to register with the game. One day I get a normal-enough message saying hi, where are you from etc. Then she says, “You’re very beautiful,” to which I replied, “Thanks, very kind of you to say.” It struck me as a bit odd but then I thought she was just being nice… until she started sending me kisses and those little faces with hearts for eyes! I told her I wasn’t into girls, and she informed me that she was "into both". After consistently more audacious messages she thought I should know that her husband also thought I was “a hottie.” What the?! I ignored these messages and continued to play (after all, she was a good player!) but when she started requesting pictures of me in my swimsuit I had to tell her she was crossing the line. I know there are all sorts of kinky things that have become ‘normal’ these days, but, I’m sorry, a couple perving on you together is just gross.

The Leicester Square Affair

While I was living in London, my dear friend Deb told me the story of this guy who trained lonely, socially awkward men to be smooth pick-up artists. She had watched a documentary one time that showed them trying out their lines on girls in Leicester Square. It became a symbol for us, of the sad state of the male population and the reasons why we were single! One evening, I was in Leicester Square with “the Gang,” a group of dear friends that consisted of Deb, Leo, Priya and Raffa (I miss you guys!). We were chatting and joking around until a decent-looking young guy (accompanied by another man) came up to us and started quoting me his number. I told him if he were really interested, the least he could do was write it down himself. (My technique with unwanted guys is to take their number so they leave me alone, and then obviously, never call. I know it sounds cruel, but otherwise they just don’t go away!) He reached for his card and as he was about to hand it to me, Deb raised her hand in a gesture that seemed to say both, “stop” and “ooh, ooh, I know the answer!” Then the most classic line she has ever uttered flowed from her lips: “I saw a documentary and you’re teaching him how to pick up girls!!” She was addressing the tall, blond man that was overseeing this budding lady’s man, at which point, the said lady’s man put away his business card, and muttered a thousand words a second that went something like: “Well I just wanted to know if you wanted to get jiggy with it. I mean, I was just playing. I’m gay anyway.” Then he and his tutor skittled away in a wave of embarrassment. I mean really, if you want anonymity, don’t make a documentary!

Europe is another planet! Haha I’m gonna miss these characters when I head back to Australia where guys keep quiet and only check you out on the sly. I’ll deliver a Part 3 at some point; I have an endless barrel of these stories!

Parents Part 3: Dedication

I was three-and-a-half-years-old and my mum picked me up for a weekend visit. My dad had dropped me off somewhere near the centre of Melbourne, where Mum worked, and we got on an almost empty bus. There were maybe two people on the whole bus: one of them a tall, dark figure with a black winter coat, black gloves and a black brief case. It’s common knowledge that villains dress in black, right?

I remember thinking, there are so many empty seats, we won’t have to sit next to him… and yet – incomprehensibly – Mum headed determinedly towards the black-gloved man. I tugged on her skirt hoping to enlighten her to the fact that there were many other seats available, but she didn’t stop! She sat down next to him and started chatting!

It wasn’t long before I realised that Mum knew the black-gloved man (maybe it’s my Australianness, but the gloves really made an impact on my impressionable young mind. Now that I have lived in Europe, I realise how few people wear gloves in Australia; I mean for the cold, and not just for fashion. Let’s face it, our winters often crack out days of 15-19 degrees: T-shirt weather in England).

Anyway, Black Gloves eventually started hanging out with us more and more. I soon learned that he did have other colours in his wardrobe, and that he wasn’t as villainous as I initially thought. Sure, he won me over cheaply with a pink possum (which I still have) that said “For Some Special” on its stomach, but I eventually liked him for reasons less superficial than that.

When I was five, my mum married Black Gloves and added an irreplaceable person to my life. We’ve known each other for 27 years now, and I have always been able to count on him for support, advice, comfort, hugs and anything else I might need. He is always looking out for me and I know for sure that if I am ever in trouble, or need the slightest bit of help, I can always rely on him. I’m 30-years-old now, and I have come to realise how rare it is to have someone that you can sincerely say that about.

Gavin (Black Gloves) is, without a doubt, the most dedicated and generous person I know. He is dedicated to his family, dedicated to his job, dedicated to God and to helping others. It’s from this constant willingness to give of himself that he has taught me to be reliable and to live generously.

I know you’re reading this blog, Black Gloves, and even for that bit of support, I’m grateful daily. I love you from a very special place in my heart! Thanks for always being in my corner  xxx

From the Archives...

I just found this bit of poetry that I wrote around the same time I started this blog back in 2010. It's strange to think about how I've changed and grown as a person since then. I've seen and experienced a lot over the past three years... I think my general outrage over the state of society has mellowed into a quiet rejection of the things that I feel belittle, contradict or ignore the intrinsic value of individuals, and  which contribute to the attrition of society's ability to ask hard questions of itself, admit its own distractedness and give precedence to interpersonal relationships over superficial ideas of success. Anyway, here it is:

X

Written by Tania Plunkett, 21/03/2010

They prescribed the medication

For my clandestine generation

Pop art pills

And sour milk spills

The property placebo

To subjugate our wills

If you work more, you’ll have more

More stuff than you could care for

So discard the word ‘why’

‘Cause there’s no adequate reply

Just fill up your schedules

And you can rest when you die

And yet there’s an underground

Who see just what went down

The disenchanted minority

With a non-fiscal priority

Searching for each other

Among the plastic majority

Has our moment passed by?

Or is it still worth a try?

Can we untwist the truth

That was wrapped round our youth

Or have we been hanging too long

From this propaganda noose?

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! 

Where I Live

I just got back from a weekend in Rome where I celebrated my 30^th 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.  

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.

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. 

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 :)

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.

Parents Part 1: Courage

Since moving overseas by myself I have had to learn a lot of things very quickly and draw on all of my resources in order to survive. It often leads me to reflect on various things people have taught me throughout my life – especially my parents. As always, these valuable lessons have been transmitted, not by the lectures given or rules made, but by the example they set as I was growing up. For the record, I have FOUR parents and since I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, I’d like to take the time share a little something about each of them and what they have imparted to me as a person. I’m going to break it down into four parts to make it easier reading, so let’s start with Dad!

My dad is one of the most courageous people I know. I’m sure he doesn’t always feel very courageous, but in order to bestow something on someone else, you must have a measure of it yourself; and, as a father, the most precious thing my dad has passed onto me is his courage.

Dad waged his anti-fear campaign from very early on in my childhood. Whenever I saw something scary on TV or heard a strange noise in the house he would always explain them to me…

“It’s not blood, it’s tomato sauce, and that’s not a real shark, it’s a robot.”

“There’s no one out there. It’s just the water pipes banging. Houses make noises all the time.”

Yep, I have countless memories of my dad saying: “You mustn’t be afraid.” He gave me the impression that truly scary things were very rare in life and we shouldn’t let the fear of them rule us. I didn’t realise how profoundly this attitude had shaped me until I moved over here. I mean, it had occurred to me before, when my girlfriends were freaking out about a big spider or a noise that seemed like a burglar trying to break in, that I was able to draw on my dad’s “It’s nothing to be scared of” doctrine, but now I have come to think of it as an invaluable part of who I am.

Friends that thought I was crazy for going outside to prove that a noise was just the wind and not a criminal thought I was even madder when I moved to a new country where I did not know anyone or speak the language. I landed in Italy with the nebulous reassurance that somehow I would find my way – and I did. I see now that that quiet confidence is a gift from Dad that, for me, has become a life philosophy: “You mustn’t be afraid.” Fear can rob us of so many things, and no matter what I do with my life, I hope that I will always make the choice to be brave.

My dad has seen some pretty awful things in his time and been through many tough times, but he has always kept going, kept working hard and not given up. I have to tell you, I’m really proud of my dad. Every time someone tells me that I have guts, the person they are really paying tribute to is the man that taught me how. I am so grateful to him, and if I ever have kids, the one thing I hope to pass onto them is the courage to live an intrepid life.

“Ships are safe in harbour, but that’s not what ships are for.” – William Shedd

Italian Stallions

The secret weapon of the Italian Stallion is all in the way he looks at a woman. It's an art. The surreptitious glances employed by Australian men are alien concepts in Italy. Italians have no qualms about staring at you unrepentantly and yet they manage to do it in a way that is flattering, not freaky. They make you feel like they really SEE you. This is cryptonite for women. After a fair whack of time in this country, I'm fairly immune by now, however, a recent Italian Stallion incident was an apt reminder of their capabilities.

I was sitting at the base of a monument in Milan's Piazza del Duomo when a couple of guys sat themselves down next to me. It has to be said: One of them was quite good-looking. Let's call him Giorgio. Giorgio had a shopping bag from some Milan-based designer store and a cigarette he insisted on smoking in that smooth European way. His phone rang several times and it was evident that he spoke at least 3 languages. Impressive. Suddenly, Giorgio jumps up, raises his dark eyes wrathfully toward the sky and then beseechingly at his friend: "Did it get me?"

Yes Giorgio... It got you...

A pigeon had pooped on his pin-striped shirt. The friend giggled, and Giorgio despaired. In Italy, your clothes are practically your curriculum vitae.

Then... What did he do? He turned to me with one of those looks... As if he were asking me the deepest and most meaningful question in the world... "Do you have a tissue?" Recovering from the bomb blast of his weapons of mass seduction I altruistically produced not only a tissue but a bottle of water to help save his shirt. What a caring person I am... It was only after he had thanked me profusely and reflected on how fortunate he was that I was there, that I realised what was happening. I injected myself with a hardy dose of anti-cryptonite and moved on.

Now I hear you asking, "Is that the only story you have from your five weeks in Italy?" Of course not! Nowhere inspires me to write this blog like Italy! As soon as I get back to England I'll fill you all in. At least Giorgio had a full arsenal to work with. Stay tuned for a couple of guys who came at me with the likes of catapults and butter knives. HahahFor now, I'm trekking around Eastern Europe for ten days. I was sad to leave Italy this morning but now I'm in Prague and looking forward to my first stint in the Eastern Block! Catch you soon!

Lovely People

“A loving person lives in a loving world. A hostile person lives in a hostile world. Everyone you meet is your mirror” – Ken Keyes Jr.

I can’t tell you how much I agree with this quote.

In my job I meet new people every day from all kinds of backgrounds and situations. It’s amazing how people cope, or don’t cope, with the difficulties of life. Today I met one of the loveliest couples I have ever encountered in my life. They are an elderly couple living in Essex (where, coincidentally, I now work), and for the sake of maintaining patient confidentiality, I’ll call them Bill and Jan. Jan suffers from a particularly severe manifestation of osteoarthritis. Her joints shoot out into all kinds of irregular directions and her feet and knees and visibly deformed. She has every excuse to behave like many of the bitter and prickly characters I have likewise met through working in healthcare; but Jan is the sweetest lady you could imagine, and her husband, just the same.

“They say that society is going downhill, but I think that people are still pretty friendly, don’t you?” said Bill when we were discussing technology and its social impact.

“Yes definitely,” concurred Jan, “I say hello to people and I get warm greetings back. People are generally nice.”

I responded to them with what I said to you guys at the start of this post: “They say the world is your mirror. Loving people live in a loving world and hostile people in a hostile world. I think that saying is really true and you are both the proof of it because you’re both lovely.”

About five years ago I found that quote, scribbled it into a notebook, and it has stuck with me ever since. The more people I meet, the more I agree with it. When I was younger I was quite introverted and mistrusting of people. I thought they were bound to disappoint you in the end. I’ve realised over the years how wrong I was. People really are wonderful; flawed but wonderful. I meet more and more fantastic specimens at every bend in the road and I never want to take any one of them for granted. So I just wanted to take this moment to really cherish the nourishing and uplifting time I spent with that gorgeous couple today.

I shared a fact about my hometown with them and Jan said, “Oh I’ll always keep that with me now and I’ll think of you when I remember it.”

Jan… I will remember you too, and I won’t need anything external to prompt me to do so…