Let Me Lend You The Rhodora

“I’m writing this sitting in the kitchen sink.”

That’s the opening line of Cassandra’s journal (or as it is better known: the novel, I Capture the Castle, by Dodie Smith). I just finished reading that book. As I lie here procrastinating the preparation of my dinner and listening to Luciano Pavarotti, that quote floated into my mind. I love it because a kitchen sink is such a mundane thing, but when there is someone sitting in it, writing, it becomes irresistibly quirky and interesting.

The contrast between the kitchen sink image and the live recording of Pavarotti is creating quite a fascinating confusion of artistic expression in my head. On the one hand, there’s the off-beat, poetry-reading Cassandra writing in the sink and on the other is one of the most beautiful operatic voices belting out an Italian aria. I imagine Cassandra with her tatty clothes and alternative perspectives, living in a dank, broken-down castle and somehow it’s just as beautiful as the image of Pavarotti singing to an elegantly dressed crowd in a stunningly preserved 18^th century concert hall. I love that about art.

Listening to Luciano’s live performance reminded me of a time I attended a free concert at the music school in Siena. It was free because all of the performers were students, but of course they were all brilliant because you can’t get into that school unless you’re good! The room was magnificent; the kind I would imagine they held grand balls in during the 18^th & 19^th centuries. The walls were white with ornate cornices and golden gilding. I soaked them in as the exquisite violin and piano filled my ears… you know when you just feel beauty? There’s nothing else like it. You forget to take breaths and just allow everything you see and hear to absorb into your senses; hoping that you will be able to take in enough to remember it forever.

I think beauty is something that human beings need to survive. True beauty. Something that makes you marvel. Without it we forget that life is worth living. I’m sure you can all think back to a moment when you saw a gorgeous skyline, talked to a kind soul or heard a moving piece of music. Didn’t you feel… alive? I strongly encourage purposeful pursuit of beautiful things. It’s good for you! If you can’t think of anything like that right now, let me lend you a poem that always does it for me when I need a hit of beauty…

THE RHODORA

By Ralph Waldo Emerson

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,

I found a fresh Rhodora in the Woods,

Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,

To please the desert and the sluggish brook,

The purple petals, fallen in the pool,

Made the black water with their beauty gay;

Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,

And court the flower that cheapens his array.

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why

This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,

Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,

Then Beauty is its own excuse of being

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!

I never thought to ask, I never knew:

But, in my simple ignorance, suppose

The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

The Man Who Smelled Like Peanuts

I read somewhere that many of Charles Dickens’ peripheral characters were inspired by the odd people he observed on his train travels. Here in England I often think about that when I’m riding the trains and imagine the people around me as characters in a novel. It’s not too hard to do either because trains are always full of eccentric and obnoxious people just begging to be satirised.

At the moment I’m living in South Shields… a small town twenty minutes from Newcastle (the ‘cool’ city of the north). There really isn’t anything very remarkable about South Shields in the winter. It’s cold, bleak and everything closes early. However, it is a coastal town and I’m assured that it’s quite a charming little place in the summer. I can’t say I’m convinced that summers here are a worthwhile affair, but for these guys 24 degrees Celsius is a really big deal, so I smile and nod (I know… I’m an Australian-summer snob).

Apart from all that, the people here are the highlight. They have musical accents that I sometimes can’t understand and they are all SO NICE! From what I can see the north of England is one of the most amicable parts of the world. People are friendly, helpful and open. I love that. It makes my dinky accommodation and unfulfilling job almost worth it.

South Shields is linked to Newcastle by the Metro (Newcastle’s version of the tube). It’s an attempt at modernisation that would have me convinced if it weren’t for the fact that it only runs until about 11:30pm (even on weekends) and the carriages always smell like urine. No I’m not exaggerating; every carriage, every day, smells like urine. I’m not sure what’s going on there…

Anyway, one day last week a different smell wafted through my carriage. A 60-something-year-old gentleman decided to sit himself next to me with his newspaper and his flat cap. As he did, I smelled peanuts. It took me a couple of seconds to realise that (a) there were no actual peanuts in sight; and (b) there truly was a man sitting next to me who smelled like them. I mean REALLY smelled like them. In fact, that day, there may have actually been a giant peanut riding the Metro disguised as a Geordie.

What’s a Geordie? An inhabitant of Newcastle. They’ve all got nicknames up here depending on where they’re from or which politically incorrect category of social hierarchy they fit into.

I don’t know why the peanut man made such an impression on me but for some bizarre reason, he will pop up in my memory whenever I think of Newcastle! I guess maybe I felt a bit like Charles Dickens might have; sniffing this man and deciding to write him into a story as the eccentric do-gooder who baffles his beneficiaries with nonsensical one-liners (while emitting various legume-family odours). And for the first time since I got here, I felt like I was really living in England.

Thanks Dickens…

And Just Like That, It Was Gone…

I’m speaking, of course, of 2010. I spent nearly two years saving and planning for 2010. The big 2010: the year I was going to do Europe!! Well I’ve been living the plan and spending the money and the year has somehow out-run me! I can’t believe I’ve lived here for eight months now. I feel like I haven’t even started yet.

So what have I been up to? Since the last time I wrote, the definite highlight has been going to the West End production of Les Misérables. Seeing that show in London’s west end was the only thing I really had my heart set on doing while in England and now I can tick that one off the list! It was beautiful… and the guy who played Jean Valjean was brilliant. Of course, as always, nothing could ever compare to the book but I’m really glad I went.

Then, after a couple of months in London with the freezing temperatures and heaviest snowfall for twenty years, I returned to Italy to spend some time with friends over Christmas and New Year’s. Besides, would you believe, I am STILL waiting on my registration with the Health Professionals Council. I lodged the application in June. They told me it would take four months… We are now two days away from January… Bureaucracy really is the Achilles heel of a well-functioning society. And let me tell you, England’s red tape could wrap the Earth up like a Christmas present and still have enough ribbon left for a couple of the other planets who might be jealous.

Anyway, I’m really looking forward to getting back to England and finding a job and an apartment. I’m getting over living out of a suitcase and constantly having to calculate how many kilos I’ve added to it! I keep having to leave things behind with random people or mail things back to myself so my suitcase stays at optimum flying weight!

Getting back to this year… Every December, I sort of think about the year to come, and get a sense of what I want that year to be about. I saw 2010 as a Fresh Start. Over 2008/9 many things in my life changed and this year was about starting again with new perspective, new purpose and a clean slate. I wanted to clear all my previous assumptions and preconceived ideas off the table and see the world, my life, the universe, and eternity with completely fresh eyes. I can honestly say, that now – in December! – I finally feel like the fresh start is here. I feel a shift in my thinking and perspective. I feel like I’m seeing the world with new eyes. It’s really liberating…!

And next year? Maybe I’ll tell you about it once next year actually arrives… stay tuned!

Pleasant Surprises

As you may have gathered from my last post I have experienced a few… let’s say… adjustment issues following my move to England. I mean, when a supermarket shelf full of pasta can reduce you to tears, something is wrong!

Over the past few weeks, however, I have taken some time to reflect upon my new surroundings. I’ve been in England for over a month now and I must admit that I had quite a number of preconceived ideas about this place that have turned out to be untrue.

First rule of travel: Don’t take people’s word for it. Go with a blank canvas and an open mind. See for yourself.

FALLACY #1: NO-ONE WILL BE NICE TO YOU IN LONDON

Ever since I can remember, I’ve heard people saying how unfriendly people are in this big, impersonal city; how the tube (underground train network) is the headquarters of rudeness and that no one in this town would even tip out the dregs of their Evian on you if you were on fire. Well. I’m sure that like everywhere on Earth, London has its rude and boorish types, but my experience to date has been quite the opposite of what I was told to expect. Let me tell you some heart-warming public transport stories!!

The Suitcase

As always I was carting around the big suitcase filled with all my worldly possessions. Hey when you're away from home for a year and a suitcase is all you've got - it's big ok! While Paddington Bear was one of my childhood heroes, it is not my goal in life to emulate him. The suitcase is more like a thorn in my side than a romantic travel icon.

So I was training it from St. Alban’s to Kent with a change at London Bridge. I got off at platform 5 and lugged the heavy suitcase UP a flight of stairs, and then down again to platform 1. Well I took too long doing that because just as I stepped onto the platform, the doors shut and my train departed… of course. So I asked a lady standing on the platform a couple of futile questions in the hopes that she knew the information I would need to go back upstairs to find out. “I’ll go have a check for you,” she said, dashing up the steps. She returned moments later and sympathetically informed me that the next train was leaving from platform 5. I’D JUST COME FROM THERE!! RRRRR!!

I was psyching myself up for another round of weight-lifting when a concerned older woman approached me: “You’re not going back up the stairs are you?”

“Yes I’m afraid I have to.”

“But you know, if you walk to the other end of the platform, there’s a ramp!”

“Oh thank you soooooooooo much!!!”

Wasn’t that nice of both of them?

Two points to England! However, I do have to score Italy highly in this area also because, over there, my suitcase and I have never approached a flight of stairs without some nice Italian man offering to carry it for me. That doesn’t happen here. I don’t think it’s because people aren’t as helpful; I think that there is a fear of intruding or giving the impression that they are a swindler hoping to take off with your stuff. The English are nothing if not exceedingly POLITE. Also, the litigation culture here is ca-razy and perhaps there is an unwritten rule that no-one risks putting out their back and consequently no-one risks being sued!

The Gentlemen

England was the birthplace of the Gentleman and from time to time this history manifests itself in even the most unlikely of places. It’s so refreshing to get on a train while some nice man stands aside to let you step in first. I’ve also noticed that English gentlemen do no walk through a door before a lady even if the door is already open and they happen to reach it first. They stand aside and wait till the lady has gone through. It’s so lovely! There are many other little examples, but suffice to say, chivalry is not dead!

FALLACY #2: THE ENGLISH ARE AS WARM AS THEIR WINTERS

I think it’s fair to say that there is a stereotype out there that British culture is lacking somewhat in emotion and warmth. The Italians had no qualms about pitying me as I left their vivacious, passionate, hospitable culture for "colder climes"!

English culture can be quite polite, reserved and subdued in the way people relate to each other… however I don’t believe that that equates to a lack of feeling. You know what I think? If affection, passion and ardour do not bubble over, they don’t disappear; they simply bore down into the depths of the heart. I haven’t been here very long, but I can already see that the English character has many qualities I admire very much. Adjectives like noble, decent, courteous and respectful are not often hailed as the height of adulation, but I think these virtues are indicators of an underlying substance of great worth. I look forward to finding out what is actually underneath the surface.

I mean what makes a man say this:

“God Almighty has set before me two great objects, the suppression of the slave trade and the reformation of manners.” (William Wilberforce, abolitionist, politician, author and all-round amazing human being).

Now Wilberforce is one of my heroes, but I think this statement is hilarious! Only an Englishman would say such a thing! But I love it. I love it and I’m determined to find out what makes this culture tick.

Autumn Leaves on Skinny Trees

Yes, it’s true, I have been in the U.K. for a couple of weeks now and I have not told you guys anything about it. There are a number of contributing factors to this: busyness, laziness and the logistics of moving to a new place being among them. However, if I’m honest, I guess the primary reason for my silence is that I’ve just been missing Italy too much to concentrate effectively on my new surroundings.

I never expected it would be so hard to leave Siena. I guess I need to cut myself some slack though; I did live there for five months, make some amazing friends, and have the best summer of my life! It was difficult to leave it all behind. Moreover, I don’t yet have a place to really settle into here. The instability makes it easy to look back in the direction of Tuscany where I was comfortable and happy.

Anyway… once I put gothic edifices and fields of poppies and sunflowers out of my head, I was able to see the new type of beauty around me. England’s landscape is rather unique and, I might add, quite beautiful. Since I arrived I’ve been staying in Kent, which is affectionately known as “the garden of England” – and with good reason too. It’s gorgeous.

Little winding laneways enclosed by skinny, tall trees. Vibrant deciduous leaves contrasted against vast green lawns. Tudor and Victorian style houses sprinkled throughout the old streets. Little country churches. Pretty, pruned gardens. Stacks of history.

That’s Kent.

I’ve been staying with some distant relations: a retired couple who are just the best! They have been so good to me and I couldn’t have asked for a better starting point. They have helped to make the settling-in process a little smoother; though I must admit it has been more emotionally draining than I anticipated. There are also SO MANY things to organise to get yourself set up in a new country. I tip my hat – or perhaps it’s more accurate to say, beanie – to anyone who has ever immigrated!!

The other day a friend asked me if I was working yet, or still living “the life”. I said that I planned on living the life until January! Why not! I worked darn hard to save the funds for this period and, I also must mention the generosity of my family and the Australian Taxation Office whose gifts have bolstered the funds!! It’s my birthday tomorrow and my family have definitely given me the best present they could: their support for this little dream of mine. I have wanted to do this European thing since I was thirteen! So, yeah, I guess you can say I’m living the life I want to live. I’ll be sure to be grateful for that every time I see the autumn leaves on the skinny trees.

The Montepulciano Debacle

We set out with the best of intentions.

We set out with the most harmless assumptions.

The Italian public transport system had other plans for us…

My friend Waka and I set out for the nearby bus-stop at 6.30am on a Saturday morning. The plan was: a bus to Piazza del Sale, and a fifteen minute walk to the station from where we would leave for Montepulciano at 7.25am. Seems simple enough, right?

After going one stop too many, we got off and started walking at a leisurely pace toward Siena’s main station as we ostensibly had heaps of time. Suddenly, a thought flashed through my mind: “I haven’t checked the time-table for myself. I’m going on what Waka said two days ago.” Sure enough, when I had a look, the bus was arriving at 7.05am, not 7.25am. We ran! But as it turns out, the bus was late, not us.

We mounted the bus; relieved to be sitting in it after the frenzied half an hour it took us to reach it. Our relief, however, soon turned into stupefied incredulity when the Montepulciano bus stopped right opposite our apartment to pick up passengers. We never needed to go to the station! We laughed, we lamented, we got over it and we did what most people would do on a long bus ride at that hour of the morning: we fell asleep.

“Montepulciano! Montepulciano!” yelled the bus driver.

We hurriedly grabbed our things and alighted from the bus, which stopped outside a bar (for those of you unfamiliar with the Italian bar, it serves quick breakfasts and coffees in the morning). Within a minute of entering the bar it was quickly made known to us that we were not in Montepulciano, but a tiny little town called Buonconvento. What the heck?!!

There were only three possible reasons this could have happened: (1) Waka and I were simultaneously having the same dream about the bus driver’s announcement; (2) the bus driver didn’t have a clue about his own bus route and didn’t know where he was; or (3) he was telling the people getting on from the back where the bus was headed. You choose…

In any case, we were stranded at 8am on a freezing cold day and the next bus was not until 1:50pm. We took on board a few helpful tips from a local street cleaner and saw what there was to see at Buonconvento; that is, all that we could see past the condensation fog produced by our own breathing!

Notwithstanding a mad dash to then catch the bus out of Buonconvento (we were having a meaningful discussion about something and forgot the time!), we did eventually make it to the illusive Montepulciano. BUT when we got there, it was pouring and we were too tired to care. So we had a pisolino (nap) until dinner-time when the most we were up for was a brief evening stroll and food at a nearby restaurant.

It was nice to get back to the hotel and relax after a day dictated by buses. But just when we thought we were free of the public transport tyranny, we realised that there was no bus back to Siena the following day!

Are you getting sick of this story? So were we!

So Sunday morning: An obligatory look around Montepulciano in the pouring rain was followed by a mutual glance between Waka and I that said one thing: “I am so ready to move on.” (That was around 10:30am!).

We were then forced to catch an expensive taxi to Montalcino from where there would be a bus back to Siena. I know you’re thinking we should have checked the Sunday bus schedule previously, but Montepulciano is a much bigger and more touristy town than Montalcino (from where I knew there was a bus) so it didn’t even cross my mind that we could be stranded there!

Okay… so surely that’s it. Surely nothing else could go wrong with the bus? Wrong. We got to Montalcino around noon and found that there was a festival going on. We grabbed some lunch and took in some of the medieval oddities on show while waiting for the 2:48pm bus.

Alas… 3.45pm arrived and we were still peering expectantly up the road in the vain hope that our chariot would arrive. No dice.

So we found a crowd control guy who was working the festival and inquired after our bus. He rang through to someone who had a clue and alas… the bus was never going to arrive at that stop because the city had been shut down to buses for the event. Great. The next bus was at 6.33pm and had to be caught from a stop further out from the city walls. Don’t you just want to scream at this point?! In fact, we would have done so if our senses of humour weren’t just a little bit ironical. All we could do was laugh.

So after a further three hours of time killing, we were picked up by a compassionate bus driver, whom we had flagged down to ask whether we would ever in fact depart from this town. He said, his bus wasn’t going to Siena but that he would take us to the petrol station where he knew the Siena bus driver was coming to refuel.

While standing around waiting, we did have a few doubts. After all, we were totally dependent on the promise of this driver. We held our tickets with anticipation and discussed our fondly cherished dream of validating them.

And then finally… salvation!

All we did the whole weekend was wait on a flipping bus, but somehow it was one of the most hilarious weekends of my life!

Reverse Culture Shock

It’s a phenomenon of travel that people either care or don’t care about where you’ve come from depending on whether you are a foreigner or a local. When overseas, everyone wants to know where you’re from; what you’re home town is like; what you did while you were there; wether you liked the lifestyle; what you enjoyed about it and what you didn’t; so many questions! It’s great for helping you to reflect on on your origins. But when you go back home…

Many people find REVERSE culture shock harder to deal with than the original shock of being in a new and strange place. I think that this is, in part, to do with the fact that people at home are not usually so curious about you. Besides, no one wants to sit through a slideshow of your two-thousand photos while you reminisce. It’s only people who have been to the same places as you, and equally lack the opportunity to talk about them, that will usually engage you in lengthy conversation so you can compare notes.

You have to get back into the everyday swing of things at home; to fit in with everyone else. Sure, people ask you questions depending on either their level of care for you, their curiosity, or at a minimum, the sense of social obligation; but somehow the deeper questions never get asked and a sense of bewilderment often results from the lack of facilitated reflection.

When other friends I know have returned from long stints overseas, I’ve always noticed a sense of loss and isolation on re-entry to their home country. This doesn’t seem to make sense on the surface, because they have gone from being ‘alone’ in strange land to being back with everyone they know and love. However, they have come back changed and they need to be reacquainted with all the old familiar people and places in light of who they are now.

Imagine you return to a situation you know inside out but YOU have changed. It’s just as unsettling as if the situation was completely foreign because you no longer know how to fit in. Culture shock is like a square peg leaving its square hole and trying to fit into a round one… the difference in shape causes incongruence and isolation.

But say, over time, the square peg’s edges get softened a bit and although it is still square, the edges get rounded enough to fit into the round hole, albeit imperfectly. When that round-edged-square comes back home to its square hole, it will find that it does not fit there like it used to. It will experience the reverse of what happened in the first place. I think this is why travellers I’ve known have told me they could not bear to go back to their old jobs, or the place they used to live once they had returned. The new incongruence is just too unsettling.

I was thinking about all this while I was in Rome, recently returned from a short visit to home. I was trying to make sense of the strange sensations I experienced while at home and realised that a sense of frustration came from not being able to talk about the things that were really on my mind. A rush of a thousand thoughts that had followed me home from my life overseas.

I must admit that in the past, I too have cared little for returning travellers’ stories. Now I see the importance of giving someone a platform, not to boast about their adventures, but to process just what has happened as a result of the said adventure. I mean, pilgrims travelled FOR the purpose of being changed. Changing your environment, your lifestyle, your everyday objectives and your preconceived ideas is bound to leave an indelible impression on your identity.