Tutto... OK!

Viareggio (Day 1)

2009-07-15T20:58:00.003+02:00

I'm sitting in my very small, but very cute, studio apartment in Viareggio. My "Relax Factor" is currently running at 2/10 with a hopeful forecast of improvement.

Simone and I had bid farewell to our dear friends in Austria yesterday morning before we began our drive back home to Manerbio. We arrived at 14:00, ate a plate of scrambled eggs together, and then, after a bit of cuddling, Simone helped me to load my bags in to the car for my solo two-hour drive to Viareggio.

Viareggio is not a new place to me. In fact, it was the first place I stayed in Italy when I came here alone at the age of 18. I had enrolled myself in the very same Italian school and had spent, like I am about to do now, four weeks in morning language classes with afternoons spent doing whatever I liked... usually lying on the beach or out and about on excursions to beautiful spots in the area. It had been a great time for me; an important part of my adolescence and journey to adulthood. I met people who would become great friends to me and, as a result of my classes, I began to love languages and culture in a very personal way.

And here we are now: six years later. I now live in Italy (something I would have never done had I not had that first experience at 18) and my desire for language training is stronger than ever before. My needs are a little different now; I'm no longer shy when it comes to speaking. Now I need someone who will relentlessly correct my mistakes before they become too fossilized, and, of course, prepare me for a more communicative life in Italy. It's so different than the last time I was here, speaking about the standard "Italian Culture" topics such as coffee and cinema and wine and pasta! I'm now beyond the "tourist" stage... even if that is a sad realization...

In any event, I arrived last night and put all my things in order, then woke early today for the placement test at 8:15 AM. When I returned at 11:00 AM to see the results, I was absolutely shocked to find that they put me in the highest level! Granted, I have learned a lot in the last two years, but I still make a fair number of mistakes! There's absolutely no doubt about that!

When I arrived, however, I found that the other students had similar capacities and difficulties. If anything, their grammar was a little more advanced while I was able to express myself a little more fluently. I welcome the challenge with arms open wide! Grammar was never a great difficulty for me, it's just been a few years since I've studied it in a formal setting; I'm sure I'll be able to more or less catch up to them in the next few weeks.

Our class is comprised of five lovely ladies! To my right I have Maria. She's a funky, dread-locked Spanish gal who graduated in Environmental Biology and will soon be off to do research on the Canary Islands. To my left I have Olga, a tall and elegant blonde young woman from Russia. Next to her is Alexandra who works in the law courts of Romania, and next to her is Dasha, a student of Modern Languages from Moscow.

After an hour of grammar and an hour of conversation today I feel very positive about the group and I really do like our instructors (Alessandra for grammar, and Nadia for conversation). Tomorrow, thank goodness, we begin at the much more reasonable hour of 9:00AM!

After our group sessions I had a 45 minute private lesson with a very sweet, young, and energetic woman called Francesca. She was really wonderful to speak with and she asked me some very detailed questions about what I wished to study in my time with her. We decided on some very interesting topics including extra grammar and diction, preparation for an Italian university entrance exam, and some various topics in theatre and in literature. I am really looking forward to getting everything I possibly can out of our sessions together.

It was a positive day. Already after having written all this and after having reflected on all these positive developments, my "Relax Factor" has already gone up to a solid 3, and the forecast looks sunny.

Carinthia

2009-07-15T20:57:00.004+02:00

Despite the heavy emotional burden of our apartment situation, Simone and decided nevertheless to set out for the Austrian province of Carinthia for a pre-arranged weekend with a dear old friend of mine, Stefan. And boy oh boy did we ever make the right decision!

And so begins another summer of travel and adventure.

It was, really, the perfect weekend. Despite having arrived a few hours later than we had hoped to due to arguments in a lawyer's office and the signing of new rental contact in Montichiari, Simone and I arrived in relatively peace and calm, ready to enjoy our weekend in Völkermarkt, Carinthia, a comfortable 4.5 hour drive from Manerbio.

It was a couples' weekend: Simone and I and Stefan and his boyfriend Daniel. When we arrived there was only Stefan since Daniel was coming on the train the following day, and so we happily spent our time chatting with Stefan and eating together before heading off to bed for a good night's sleep.

Then, the next morning, we looked around Völkermarkt, eating local pastries, walking about town and comparing prices of oversized sofas... candidates for the new apartment that Simone and I will occupy next month...!

Daniel arrived in the afternoon and I was so pleased to meet him! Stefan is a dear dear friend of mine and I was so glad to see him happily together with this very nice boy. We went out for an ice cream along the lake in the early evening and later on, back home, Stefan made us a heavenly pasta with fresh, sweet, cherry tomatoes. Simone was impressed... I was too, even if I did already know about Stefan's incredible skills in the kitchen.

The next morning we decided to plan a BBQ. We went to the supermarket and bought at least 4 kilos of meat! Sausages, frankfurters, marinated chicken and pork and a lot of fresh greens. After putting everything in the fridge we were off to the mountains for a bit of scenic trekking.

The BBQ was well deserved after the walk. We ate like kings and queens – so much so that we had to wait another hour before we could manage to have the after dinner ice cream.

It was such a treat to see Stefan and to spend the weekend in our group of four! I absolutely loved the dynamic of all our energies combined. We laughed a lot and had a lot of fun, which is really the way it ought to be. It was such good fun that I even managed to forget a lot of the troubles from the previous week.

Next time we rendezvous, it will be Stefan and Daniel who come to see us in Italy, and we can't wait!

The New Apartment

2009-07-15T20:56:00.004+02:00

Despite all the difficulty that lead us to it, Simone and I have whole-heartedly agreed that the new apartment is really, really going to be great.

Moving from the ground up...

Below the building we have a one-car garage and a very large storage space. We also have a parking space outside, and so that takes care of both our cars. The apartment itself is on the ground floor (great for our kitty cat who will be able to come and go as she pleases!) yet very smartly raised up about one meter, helping the apartment to avoid the excess humidity and moisture that plagues the whole of the Po Valley.

The apartment is also substantially larger than the one we're in now. We went from 50 square meters to a whopping 70! The difference in temperature (for our current apartment) is remarkable. It feels much cooler even without air conditioning. The living space is very roomy - so roomy, in fact, that Simone and I already have our eye on some very cosy, over-sized sofas! Another purchase we'll most certainly make is an external dishwasher, which is really the only thing lacking in the kitchen. The apartment also has two balconies – one off of the main living space and the other off the bedroom.

As for the location, the apartment is located just outside the centre of Montichiari, where Simone is from. We decided to look there not because it is particularly close to Brescia, where Simone has his office, or to Cremona, where I'll be going to theatre school next fall, but because the idea of living there has a great number of other advantages for us both. Simone's mother and father still live in the vicinity, and his sister lives in the nearby town of Carpenedolo; for Simone, the thought of coming back to his roots and moving closer to his family was very comforting and exciting. For me, the idea of moving to a larger city is very, very exciting. Montichiari and its surrounding suburbs is more than double the size of Manerbio with about 30,000 people, and it makes me feel much more comfortable having that many more services nearby. We're also much closer to the ever-popular Garda Lake, a hub of bars, restaurants, shops and discos, which will make weekend and evening outings and dinners that much more stimulating!

All in all, it is a shame that we couldn't avoid yet another move, but with all these positive aspects taken into consideration along with the current difficulty we have in Manerbio, how can we possibly resist?

This will be our great new beginning.

The Apartment Situation

2009-07-15T20:55:00.002+02:00

It's been a tense, tense few weeks. It seems just yesterday that Simone and I were looking forward to renewing the rental contract on the apartment where we were living, and yet in a matter of days we were frantically searching for a new apartment, compelled to get out as soon as humanly possible after the owner, in a fit of paranoia, decided to drastically change the terms of the agreement and follow up with a series of rude and demanding phone calls.

It was supposed to have been a good few weeks for me. I was finishing my work contract and looking forward to a few days of nothing to do but relax and do some writing, perhaps some riding too. Instead, Simone and I were on the internet, on the phone, and in the car going from one appointment to the next, trying to clean up and close off our stressful and aggravating situation with the current landlord while seeking a new place to call home.

In the end, we managed it. Already we have a new apartment which is ours on August 1^st, and we expect to be completely moved in by the 15^th. The old landlord, in the meantime, is trying her best to make life a living hell for everyone still legally involved in the old apartment.

What a terrible experience it's been. It's been such an emotional load that I'm worried I'll be forever wary and mistrustful in all experiences after it.

I can't wait to get out of there. It's high time Simone and I got the fresh start we both deserve.

Lilly

2009-07-15T20:53:00.004+02:00

Simone knows I'm crazy about cats. I don't fully understand it myself, but when it comes to me and the desire to cuddle something soft and furry, there's only one fix... and it's a cat.

I had my reservations about getting one, though. Having grown up in Canada, the family cats had always been able to run free and at the moment Simone and I live in an apartment above ground. I think I would have felt very strange having a cat who stayed always indoors. It would be a bit... unnatural... I think...

Simone proposed the idea of a ladder which the cat could climb from our balcony down to the garden below. It seemed perfect! While I had never heard of such a thing in my entire life, I was sure we could manage it. We agreed, then, to get a cat in October when we returned from Canada. The deal was this: I would choose the cat, and Simone would name it.

On a Tuesday a few weeks ago, Simone asked me if I wanted to go visit his mom with him. It had been a while since he and I had seen her, so I agreed whole-heartedly. We were in the car on the road to Montichiari when Simone asked me if we could stop in the nearby town of Vighizzolo to pick up a hard drive from a colleague of his, Diego. I of course said yes.

When Simone parked the car I asked him if it would be better to wait in the car or to come in. He shrugged and said, why not come in? We went inside to see Diego, who at first chatted a bit with Simone and I, and then went into another room to get the hard drive. He returned with a rather large box (what kind of hard drive is this?) with holes in the side... very peculiar!

Simone flashed me a big smile, opened the box, and said: you can choose one, my darling!

Inside the box was a mass of long poufy hair: three tiny kittens mewing softly. I almost started crying! They were so beautiful!

Two were black and white, the other was grey with stripes. I immediately knew the one I would choose. She was an explorer. A hunter. A real mischievous little girl. She was a cutie pie.

Simone chose the name: Lilly.

She was only three weeks old when we first saw her, which was still too young to take her away from her mother. We agreed that she would come home with us at the beginning of August, and when we went to Canada in September, she could stay with Diego and the other cats.

Simone's surprise made me jump for joy! I couldn't stop smiling the entire evening. Our little Lilly!

Diego has been amazing about keeping up with the photography! It seems like every second day there's a new photo of Lilly and her brothers and sisters uploaded to Facebook, and for that I thank him!

We can't wait to take her home with us!

Mom and Dave’s Visit

2009-07-15T20:42:00.005+02:00

In June it was Mom and Dave's turn for a tour of the Italian countryside!

Simone and I went to pick them up on a Sunday afternoon from Malpensa airport outside Milan.

That evening, after the two of them had a chance to shower and freshen up after their flight, we all came together for a nice home-cooked meal including marinated olives and parmigiano cheese to start, fish done in a large pan of tomato sauce, capers and olives, bruschette and fruit salad. Not long after we finished eating the two of them were ready for bed, and in fact we were too.

They spent a good week with us there in Manerbio. Unfortunately, Simone and I both had to work, and so I gave Mom and Dave the keys to my car and the GPS navigator and pointed them in several possible directions.

They were happy to take the wheel and give it a go!

The first destination was Cremona, where, since I was with them, we saw together the big beautiful piazza and took a long, long trek up to the top of the medieval tower for fantastic 360° views of the countryside. We also had some very yummy gelato.

Later on in the week, Mom and Dave went to see lots of great places like Parma, Verona, and even the Safari Zoo in Bussolengo. We would sometimes meet up in the evenings and they would tell us all about their adventures.

On Friday evening we had a very special event planned: dinner with Simone's mother, Eleonora, and his sister, Daria, and brother-in-law, Marco. Just like when my dad met Simone's dad, it was definitely an important moment which brought us lots of laughter and enjoyment.

I was particularly impressed with Daria's English which I had not ever heard before that evening - it was phenomenally good! And she had a great English accent! We ate a fantastic amount of delicious food - including Simone's prize-winning tiramisù - and so rolled out of Daria and Marco's home well past midnight.

On Saturday, Simone and I took our guests for a few special visits. The first stop was to see my friend Michela who had recently given birth to her first son, Edoardo, and who had just come home from the hospital with him. My mom, being a baby fanatic, was greatly pleased to meet them! We greeted them, spoke a few words together, dropped off our gift of baby clothes for them and then quietly made our way out the door and on to our second visit.

The next stop was Novagli where I had recently begun to ride and train Simone's uncle's horse, Fosca. We went to pay a visit to Uncle Luigi and Aunt Graziella and, most auspiciously, the adorable baby foal that was recently born by another mare of Luigi's.

After these two 'baby visits,' we were finally off to the lake town of Sirmione where spent the rest of the day at the luxurious thermal baths. While I must admit that the water was a bit warm for me (in those days the temperature hovered easily around 30° at and after midday), I really did enjoy the hot/cool baths that aim to improve circulation in the legs and feet and which induced a very odd tingling sensation in my toes.

We had a delightful dinner in Sirmione that night and so closed off the "Manerbio" leg of their trip in Europe in style and good taste!

Mom and Dave then left for Nice, France the following morning. Simone and I saw them off at the station not with goodbyes but instead with choruses of "see you soon!" I, afterall, would be joining them in Nice in only a few days, and then, in September, both Simone and I would be in Canada for my sister's wedding.

On Tuesday evening I arrived in Nice by train. Mom and Dave were so kind as to put me up in my very own suite in the very cute hotel where they were staying. In three days we saw so many different things: the long, spectacular waterfront, the charming and bohemian old town and lots of shopping districts from which we exited with even more shopping bags!

Soon we were back on the train and returning to Milan, where we would spend one more night together. We went to see the awesome gothic style Duomo both inside and out, the gallery dedicated to Emmanuel II and the exterior of the famous La Scala theatre. Dinner that evening was spectacular. Mom ordered a pasta with lobster, Dave a plate of chicken with mango sauce, and I a very exotic salad with kiwi fruit and shrimp. We ate well and sampled a bit of the local rosé which was very yummy indeed.

We then took a short walk around the area before taking the underground home to our hotel. The next morning would see Mom and Dave off to the airport and on to London, and I on the train home to Manerbio. It was so great to spend so much quality time with the two of them, and I was happy too to know they had so many great things still to come in the rest of their trip.

Dad and Marg’s Visit

2009-07-15T20:17:00.004+02:00

For a long weekend in May, Dad and his partner, Marg, came to pay us a visit in Italy. We got them a reservation in the Loft Hotel in Manerbio and promised them a fantastic four-day stay.

On Friday they arrived and we were prepared. Dinner was beef roast cooked in olive oil, lemon juice and capers, with salad and a very popular almond cake.

On Saturday we went to Monte Isola – the largest lake island in all of Europe – to take a half-day hike up to the top for spectacular 360° views.

That evening we had pizza in Manerbio and later took a walk around the centre of town.

On Sunday we rented a boat on lake Garda and spent the morning touring the small islands near the port of Manerba. We also made a stop in Sirmione – a beautiful town on the lake's peninsula where we had lunch and gelato.

After we turned in the boat and had our showers, we walked down to the pier and had a wonderful, talkative, at times side-splittingly funny fish dinner with Simone's Dad, Pierangelo, and his girlfriend, Carla. Everyone was in good spirits and we translators got a big kick out of the ensuing conversation.

On Monday morning Simone went to work. Dad, Marg and I did some shopping in the Franciacorta Outlet Mall and, when we returned in time for me to teach my evening lesson, Simone was already on his way home, ready to take Dad and Marg out for, what I was later told, a very memorable meal at an odd (but very good!) local restaurant called Cavallino.

The next morning it was time for goodbyes as Dad and Marg headed off to Switzerland. The weekend had been such great fun that we parted ways with many great new memories of our time together.

Things to Look Forward to

2009-04-10T15:04:00.001+02:00

Seven days of holiday which began yesterday
The warm weather that has begun to settle in during the last few weeks
My Father's visit with his partner Marg in May
My Mother's visit with her Partner Dave in June
Finishing my work contract on June 30
Going to the sea in Tuscany for a four-week language intensive (July 13-Aug 8)
Coming home to Canada for a month, including:
- a much needed sojourn in Vancouver with my friends and grandparents,
- my sister's wedding in September, and
- a week-long Canadiana road trip with Simone!

The Things We Learn from English Texts

2009-04-10T14:43:00.001+02:00

After five gruelling hours at the high school, I'm lucky to have a bright and interested boy for my final lesson of the day. What's more, the text book we use is really fantastic.

Geared towards the young adults and those in their twenties, I have to admit that, even though it's a textbook for learning English, it strikes a chord in me too!

Topics of conversation include:

Learning languages,
Taking opportunities to live and work abroad,
What one looks for in a partner,
How to squeeze the most out of life, and
Following your dreams against all odds.

How can you not be inspired by a story of a teacher who drills this into her students?

"I have a little secret for you all. You do have unlimited abilities and talents. If you don't go for your dreams, no one will do it for you. And if you abandon your dreams, you'll regret it forever. You can have whatever you want if you want it enough."

And right there, in the middle of my lesson with this bright young boy, I realized I haven't had a dream for many months. He instead is absolutely brimming with potential and energy.

I was like that too. Oh yes. I can remember it as if it were yesterday.

No dreams? No wonder I feel like a sack of potatoes.

Who am I?

2009-04-10T14:29:00.001+02:00

Conversation class at the local high school.

Class 5B. Rowdy as all hell but a great group of kids.

We play a game called "Who am I?"

One student leaves the classroom.

I show a picture of a very famous person to the rest of the class.

The student re-enters and asks yes or no questions until they manage to guess "who they are."

It's great fun and we're laughing lots.

With two minutes left I propose that they begin their break early.

But they have a different idea.

YOU GO OUT! They shout with mischievous grins.

Grinning, I go out the door and wait until they decide "who I am."

I hear OK! Deciso! (OK! It's decided!) and the door re-opens to let me in.

Am I Italian?

NO!

Am I American?

NO!

Am I Asian?

...ummm....

Del Medio Oriente! (Middle Eastern!)

Oh great, I think.

Am I a man?

YES!

God. I have no idea.

Am I famous?

YEEEESSSS!!!!

Ma, diciamo che tuo padre è ancora più famoso! (Well, we can say that your father is even more famous!)

What? I'm thinking.

Time is ticking away. I'm about to embarrass myself in front of a huge group of young adults.

Lo sai! Lo sai! (You know it! You know it!) They tell me with great enthusiasm.

Oh God! I laugh.

NOOO!! GOD IS THE FATHER!!

A bewildered but slowly comprehending pause ensues.

Am I... Jesus?

YEEEEESSSS!!!!

The Last Tenant

2009-04-10T14:12:00.001+02:00

Sunday morning, 11:00. Simone and I are drinking our tea and milk and munching on breakfast biscuits. How wonderful it is to spend our first Sunday together, in our home, without boxes stacked everywhere...

There's a knock at the door. With confused expressions, we open it to find one of our neighbours who lives above us. He's agitated. He introduces himself and begins to tell us an unsettling tale from the night before. There's a homeless man who is sneaking in and sleeping downstairs in the basement of the apartment building. Quite probably he's been coming in and doing so for many months. He hides himself in a dark corner under the stairs and they've found loads of stuff – his belongings – stashed away under there. The police came and he was taken away.

The worst part is this: he was the previous tenant of the apartment where Simone and I now live together. And, most likely, he still has the keys.

A moment of panic.

What do you mean, he still has the keys? For the front door of the building? For the garage? For my house?

No, no, says our neighbour. The locks to our apartment had been changed when the old tenant was kicked out. But now we have to change the locks of the building's main door and limit access to the garage to those who have the remote control openers.

The event has brought the neighbours in closer contact with each other than ever before, and I begin to hear tales about the old tenant.

He hadn't paid his rent for over two years when they finally forced him out.

When they broke open the door they found a lurid mess.

He had been living like an animal.

Opening the kitchen drawers they found lakes of rancid wine.

His alcoholism had taken a severe turn.

His power was cut and so he trailed power cords out his window to steal electricity from the neighbouring buildings.

I'm filled with sadness for his condition and yet I can't help but be fearful too.

One morning I encounter my neighbour from Sunday morning. He's distributing, in advance, keys for the new front door lock which will be installed the following morning. He gives me three copies: one for myself, another for Simone, and a third for our cleaning lady. He goes on to tell me that they had found the old tenant once again that night, drunk and snoring under the stairs, and that the police once again came to take him away.

That night I go downstairs to put a few things in the storage space. As the elevator descends I can't help but feel anxious. What if he's sleeping downstairs right now?

I step gingerly out of the elevator and look around the corner. Nothing. No sound, nothing.

I take a deep breath and start unloading the objects and stashing them in the storage space.

Suddenly I see a face peek around the corner.

It's my friend and neighbour, Pier, with whom I always speak English since he partially grew up in Canada himself.

He'd been spooked too. Hearing the noises I was making he'd thought the old tenant had come back and so he had come down to check.

He helped me finish my task and then walked me back up to my apartment where Simone, who had just come home from work, opened the door at the sound of our voices.

Pier explains to us that he had been afraid when the old tenant was living here. He was never sure what could happen and had often imagined catastrophic accidents involving the gas being left on and a careless drunk who lights up a cigarette.

But, he said, despite his condition and carelessness, he is not a violent man. Even if you were to have come in contact with him over the past few months, more than likely he wouldn't have done anything to harm you.

He's just an old man with a drinking problem who can't seem to overcome it.

The next morning the lock of main door of the building is changed.

Last night Simone and I drove to see Michela for her birthday. As we were coming out of the garage, Simone turned his head sharply in the direction of the apartment.

"What is it?"

"Oh, nothing," he replied.

"Did you see something?"

"Well, I saw someone who could be the old tenant."

We were at a roundabout.

"Let's go have a look," we agreed.

We saw a man walking unsteadily away from the front door of the apartment building. He looked towards us with a bland, placid, docile expression, blinking heavily into the brightness of our headlights. It was definitely him. A large belly protruded over his jeans. He seemed clean, but oddly dressed. On his back was a duffle bag, the straps of which were hooked onto his shoulders as if it were a backpack. He considered our car for a moment and then continued to walk on in short, uneven steps. Maybe he'd just tried his key and discovered it didn't work anymore.

"Let's go," said Simone.

We drove on to Michela's house in silence, Simone with his hand on my knee.

Marta

2009-04-10T11:14:00.001+02:00

I teach English a group of 4, 5 and 6 year-olds once a week for one hour. The program is called English is Fun! and, in fact, the lesson usually consists of colouring, drawing and playing for an hour. That sounds like fun, doesn't it?

Recently a new student joined us. She is little Marta, no older than 4. If you had to sum up her personality in a word, it would be sunny, for she is one of the sunniest, bubbliest, and sweetest little girls I've ever met. She greets everyone with an enormous grin. She laughs uncontrollably and is generous with the other children. She plays fairly and is gentle with everyone.

On her first day, when many other children are even too scared to climb the stairs to our language school, Marta marched up to the door and flashed me a huge smile before we'd even begun. Being so little I was sure she might have some difficulties with the activities, but the other children were quick to help her.

Everything was going so well. For the final 10 minutes I set everyone down to play some bingo, and Marta began to win. She had only one space to fill on her card when I pulled out the one she was missing! With glee she filled her card and sat grinning while I continued to call the rest of the cards for the other children. When we had finished and it was time to sing the song, she suddenly called out:

Ho fatto la pipi addosso!

Our little Marta, so excited, so happy, had been completely distracted from her body's signals. Below her chair we saw a small puddle of what could only be... pee.

Oh dear. What changes my life has seen over the last year and a half.

The Move

2009-04-10T10:52:00.001+02:00

March 30, 2009, roughly 2:30pm. Rain drizzles down on my head as I push a bicycle with partly-deflated tires down a country road. I have several sets of keys jammed and crammed into my jeans' pockets. The hard metal edges jab into my thighs with every squishy-shoe step I take towards my apartment not 500 metres away.

How did I get here?

Today is moving day. Simone and I have spent the last three weekends throwing out his old clothes, folding the rest, packing his bowls and cups into boxes, his books, his last 8 years of life. His necessity to leave his old apartment and our recent happy cohabitation led to the easiest of decisions: that he move in and "my" house should become "our" house.

Simone's sister, Daria, and her fiancé, Marco, drive past me in their little but loaded-up transport truck, and then Simone, blowing kisses to me from the wheel of his car which rolls past me slowly with the trunk open and several long objects jutting out the back end.

Within a few hours we finish everything. Boxes are stacked up high inside the storage space, squeezed in with an old snowboard, a computer desk and various other gizmos and gadgets. Other boxes are brought up to the apartment and nestled in amongst the hundreds of other things to be organized and put in their proper place.

In our bedroom, two huge new IKEA wardrobes stand tall against the opposite wall, waiting to be filled with various "his" and "hers" articles. Having been lovingly constructed by us two in the wee hours of a Friday evening, Simone and I look on them with a particular fondness and affection.

We four movers sit ourselves down at a kitchen table hastily cleared away to make room for coffee and sweets. We make a lunch of the various cookies and sugary delights, hearing stories about Daria and Marco's dog, Geronimo, and his countless misadventures.

Then, when the two helpers leave, we continue our unpacking and organization until it was time for pizzas. They arrive at our door piping hot, ready to be devoured. With kisses and hugs and happiness about the move's success, we gobble down our dinner, nestled into the stacks of boxes and personal treasures.

Update

2009-03-01T15:43:00.003+01:00

It’s been several months since I’ve updated here. Many weekends have passed where I’ve asked myself, “why don’t I update on my blog?” though the thought never did lead to any sort of action. Excuses were numerous and varied. Some weekends were honestly busy with dinners, social events, excursions and lesson preparations all to be done in a very short 48-hour period. Other weekends were lazy; movies were rented and pyjamas were on before 10 pm. Other weekends were down, and the deadly mix of low energy and rampant impatience with my life situation made for angry and difficult times.

But here I am now. And so I write.

A chronological order of the past months’ events seems proper, doesn’t it? And yet so much passed time seems to have a warping affect on my thoughts. It seems like ages ago that Simone and I left for Canada, years ago that Simone blew out the candles on his 32nd-birthay cake, and all the while the other dinners, worries, laughs and sleepless nights stew around themselves in an opaque pot of misunderstanding, bliss and uncertainty. Chronology would be an insult to the present mood; thus, I leap forward without too much concern for what came first, last or in the middle.

A girl who was once poised like a cat to leap into unknown territories with plans of seeing every inch of the world before her 30th birthday now lets her alarm clock determine the timing of her next move. Every morning a re-opening of a sad old wound. Optimism stems from only one thought: the end is in sight. But the beyond is only an empty crevasse.

I am driving faster than normal. I running harder than necessary. I open a bag of cookies and five minutes later I‘m shocked to see it’s half-empty. Anxiety boils in my muscles seeking a proper pressure valve. I wake up in the morning with a sharp pain in my right shoulder and a dull ache my lower back. The sacred connection between consciousness and my body’s requirements is slowly dissolving away. I am losing touch with my organism, and the resulting discombobulation is wreaking havoc on my pitch, roll and propulsion systems.

Simone celebrated his 32nd birthday in January. I gifted him a white dress shirt, a graphic novel and a honey massage. That Saturday 15 Italian friends gathered to celebrate in a sushi restaurant with (predictably) more than half of them eating their fish cooked. I made sure there would be enough sweets for everybody when I asked a dear of Simone’s – a chef herself – to prepare two desserts for us. A tiramisù and multilayered chocolate cake. They were a hit, and we all rolled out of the restaurant with stomachs distended.

Simone and I are living together in my small apartment. Our sweaters, socks and underwear are loving stuffed into a communal set of drawers. Our dresses and suits are crammed and stuffed into the small closet space. Clothes from the day before lie strewn on chairs and the edge of the bed. Our toothbrushes sit side-by-side. His razor and shaving cream occupying a previously-vacant corner of the sink ledge. His hair gel lies snuggled next to my bottle of hair spray.

I work until late at night. Often I return home, arms bulging with English textbooks, eyes drawn with fatigue and throat dry and tired from five straight hours of English conversation, to his smiling face and bright, playful eyes. I’ve never shared my space with another person before, but with Simone it’s so fluid. It’s so easy. I understand now why people fall in love. I understand now why people change trajectories for a shared future. I understand that, if I wish to, I can make such a choice with this man. But how on earth does one “make” such a choice? Is it something that you decide one Sunday morning as you wake gently from slumber? Is it a thunderbolt realization that hits you in mid-sip of your after-lunch coffee? Or do I, one day in the uncharted future, discover that the decision has already been made? Composed? Passively stitched together with numerous mornings, moments, and meals shared together over time?

All I can do to keep things in perspective is to recite my mantra: day by day.

Simone and I went to Canada for Christmas. We shared 48 hours of passing international boundaries and time zones. 24 to go. 24 to return. I didn’t realize, until it was too late, that I had packed some difficult expectations in my bag along with my swimsuit, jeans and socks. We encountered unexpected difficulties and struggled with our communication: an incomprehension that was not created by our different languages but by the unfamiliarity of the situation. We overcame our disappointment as we always do: slow conversations, arms wrapped around each other, plenty of tissues for tears, plentiful kisses and embraces and as much patience as we possibly could muster. We left a couple. We returned a wiser couple. And we continue to share... the present.

And yet.

There is a destructive churning sensation in my gut has lately become a constant. I was riddled with anxiety attacks in November. Then, most unexpectedly, the return from Christmas sapped me of all my will to go on. Only like a zombie did I manage to continue to execute the necessary actions. Teach, eat, sleep. Teach, eat, sleep. On and on I continued. Now that the weather has become and bit warmer I can see the end of my contract in sight. I can’t wait to finish with my work. But the thought of the next step paralyzes me with fear.

I am in a loving relationship. I am sharing my evenings and weekends with a fantastic man. But in all other moments I’m without direction or enthusiasm.

Where is the girl, crouching like a wild cat, surveying the majesty of the world around her, licking her lips in excitement for the next taste from a immense platter hovering just under her nose?

Chronology would be an insult to the present mood; thus, I leap forward without too much concern for what came first, last or in the middle. And so, without any sense of time I shouldn’t need to fear what comes next.

Should I?

Snow

2008-11-28T14:25:00.004+01:00

I never thought that snow would make me cry.

It’s nearly 14 months since I began calling Manerbio home. I came here with the hopes of learning a new language. Of learning the profession of teaching my language to others. Of understanding a new culture, a different way of life, of tasting what life could be like in another place and time.

Today is my relaxing day; I have only one lesson to teach, and it’s my two favourite (and shortest) students… a brother and sister of 10 and 9 years respectively. I enjoy the lesson so much, I half-consider Friday to be my day off.

So I slept in. I had a shower. I made my sweetheart some lunch and brought it to him at work. And now I’m at home again. The dishes are washed, the house is in order, and I have nothing urgent to do.

And outside, snow is falling.

It’s the thick, wet, soppy kind. It blurs the landscape into a greyish glow. Most of it melts on contact. It’s the kind of snow you find in Vancouver, the kind that needs an umbrella.

I’m looking out the window, full of the same thoughts that have plagued me for the last two months. My dwindling energy for work. My dwindling strength for anything beyond what’s absolutely necessary and urgent. My homesickness. My impatience to return to Edmonton for Christmas. And my exceptional love story… the only thing that seems to give me the buoyancy necessary to stay afloat in this sea of uncertainty.

My tears, like the snow, fall. They are heavier than the clumsy, stuffing-like clusters of white flakes which swirl and collide into one another in mid-air. The saline drops hit the kitchen counter with decisive thuds, unswayed by the gentle winds outside.

Acted upon only by the persistence and constancy of gravity.

It is my nature to be positive. But, as the weeks pass, as the lessons finish, and as the evenings envelope the countryside in darkness and silence, these moments are becoming more and more frequent. And more and more intense.

I hope, with all my heart, that these doubts, worries, and longings for that which is most familiar only constitute a phase to be persevered through.

After all, today the countryside is being blanketed in beauty.

Home for the Holidays

2008-11-01T15:24:00.002+01:00

Simone is coming home for the holidays....

...and I couldn't be happier!

Halloween 2008

2008-11-01T13:35:00.003+01:00

It’s Halloween in Italy.

I get up relatively early and get myself to the gym, intent on a short run before the inevitable series of treats and goodies that are bound to be consumed by my festive spirit.

I shower in record time and zip over to Michela’s house for a cup-cake decorating session. Our chocolate Philadelphia cream-cheese icing is slathered on top, then dusted with chocolate sprinkles and adorned with eight blood-shot eyes and eight liquorice-string legs…

Then I try my hand at the witch’s fingers… but with decidedly less success! Ah well, at least the cupcakes are cute.

Then its back home and getting ready for the kids. Today I would work only one hour… and that would be to make a great Halloween party for the two kids I teach that evening.

They arrive in costume! A witch and a ghost! We make picture dictionaries with a whole lot of Halloween vocabulary (zombie, witch, ghost, haunted house, bat, spider, skeleton…) and then play at a word search while we watch Winnie the Witch. We eat a whole slew of sweets; there were the spider cupcakes, the witch’s fingers, a small collection of candies and chocolates, plus a huge tray of home-made deep fried doughnuts brought by Franca, the kids’ mom.

I was lucky to still have space for a wonderful meal at Michela’s house later that night. She and Dario (her husband), myself and Simone ate rotolo di pasta, manzo ai capperi, and a few sweets made earlier that da before we all relaxed for a bit in front of the TV.

One of the highlights of the day, however, had to have been the few moments before Simone and I left for dinner. As we were relaxing on the couch, suddenly the door buzzer rang. We shot each other confused looks. Who on earth could that be? I opened the door and, to my great surprise and fondest delight, a young boy was standing there with a small paper sack and home-made mask with the classic too-small-eye-hole detailing. “Dolcetto o scherzetto!” he said, (the Italian equivalent of trick or treat!) and I rushed to the table to collect the bowl of goodies I had left there. I gave him three small treats, beaming with joy, explaining to him that I was “Canadese” (Canadian) and it was so nice to see him at my door! He rose his hand to wave goodbye, and said instead of grazie, replied in English: “thank-you!”

One Year Ital-Anniversary

2008-11-01T13:26:00.001+01:00

The seventh day of October marked the “One Year Anniversary” of my stay in Italy. In 2007, I arrived with Mom and Dave, full of hope and excitement for my latest and greatest adventure: a prolonged stay in a European country, a dream that I had been holding in my heart ever since I returned from my first solo trip abroad in 2003.

An apartment was waiting for me, and a job was already lined up. At that point it was truly up to me to make the best of the experience.

Work started slowly and gradually increased to a full load. I enrolled myself at the local gym and tried to make conversation with the people I encountered there. I made good friends with my American colleague, Vince, who then introduced me to the people he knew, and slowly I began to build up a few great friendships. I took trips into Brescia by train. I was generously given rides to weekend wine tastings, sweets festivals, saint celebrations, shopping excursions, the occasional trip to the lake and even a skiing trip into the mountains. I shared meals in restaurants and in the homes of my new friends. I shared aperitivos in various bars and occasionally went dancing as well.

Some days were extremely exciting, others incredibly dull. I would flip flop between absolute joy and pride in myself, my courage, and the speed at which I was learning, to absolute desolation and fear that I would never grasp the language completely, that I would always feel frustrated, that I would never feel at home in this new place.

A year passed in this way. I experienced the black and white. I experienced the rainbow. I experienced so many shades of grey. I sought to understand the mindset of the people. I sought to live and breathe their beliefs, their culture, their world view. I ate their wonderful dishes, I inhaled the thick exhaust from their cars, I shook their hands, kissed their cheeks, and thanked them for their hospitality and kindness.

I faced many fears. On several occasions I pushed my mental stamina to its limits. And I learned a lot about myself.

Today I continue to define myself, my role, my space in this new world. I seek to carve the detail into my desires.

I still encounter, day after day, so many misunderstandings. But I’m learning so much too. My comprehension is expanding. And with this expansion comes so many intense reactions. Awesome fears. Boundless joys. Sometimes both experienced in a single day, a single meal, a single moment. Tears may fall, great laughs may erupt from my belly, my brain may continue to plan, my heart may continue to dream, and still the ride continues on its unknowable trajectory.

I celebrated my great milestone with great company: my darling Simone, my great friend Michela and her wonderful husband Dario, my dearest Laura and her fiancé Stefano. We had a drink in Pontevico and continued on to Cremona for a Sushi dinner. We ate until we burst. We laughed and reminisced. I was honoured by gifts to mark the occasion. And, when no one was looking, I let a few tears of joy fall from my sparkling eyes.

I feel richer than a sultan… and more blessed after a single year than I ever could have thought possible.

The Godfather

2008-10-08T21:05:00.006+02:00

On October 5th, 2008, Simone was made Godfather to the little Giulia.

I watched the baptism ceremony from the pew as he was declared her spiritual gaurdian - or at least a permanent friend of the family. His kiss touched her tiny forehead, already bathed in water and annointed with oil, and she gurgled with appreciation.

Then, after a few photos outside, it was time to eat.

We lunched like kings and queens in a local restaurant: treated to course after course of delicious food at an impressively long table...

... and, being a complete stranger to all these kinds of events, I found it to be wonderful and truly heartwarming.

In Giro: Parte II

2008-10-07T14:56:00.011+02:00

One Sunday afternoon in September, Simone and I decided to take an adventure in my new car.

The sun was warm, the day was fine, and the company was unbeatable.

Cooking School

2008-10-07T14:55:00.007+02:00

After our jaunt to Rome and Umbria, Michela and I agreed to make a swap - her cooking lessons for my english lessons.

And the result - three evenings spread over one week in August - was delicious.

My New Fiat 500

2008-09-30T16:29:00.004+02:00

She’s finally here, and she’s finally mine!

You only get to drive your first new car… for the first time… once.

I was the quintessence of defensive driving.

Gasoline motor. 1,200 cc. Manual transmission. Four seats. Three doors. Automatic A/C. Bluetooth technology to keep my hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road as I speak on the telephone or read my SMS messages. A USB docking station for customized music selections. A GPS navigator to help me get there and back.

Color? Grigio Galante: Galant Grey. Interior dash board to match. Checked cloth seats. Panoramic fixed glass roof.

Smooth and quiet to drive.

I fondly refer to her as my little Spaceship.

ABSOLUTE FREEDOM... Also known as: “A Lesson in Patience”

2008-09-30T16:19:00.004+02:00

A. Order a new car. Be sure to bring your best girlfriend with you. She will help you pick the best colour, the coolest detailing, and the chicest accessories. Lament together over the long waiting period (due to the “high fashion” status of the model you chose) but soon realize that the three-month period will be absolutely essential to the success of ABSOLUTE FREEDOM (see below… such reasoning will immediately become clear).

B. Establish Residency in your country of choice. Please be advised that this will likely mean the following series of frustrating and unfortunate events:

Lack of basic knowledge on the part of the all-powerful bureaucratic government employees seated on the other side of the plastic barrier… which you will soon fondly refer to as “the spit shield.”
Various useless inquiries and phone calls to other government offices… many of which do not care to answer their phones during business hours.
Now awash with confusion, re-entry into the original office to clarify the necessary procedure.
After a month of endless inquiries, the eventual discovery that the original instructions given are, in fact, completely unnecessary and false. (This moment of enlightenment brought to you by the ballsy corporate accountant who entered the office herself and demanded to read the law with her own eyes.)
RE-re-entry into the office with what are thought to be the correct documents only to discover that certain critical details are missing from the work contract, and that an apartment rental agreement (that is non-existent at this point) is absolutely requisite.
Involvement of one’s boss to secure the rental agreement and get it stamped in record time.
RE-re-re-entry into the office, and re-re-re-acquaintance with the now-familiar spit shield.
Inevitable and uncontrollable facial twitching as each document is painstakingly re-assessed for the billionth time under the greasy nose of the cold and unfeeling middle aged woman with out-dated spectacles, her voice bored, forced, and irritatingly nasal.
Absolute shock and disbelief to find that one’s documents, after two and a half months of pain and suffering, are actually accepted.
A week of waiting at home for the local police to ring your doorbell – a formality in which they check to see that the person in question in fact lives at the address he or she provided.
Memory lapses due to the jubilation of seeing that police officer finally cross over one’s threshold.
Two more passes at the registry office to see if they have yet to process the final bit of paperwork.
And finally… the abundant release of absolute joy that echoes off the pale yellow walls! Praise the heavens! The glorious privilege of paying 15 euro for a completely unofficial-looking piece of paper with the word “RESIDENZA” at the top is MINE!

C. Purchase car insurance (from your ex-student and husband of your singing instructor, who cuts you a great deal).

D. Pick up the new car.

Simple, yes?

Hamburg Visit

2008-09-07T13:27:00.012+02:00

In 2004 I made a call to the German Consulate in Vancouver to ask about the oh-so-slim possibility that I might be eligible for citizenship. I had absolutely no expectations. I knew full well that my grandparents had been forced to renounce their German citizenship when they became Canadians so many years ago, which didn’t seem to be a helpful detail in the case of my inquiry.

But a phone call is free, isn’t it? And so, what fool wouldn’t try and ask anyways?

Much to my surprise, the man on the phone did not immediately reply to my question with the word “impossible.” Instead, he asked me a few questions regarding the time line of my grandparent’s immigration, the birth of my father, and his marriage to my mother. It all seemed very curious to me, but I didn’t try to get my hopes up. After a fifteen minute conversation, however, he told me that if my father had been born before my grandparents were naturalized as Canadians and if my father was married to my mother at the time of mune and my sister's birth…

…both my father, my sister and I would be, and would have always been, German.

I phoned Omi (my grandmother) immediately and asked her to tell me the precise date that she and Grandpa had been naturalized. When I heard her answer, I’m certain my astonishment was audible.

Incredibly, my grandparents had been naturalized after my father’s birth! They were still German citizens when he was born!

Now it came time for the great document hunt. I could hardly believe my good luck when Omi told me she had an old passport of Grandpa’s, which she placed carefully in an envelope with their marriage certificate and naturalization papers. Meanwhile, I sent requests to various provinces for the full birth certificates of my father, my sister and I. My mother gave me a copy of her marriage certificate to Dad because, for my sister and I to claim German citizenship, it was necessary that Dad was married to our mother at the time of our birth.

Before we knew it, Dad, Jess and I were filling out papers for German passports. All three of us had confirmed our dual citizenship!

At once I saw the great, ornate doors of the European Union swing forward and welcome me in with open arms! My great dream of living abroad in Europe seemed more plausible than ever before in my life!

I was free to hope for the lengthy experience overseas that I’d wanted ever since my first trip in 2003.

…

It was after WWII that my grandparents emigrated from Germany. The city of Hamburg, where they had both been living, had been reduced to rubble. Prospects were few and uninspiring. My grandfather boarded a boat for Halifax, Nova Scotia, dreaming of a life with greater opportunity. It would be only one year later that my Grandmother would also depart from Hamburg to join him...

... and they were married the very day she disembarked onto Canadian soil.

The long and magnificent story which followed had its share of happiness and difficulty. My grandfather was transferred many times throughout his career with the pulp and paper company, Domtar, transporting them to many different parts of Canada, including Montreal, Vancouver, and Dawson Creek.

They never forgot their roots, however. They maintained a strong connection to Hamburg and always told my sister and I about our family who still lived there.

…

My visit to Hamburg this August was my second ever, the first one taking place almost five years earlier. I have a treasure trove of second cousins there: Moni and her partner Juergen, Klaus and his wife Mónica, and their sons Paul and Lucas. I saw all of them during this visit, as well as Jan, Moni’s son, and Inca, the previous wife of my late cousin, Wolfgang.

One thing that absolutely all of them have in common is a great love and appreciation for my Grandparents. Harold and Edith. All of them had kept in close touch over the many years, even taking the occasional trip to Canada for a visit.

…

My first two days were spent with Moni and Juergen at their wonderful new apartment. The first thing we did when I arrived was to open a bottle of champagne – hardly a bad start! Sharing a few flutes of the yummy sparkling stuff would be first of many great moments spent eating and drinking well. Conversation flowed easily. We spoke about their recent trip to Portugal, about my new life in Italy, about the ins and outs of learning languages, and about the many pleasures of life’s ever-changing circumstances.

They were a great help to me in obtaining a German Identity Card – a second document that confirms my citizenship besides my passport. It took two trips to two separate offices to complete the process, but success was ultimately ours to be had.

A bit of shopping downtown and a very memorable meal at the local Italian restaurant were definitely highlights, as well as when I met Jan, Moni’s son, a prominent photographer with a spectacular studio, and when I saw Inca, the previous wife of my late cousin Wolfgang, at her Homeopathic practice.

Before I knew it I was packing my bag again and off to meet Paul, my 25-year old cousin, at his apartment near the university.

We were soon out and about, having a bit of lunch near campus, checking out some lovely shopping areas of the city, and resting ourselves down at a marvelous joint familiarly known as “Sofa Bar.”

We also took a long look at the new Harbour area, marvelling at the numerous expensive construction projects that the city was undertaking.

In the evening we went to his parents’ home for a great dinner and lots of laughter. It was great to see Klaus and Mónica after 5 years time, and Lucas after nearly 10 years!

The second day Paul and I made our way over to the modern art museum and their current exhibition of the work of Mark Rothko. After decidedly mixed reviews from the both of us, we decided to sit down and have a little lunch while we waited for Lucas to come and join us.

The afternoon was full of shopping fun. Lucas and I were both intent on new shoes, and Paul was more than generous with his patience, not being a big fan of shopping himself.

We finally ended up sitting on a lakeside bench with coffees in hand and a little white box containing a delicious piece of carrot cake and three forks.

On to the theatre! We met Klaus and Monica for a greatly-anticipated dance show choreographed by Belgian artist Anne Teresa de Keersmaeker. It turned out to be a very, very modern show which incorporated a great deal of repetition and suspension. Between us five, reviews were extremely varied. Paul, our resident mathematician, was greatly annoyed by the length of some of the pieces and by the lack of variation employed in such a time span. Mónica was intrigued by these conventions, but complained about the bombardment of synthesized music style music which had aggravated an existing headache. Lucas simply loved it, and maybe Klaus and I were nestled in somewhere between all these opinions.

All I could remember thinking was how good it felt to witness and talk about art again.

We ate a nice meal then made our way home. It had been my last night in Hamburg, and I couldn’t help feeling enormously satisfied with all the fun and activities I had shared with my cousins in such a short period of time.

In fact, nothing can truly compare to feeling one's roots through such pleasurable and eventful visits.

Summer Adventure with Michela: Part IV

2008-09-06T18:31:00.012+02:00

Day 8

Today we had two other small towns on our list. First was Gubbio – a charming town with a magnificent leather goods store, a fantasy shop (with miniature fairy, gnome, troll and dragon figurines), and store after store full of medieval sword replicas.

We eat our lunch there, then decide to go straight to Corciano, the second town on the itinerary.

We find it very cute and well-maintained, but incredibly… well… dead. It was already 4 PM and there wasn’t even a dog in sight.

We promptly decide to finish our walk-about in little time and then head back for our siesta.

Our final night in Umbria was approaching. Michela and I decided to return to Perugia (where we had spotted a few other nice places to eat and drink on the first night), perhaps in order to round off our trip in a full-circle sort of manner.

We first sit down on a terrace overlooking the lower town and surrounding hills of Perugia, gracefully sipping our lively, sparkling white pre-dinner drink. We are both feeling the close of our great adventure approaching and begin to express our appreciation of each other’s company. We are both looking forward to the company of our respective sweethearts, who we will see the next day at the dinner hour.

We have our dinner at Antica Trattoria delle Volte – a quaint spot with only a few tables outside – and are entertained all night long by an extremely kind and lively Siciliano-Perugino with a major passion for good food. He serves us – what Michela and I later decided to be – one of the best dishes we’ve ever eaten in our lives. Penne alla Norcina – penne pasta with bits of local sausage, shaved black truffle, all melted together in a scrumptious cream sauce. Well, it was simply to die for.

After we had taken our fill of the magnificent dish, our spunky waiter brought us a complimentary crema di limone digestivo (a sweet, lemony liqueur) as the night meanwhile slipped delicately into the first morning's hours.

We drive back to our house in the hills in full satisfaction from our meal. As we take the dark windy road back up and up and up, we are surprised by a little civetta (country owl) sitting on the road! She sees our headlights and flaps away to safety, maybe even hearing our cries appreciation at the sight of her. Grinning, we continue to weave our way up until…

“Cinghiale!!” cries Michela. And there it is: my very first sighting of a wild boar!

He was so chubby! And had such stubby legs! So ugly and charming all at once!

He too retreated at the sight of our lights, and our laughter of astonishment filled the car once more.

Back home, still grinning from our good fortune, we decide to pack our bags the next morning, and so we settle down for a long, good, final sleep in our lovely Umbrian setting.

Day Nine

I wake up with thoughts of seeing my sweetheart later that evening, and a smile is quick to spread across my still-sleepy face. In a text message a few days earlier he had told me that he had already booked me a dentist appointment for when I returned… a gesture that immediately melted my heart and truly made me feel cared for.

The reunion was still some hours away, though! And Michela and I still had some important adventures to complete. After a late breakfast we depart with our bags and treasures, en route to San Sepolcro in search of pastries, cakes and cookies!

It’s the first town that isn’t full of ramps and stairs, and Michela and I don’t mind this fact one bit.

Michela finds a torta vin santo (a special cake of the Tuscan region) and I buy a great selection of local biscotti (cookies) before we sit down to our lunch of salads made with farro (spelt), cheese and vegetables.

Then, off we go. Back home with all our great memories, endless photos, and countless edible treasures stuffed into the rental Fiat Panda. We drive back with the radio playing, admiring the changing landscape, feeling full of gratitude for our absolutely enjoyable, well-planned (yeah Michela!), and exciting holiday.

It was an honour and a pleasure to get to know my friend on such a genuine and intimate level, to share the moments of surprise, moments of fear, moments of contentment and even the moments of silence with her. She remains my best friend here in Italy, and some days.... some days... I truly ask myself if I ever could have managed it without her presence and guidance. Her friendship is, very simply, the most genuine sort of stuff you could ever imagine.

Grazie mille per tutto, amica mia!! Alla prossima avventura!!

Summer Adventure with Michela: Part III

2008-09-06T17:55:00.009+02:00

Day 6

The morning, spent vacating our beloved room, mailing postcards, and strolling about the neighbourhood, had quickly passed us by. Before we knew it we were on the metro and bound for the train station, already booked aboard a train bound for the capital of Umbria, Perugia.

Upon arrival, Michela and I went to pick up our rental car. Michela, expecting a Lancia Ypsilon, was quite discouraged to learn that the car available was, in fact, one of the new Fiat Pandas.

I couldn’t help but laugh, considering the endless running joke that is the Fiat Panda that I drive in Manerbio: an old and unreliable clunker that is nothing less than the stuff of (horrifying) legend. Of course, a new Fiat Panda is an entirely different beast, and I had no doubt that we wouldn’t have a single problem with it. In the interests of fashion, however, I think Michela was looking for something a little more… sleek.

We hopped in regardless! And off we went! For what seemed like hours of wrong turns and misdirections given first by the man at the rental agency and then by the countless gas station attendants all seeming to have little to no sense of distance! “About five minutes” we came to realize meant something more like 15 minutes…

Another moment to chalk up to experience, right? Right.

We did, eventually, find our B&B five kilometers into the hills surrounding Perugia, the Panda growling fiercely up the steep and winding inclines. It was a well-kept and charming old house well settled in with endless choruses of cicadae (cicadas), the swift flight of the elusive civetta (small country owl) and the passing of the occasional cinghiale (wild boar).

What a difference from the chaos of Rome! I was so relieved and happy nestled in with a bit of nature and in possession of car keys. We were mistresses of our own tourist fates now!

And what a great fate it would turn out to be.

After receiving piles of information from the woman running the B&B, Michela and I decide to take the drive back to Perugia for a stroll, aperitivo, and dinner in the old centre.

The pizza goes down well in the softly cooling night air. We quickly agreed that the relatively dry and comfortable evening was a great relief indeed after the heat and humidity of Rome.

Day 7

We discover our breakfast is waiting for us when we descend the stairs from our cozy room. Cakes, coffee, and juice...

...and a view of the countryside from the balcony.

Today we would take the trek to Spello, later decided to be one of our most favorite spots in Umbria. We park the car immediately in front of a shop full of local products and decide to get right to our shopping. A kindly man greets us immediately and takes us on the full tour of the over-packed shelves, taking pains to point out with great care every bottle, jar and bag of edibles that came directly from his own production line. Michela and I pass an easy 45 minutes in the store, chatting about tartufi (truffles, for which Umbria is very famous), farro (spelt), porcini (the fragrant mushrooms), miele (honey), meat of cinghiale (wild boar) and asino (donkey), and, more than anything, vino (wine). I am quickly and easily talked into buying one of his very own reds (Montefalco), a moscato (feeling inspired by the glass we had in Rome), and finally, the sweet and delicious Montefalco Sagrantino Passito: “il vino di meditazione.”

Beyond these wonderful treasures, I also snag a miniature jar of orange-flavoured honey, a few selections of cold cuts (including the one made with wild boar), and a spreadable pâté of porcini mushrooms and truffles.

After our intense discussions of local edibles, Michela and I find we are quite hungry, and ascend into the centre of town on foot, searching for a trattoria to fill our hungry bellies.

We find one called Da Da – a strange name in any language – which had its entire menu written in the local dialect. Even Michela was in for a linguistic challenge! We both order plates of local cheeses and cold cuts and a good-sized carafe of local white wine to wash it down. It would be needed, considering the fact that the AC was most definitely in need of repair.

As fate would have it, seated at the table next to us was a couple from the same province of Italy as where we had come from! They recognized Michela’s accent at once and we began a lively conversation about our recent travels while gaining many tips and suggestions from them ("don’t bother with the GPS navigator! They simply don’t work around here!" they told us).

Michela and I sauntered down to our car to pay for a bit more parking, already feeling the magic effects of the vino. Essentially, we were giggling endlessly on the way down, then huffing and puffing on the way back up.

We found a great panorama, stopped to admire it for awhile, then made our way back down and back to our car.

After a long, long long nap (yikes! Miki! We must have had a lot of wine!!) we quickly get ourselves ready and hop back in the car. We had thought to go to Assisi for dinner, and as we were driving (already it was getting past 9 pm) we hoped to find a restaurant that would still serve us so late.

As we walked the streets of this magnificent hilltop town we come to realize that the air had changed, and drops of rain were just starting to come down. We snuck inside a restaurant and watched as the drops began to fall. By the time we had finished eating, though, everything had dried up as if nothing had happened at all. In any event, it was extremely convenient for Michela and I… who had planned to discover Assisi by night.

Summer Adventure with Michela: Part II

2008-09-06T15:40:00.008+02:00

Day Three

Already we have some strong impressions of Rome. Dust covering our sunscreened legs, dirt discolouring our recently-washed sandal-clad feet… two showers a day scarcely seemed to be enough!

Today would be our dustiest day yet: the day we visited the great Coliseum!

After some show of trepidation, Michela agrees to join the English tour being held within minutes. The Italian tour, which I would have been more than happy to take with her, occurred only a few times a day… and not anywhere near to the time we had arrived. Much to her delight, however, the guide turns out to be a native Roman. This means two very special things. First, he would speak English in an accent she can easily understand, and second, upon discovering she is Italian, he would immediately pick her out for special attention.

Roberto is his name, and he is absolutely hilarious.

Our tour of the great spectacle is sprinkled with jokes and laughter, and the Coliseum quickly becomes a favorite destination on the Rome itinerary. Michela and I even manage to get some candid shots with the local legionnaires.

A quick tour of the forum follows, and soon Michela and I are feeling pangs of hunger. To my delicious surprise we find a little café serving gazpacho! The yummy chilled tomato soup goes down so pleasurably, so easily, so refreshingly, even with Michela’s looks of horror and disgust (she not being a big fan of tomatoes, despite her Italian citizenship!). She instead opts for a lovely sandwich of smoked salmon and mozzarella, and for desert we both take a delicious slice of apple crumble and a yummy glass of sweet moscato wine.

Wholly satisfied, the next step is most obviously nap time! Back to the room and on top of the covers for a long and well-deserved snooze in air-conditioned bliss.

When we finally get up and at it again, Michela and I head to the Campo dei Fiori. In the nearby Piazza Farnese we find a cute little wine bar serving excellent whites from their very own production. Michela is especially excited when she recognizes an Italian actor (Lorenzo Flaherty) taking up one of the back tables. And why not? Doesn’t every trip deserve the casual celebrity-sighting?

Dinner then takes us back to the lively Campo dei Fiori, tonight choc full of people eating, drinking and strolling by. After we’re done, we take a stroll of our own into the Old Jewish Ghetto area where we find a grandiose synagogue and the strange and wonderful Fontana delle Tartarughe… with nearby “Bartarugha.”

Soon enough we’re home to bed again, surprised to find that sleepiness once more takes control of our remaining energy cells.

Day Four

It seems somehow fair that after three solid days of great meals, great sights, and great times we would have a day that was, well…

Is disastrous too strong a word? I’ll let you decide…

Michela was up and at it early again. At 08.00 she was already off to snag our morning’s brioche. When I’m finally up and ready to join her, the sun already feels extremely hot, and fatigue sets upon me as soon as we’re heading towards the metro.

Taking the advice of a recent taxi driver, we decide to head to the Circo Massimo (Circus Maximus) where chariot races were held in the times of ancient Rome. We get off the Metro at the stop “Circo Massimo,” emerge from the underground, take a long hard look around us and ask:

“Where is it?”

No indication signs can be found. How very strange. Then, across the street, I notice something that could be a ruin of some kind. We cross and find ourselves staring down into a long, long ditch, littered with the occasional bit of rubbish and lined by a bent wire fence.

“Oh my God. This is it.”

What a disappointment! I took a photo regardless. At least we’d made the effort to come.

Michela then suggested we hop back on the metro to have a look at the pyramid, located few more stops away. We arrive, and find it to be… well, similarly uninspiring.

We find a park, sit down and being to chuckle about the morning’s events. Ok, ok, it’s not as if every day is meant to be more spectacular than the next, right? And what can top the fun we had yesterday?

We have a decent lunch then head back for our usual afternoon shower and lie down.

Tonight we have plans to meet up with Michela’s friend Giuliana for an aperitivo and dinner. We begin in Galleria Alberto Sordi where Michela and I enjoy a glass of local wine with Giuliana, her mother, and some other friends she was travelling with. Then, off to dinner where, we’re told, you eat well and don’t spend too much.

And it was here that things really took a turn for the worse.

As I was happily munching on my lamb, I felt something like a small bone in my mouth. I took it out of my mouth and placed on my plate… and then stared at in absolute horror.

It was one of my new porcelain veneers, put in only one month ago in Vancouver.

Blood drained from my face as I raised my hand to my mouth and uttered “il dente” (“the tooth”) only loud enough for my friend Michela, sitting next to me, to hear. I picked up the veneer and showed it to her, and she looked at me, her face full of concern, disbelief, and sympathy. We both sighed.

A few minutes later we were walking out of the restaurant, me feeling utterly embarrassed, terrified, and guilty at having interrupted Michela’s dinner. We had the advice of her friends, however, which was to find an open pharmacy and to buy a temporary cement made available for just this sort of incident. They had been so sympathetic and genuinely concerned for me. I, sitting there with one hand pressed over my mouth, too embarrassed to show them my teeth, too embarrassed to continue speaking, feeling so utterly sick to my stomach, overwhelmed with a nausea so strong I thought I might be sick right there at the table.

We glanced about us. We were on a fairly busy road in Rome, and maybe we might find one of the few pharmacies open on a Sunday night (there are always a few open, even on Sunday). Much to my incredulity, only 150 meters away we saw a glowing green cross – the sign of an open pharmacy.

We buy the cement after listening to the careful advice of the pharmacist and then take the metro home. I tread lightly, my eyes wide open, constantly on the verge of bursting into tears. Michela is quiet, but very present.

In the hotel room we read and re-read the instructions. Michela will mix the cement, and I will place the veneer back on the tooth. It bonds in seconds, though certainly not in the precise position that my dentist had managed. But it is back on, and unless you look very closely, it looks quite normal.

Now was the time for tears. I felt so silly, so childish having such a massive reaction to such a small incident, but memories of the original trauma (a pool accident in Thailand), the two years of consultations with my dentist to decide the best permanent solution for my two big and beautiful front teeth, the hours and hours spent in the clinic to complete the procedure… It was all too much. Much too much.

I thought of phoning my sweetheart, but I didn’t want to scare him with my intense agitation, my continual gasping and hyperventilating, my inability to speak clearly in either Italian or English. I didn’t want to worry him with my extreme reaction. It seemed like a moment to phone my parents, but my father was on holidays in Africa with my sister, and my Mom was in Oregon with her partner, Dave, for a friend’s wedding.

When you need your mom, though, you need your mom. Right? And my mom is always a great help to me in difficult moments such as these.

As good luck would have it, Dave answered his cell phone despite the roaming charges and I was able to gasp and heave my traumas across the oceans and into the sympathetic ear of my mom. Without that conversation, I’m not sure I would have been able to sleep at all that night.

In the end, after much tossing and turning with flashes of real and imagined crises racing through my brain, I managed a good six hours of sleep...

...wholly thanks to two brave and fabulous women. Thanks to Michela’s help and constant presence, and thanks to Mom’s kind words and generous ear.

Day Five

The new day brought me much more sober reflections of the incident and a fresh attitude on the rest of the vacation. Michela and I still had our final night in Rome and four nights in the beautiful adjoining region of Umbria. There was much to look forward to, and after all, the veneer was back on for the time being.

We have breakfast then go on a search for laundry detergent, hairspray (I go through a lot of it!), and an internet point. I write my sweetheart an email, reporting the news in a much calmer tone than I ever could have managed the prior evening, recounting every detail of the emotional rollercoaster and finishing with the new day’s fresh attitude.

The rest of our day is quite pleasant. Michela and I manage to do our laundry in the sink in our room, we eat at a great vegetarian restaurant for lunch, we have our usual afternoon siesta, have an aperitivos at an elegant Austrian eatery, and finish off our final full day in Rome at a lovely open-air restaurant near the Tiber River.

It was then, after the pizzas topped with anchovies and zucchini flowers, after the ravioli stuffed with ricotta cheese, and after the great fruit salad with berries and apples, Michela and I take a long and lovely stroll down along the river where bars, eateries and vendors of cheap goods were neatly lined up for our viewing pleasure.

Soon realizing we’d already come halfway back to our room, we decided to make the rest of the trip on foot – a final late-night appreciation of The Eternal City.

Summer Adventure with Michela: Part I

2008-09-06T14:25:00.011+02:00

My friend, Michela, and I were soon off on big adventures.

We had planned a 9-day trip within Italy for just us girls.

Itinerary: 5 nights in Rome and 4 nights in the region of Umbria.

Departure date: Thursday, July 31 2008.

Let the good times roll!

Day One

07.41 We are departing from the Cremona train station aboard our Eurostar direct to Roma Termini. We’ve packed light and arrived in style, thanks to Giacomo (Michela’s brother) offering us a ride.

Our four and a half hour trip is choc full of excitement. We snooze, we sing, we much on cookies and drink one espresso after another.

And before we know it, it’s time to disembark.

From Termini we snag the metro in the direction of the Vatican museums. Michela, who had done a superb job of organizing the details of our trip, had heeded the excellent advice of her colleagues: “be sure to stay dalle suore.”

dalle suore = “with the nuns”

Yes. The nuns. Across Rome and in many parts of Italy, groups of sisters with extra rooms are charging very little for travellers on a budget. Michela and I split the incredible €55 euro/night charge, stayed about 150 meters from the entrance of the Vatican Museums, and enjoyed a spacious, comfortable and extremely clean room.

Lunch was to be had at a nun-recommended joint called l’Isola di Pizza (The Island of Pizza, literally translated) where we treated ourselves to a pair of juicy and delicious steaks.

Immediately afterwards we were off to the Vatican Museums,

where we squinted at the old maps of Italy

and marveled at the beauty of the Sistine Chapel.

Home for a shower and off to the Spanish steps. (Michela and I are not ones for wasting time, after all.)

Dinner included some very pricey prosecco (Italian sparkling wine, for those who aren’t familiar), but we chalked the moment up to experience and got on with our evening. Window shopping was a dream in that area… Versace, Dolce and Gabbana, Dior… everything was only a pane of glass away from our hungry eyes. Unfortunately, the prices were in full view, drying up our appetite in no time… “Baby Dior? Are you serious?”

A taxi then took us home to the sisters and to our cozy beds.

Day Two

Michela, the poor girl stuck on work-time, wakes up at 07.30, and yours truly at a healthy 09.00. Soon enough, however, we’re off to see St. Peter’s Basilica.

A few adjectives ought to sum it up easily. Huge. Awe-inspiring. Incomprehensibly opulent. Statues are draped in sheets of marble. Don’t ask me how. It’s the Vatican, after all.

After a minor misdirection, we exit and then re-enter, Michela intent on seeing the tomb of Pope John Paul II. As we approach it, Michela’s face begins to change; it’s clear to see that she is visibly moved by the sight of his final resting place. She explains to me that he was always her Pope, and she was quite sad on the day he passed away.

After a bit of lunch we are on to Castello Sant’Angelo which we found rather large and, much to our weary legs’ chagrin, in possession of a great many stairs. My desire to see some dark and dank prisons was not to be fulfilled once we learned that tours of the old cells took place only at night, but we were still content to drink a lemon soda on the loggia (covered balcony) before making our way out and about once more.

We head home on foot, passing by a gelateria that was completely full of overheated, icecream-craving youngsters. Michela and I were content to count ourselves among them and soon emerged from the throng with gooey-soft, cherry-speckled, gelato artigianale dripping down from our over-full cups. It was so enormous I couldn’t finish it… so good though it was…

We shower (an afternoon shower would soon become a necessary and welcome ritual in the intense August heat) and settled ourselves down for a nice siesta (another necessary and welcome ritual, I assure you!!).

We wake and refresh ourselves, then hop in a taxi bound for Piazza Navona. After the unfortunate realization that the big, beautiful, central fountain of the piazza was completely covered in scaffolding and thus essentially invisible to our eyes, we decided to settle ourselves down for a nice aperitivo… now and always our beloved standby: prosecco.

For dinner we find an elegant trattoria serving the romano speciality of pasta all’amitriciana. I discovered it to be a substantial portion of pasta, draped copiously in a rich tomato sauce with hidden cubes of sweet pancetta (bacon). Immensely satisfying, immediately filling. With our ¼ L of red wine apiece, Michela and I were more than satiated by the time we’d excavated down to our plates' surfaces.

Conversation that night was awash with tales of love, of desire, of the individuals who have passed into our lives, and especially of those who stopped to hold us. We giggled like school girls then slipped into slow and contemplative meditation, each with an aromatic cigarette in hand.

Marinating in such rich thoughts and memories, we saunter over to the Trevi Fountain, which glows majestically in the blankety evening air. It’s here that I begin to feel emotional… thankful for all I have… great company, a great adventure, and so much to look forward to in the upcoming months.

We each throw a coin into the rippling waters, assuring our eventual return to the Eternal City, then head off to find our taxi ride home.

… before bed, I am sure to send a text message to a certain someone… very important to me… still feeling full of sentimentality from the fountain’s glow…

Back to Manerbio

2008-09-05T19:09:00.003+02:00

Somehow, I should have seen it coming.

I was in Canada for an entire month, and my new relationship had started only a few weeks before I had to leave. At the time, it didn’t seem very auspicious. My “fear-the-worst” defense system had entirely expected a dwindling interest and lack of communication over the four weeks away from Manerbio…

But the opposite would become true.

It came to pass that I would hear from him almost every single day I was away. His words came to me through either an SMS, an email, or maybe a few minutes (up to a few hours) on Google chat. We even managed two Skype video calls – one at Maria and Bobby’s place, and another at my mother’s house.

The most incredible result of this was that we managed to become even closer while I was so far away. The subjects of our conversations were rarely banal. More often we would recount past and present experiences, desires, fears and dreams… the most personal stuff you could imagine. It was so thrilling, so exciting, so extremely pleasurable to connect with another person like this… especially because it was, for me, an uncharted level of intimacy.

When it came time to head back to the airport and back to Italy, he had already offered to pick me up from Malpensa Airport outside Milan… a good hour and a half drive from our town. I was so touched by the offer, fully aware that he had committed nearly four hours of his time just to take me in his arms in the few minutes after I reached Italian soil.

Little did I know, his arrival at Malpensa was only the beginning of a massive, sweep-me-off-my-feet homecoming.

And this I should have seen coming.

He arrived looking and smelling divine. He immediately pulled me into his arms for a solid, uninterrupted, five-minute embrace before retreating to get the car. He had brought snacks and drinks for the ride home, packed into a thermal-lock bag. He drove us back to Manerbio slowly and carefully, talking excitedly and squeezing my hand as music played softly in the background – the tunes easily drowned out by our voices, our grins, our childish fidgeting and playfulness.

We arrived at my door. He helped me with my bags, then buzzed home only to return within minutes clutching a bottle of champagne and two pieces of elegant stemware.

If I recall correctly, I think it was in this moment that I began to lose my powers of speech. In all languages.

We seemed to always stay within two feet of each other in the many hours to come. We re-discovered the sound of our mingled laughter as it bounced off the apartment walls, as it filled our empty dinner dishes, as it rushed out of the car windows and into the night air.

The next few days would bring a great many pleasures and surprises. We would visit the local outdoor pool – Le Cupole – together. We would take a drive up Monte Maddalena to watch the sun set. We would visit Desenzano – a town on Lago di Garda, to share a sumptuous gelato-and-fruit bowl in the cool evening air. We would go to his hometown of Montichiari where I would meet his mother and his sister, and join them in celebrating (and participating in) a massive annual outdoor spiedo feast.

I felt as though my feet never touched the ground. It was, very simply, nothing less than a fairytale.

And it remains so even today.

Leaving Home… and Heading Home

2008-09-05T19:08:00.003+02:00

Soon it was time to head back overseas. The trip back to Canada had seemed both long (so eager as I was to return to the arms of my new special guy) and short (thinking about how much I would miss my family once I was back in Italy again).

It was so good to attend, to witness, and to shed a few tears at my friends’ wedding.

It was so good to see my Grandparents, who I was so lucky to have close to me when I lived in Vancouver.

It was so good to catch up with my friends and hear the latest struggles and victories in their dynamic and ever-changing lives.

It was so good to see my nuclear family, to hug them and laugh with them, and to sleep in familiar beds, and to rest my head on familiar pillows.

In fact, thinking about these simple pleasures, knowing that I always have a place to go to and to come from… I feel truly fortunate and blessed.

…On to more Italian Adventures!

Edmonton

2008-09-05T19:04:00.013+02:00

On to Edmonton and the great, wide, open arms of my mother, father and sister.

Dad picked me up from the airport. I was to spend the first few days with him at his house, catching up and spending time together as father and daughter are ought to do. I managed to get some shopping done on Whyte Avenue as well, which is never a bad thing.

Jess (my sister) and I also managed to spend a nice bit of time together. I stayed one night with her and her then-boyfriend (now fiancé!) Matt at their home, complete with their extremely energetic young dog, Ginny. As per custom, Jess and I did some shopping, then ate a great meal with some nice wine, followed by a cozy evening in front of the TV. We decided to save our annual Monopoly extravaganza for my Christmas return…

I saw a few great friends too. Landon, my enterprising and extremely fashionable friend was, as he always is, game for a nice drink at Savoy on Whyte. Catching up with him proved to be, as it always is, a great satisfaction.

I organized a rendezvous with Cariann, a friend from Vancouver who had since moved to Calgary, at a mid-point between our two cities: Red Deer, Alberta. After our Earl’s lunch and extensive gabbing, we both agreed a better afternoon couldn’t have been accomplished.

On to Mom’s house! A secluded and cozy retreat beyond the outskirts of Edmonton, where, if you wake-up early enough, you might see the occasional deer pass by under your bedroom window… I love coming out to the country and, more to the point, to the welcoming arms of my fantastic mom and her longtime partner, Dave. We made melon martinis! And ate crab-dip! And battled the throngs of fierce mosquitoes with high-power Deep Woods OFF!

Mom was so great to make the occasional trip back into Edmonton with me to pick up a few last-minute gifts that I hoped to bring back to Italy. In the process we also did a bit of shopping at the enormous West Edmonton Mall, a specialty scrap-booking store (Mom is super-crafty), and, to top it all off, a fabulous treat of pedicures. Our time together, as always, was an absolute treasure.

Vancouver

2008-09-05T19:04:00.012+02:00

The expatriate returns to her native land with a long list of appointments… the names of doctors, dentists, and optometrists fill the calendar of events: a fast “tune-up” before returning to Italy. Luckily, she also manages to find times of merriment throughout it all.

I stayed with my grandparents in White Rock for my two weeks on the West Coast. In the first week, I was not the only visitor to their household. As luck would have it, two of our relatives from Germany would be visiting, and together we would enjoy many wonderful meals prepared by our generous hosts, a nice trip to the Minter Gardens, and many an ice cream cone along the way.

I managed to see and catch up with a few friends during my stay, many of those people with whom I had shared a wide variety of experiences during my few years of living in Vancouver.

Among them were Cam, Rachel, Alix, Danny, Noa, Anna, Kellee, and some of my fellow sorority sisters. We shared baguettes and cheese, glasses of wine, breakfasts of toast, eggs and bacon, and even a gelato. We walked on the beach together, spent time in their homes together, got pedicures together, and escaped their rehearsal halls together.

It was so good to catch up on all the wonderful events that had shaped their lives in the past year – new loves, new jobs, new opportunities, new frustrations and new accomplishments.

And, as luck would have it, I found them all to be very well.

Maria and Roberto’s Wedding

2008-09-05T19:02:00.006+02:00

It was with great pleasure, honour, and happiness that I came back to Vancouver for the wedding of two very dear friends, Maria Zeldis and Roberto Valente. To make matters all the more exciting, my role had turned out to be much more than simple merry-making…

I can still remember the great swell of pride that rose in my chest when Maria asked me if I would be her witness. I accepted immediately and without hesitation, the wedding still more than six months away…

And so I went, a video camera in hand, a speech of well-wishes in my purse, a pair of great high heels on my feet and a simple, elegant black dress falling to mid-calf.

(VIDEO COMING SOON)

Maria and I first became friends when I joined our sorority, Delta Gamma, at UBC. As luck would have it, she was assigned to me as my “Big Sister” something which we both found rather ironic considering the fact that I am somewhat bigger than she is, and, in fact, three days older.

Nevertheless, a friendship was born. Much to my gratitude, Maria would turn out to be a significant, stabilizing element for me in those first semesters at UBC. And I will be forever indebted to her for that support.

Those who know her are in love with her quirky sense of humour, her insistent positivity, and her rare and special gift of laughing at herself more often than at others. She is a woman to confide in, a woman to joke with, and, most of all, a woman worthy of a lifetime of friendship. And, as time passed and I got to know Roberto more I couldn’t help but think: yes. This Roberto may be one of the few fellows around truly special enough for my dear friend. And indeed he is.

I couldn’t imagine not being here today. I couldn’t imagine not being present for the union of these two beautiful people. So special they are, and how much they both mean to me.

As many of you know, I’ve spent the past 8 months in northern Italy. The experience, like so many others I’ve been so fortunate to have in my short 23 years, has offered me a great deal of perspective on what generosity, courage, and love are all about. I now choose to measure strength in flexibility, in adaptability, and in selflessness, for giving of ourselves is the greatest strength we can ever hope to achieve.

The world is full of beauty. Across oceans in foreign tongues. In the homes of long-time friends. In the connection of two hands squeezed together, of two sets of lips pressed against each other, in the electric current connecting yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

Maria and Roberto, I wish you nothing less than every beauty that life can provide. To your good health and happiness. Tanti auguri agli sposi!

The Sum of Its Parts

2008-09-05T19:00:00.003+02:00

The June heat arrives and turns our small second-story school into an instant pressure cooker. My first year as an English teacher is coming to a close, and I am content. Content to have learned what I learned, content to have met who I met, content to have created, discovered, unearthed, and absorbed a year’s worth of experience in all manner of things over the academic year.

My courses are finishing, and I am packing my bags for a four-week trip back in Canada.

The Man with Laughing Eyes (Part III)

2008-06-16T17:18:00.004+02:00

Every once in a while you really get lucky. Not every day. Not every month. Not every year. But every once in a while you meet someone really special… someone irrefutably golden, and you can’t help but have only respect and admiration for them. If you’re especially lucky, they look at you and see the same great value in your company, personality, generosity and energy. Appreciation is shared, and your best friends, your closest confidants, and your greatest love stories are born.

I have Landon in Edmonton. I have Jimmy in Vancouver. I have Stefan in Vienna. I have Michela here in Manerbio. And more, so many more…! …so lucky that I am to find these diamonds everywhere I go.

This man with laughing eyes is a man with numerous fans. He’s especially unique to remain humble and genuine whilst bubbling over with smiles and spontaneity. He’s the life of the party. The guy to drag you out onto the dance floor even though neither of you know the dance steps. The guy to remember every detail of your passions, your confessions, your dreams. He’s the guy, you can’t deny, who’s truly one in a million.

To top it all off, he’s also persistent. And thank goodness for that. My fatigue from the previous story (which still hasn’t found proper closure due to a prolonged, untappable silence I’m receiving from the other end) is still heavy on my shoulders. I want nothing more than to move on.

And every day I see my new friend it becomes easier and easier to do so.

Easy. Easy. Easy. It’s so easy. Every time we talk about something new, we find more and more things in common. Amusement is non-stop. My constant smiling leaves my eye make-up smudged on upper and lower lids by the first hour of the evening. It’s incredible to think that I’ve found more pleasure in two weeks of bike rides, home-cooked meals, and weekend outings with him than I got in months of dedication to the other.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s supposed to be this easy.

Car Shopping with Michela

2008-06-16T17:16:00.008+02:00

My friend Michela and I are a great pair. Especially when it comes down to the great decisions of new-car shopping…

… in short, she is the sort of gal who helps you to snap out of your delusions of practicality! And instead sends you whirling towards your greater, grander, splendiferous needs of FASHION.

(After all, I reason, I’m not living in a country known for practicality, am I? Nay! I am stationed in the pulsing heart of all the world’s aesthetic dreams!)

And so Michela, aesthetically inclined from head to toe, has been the greatest help to me in my car shopping adventures. Not only do we two blondies receive service with a smile, but with our powers combined, we manage to convince sales associates to steal us snazzy marketing material not meant for customer hands…

In short, we are unstoppable.

Three intensive weeks of research, opinion-seeking, and following one’s inner gut has brought me to a great, great, great decision. Drumroll please…

In three months time I will be the proud owner of the latest and greatest Italian fashion car: The New Fiat 500!

Paint job in Grigio Galante (Galant Grey). Adorned with all manner of chrome detailing and “500” branding. Equipped with Bluetooth compatibility, portable GPS, and wicked sound system with iPod docking station. Manual transmission with stick shift in leather. Fixed roof in glass and tinted windows.

Watch out world. The 500 Cult has a new member. And she’s riding in the most personalized style that imagination can provide.

Click here to see interactive images and a snazzy video of my personalized Fiat 500, to arrive in September!

The Man with Laughing Eyes (Part II)

2008-06-16T17:14:00.002+02:00

Our finest evening had to be this past Friday. He drives slowly, concentrating on his choice of words, explaining everything in detail, sharing stories of travel, of family, of friends, and of life’s defining moments.

We first munched on warm piadine in his Fiat Punto, leaving crumbs everywhere due to his insistent choruses of “don’t worry!”

Then it came time to putter off to the great attraction: Theatre Improvisation! In Italian!

Something I never knew: Theatre Improvisation was born in Canada in 1977. And the rules are somewhat modeled on those of ice hockey. In approved competitions there’s even a referee with a black and white striped jersey who gives penalties for bad play.

“But aren’t all the most beautiful things in the world… also Canadian?” I joke.

“No,” he smirks, “only those things born in 1977. Like me!” he winks.

I can’t stop grinning. Memories of going to Friday night Improv in Edmonton and Tuesday night Improv in Vancouver flood over me. I have always had the greatest respect for improvisers, who, in my books, are far more talented than those of us who cling to our scripts like life preservers.

I am surprised to find I understand a very good chunk of what’s going on. I had been worried that my poor friend would be forced to explain every scene, but in the end we both were laying back in our spectacular front row seats, fingers entwined and eyes shining with laughter.

I meet some of his dearest friends who have also come for some Friday night laughs. I struggle to express my admiration for the players, and they are generous listeners. We have a beer in an Irish pub and get to know each other. And I conclude they are decidedly worthy of his great friendship.

…

The night was plucked from a fairytale. It hardly seemed real. Any of it. I feel instantly comfortable and at ease. And you don’t stop giving: of your time, of your patience, and of yourself.

And it all seems too good to be true.

London and Home Again

2008-06-16T17:13:00.002+02:00

My third trip to London this year, your first trip to London ever. I can’t begin to tell you how much joy it gave me to see you, full of childlike wonder, gazing at the Parliament buildings and Big Ben, breezing through Westminster Abbey, studying the metro maps, skipping through Hyde Park, wolfing down lunch and dinner with moans of appreciation…

It was a beautiful weekend and we were both on our best behaviour. You were detached from your usual weights, deliberately separated from your usual baggage. I conveniently forgot my frustrations, and found the great, expansive scope of my patience.

We held hands, we laughed and we smooched. We cuddled, snuggled, and slipped easily into and out of our trademark comfortable silences.

But we vacationed away from reality. Didn’t we?

And it caught up with us immediately upon our return. Didn’t it?

Our pattern is discouraging. One tentative step forward is always followed by five giant leaps backwards.

And that’s no way to continue. Is it?

No way to continue at all.

Il Saggio (The Recital)

2008-06-16T17:12:00.003+02:00

I get asked it a lot. “Wait – you came from Vancouver to Manerbio??”

“Yup,” I reply, “and I plan on staying another year.”

It’s human to have, simultaneously, great loyalty and great dislike for your hometown. As much as I love coming home to Edmonton twice a year, it can be taxing and boring as well. Familiarity is a huge cozy bed: comfortable and snuggly, but essentially lacking in stimuli. For those of us who constantly seek out the different, the diverse, the weird and wonderful, familiarity is a home base to be visited only occasionally… deadly in the event of a prolonged sojourn. (Especially at mom’s house, where cookies are never in short supply.)

In these parts, very few people recognize the element of adventure that this place affords me. They can only see familiarity, while I see layers upon layers of delicious diversity. Multilayered, exquisite, complex diversity. Even after eight months of it, I still can’t kiss my friends goodnight without thinking “what a fantastic custom!” Smack, smack smack! Right, left right! But where to place my hands? On their shoulders? Upper arms? When I conclude my text messages, all too often they end in “bacio” (kiss), “baci” (kisses), or, more often than not, “BACIONE!” (BIG KISS)! For friends and for lovers there are always kisses to go around. And around and around they go…

With a sense of adventure, an appreciation for diversity, enough guts, and a few strokes of golden luck, this young Canadian girl has succeeded in making a little community for herself here in Manerbio. I have my work which affords me many opportunities for cultural exchange and laughter – two things that I simply adore. I have my friends – a mixture of colleagues, students, ex-students, family of students, friends of students and even a few folks I find at my gym (where I can be spotted up to five days a week). I also have my voice lessons which afford me a weekly outlet to make music… music born in the souls (not soles) of my feet and released onto the surface of my lips… and nothing really compares to that feeling.

One evening in June these beautiful elements all came together. A year-end music school recital saw me on stage with a microphone singing Summertime. My voice instructor was cemented to the front edge of the stage wearing a grand, golden smile. My colleague Vince and his girlfriend, Vanda, were smooshed at the back of the packed theatre. My dear friend Michela was positioned in the front row, doing me (and my mom, who was devastated she couldn’t fly to Italy for my two minutes of fame) the great honour of taping everything. Her husband Dario and my main squeeze were forced to stay outside, though they were still within good earshot of the stage. Behind me, a super group of talented musicians were on drums, bass and guitar. My voice, tired with a cold and plugged-up nose but invigorated by the massive show of support from my friends, did all it could to vibrate the walls of the theatre, the fabric of the seats and the fantasies of the audience.

Compliments and congratulations were poured over me from these beautiful people. I blushed harder than when I received my first kiss in elementary school. We had a drink in the open air of the piazza… and in such splendid company I felt richer than a sultan of Arab legend.

…

There was only one weak link in the evening… and it was one that really counted. The beginning of the end was never more evident than when he walked away from me and my group of friends without saying goodnight. It was the moment when I saw my darling Michela so offended by his lack of tact that I finally snapped out of my ridiculous habit of being overly patient with him. The end was arriving… even if it was still a few days in coming.

The Man with Laughing Eyes (Part I)

2008-06-16T17:09:00.001+02:00

As I put on my mascara I couldn’t help but think about the fatigue I was feeling. A full week of bad health and misunderstanding had left me feeling tired, worn out, and stuck in slow motion. I wasn’t sure I was up for an evening of conversation with strangers, but I had promised my Michela I would go, and I managed to convince myself that I would feel better with a tummy full of spiedo and an evening outside my apartment.

He had been invited too, but as usual, refused to come on unconvincing grounds. I was about to enter a “couple-zone” without the other half… which is never a good feeling.

Thankfully, due to my Michela’s gift for choosing good company, the folks present were extremely good-natured and down-to-earth. Within an hour I found a few scraps of courage and began to chat with my tablemates. Soon enough I forgot that he was absent at all, and laughter was soon bubbling out of me with the ease it usually does.

There were a few singles there after all. And one in particular made a special effort to inch in as the night wore on. He was the life of the party. A sack of laughter with two bright eyes and a big, genuine smile.

After dinner many of us made our way to Verolanuova, a nearby town, to have a few drinks and continue the good fun. The man with laughing eyes had a spectacular gift for gab, and, I discovered, a great passion for theatre, for information technology, and for English. My interest was undoubtedly piqued.

Quite suddenly 12:30 became 01:30 and our group slowly began to shrink. At 02:30 Michela and her husband Dario made to leave, asking me if I wanted a ride as well. I stood up, slinging my purse over my shoulder, only to hear choruses of protest. Why not stay for a little longer? He and the others asked. And I couldn’t think of a single reason to refuse.

It was 03:30 when I got home, full of unexpected energy from my night out. I sat on my kitchen counter sipping a Lemon Soda, digesting the glorious sequence of events that brought me into an evening full of pleasurable company and unforeseen encounters. Much to my delight, in a few minutes my phone would ring and I would receive yet more wishes for a “goodnight” and for “sweet dreams” from my new friend with laughing eyes.

In Giro Part I: In Bici

2008-06-05T22:29:00.003+02:00

Part One of my "In Giro" series.

Myself, on a bicycle, one Sunday afternoon.

Little Potato

2008-05-21T17:51:00.002+02:00

Ciao patatina… he coos at the culmination of our whispered phone conversation.

“Bye bye, little potato.”

How can something so ridiculous give me such immense pleasure?

And now everything has arrived at my doorstep

2008-05-21T17:46:00.002+02:00

I write to you late this evening. The time reads 11:28 pm and I’m certain it will be some hours before I find the familiar weight of my bedcovers.

Tonight I have a blog to write.

The scant remains of a tasty onion risotto cool down in an open plastic container sitting under my kitchen window. A rainforest of basil reaches its plump foliage over the escaping wisps of steam.

I am relaxed tonight. It was a strange and chaotic day today, but the refuge of my bachelor pad has lately had the power to instill instant comfort. I have been “listing” tonight. A very private, very liberating exercise that brings my most immediate and necessary desires out from under my skin and safely stored on paper. I usually write them on ugly yellow sticky notes, destined to hang, for weeks on end, precariously from my fridge door.

Reminders of moments of need.

Thankfully, I am not particularly needy tonight. Where panic sometimes appears there are only fields of gratitude. I am content. Fulfilled. Maybe for one night only, but who cares? That night is tonight. And tonight is now.

I have completed my audition attempts in London, maybe without “success,” but definitely with a whole heap of new understanding. Just what is this desire to throw myself into conservatory-style training? Just why was I so desperate to get out teaching in late December?

The answers are all too clear now. And, now that I’ve overcome some of my deepest fears, my experience here in rural, industrial Italy, has taken a spectacular upswing.

My weeks are filled with a few hours of work, several days a week in the gym and in Pilates class, drinks taken in the open, warm, and humid air of the town piazza, pizzas in the countless pizzerias that dot the countryside, and hours spent appreciating spectacular meals in the homes of friends.

Life is simple. And I am slowing down to the cozy, languid, marvelous pace of mortals. And mortal I am, more and more, everyday.

I am pursuing, gently, without expectation and without insistence, a humble love story. Pauses between breaths, moments between dates, the gentle roar of a car engine, fingers intertwined and stray kisses on my cheek remain imprinted in my memory. The sun shines and our skin warms, the rain falls and our cuddles pull closer. My Italian is simultaneously growing and causing me to drown in frustration. Body language works to convey what can’t be said… yet. And humour allows us to forget the awkward pauses as I laboriously conjugate verbs in my head in the wee hours of the night.

Life has become ridiculously simple. Probably because I have ceased to struggle against the natural flow of it. And everything.

And now everything has arrived at my doorstep.

The Audition in London

2008-04-21T19:34:00.003+02:00

April 18, 2008. I depart from Manerbio on time. More than on time. Quite a bit ahead of time. Wanting to be as in control as possible as I take the train, the bus, the plane, the train and the metro to my London hotel. Tomorrow I have an audition for theatre school.

…

December 2007. I am home for Christmas, feeling a little overwhelmed by the manner in which my experience in Italy is shaping up. Words like difference, difficulty, frustration, and survival are most common as I describe my life and work in Manerbio to my family and friends in Edmonton. I feel like I’m simply surviving the experience… not really enjoying it. Of course I will finish what I promised – that was never in question – but would this string of evenings spent alone in my apartment ever turn over to something better? A little voice in my head is answering pessimistically. “Probably not,” it’s saying. “It seems you may have bitten off more than you can chew in a place where you weren’t meant to be anyway.”

Thus, this Christmas, I am thinking about where I am meant to be. Maybe it’s time to return to the only place that really feels like home; maybe it’s time to re-enter theatre school. I am thinking of the instant community it would provide me if I were to be accepted. The days and nights spent over scripts, dialogues, monologues, in the company of enthusiastic, talented people… I am thinking about two of the best schools in the world, both in London.

In my mother’s basement out west of Edmonton, I sit at the computer and begin my applications. And it all feels so inevitable.

…

From Manerbio I arrive in Brescia. I am chic in my slim jeans, fairytale coat with green lining, black pumps, shoulder bag and single rolling suitcase. Everything is set. Everything is perfect. I am on my way to London.

I take my suitcase in hand and head towards the stairs, but what happens next is unreal. In one swift, ironically graceful movement, my heel catches the hem of my jeans. I am crashing, falling, face up, face down, shin splintering in pain, down the cruel stone steps.

A woman takes my hand to help me up. A man arrives on my other side with my right shoe, which had been pulled off completely in this absurd circus act. My mouth opens wide with fear. I’m sure I’ve broken something. The woman smiles compassionately and sees me pull up my pant leg to expose a fast-swelling chain of extensive bruises erupting from knee to ankle. I can’t believe it. Hideous though it may look, nothing’s broken.

Still. How idiotic can I be?

…

I arrive back in Manerbio from Christmas: a woman with a mission, a project, a dream. My luggage is full of Christmas gifts and theatre texts – including my personal copy of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. I take a month to select my pieces. They must be in perfect contrast while still exhibiting the best of what I have to offer.

I up the frequency of my gym visits, weights twice a week with 1-hour cardio sessions twice or three times a week. I begin to take voice lessons from a wild, wonderful, over-animated woman named Giulia Rosa. She takes to me immediately, insisting I meet her family and little girl. And would I be interested in singing something in June for the yearly school presentation?

I see more of my friend Michela and her husband Dario, who remain two of my very best friends in this corner of the world. My American colleague remains ever-enamoured with his new Italian love, and I feel nothing but happiness for him – a guy who really deserves it.

My confidence is growing. I begin to remove the ungentlemanly characters from my life and instead commit my hours to self-reflection and meditation. With work waning off to a much more manageable workload, life is only getting more and more manageable.

My students are great. On Fridays I see a pair of crazy kids – a brother and sister combo (aged 10 and 8 respectively) who make a truly mischievous pair. As I teach them the parts of the face (mouth, eyes, hair, ears) they insist to know the word for il sedere (bottom)! We play a ridiculous game where we call out parts of the body and indicate them at the same time. As expected, they loved to call out MOUTH! immediately following BOTTOM! I taught their mother as well, though in a separate lesson, and so the whole family insists on having me over for dinner – as often as possible. “It’s an open invitation, Rachel! You just call me and come over!”

I am coming to love my lesson with the business men. All of us are much more relaxed now and the lessons flow freely and easily, choc full of laughter. They’re good guys. I hope we’ll soon arrange a pizza dinner as a group, since Vince teaches the rest of the company in another classroom, and all together we'd have a great time.

I teach a very interested, very kindly man named Lorenzo on Saturday mornings who never ceases to amaze me with his "uptodateness" with news on the local and world scale. We have some very in-depth conversations about politics and the region around us, even taking a special trip up to see the home of Gabriele d'Annunzio on Garda Lake - as an "alternative" lesson - one beautiful Saturday afternoon.

I teach two handsome gentlemen on Wednesday evenings… provided they don’t cancel, that is. The secretary at the school, Veronica, a sweet and chatty 22-year old gal, always makes a comment about the perfume I’m wearing when I come in for those lessons. And she does so with a knowing wink.

There are so many great people that I've met through this job.

Springtime is on its way while my community blooms like cherry blossoms in front of my eyes. The fog melts away gently under the timid sun, and the chickens cluck and coo as they wade through the thick green grass.

…

Mom calls me while I wait at the Bergamo airport for my London flight. I’ve been sitting with my sore leg propped up on my suitcase, hoping that the elevation will help the swelling to abate somewhat.

She asks me how I am, her voice full of wonder and enthusiasm, marveling at my decision to go and audition for these prestigious schools. I start to laugh. I can’t help it! Here I am, feeling so damn sorry for myself and the recent catastrophe with my leg, and the one person with whom I could really laugh about it all phones me. It’s a huge treat. A truly special moment.

I laugh and laugh, and tell her exactly what happened. Concerned, motherly words are transmitted back to me through the ear piece. I should find some ice and try to stop the bruising, she’s saying. She’s absolutely right, too. Mom and I are both cursed with skin that tans slowly, burns easily, and bruises from the lightest tap… never mind a spectacular crash down stone steps.

I’m already feeling better, though. I might not be in the best shape, but at least I still know how to laugh at myself.

She asks if I’m scared for the audition. Nope, I say. I’m not scared. In fact, I say, I’m feeling too relaxed. Much too relaxed… considering what’s coming next.

While that may sounds like a good sign, let me tell you that it isn’t.

…

Spring springs from the leaves and the grass and the smiles of strangers. Horns are all a-honk as skirts swishswishswish by down the narrow sidewalks.

I have begun to finish many of my courses and classes, and so my work load is slacking off in a big way. This lack of work has meant more and more hours at the gym, now with greater emphasis on the Pilates component. Obviously it’s a great help to my audition preparations – the abdominal strength is excellent for would-be dancers.

But when I’m in class, I promise you that’s the last thing on my mind…

The truth is this: I’ve begun to see the guy from the gym again. The same guy I’ve had my eye on since October, and who has also had his eye on me. When I couldn’t stand the tension anymore, I took the dive and sent him a text message, asking if he’d be interested in seeing me again.

And was he ever.

We’ve spent several weeks sorting through the problems we had before, and I can’t help but feel optimistic. We only speak in Italian, which can be a big challenge for me, but with a little patience we could go a long way.

Sundays are spent driving around in his car, visiting shop windows, having a gelato, and cuddling on the sofa. It’s been years since I’ve had that. And does it ever feel good.

I tell my boss, Cristina, that provided I’m unsuccessful at my auditions I’d be happy to stay another year in Manerbio and work for her at the school. She yelps wildly and gives me a monster hug. My fabulous Italian boss. She takes such good care of me, and I am so indebted to her for that.

I return home to my Manerbio apartment just days before my departure. I am watching downloaded episodes of The Colbert Report – one of my all time favorite (iTunes) indulgences. My Shakespearean speech is sitting on the coffee table, stained with coffee-cup rings and seeming to ache with abandonment.

I look over at it as I sip my wine. Across the room, it dangles a vulnerable corner over the edge of the table. I am watching myself procrastinate. Why? In years past every time I caught myself procrastinating it was always due to fear. But this time, I feel no fear. None. Zero. How very strange. Surely if one were about to audition for one of the most well-recognized theatre schools in the world, he or she would probably find a certain level of fear, or nervousness, or awe…

Or something…

But I have none of these sentiments.

The only thing I feel is indifference.

…

After a rather restless night in my hotel room of holding dribbling cloths full of ice on my sore leg, I finally get up and shower, finally readying myself for the audition.

I arrive early, dressed in well-cut black clothes and well-applied make-up. I wait only ten minutes before I am escorted to a sitting area immediately outside the audition studio. I sit and chat with the other candidates there, plus the assistant (Mark) who was in his first year of the three-year acting program. The other candidates were quite young – 18, 19, 20, save for one other guy named Joshua, who had a relaxed sense of compliance as he told us he had auditioned in previous years as well. Everyone had wonderful backgrounds – a Swedish girl who had done volunteer work in Bangladesh, an English girl who now lives in Spain with her parents…

And there we were, sitting on harsh wooden chairs, waiting our turn in the audition room. We talked about anything but what was about to happen next. Some of us were very nervous, sitting there and pretending we weren’t petrified. But still I was in the same, relaxed (remember: TOO relaxed) state that I was in before. I was thinking about how interesting an experience this already was, but also about the shopping I was planning to do that afternoon… focus on the task at hand was a long way off.

Definitely a bad sign. Definitely.

Finally it’s my turn and I get a flirtatious wink from Joshua as I push through the heavy glass doors and walk down the corridor with the first year acting student, Mark.

I enter with confidence, position myself behind the tape as instructed, tell them the pieces I intend to recite, and get down to business.

…

I am packing my bag the morning before I leave for London. And I’m asking myself: if I’m so indifferent, do I still need to do this? Should I still do this? Maybe my desire for theatre school is really only a desire for community.

And maybe now, four months after I sent in my applications, I’ve begun to find community in the very place I thought I wouldn’t ever.

The clock is ticking down, however. Before I know it, it’s time to depart from Manerbio, and begin my journey to London.

And I decide I’d better go.

…

The audition finishes. I am acutely aware of the fact that I’ve only displayed about 30% of what I had inside me. My heart wasn’t in it, and my lack of preparation was all too apparent.

I thank the audition panel all the same, finish with a quick interview, and set out to see London. I have a leisurely retail Saturday in mind…

I see a Starbucks and beeline for it before I even know what I’m doing. Convent Gardens, with its covered market place, yields some adorable shops, and Oxford Street proves yet another marvel for my over-swiped VISA. At 7:30 pm I begin to look for somewhere to eat, fully aware of my early morning departure.

Setting: an Italian restaurant. Props: a sparkling glass of prosecco, a coiled scribbler and low lighting. I feel enamored with this city, the accents, the incredible diversity… never mind all the gay couples holding hands who make me want to clap my hands and cry with joy!

As I continue to write and muse over my bruschetta, the recently finished audition doesn’t begin to enter my thoughts. What does preoccupy me is the continuing disinterest surrounding this entire journey… what can account for this change? Surely the girl, huddled over the computer at Christmas time, desperate for another try at this weird and wonderful world, must still be inside me. Where did she go? Is she on vacation elsewhere?

Maybe I’m just happy to be where I am. A simple and rather unglamorous life though I may have in Italy… maybe it’s everything my heart wants right now. God! Is this what satiation feels like?

Meanwhile my bruises throb with slow healing, and I wonder if I’ll be able to put pressure on them during my Pilates class tomorrow morning. I think also of the women in the class – the characters and scenes they play every week, not to mention a certain someone who catches my eye all too frequently in the 50 minute class period.

I’m so glad to be heading back there. Bruises and all.

Weeks like this

2008-04-06T13:25:00.001+02:00

The season is changing. The sun has reemerged from its veil of fog and chill, spreading smiles and joviality as girls pull their skirts out of the closet and boys start up their motorcycles once again. Even the roosters are cock-a-doodle-dooing more now than ever before.

Spring has ignited all sorts of strange behaviour. The beautiful man I would often shamelessly stare at in the gym (I call him “the treadmill guy”) gave me a big smile and wave the other day as I was putting my laundry out to dry. Then, a young male student of mine came into class the other day and, immediately after ‘hello,’ asked me how I could be even more beautiful now than before.

Everyone’s a buzz under the sun. Last Sunday I walked hand-in-hand, then arm-in-arm, with my latest squeeze through the streets of my little town. Couples and families sat on benches around the little piazza, greedily lapping up gelato cones and grinning foolishly as they absorbed the warm rays from overhead.

Weeks like this that make you think… maybe I could stay here another year…

…but could I?

Travels with Daddy (Days 7, 8 and 9)

2008-03-30T21:16:00.006+02:00

Dad and I were pleased to "relax" a bit once we arrived at this bustling, cosmopolitan city! Leaving our car in Brescia, we took the train into the "New York" of Italy. I had never before seen Milan, and wasn't entirely sure what to expect.

We pulled into town in the afternoon and found our hotel easily. We then set off on foot to take a beginner's peek at the historical centre of the city, about ten minutes away from our hotel. We didn't spend too long out and about, though, since that evening we had tickets for La Scala.

Dad and I dressed up and took a cab to this infamous opera and dance venue. Romeo and Giulietta, the ballet, was playing that evening. Just our luck, however, the tickets seated us way, way up in the balconies, where it was rather difficult to see the stage. I was absolutely distraught - I was sure that Dad, shoved uncomfortably into a tiny seat, wouldn't want to stay past the first act. "We'll see," he told me. "Don't worry."

As it turned out, the show was so darn good that we decided to stick it out – all the way. We managed three hours of complete enrapture with the incredible performance we saw there.

Very happy to have stayed the whole time, we returned to our hotel and snuggled in, planning our inevitable sleep-in.

The next morning my poor Dad’s health had taken a turn for the worse, slowly being brought down by a chest cold.

We had our breakfast and set out nice and slow for a day of shopping… and shop did we ever! My wardrobe hasn’t looked this refined and lovely for a long, long time!

That evening I asked Dad if he would be interested in having dinner at a rather “peculiar” spot that was written about in our guide book. Roberto Cavalli had opened a restaurant, JUST CAVALLI in Parco Sempione, near the castle. I was itching to take some of my new clothing purchases for a spin, and Dad was so good as to oblige.

We ate several small but exquisite courses in very dim lighting, with very prompt service, and in company with some very beautiful people. I’m only sorry I didn’t think to take a look at the bathrooms before I left!

The next day, our final day, was Easter Sunday. Dad and I peeked into the grand Duomo to witness mass and to take a look at this third largest church in Europe from the inside.

We then took a stroll to the castle and peeked in at the various oddball museums they had there. One was for very old furnishings and decorative pieces from 1500 to present day, another for Egyptian mummies and Italian pre-history.

A small walk through the park saw us sitting in the sun once again, content to watch the people pass on our final afternoon. We then ate soup and cold cuts for dinner, then packed ourselves away for the evening, ready for an early departure the next morning. I, back to Manerbio, and Dad, back to Canada.

Travels with Daddy (Days 4, 5 and 6)

2008-03-30T20:04:00.004+02:00

Day Four – Day trip to Florence

The truth is, most Italians wouldn’t try to attempt what Dad and I did on our fourth day. We took our newly rented car for a day trip to Florence. What we didn’t realize, well, not until we were on the road and I began to read the guide book, was that one of the worst times to go to Florence was the week before Easter since the tourist crush is so great.

But there we were, already on the autostrada. And what can you do but continue on?

We missed the exit a few times (absolutely the fault of the navigator. Yes, me). But we eventual found ourselves weaving through winding Florentine streets, eyes peeled for tiny signs indicating the direction of the train station, where we planned to park our car.

When we finally found it, we went on foot in the direction of the city centre. We sat in front of the great Duomo and looked through our guide book for ideas.

We settled on seeing Michelangelo’s David at the Accademia, and what greeted us was a 2.5 hour wait! We did it anyways, though, and what a treat it turned out to be. Carved in marble, David stood 17 feet tall and absolutely impeccable.

Then it was time for a walk, a bit of shopping, and a slice of dessert in a café overlooking a lovely piazza. Dad and I also had a peek at the gorgeous Arno river, already lit up with lights.

Then, to dinner, nice and early because we were anticipating the 3-hour return by car. We ate in a restaurant that was full of Japanese tourists - a huge group - with all the servers speaking to them in Japanese! I was impressed and astonished, amazed at how much Florence had seemed to change in the four years since I had been there myself.

We made our way back to the station and began our long journey home, pleased to have seen some art, and content with the good food we found.

Day 5 - i laghi (the lakes)

Lombardia, the region where I am living, is blessed with several beautiful lakes. Dad and I took a leisurely start to our fifth day, still feeling tired from the hectic Florence trip, and took a nice walk around Sirmione, the beautiful town that juts straight into Lago di Garda.

We ate a pizza first, then took in the views from the castle, which were magnificent on that a gorgeous day: clear and bright so as to see the mountains on the far side.

We then took a walk around the park areas surrounding, resting on a bench in the late afternoon sun.

For dinner we zipped over to another smaller lake, Lago d’Iseo, which is blessed with a fabulous grill called Il Gattopardo. I was glad to take Dad there, the menu choc full of all things flesh. We had salami, cheese and polenta to start, then worked our way into grilled skewers and beef loin. Dad, feeling very satisfied, drove us both back to Manerbio, where we slept soundly another night.

Day 6 - Verona and our final evening in Manerbio

Another leisurely start saw Dad and I driving to Verona. I had wanted to visit this little place for quite some time, and I was glad to have company with me.

Because of the late hour, we first ate a slow and wonderful lunch in the full afternoon sun.

Then, after we put some coffees in us, the first tourist stop was Juliet’s Balcony. At a certain point, the city of Verona decided that if the fabled Juliet of Shakespeare’s ever-so-popular play ever existed, this balcony would be hers. The result was a bronze statue erected below this lovely balcony and a graffiti-strewn entryway (this graffiti, however comprised solely of love notes) to welcome the many visitors who stop by for a peek. Even more interesting is the strange “shininess” of the statues right breast, caressed by thousands of visitors for good luck!

Dad and I then did a fair bit of wandering down shopping streets, along the Adige river, and around the great arena, dating from the Roman era and extremely well preserved (now host to a great music festival in the summer).

We then returned to Manerbio quite early in anticipation for our final evening there. My boss, Cristina, and my friends Michela and Dario would have dinner at Scia Bas with us – three courses with wine and three hours of conversation. After dessert, Cristina’s father joined us briefly in order to meet my father and to shake his hand.

After we closed down the restaurant around midnight, Dad and I then stalked off to bed, preparing ourselves for the big trip to Milan the next morning.

Travels with Daddy (Days 1, 2 and 3)

2008-03-26T20:14:00.004+01:00

I hope my dear readers will forgive the relentless attention to detail given in the series of entries to follow. My father flew in from Canada to spend 9 days with me in Italy, and we certainly packed them full. I recount them here in exhausting detail mostly for my family’s benefit – who I am sure are quite interested to hear every little turn of our adventures!

Day One – Dad Arrives

Day arrives via special taxi from Malpensa Airport, about one hour earlier than I had expected him to….! I receive a call from the driver and change out of my pajamas at mach speed to meet Dad at the edicola (newsstand) just down the road, where the cab driver had stopped to await my arrival.

Dad and I give each other a big hug and pop back into the big van to travel the final 150 meters to my apartment building’s doors. Dad’s first treat was a tour of my lovely apartment, complete with balcony in view of the corn field. We remembered our old house in Grandview, Edmonton, which looked onto the University farm fields.

I make Dad a big cup of coffee in my superstar moka, had my shower, then we were off to see the school and for a tour of Manerbio.

He met Cristina, my boss, and Veronica, our secretary, briefly, and had a look through our classrooms and bookshelves. Then, on foot, we made our way into town. We walked past the giant church, up the main shopping street that ended at a cute little piazza with a fountain. We stopped in at Lady Café to have a sandwich and a slice of apple cake, then continued on to see the music school and to pass by the train station.

A full afternoon on foot behind us, we took Dad to his hotel (not 20 meters from my apartment – how convenient) and put him to bed for a rest. After a short nap, he and I decided to visit my gym, and there we met the lovely staff there. We took a short turn on the cardio machines, then went back to get ready for dinner.

And what a treat that was! We squeezed poor Dad into my little Fiat Panda, a pot of spring flowers in his lap, and I drove us down the state road towards the town of Bassano where my friend Michela lives. She had offered to make us dinner that night, and her brother, who works in Scotland, was to be there as well.

We ate like kings and queens. A plate of Italian cold cuts put a big smile on Dad’s face, and that was only the starter. What came next was pasta al ragú (in meat sauce), followed by a special local dish called spiedo for our second course. Dad was absolutely impressed with the spiedo, cuts of ham and beef which takes about 6 hours to cook, slowly roasted on a spit and flavoured delicately with sage. At the end of all this, Michela had also prepared one of her famous cakes – this one with apple and raisins. Everything was superb. As always, si mangia benissimo a casa Michela!

Dad, I was happy to see, was able to chat with Michela and Jacomo (Michela’s brother) in English the whole night long. In fact, he and Jacomo found a common interest in wildlife... specifically hunting. Go figure.

Day 2 – Cremona and Pizza

Dad slept in, as he ought to have! After more than 18 hours in airports and on planes, can you really blame the guy? I was glad he took the time to rest. I gave myself a manicure in the meantime…

Dad phones around eleven o’clock to say he has just woken up, so I invite him over to have breakfast in my apartment (since breakfast at the hotel ends at ten o’clock). He does and we share several cups of moka coffee and toast with cold cuts and jam.

It’s Sunday, and since everything’s closed, I propose a walk in the country side… which is almost directly out my front door. Daddy agrees and so we set off to say hello to the local chickens and to stroll in the nearby park.

After a quick lunch at home, Michela arrives with her husband, Dario, to take us to Cremona – a town 44 kilometers away that just happens to be the number-one spot in the world for violin-making. That’s right. Violin-making. We went for a tour of the market and a gelato in the park: spending our Sunday in leisurely Italian style.

We come home in time to get ready for dinner – pizza dinner – at one of my favourite local pizza joints, Tomato. Tomato is run by a student of mine, Mauro, or rather, Mauro and his family. The idea is superb: pizza a volontá (all-you-can-eat pizza) plus one drink, plus one coffee, all for only €11 a head. It was a full house that Sunday night, and pizzas came steadily past, carried gracefully by the servers who were repeating the toppings over and over at every table they approached. We ate our share, had our coffee, then made our way back to Lady Café for an after-dinner drink.

Dad and I then went home and to bed, fully aware of our need to get up early for Pilates the next morning…

That’s right! Pilates class! In Italian!

Day 3 Pilates and Brescia

At 09.40 Monday morning, Dad and I took our places amongst the local housewives (many of whom were quite fit) for our first lesson in Pilates… in Italian. He and I had both done some in Canada, but I had never done it here…! Ah well, sometimes you’ve got to jump in with both feet. Poor Dad looked a little nervous, though. I think I was more excited at the prospect of failing completely than he was.

We did it, me making translations wherever I could (perhaps more than Dad wanted to hear, but it was a good exercise for me all the same) to choruses of “bravissimi!” from our lovely instructor, Roberto. I guess we didn’t do to badly. I thanked him for his time and patience, and then Dad and I fired upstairs for a bit of cardio on top. I took a 60-minute run which I would certainly regret later – my body ached for almost two full days after! It was a good ache, though… the ache of progress...

Dad and I then made our way into Brescia by train. Vince met us at the station there and the three of us had lunch together. Afterwards, Vince was so kind as the give us a full tour of the city, including the Roman ruins and Piazza della Loggia, where the infamous 1971 bomb went off.

Vince then took off for Manerbio where he would be teaching that evening, while Dad and I made our way back to the station to pick up our rental car: the mid-size Fiat Bravo with a spunky diesel engine... which we promptly took up the hill towards Brescia's castle with fine views over the city.

That evening Dad and I would eat dinner in Brescia, where we received extremely slow service, but luckily very good food.

We drove back down the sate road towards home, Manerbio. The next morning was going to be an early start, since Dad and I had made plans to take the big hike down to Florence… for what would become a lengthy, tiring, but wholly worthwhile day trip into Tuscany.

Can I Lose My Canadian Passport for This?

2008-02-27T20:20:00.007+01:00

Three weeks had passed with nothing more exciting happening to me than a few pizza dinners and a handful of aperitivos. Then, out of the blue, I received a rather exciting text message invitation.

…

Morning Schedule for February 23:

05:00 Drag sorry butt out of bed and commence teeth-brushing. If there’s no danger of slipping and killing oneself, a shower is advisable.

06:00 Depart from Manerbio apartment enroute to the mountains… and my first European skiing experience!

06:30 Stop on the way to have a blurry-eyed coffee at an “Autogrill” (a highway-side convenience store and breakfast stop).

08:20 Arrive at Ponte di Legno – our slope-set of choice, supposedly the “coldest” spot of all the nearby mountains and therefore the best choice for our springtime skiing adventure.

09:00 Skis rented, passes bought, we’re finally on our first cable ride up the mountain.

…

My companions: two Italians with a decent amount of ski experience each. One from the very town where I am living now and the other from the south but a resident of Northern Italy for some years now. Marco and Giulio respectively. Two guys who are as different as night and day, but quite a hilarious pair to hang around, if I may say so.

My own past skiing experience could be described as patchy, sure. I had only gone skiing a handful of times between 2004 and 2007, but I first learned how to do it when I was six years old. In fact, from the time I was six until the time I was eleven, I lived in a house on top of a ski hill. That’s right. On top. I walked out the backyard, opened the gate, and stepped onto freshly made snow, the top of the ski run. To boot, all the residents at the top of the hill were given free ski passes: maybe the ski hill’s way of keeping us tolerant of all the noise and racket we put up with for five months of the year.

These were happy times. I remember feeling like a snow star, skiing as I would several times a week. Sure, it was only a little river-valley hill, but I was learning very quickly. And I was a daredevil. I never really learned how to slalom: I was all about the speed. Straight down, no carving necessary. ZOOM.

Then, when Mom and Dad started taking me and my sister to the Rocky Mountains to ski (first-class mountain skiing on a world scale, let me tell you) there was hardly a difference. ZOOM. Straight down. Those beginner snowboarders had better watch out for the speeding bullet in bright neon pink snowsuit. I was unstoppable. Literally. Zero fear and zero brakes.

I knew darn well that I would be starting slow this weekend, though. Even though skiing is like riding a bike, muscles tone is pretty important too. I’d been going to the gym a whole lot, sure, but would I still have the endurance for a whole day of mountain skiing? I sure hoped so. I was the Canadian representative. I had to pull through. For the name of my country, if not my own pride.

Off we went.

The first few hills weren’t entirely easy. Not your average bunny hills, but instead the medium-hard kind. Red and Black runs, as it were. The snow was ok, maybe a little soft but at least plentiful. We were quickly upping the difficulty, though, and the third run of the day turned out to be black. Not on purpose, mind you – only because both my companions hadn’t been to this particular location before, and we were feeling our way around, not really sure what we would find.

I was already starting to feel tired, and the sun was becoming ever warmer. How embarrassing! Was I simply tired because of the 5AM wake-up? Or maybe because I was doing runs that were too hard, especially considering the fact that it was my first time on the slopes this year? Or maybe it was because my skis were better shaped for powder, and the stuff I was skiing on was the slickest, wettest stuff I’d ever tried before?

Damn. It wasn’t any good. I was tired. After only 3 hours of skiing, I was wiped. I couldn’t take it anymore! The snow was wet and I was waning. Ah well, at least I wasn’t complaining.

I made a point of sending my ski pals off for more fun as I headed towards one of the nearby chalets. Only 13:30 or so and I was planning to spend the rest of the afternoon soaking up the toasty springtime sun. I found a slowly melting lake and plopped myself down on a bench, warmth caressing my face, my new gloves cushioning my sleepy head.

A few hours later I saw my buddies pull in from a nearby run (Marco was so easily visible from his all-yellow snowsuit), and I walked back around the lake to greet them. As I drew nearer, Giulio called out: Rachel! Abbiamo litigato! (we had a fight!). What? I thought…? I mean, Giulio and Marco are definitely different creatures, but they always found ways to get along, never fully losing their cool with one another. Marco pointed at his nose, which I then saw had patches of skin missing, even oozing a little blood!

I made a shocked face and asked what on earth had happened? Giulio laughed and began to tell the real story, involving singing, being silly, and crashing into a snow fence along the way. Poor Marco! But what a goofball, all the same.

We skied out and headed back to the car. Now my companions were finally showing the same signs of fatigue I was. Off we went, back to Manerbio, skin missing from Marco’s poor nose, myself feeling a little ashamed at my inability to adapt to the warm, wet snow conditions, and Giulio, not a little bit worse for wear, snoozing peacefully in the back.

Thus, I have had my first skiing experience in Europe. When I talked to my Dad a few days later, his first question was: how did it go? He wasn’t the least surprised to hear of my troubles on foreign snow. He told me that even in Eastern Canada the snow was more like that – wet and slick – and that in the West we are incredibly lucky to find the conditions we do. But, you know, he’s my Dad… and Dad’s are always supposed to be supportive of their daughters…

Nevertheless, I am proud to put a big, thick checkmark on my “to-do” list. Done. Fatto. I’ll definitely need a little break before I consider a second round…

Sometimes you just WIN

2008-02-10T21:14:00.000+01:00

Do you know what I’m talking about? Not football matches, not lotteries, not dates with handsome men. I’m talking about those tiny problems that, once overcome, somehow feel like the greatest imaginable victories.

I have two to document here. Yes, TWO. I have arrived at two incredible (and yet somehow extremely pedestrian) victories in only 72 hours.

I have Cristina, my boss, to thank profusely for helping me arrive at them… but wait, this is beginning to sound like an Oscar-acceptance speech, so let’s switch gears immediately and get to the heart of these critical matters.

Victory One – The MOKA

In Italy, for the majority of us who can’t afford an in-home espresso machine (the decent ones are mighty expensive), we rely on our trusty moka to deliver our caffeine shots several times a day.

It looks like this.

Exhibit A: PICTURE OF MOKA

And it works like this.

Exhibit B: HOW A MOKA WORKS

When it doesn’t function, the result is this.

Exhibit C: RACHEL IN THE MORNING WITHOUT COFFEE

Unfortunately, Exhibit C was in full swing due to Exhibit A’s non-functionality. The water boiled, but would not pass up into the upper chamber. There was nothing to pour into my espresso cup!

I don’t want to overstate the problem, but the truth is that I suffered for over a week in this way. It was horrible. The caffeine-low headaches were insufferable. I dragged myself to nearby cafés and slammed espressos one after another. (Funny enough, no barista ever found this particularly peculiar – I couldn’t have been the only one to need a few to get started). I also (and believe me when I say I’m ashamed of it) exploited the school’s espresso machine, drinking more espressos from miniature plastic cups than what was normally prudent. (I am sorry for that, but it was utterly necessary, you see.)

When Cristina retuned from her usual four days in Venice she came by my apartment to inspect the offending appliance. We ran vinegar and water through it (as a test), and it worked perfectly. The problem, it seemed, was in the filter, which time and again was getting clogged with coffee grinds. I needed a new one.

Now, with replaced filter, I enjoy four espressos in the morning! Made at home! While still in pajamas! And I manage to write a whole lot of BLOG entries! Before noon!

I’m a happy camper once again.

Victory Two – The IKEA Bed

I love IKEA. I do. Affordable furniture solutions with the added advantage of calorie-burning in-home assembly. But, and I’m sorry to slam them, their bed frame systems suck.

And that’s a fact.

Sure, my increased muscle mass, thanks to my fabulous new gym routine, definitely weighs in on the bathroom scale. But I’m absolutely not fat.

PICTURE OF ME: Do I look fat to you? Go ahead - tell me I'm fat. I dare you.

My IKEA bed, however, seems to think otherwise.

Every night I gingerly slip into bed, all too aware of the ominous creaks and groans coming from the flimsy, shifty bed frame: specifically the wooden slats supporting the foam mattress. On any given evening, I can expect to be awoken in the middle of the night when, suddenly, brutally, the wooden slats decide to slip out of place and crash to the floor.

I kid you not. It’s happened almost a dozen times since I arrived.

What’s the deal? I asked myself. How can a person live like this? Will I develop a phobia of sleep? That can’t be a good thing. How can I ever relax? How can I ever expect to have a good night’s sleep?

Not to mention other things…

Enough was enough! I told myself. This is not living! I need to be emancipated from this Swedish torture system!

I talked to Cristina about it. She laughed and laughed, and told me I was a naughty girl. I insisted that it’s only ME on the bed when it collapses. She laughed even harder and told me I was VERY naughty! Good lord. Will no one take this seriously? I’m loosing sleep, and, well, let’s not even begin to talk about the opportunity costs…

Cristina inspected the bed during the same visit in which she inspected the moka. We pulled off all the covers, lifted the mattress away, and look a long, hard look at the shifty wooden slats and flimsy metal support bars. We, or rather Cristina, discovered that the frame could be tightened up, leaving less room for the supports to shift around, and less opportunity for them to slip off completely. We went back to the school for a screwdriver, and I cancelled my evening plans. I had a bed frame to wrestle with! I was going to hog-tie it into submission if it was the last thing I ever did.

It took a full hour of pushing it against walls and wardrobes, pressing the sides together while viciously tightening the support bars. A victorious roar was soon upon my lips! Sweat was heavy on my brow, steadily dripping into my stinging eyes.

I barely had enough energy left to administer my highly scientific tests of the frame. I replaced the mattress. I got into bed. I got out of bed. At first with trepidation, and then with greater vigor, I proceeded to flop, roll, jiggle and wiggle on all different parts of it. The creaks were greatly minimized now, and the support’s shifts, before registering in inches, were now measuring in at half-centimeters at most.

After five minutes of this (it’s all I had in me), I laid down, heavily, in the middle of the mattress, staring at the ceiling and thanking the greater powers that be for my incalculable triumph.

At least for the present, I have thwarted the evil efforts of Swedish sadists. At least in this instance, God was obviously on the side of the just and true.

Pasta at the Pump

2008-02-10T21:11:00.000+01:00

Yesterday evening, seeing that my wine supply was about as low as the fuel gage on the Panda, I decided to fill up my stock of these important supplies. First stop was the grocery store.

Yes, the grocery store. I have already stopped noticing this wonderful phenomenon of being able to buy one’s wine at the same time as all the rest of dinner’s ingredients. It’s a European phenomenon, of course, to find alcohol sold next to cheese and frozen veggies, but it always seemed like a good idea to me. In fact, I suspect that the strict separation between food and alcohol – such as what you find in Canada – may well lead to unhealthy attitudes towards alcohol consumption. To me, at least, the presence of wine next to food indicates what I already suspected: many Italians see it as a fundamental part of gastronomy, no more dangerous than a can of beans, or a package of prosciutto.

Anyways, as I was saying, I bought my wine as well as a few other necessities (a bar of chocolate, a jar of marinated artichokes, some whole-grain rolls and some cherry tomatoes), and headed back to the Panda. It was time to get her her own respective liquid of life!

I pulled up to the full serve gas station (yes, I’m still too embarrassed to pump my own gas in Italy, fearful I might do something wrong and set fire to the whole place) and politely asked the man for a full tank. As he did so, I fired off a few text messages, and then pulled out my wallet to pay him, trying desperately not to think about the conversion rate (gas is incredibly expensive in Italy… at least compared to Canada). The kind man gave me my change, then asked me if I had my voucher for pasta. YES: MY VOUCHER FOR PASTA. I had forgotten completely! The last time I had filled up the Panda, this same gentleman had given me pasta vouchers, a sort of fidelity program, whereupon my next fill-up, I would receive a free bag of pasta. I kid you not. Penne o spaghetti? He asked me. Stifling giggles, I responded that I would prefer penne, and thank you very much. Pasta at the pump. What a gas!

I headed home with a decidedly goofy grin on my face, wine in the trunk, and a bag of penne on the passenger seat.

Will the fun never end?

I certainly hope not.

English in Italy: A Diary of Precious Moments

2008-02-10T20:59:00.000+01:00

I’m at the liceo (high school) at 08:50 on a Thursday morning. Yes, it’s early alright, and I’m all too aware that I won’t finish teaching until 20:00 tonight, but these kids are awesome, and I’m lucky to have them at this difficult hour. They’re busy working away at the exercise I’ve just handed out: interpreting their zodiac sign’s supposed personality traits, and deciding whether or not they possess these characteristics. In the front row there’s a rather energetic young man whose busy chatting away (in Italian, of course…) with those around him, who are still bent over massive, ancient, coverless Italian-English dictionaries.

I approach him to see if he’s finished the exercise (I’m sure he hasn’t) and discover that he hasn’t even touched it. No big surprise there. I go around to his side of the desk and try to help him out. All of a sudden, his hands are resting on his temples, and he begins firing away in Italian, telling me that it’s impossible! That he can’t do it! I look at him in surprise: all he has to do is use the dictionary to find the meanings of certain words, then write down which are true about him… a monkey could do it. I start in with buckets of encouragement: obviously he’s the sort of student who has simply decided he can’t before he even starts. I see it a lot, actually… many students have been totally demoralized by the particularities of grammar that they figure they’re hopeless for life.

He holds up four fingers, trying to tell me that he’s failing English. The other students in the vicinity have turned to watch our exchange. I put a hand on his shoulder, smile, and tell him I’m there for him. He laughs, and begins the exercise. We work together for a while, then he continues on his own. Success. He’s finished before many of the other students, (with a fair number of mistakes, OK, but who cares?) and I we exchange a high-five.

…

I pull up to a familiar middle school in a nearby town. The Panda gives her usual death-rattle as I turn her off, and I begin to collect my supplies from the passenger side seat. Without realizing it, I’ve let out a big sigh, and my heart-rate has begun to increase exponentially.

The weekly three-hour block I spend at this school is, by far, the most stressful of my week. I am always surprised when I manage to survive it. By the time I’m done, my vocal chords ache, my limbs shake, and my head pounds. With a fair measure of trepidation, I approach the doors, visualizing my lesson, and deliver my usual good morning to the caretakers inside.

I teach. The students are taught. I speak, they repeat. I deliver game instructions in a variety of ways, repeating myself over and over until ever last one of them understands. We play, they laugh and scream. I, in turn, scream over top of them. Finally, the bell rings. The next group comes in. I repeat. For three classes in a row.

The last class is amazing, though. I walk in, and they yell: RACHEL!! GOOD MORNING!! HI!! They’re my number one fans, and I have no idea how I managed to win them over so completely. What luck that I end with this group, because they are simply incredible. They are a very high level compared to their peers, and it’s obvious why: their enthusiasm, desire to learn, and exceptional attitudes mean incredible progress in a very short period of time. They attack every task I give them with huge grins. They support each other and make the best of every situation.

At the end of that class, I pack up and deliver my final “bye-bye!” fully aware of the copious arm-pit sweat accumulated from three straight hours of entertaining thirteen-year-olds and the anticipatory rumble of my tummy’s pasta-desire.

BYE-BYE! They yell in unison, and I exit the class.

Then…

…WE LOVE YOU!

My eyes widen with surprise. Can that be? Is that really what they said?

Indeed it was…! It was simply incredible, and utterly unanticipated.

Then, before I knew what I was doing, full of the sort of adrenaline accumulated from a long, hard performance… I blew them a kiss from the doorway, then swept down the corridor to the front doors.

…

Recent e-mail received from a student:

SORRY IF I WAS ABSENT BUT I WAS BUSY WITH A FEW COSTUMERS!

SOOO NO SCHOOL!!! SHIT! WHAT DID YOU DO?????

…

At the gym again. As long as stress and sleep are in short and large supply respectively, it’s a pleasure to sweat it out four times a week in the lovely, Swedish-Sauna-Style cardio room.

I walk through the maze of weight machines towards the stairway leading up to the treadmills. On the way I deliver my usual “Ciao” to the fellow with hungry eyes behind the trainer’s desk. (Regular readers might be able to imagine exactly who this might be.)

Every once in a while he decides to take a stab at saying something in English. Maybe to impress me, maybe to impress himself, I’m not sure. It’s always preceded with aspetta (‘wait a moment’) as his gaze travels to the upper right-hand corner of his vision, tapping an unknown memory source of high-school English classes. Then, the delivery. Usually rich with embedded aspirations resembling the letter H.

Sometimes… Aspetta… ehh… how (h)are you?

Other times… Ehh… g(h)ood m(h)orning!

Today, however, he went for the gold. Ma R(h)achel… aspetta… you (h)are (h)always beautiful!

This one won’t ever give up, it seems. He obviously lacks short-term memory for complete disasters that he personally administered in the past. The English is a nice touch, though, right? It certainly smacks of effort.

VA | LE | CAR | NE

2008-02-10T20:49:00.000+01:00

~ February 2-3, 2008 ~

As I sip my coffee this Monday morning my head is a buzzing, dizzying battle of delight and frustration. My boots, having been plopped unceremoniously by my front door last night when I staggered in from a drizzly walk back from the train station, bear the unmistakable signs of an unforgettable weekend. Blue-grey encrustations, displayed in diverse splashing patterns from a variety of trajectories, beg to be noticed but refuse to reveal their composition… While I cannot (nor would not wish to) guess all the ingredients, I can say that these curious mud spots definitely contain at least these five elements:

spilled beer, wine and whiskey,
pulverized confetti bits
human vomit
human and animal urine, and (thankfully)
a bit of clean, good, rainwater

The reason for this? My weekend was spent in Venice, during the final rainy weekend of Carnevale. The clever festival program had split up and re-arranged the syllables like so:

VA LE CAR NE literal translation: MEAT VALLEY

Such an absurd title was somehow quite fitting. I’d never before been to a party quite like this one… not even ACF, the year-end concert at UBC, can compare to this.

I arrived in Venice with Cristina, my boss, on Saturday night just before dinner. Vince was already there, at the train station, waiting for us, having visited some friends of his in Padova earlier that day. Together we walked to Cristina’s flat, a marvelous, bohemian specimen of crumbling Venetian architecture, just one example of what is so ubiquitous throughout the city of canals. We encountered so many ridiculous, cheap, ugly costumes during our ten minute walk that I had to laugh to myself: Finally! I’ve found Halloween in Italy! We had seen at least a half a dozen afros, some tall, pointy hats, and much rudely painted on make-up that was steadily running down cheeks and necks due to the drizzly weather, but we hadn’t yet seen any examples of the truly lovely masks and costumes that make Venice’s version of Carnevale so world-famous.

We ate dinner with three of Cristina’s friends, rounded off the meal with a plate of frittelle (sweets resembling sugared doughnuts, usually consumed greedily in large quantities during carnival time), then set off for a walk about town.

Cristina led the way for our sightseeing tour, which passed a variety of both impromptu and organized parties well-peopled with both staggering drunks and those experiencing alternate states of mind. Vince and I split off from the others when we arrived at a piazza hosting a bumping techno concert; I was eager to get in the thick of it with my video camera. When Vince and I were in the beer line, Cristina phoned to say she was on her way home and we were welcome to come back at any time, at any hour.

Off we went, Vince and I. There were parties everywhere. We encountered drum circles, fire spinners, and audio systems on wheels, bringing a dance party wherever they went. Party-goers were in all different states of sobriety and disconnection, experiencing all degrees of invincibility and intense sickness. Toilets were in short supply; corners, walls, and canals helped to ease to strain on the city’s plumbing system. Off-key singing, intensely irritating horns and noise makers, and unintelligible shouting bounced off the walls of narrow passages and filtered into the windows of weary, sleep-depraved Venetians. There was so much to film. Allow this short account to give you a taste of what we saw.

The next day, Vince, Cristina, her roommate Barbara, and I gathered round the kitchen table to slug back coffee after coffee amongst gossip and laughter. Vince and I had a date with Piazza San Marco where, we were told, all the ‘real’ Venetian costumes would be found, would be on parade, would be ready for eager picture-taking and filming. So, at noon, we lazily set off for a little more tourism. It was just our luck that we arrived at the piazza just in time for the big competition.

With a solid party under our belt and a good dose of true Carnevale pageantry, Vince and I decided to leave Venice that very evening… I had been offered a wonderful dinner that evening at the home of a friend of Cristina and Barbara, but the stress of my weekly lesson preparations was too strong, and I knew I needed a full Monday to get ready.

It is for this reason I am experiencing a good dose of frustration this morning. Taking a weekend to go traveling is, unfortunately, always at the expense of my teaching preparations, and takes a huge toll on my weekly stress-levels. While I am finding ways to ease the strain of my job, my hours are ever increasing – now to the point where I teach even a few more hours than my more-experienced colleague. I was sad and cranky leaving Venice so quickly, heavy with the realization that I’m not as free to travel and see the country’s sights this year as I had hoped to be.

But, I suppose, the fact that I was able to go for a quick 24 hours is still something, and the opportunity to see Carnevale (VALE-CARNE!) from the comfort and enjoyment of a friend’s flat isn’t something everyone can say. Despite the brevity of the experience, I certainly have a lot to be grateful for…

…right? Yes, of course! On to lesson planning, then…

I Live in Italy: a BlogPoem

2008-01-28T16:19:00.000+01:00

I live in Italy.

If it just so happens that my weekend plans

To go skiing in the Alps, or

To go on a cheese pilgrimage to the land of parmigiano reggiano (Parmesan cheese)…

…sadly, fall through…

I can always go to the local gym

And ponder the meaning of the treadmill button labels defaticamento and azzerare

As I face a grand pane of squeaky-clean glass

Offering a misty view of a world topped with reddish brown roof tiles.

I live alone in Italy.

At mealtime I consume neither portions fit for sultans, nor do I eat like a bird,

Yet I still need the assistance of a car to bring home the weekly bread.

It’s not the cans of tomato paste destined for a pot of tagliatelle,

Nor the few bottles of wine I always like to keep around.

Instead I blame the 21L (=21 kilos) of bottled water I consume each week,

For no one around here,

And I mean no one,

Uses tap water for anything more than pasta water.

I drive a 23-year old Fiat Panda in Italy.

Even in the lightly chilled air of a balmy morning

I must pull the choke lever to its greatest extent

To ensure engine turnover.

After a nighttime class in Pavone Mella,

There seems to be a very good chance that

Even this measure will not start the car.

But there’s never a problem

When all six of your students there

Are strong young men

Ready and willing to give you a good shove…

As far as it takes…

To get the damn car to start.

I have appuntamenti in Italy.

Appuntamento is a greatly frustrating word

A word that seems bound and determined

To make one’s relationships less (rather than more) clear.

It can mean an appointment at the doctor’s

It can mean a rendezvous with friends

…Or it can mean a romantic date.

So,

In which of the three the spirits of this word

Is a girl supposed to interpret a full day of

Conversation, laughter, eating, drinking,

Being driven to the local lakes,

And introduced to many Italian friends,

Never allowed to open her wallet once,

And yet taken home and left without a phone call…

…for several days?

Limited-Time Only Italian Sugar Daddy?

I teach English in Italy.

I teach vocabulary, grammar and syntax

To young professionals,

Children and housewives,

Middle-school and High-school students,

About careers,

About books and movies and music,

About politics and art

And slang.

I ask the question “did you understand?”

On average twenty times a day.

I hear about their families,

See the love and pride in their faces

As the activities and characters of

Past and future generations

Are described in glorious detail.

I hear about their weekends, often spent

In trendy bars, where guys decked out in

Biker-inspired fashion:

Black leather jackets with too many buckles,

Boots which look fit for a walk on the moon,

And derrière-hugging jeans that accentuate their goods

With each and every choreographed hip-shift,

Casually sip

Not from a crude bottle of beer

Oh no…

But from a long-stemmed glass of sparkling prosecco.

I hear about their meals,

Conversations which always default into Italian

Because there are simply no direct English terms

For cotechino, tiramisú, osso buco, pasta carbonara…

I hear about their most recent cold or flu,

Which is almost always blamed

On the ever-present Po Valley fog:

A fog which is nothing less than ripe fruit

For the superstitious picking.

Stuff of legend,

Cause for endless suspicion,

And red-eye vigilance.

I (try to) speak Italian in Italy.

But there is so much I still cannot say.

I struggle daily with my inability to articulate

Moods, desires,

Manners, humours,

Assurances and fears.

An old colleague of mine recently wrote of her

Move to Montréal:

“About 50% of my life here is in French,

Which is very comfortable for me.

It gets exercised regularly,

But I'm not drowning in it.”

Unfortunately I can’t say the same.

The water’s deep and

The treading gets tough.

At the end of a day of teaching,

I’m exhausted.

What strength I have left

Goes to the gym,

Goes to preparing a decent meal, and

Goes to staying in touch with friends and family.

Usually, the thought of opening an Italian grammar book

Is simply beyond comprehension after 8.5 hours of

“Did you understand?”

I use the fire I have left

For dreaming,

For laughing (at myself,

Which is one of the funniest things around),

And for understanding what I can

From all that is spoken

And all that is not.

And for hoping that tomorrow will show me

Even more material for another BlogPoem.

in bed

2008-01-14T12:04:00.000+01:00

I write to you from bed on this Sunday afternoon. Had things gone to plan, I would be in the shower, getting ready for a coffee and gossip date with my friend Michela who I have not yet seen since I left Manerbio for the Christmas holidays. I would be wondering what shoes go best with my new jeans, wondering what eyeshadow colour might be best suited for a rainy afternoon hour spent over tiny espresso cups and emptied sugar packets.

But no. That’s not how things have panned out, I’m afraid. Instead, I woke up at noon after more than twelve hours of sleep, and what greeted me, along with the dim glow of midday illuminating my new sheer white drapes, was a rather nasty surprise.

I was without a voice.

My reaction was of dumfounded horror. I had had a cold for a few days, it was true, but it was only yesterday that my voice began to sound raspy – a normal cold symptom for me, and nothing I had worried about in particular. But never in my entire life have I ever remembered loosing my voice completely! I was immediately transported back to high school, where colds had been frequent amongst actors who were busy preparing for the main stage shows. I remember one girl lost her voice on opening night, and the chaos that ensued in the dressing rooms – the understudy hadn’t looked at the part for weeks, and was busy cramming the words into her brain while the other girls, all in varying states of costume or un-costume, were feasting on lemon slices in the corner, slurping noisily as they chewed the puckering sourness of the fruit, all the while commenting on the viscosity of their vocal chords.

I rolled over in bed and sat myself up. I tried to say “good morning,” but all that issued from my lips was a strangled sort of whisper. Then a garbled wince. Then a tone-deaf cry of despair. My eyes bulged out from their sockets. This can’t be right, I thought. Stupidly, I wondered if I had simply forgotten how to speak. There’s an actor’s nightmare for you.

But no. No matter what I tried to do: yell, sing, murmur, scream … I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t. Slowly, the implications of this discovery began to bubble at the surface of my consciousness. I can’t see Michela this afternoon, that’s for sure. But what about my lessons? My work week begins on Tuesday, less than 48 hours from now. I would feel terrible canceling lessons, mostly because it’s so soon after the Christmas holidays, but also because I’ve already planned a trip to London this Friday! Would this mean that I cancel lessons for a few days, only to rush out on holidays? Or would I be like this for weeks – even unable to go see my friend in London?

Such thoughts are all a-swirl in my brain, and I’m having trouble calming down enough to do anything useful at all. Mostly I sit here, typing away, wondering why I was ever in a hurry to finish my university classes: where having a voice is totally counterproductive to the process of learning anyway! In that context, your voice might be used to ask an intelligent question, but all too often it’s simply used to speak with one’s neighbour, or, better yet, used to ask a stupid question because you had been to busy talking with your neighbour to pay attention in the first place.

Well, nowadays I’m no longer at leisure to sit in silence and allow the conversations, the interrogations, the thoughts and brilliance to manifest in the comfort of my skull cavity. Nowadays I am the conversatrice – the conversationist, if you will. I must make them speak. I must make them listen. And without a voice, I am nothing… especially at the middle school where there is nothing but yelling and disordinance.

My voice is everything in this job. Absolutely everything. Pronunciation, intonation, the music of questions, of answers, of laughter. In this state of forced, insurmountable silence, I am a worthless English teacher. Without a voice, I am not a teacher.

What a horrible feeling… and how interesting that I am as frustrated as I am just at having lost my ability to communicate with spoken words! I am so sad to think that my family will begin calling me this evening (as they often do on Sundays) and that I will have to let the cell phone ring and ring and ring. I am also sad to think I might have to abandon so many classes in the name of recovery (and for how many days?). And, of course, I am sad to think I may have to cancel my trip to London.

But what can I do? I did all I could to stay well. Yesterday I rushed out to the pharmacy for a cold remedy after my morning class (which did nothing to thwart the current state of things, obviously), and last night – Saturday night, might I add – I was in bed before midnight, trying to get over whatever I had. But no dice, as they say.

Thus, piled all around my bed are books: grammar, novels, Italian, English… too many to get through in a single lifetime. All I can do is make the best of my (bed)time, right?

The Second Honeymoon

2008-01-09T19:15:00.000+01:00

Another Christmas in Edmonton come and gone. It was, as always, full of those things traditional, homey, familiar, as well as those moments more chaotic and exhausting… though all of which were ultimately worthwhile.

There were also some lovely surprises along the way. My sister, Jess, having moved in with her boyfriend, Matt, hosted me at her house on three separate occasions, two of which turned into slumber parties begun in front of the TV and lazily dragged upstairs to proper beds. It was a pretty heartwarming feeling being there with Jess, whether chewing on stale gingerbread, five-cent candies expertly paired with regular ol’ beer, or sipping New Year’s Eve champagne (yup, the real thing). I was so glad to see her getting cozy with Matt, a fellah with whom she goes way back to high school. The two of them had recently acquired a new puppy, named Ginny, who I found an immediate attachment with. She is irresistible. Utterly irresistible. And she loves her Auntie Rachel, despite all the puppy bites and scratches she might inflict.

I saw some friends with whom I go way back with, some newer friends, and some very old acquaintances. I have collected one rather serious promise for a visit in Italy, which I can’t wait to see happen in the spring! Landon, my dear, I will show you the time of your life. And that’s a promise.

Christmas itself was the usual split-time phenomenon with double the number of heavy meals and double the number of truly thoughtful gifts. Packing them up was certainly an ordeal, though! I made it back to Italy with 80 lbs of stuff. That’s more than half my body weight, for heaven’s sake! You should have seen me hauling those suckers through all manner of airports and train stations. It was an ordeal, thankfully overcome without any damage to the cargo or the mule. My ski equipment remains in Canada, though, which is a shame since I have a number of outstanding offers to hit the Alps this winter and into the spring.

My boss picked me up from the bus station in Manerbio in her brand spanking new car… and told me that her old, wonderful, frightening-as-all-hell to drive, 23-year old Panda, was parked in my downstairs parkade: mine to use at will. But that’s not all! Once at my place, I found curtains hanging from my previously bare windows – all made by Cristina’s mom.

It was one fantastic homecoming. The Panda and I are becoming better friends now. We take outings to the drycleaners, cobblers, and post office on a regular basis. I sense she’s in it for the long haul…

Since I’ve been back there has been nothing but the warmest welcomes, just like the one Cristina gave me. The lady who sells me croissants was full of smiles when she saw me on Monday morning, and the cobblers made a special point of thanking me for all the business I give them! Yes, I seem to have a fair number of shoes, enough to get me on a first-name basis with the trio of old men huddled over a kiddy-sized cobbling table, tipping slightly on their three-legged stools.

Text messages are pouring in from friends eager to get together for a late night drink, and it’s only with great regret that I ask them to wait a few days while I pound out my week’s lesson plans in a furious hurry. Only tonight am I beginning to feel more on top of things, which is good since tomorrow Vince is back, and I’m sure the rest of my weeks will be sprinkled with aperitivos and pizzas with him and our student and ex-student friends.

Let the second honeymoon begin.

Christmas and Politics

2008-01-09T19:06:00.000+01:00

This year marks my first experience as an English teacher. I hadn’t brought many expectations with me. Just a truckload of energy for learning.

My classes offer some incredible learning experiences for me. Sure, I dish out the English grammar, I provide adjective, noun, adverb and verb forms of the same root, but the gift of cultural exchange that I receive in return is really something. Sometimes they’re the small differences – differences of expression, differences of behaviour and tradition. For example, I’ve learned about the typical Christmas cakes: pandoro: a tall, star-shaped pound cake sprinkled with aromatic confectioner’s sugar, and panettone: a round, denser cake made with candied fruit. I’ve also been taught about the various Christmas spirits that bring presents and candies to children. Especially here in the region of Lombardia, there’s a spirit known as Santa Lucia, a blind woman who visits homes on December 13 to leave gifts for the kids. Throughout the day, you will hear her ringing her bell throughout the rooms of the house, invisible to the human eye. There’s Babbo Natale: the Italian form of Santa Clause, who visits on Christmas Eve, but who is (in the words of a student of mine) significantly less generous than Santa Lucia! Finally, there’s La Befana: a good witch who leaves candies and (sometimes) very small gifts for the kids on January 6th.

These can be fun lessons, surely. My students take over the post of teacher as they explain their traditions and customs. Then, with thoughts of panettone dancing in our heads, we part ways until the next one or one-hour-and-a-half English installment.

Most of my students are content to talk about these sorts of things. Christmas. Travel. Fashion. Films. But there are a few who prefer to dive a little deeper.

I have one student who, on our very first lesson, steered the conversation to dreams: both the sleeping and waking kind. We waded through vocabulary referring to personal temperaments, and of managing the ups and downs of our daily lives. Such metaphor and profundity hadn’t before entered my English classroom, and I welcomed them both, as if long-lost friends, with open arms. That’s a class I always look forward to.

Another student of mine had a sudden and strong emotional reaction when the subject of the Italian public school system was brought up in discussion. She, a mother herself, was quite informed on the subject of the (arguably failing) educational system, including the temporal- (and not merit-) based hierarchy of supply teachers and those with tenure. We spoke of bullying, as well as the students’ attitudes towards school and learning, and, unfortunately, left the class feeling rather un-optimistic about the fates of all those Italian youngsters registered in the public system.

Then, on Saturday mornings, I have a very enjoyable class with a man who is, quite simply, curious and interested in everything. It’s a pleasure to make conversation with him just because he is so well-informed on the latest issues. Often, he’ll bring me the latest hot topic of the week: such as the Taser issue going on in Canada, the continuing investigation into the brutal murder of 20-year old Meredith Kercher in Perugia, or the latest development in the sale of Italy’s national airline, Alitalia. But this week’s topic was even juicier: the state of Italy. Il Belpaese: “The Beautiful Country…” Italy’s nickname.

I learned, the hard way, not to discuss politics and corruption too freely. Allow me to illustrate the situation. Vince leant me a rather cutting book called The Dark Heart of Italy, authored by a British journalist named Tobias Jones, who now lives in Parma, Italy. The book was an extremely well-articulated and depressing depiction of, among other things, the power of corruption in Italian politics. The evidence was extensive and overwhelming, and the examples provided of this purposed phenomenon were absolutely scathing. I was shocked by what I read, but it certainly explained a few things for me, including the endless lines and forms provided by the extensive national bureaucracy. The Beautiful Country (Il Belpaese) seemed more of a Beautiful Mess (Bel Casino) than the promised land we often envision.

Somewhat dizzy with the weight of such implications, I tried to discuss these issues with my Italian friends. To my surprise, some of them immediately they pushed my questions aside, telling me that no British man could ever understand the situation, and he was wrong to write what he did. Others simply shrugged and said they were sorry they couldn’t explain it themselves: “it’s confusing even for Italians!” they replied. No one seemed to know how Italian politicians seemed to get away with so much.

My curious and intelligent Saturday morning student, however, has no qualms about discussing these things. While the situation of politics seems to tire him, he always undergoes the painful process of explaining, in English, what the new law, new ordinance, new twist and turn of politics, all really mean. And today, he brought me an article written by Ian Fisher of The New York Times, which, like Tobias Jones’ book, took a stab at Italy’s manifold cultural, political, and legal complications. Most amazingly, a widely-read and highly esteemed Italian journalist responded with a good measure of agreement.

For those interested in Ian Fisher's article click here. Beppe Severgnini, the Italian journalist I just mentioned, has his response here.

Adaptation

2007-12-10T00:15:00.000+01:00

My experience here in Italy continues to be full of surprises. Some of my favorite surprises are of the ‘holiday’ variety, since Saints’ days seem to pop up on the calendar like thistle on the prairies. Saturday, December 8th, was one of them, (at least I think it was) which meant my class that morning was cancelled. I had an instantaneous three-day weekend, since my usual ‘weekend’ falls on Sunday and Monday.

Because it’s getting close to Christmas, the shops remained open for business even on holiday Saturday. I took the trip into Brescia to begin my seasonal shopping extravaganza, and I managed a rather successful start. It was a lucky day in some regards: Vince showed up a few hours later to help carry my bags, and not much longer afterwards we ran into a friend who offered to give me a ride back to Manerbio, saving me from the usual, somewhat inconvenient, train ride back home.

Last night, back in apartment, was for relaxing. In the span of a few weeks, my teaching hours have more than doubled, and, when lesson prep-time is added to these in-class hours, I’m working a good forty-hour week… with stress compounding sharply every time I have to drive the unreliable, temperamental 23-year old Fiat Panda to schools or firms in nearby towns. It’s taking years off my life, but it’s all part of the experience, right?

Today, Sunday, the weather is poor. It’s a Vancouver winter over here: chilly and wet, and the view from the kitchen window shows a familiar drizzly, overcast sky.

I am not perturbed. It’s the perfect day to do the housework in heels. Yes. High heels. Why not? I try not to take life too seriously. Especially on three-day weekends.

David Bowie’s blasting away from my base-booster plug-in speakers. My laundry is drying at a snail pace in the humid air of my apartment. I have made the lists of ‘things to do’, and writing this blog is most definitely top of the list.

The theme for today is adaptation.

I have always been a firm believer in the human ability to adapt. It is, after all, a part of our genetic make-up, isn’t it? Without it we curl up into sobbing heaps of tears every time we don’t get what we expect from life. Maybe that was ‘OK’ when we were small… when that chocolate bar at the grocery store check-out, only 35 centimeters away from our sticky, gluttonous fingers, seemed light years away from our sugar-starved mouths…

But at a certain point we all grow up, or, at least, we all begin to realize that disappointment, or perhaps the ‘unexpected,’ is a part of life. There are so many ways to dealing with this realization. Some people choose to cling to that which they know and understand well, that which seems constant, that which seems relatively unchangeable. This could mean a steady (and possibly monotonous) job, a steady (and possibly monotonous) relationship, an uninterruptible daily routine, sets of underwear with the days of the week printed on the elasticized-waistband…

And others fling themselves as far into chaos as they possibly can. They decide to thrive on the unexpected. They learn to love ‘disappointment,’ and begin to give it euphemistic names like ‘the unexpected,’ ‘the adventure,’ ‘the great experiment,’ and ‘the personal challenge.’

Well! I am guilty of using, re-using, and recycling all of the above terms. I have not only taken great efforts to adapt myself to a whirlwind of changes, but I have actively sought out re-locations, fast friendships, and short, fast-burning romantic interests. Yes, yes I have. And I have done so knowingly. I have moved into many apartments with the clear expectation of staying there for only a year. I have completed a university degree that interested me, but which I knew would not lead to the ‘next step.’ And, I have ended relationships before they even began, knowing there could be no hope for continuation past a certain departure date.

OK, this is obviously not a black-or-white matter. The world is not solely comprised of those with “MONDAY” sticking out above the waistline of their jeans and those with no permanent address. The vast majority of us are in the grey area, and what’s more, we fluctuate on a daily/weekly/monthly/yearly basis between these extremes.

I have no opinion on what is the ‘right’ way to live. I, believe it or not, have a great deal of respect for those of you with collected, logical existences. Truly. The trouble is that, I am, for the time being, missing the muscle that supports such a way of being. Perhaps it will develop over time, but for now, it is hugely superseded by the full-body wave-like sensations radiating out of endless daydreams.

And so, I am here. In Manerbio. Doing my work as an English teacher to the best ability and succeeding. And yet. And yet. And yet…

Backtrack to adaptation. I am doing relatively well in this department. Perhaps it is my well-tuned parrot-reflex born from so many years of education (‘listen and repeat’) and work in the theatre (which is choc-full of rehearsal, of repetition), but all the subtle Italian ways of living, speaking, shopping, conversing, behaving… these little details aren’t too much trouble for me so long as I feel they are necessary to adopt. Of course, I still like acting like my natural, bubbly, Canadian self when I’m around Vince (this is a big treat, actually, having a friend with whom I can do so, and I’m sure it’s the same for him), but if I’m out to dinner with local friends, I’m aware of my eating habits, aware of my speech, aware of the frequency with which I smile and the volume of my laughter. To be honest, it can be a fun challenge (here we go again with the euphemisms) to try and see how far I can adapt. It’s a little like acting, I suppose.

It’s a fun game. An interesting challenge. And I’m all about personal challenges. Why else would I accept offers to go on dates with Italian men who can’t speak more English than a few poorly-formed stock phrases? For the linguistic challenge of being forced to converse in Italian, of course. And, deep down, I’m always curious if there is a certain seed of commonality, a chance for something… profondo. Deep. Worth the time. Worth the linguistic confusion. Worth the discomfort. Worth the emotional investment. Lying underneath all these cultural layers.

Because, the truth is, Rachel might be ready for… “something more.” She’s had a lot of fun, no doubt. She’s met a lot of interesting people in many parts of the world; she’s encountered and experimented with enough personalities to span a wide range of temperaments, interests, occupations and passions. But such adaptation takes a lot of energy, and is far from comfortable. It’s an uphill charge. An uphill charge to be taken at a run.

So, what happens when my legs get tired?

I joke with my friends that the ‘honeymoon’ between Italy and I is finally over. I knew it had to happen sooner rather than later. In fact, as I was packing my stuff into boxes in Vancouver and thinking about the great journey that lay ahead of me, I was looking forward to seeing the raw side of Italy, the side seen by those who live and work there, not the fuzzy, Technicolor, tourist-view. Italy has incredible food, beautiful art and architecture, fascinating history, mythology, and some of the most colourful characters I’ve ever seen in my life. But it’s got a lot crap too. Mindless television programming, openly-racist political parties with quite a lot of popularity, a painful lack of feminism, and a generation of men who suffer from Peter Pan Syndrome – unable to grow out of childhood and learn how to do their own laundry.

Don’t get me wrong! There is crap everywhere! Canada has its fair share, I know! I only write these things to give you a few examples of what I deal with on a daily basis. It’s just a small view of the quotidian that I no longer have the luxury to ignore. But these elements are mixed with so many other positive things, so don’t you dare feel depressed for me! I’m not depressed in the least. Just thoughtful.

All it means is this: when I wake up and roll over to give Italy her daily ‘good-morning’ kiss on her beautiful lips, I’ve begun to notice her morning-breath.

Deconstructing the Palestra

2007-12-10T00:12:00.000+01:00

I spend four days a week at the gym. This is a fact. If you’re shocked, don’t worry. I can hardly believe it myself.

Two of these four visits are spent running for an hour on the treadmill. At the moment I’m averaging 7.5-8 kilometers for each hour of running. Not a spectacular pace, I know, but sometimes it’s enough of a feat to run non-stop for an hour. It feels incredible, in fact.

What’s more incredible are the thoughts that come to me during my sixty minutes of repetitive, even-paced movement. It’s meditative. It has to meditative. I can’t do something so monotonous for a solid hour without some sort of brain-drain. Sometimes my thoughts go to locations in Europe, to upcoming travel plans, to lesson plans and new students, and other times back to Canada and to the upcoming Christmas holidays.

However, this past week has found me focusing a lot of attention on the space of the gym itself, and, of course, the folks within. I’ve mentioned before that it’s a very posh gym; I’ve always pictured a similar look for snazzy Vancouver Yaletown workout locations. Allow me to paint you a picture.

The ceiling of the upper cardio room (temperature controlled to 18ºC) looks like the inside of a Swedish sauna. Four very new treadmills face massive glass windows that look out over the country-town terracotta tile roofs of Manerbio. As you run, you feel like you’re about to leap from one to the next, Spiderman style.

From these treadmill posts, you can see the hardwood staircase that leads down to the weight rooms, illuminated by the oddest ceiling lamps that spiral down and end in a rounded, glowing white bulbous conclusions. Sperm-lamps dribbling from the sauna ceiling.

What’s more, there’s a peculiar phenomenon of light that can be experienced only at night, after the sun has gone down. At this point, the terracotta roofs are no longer visible. In their place, you witness a sort of double reflection provided by the bright inside lights and the two panes of glass between you and the outside. The men and women pumping away on their exercise bikes five feet behind you seem, in the hyper-reflective surfaces facing you, to be looking right over shoulder. If one of them decides to stare at you, or at any one part of you, it’s painfully obvious. What’s more, you can also, in this position, spy on them, or perhaps the other runners at their treadmills likewise facing the looking-glass, without the usual, obvious, 90 or 180-degree head-turn.

It’s all great fun. Especially when your iPod is turned up loud and the only conversation you have with your fellow gym-mates is through this interchange of looking, spying, and sweating. And believe me when I say that Italians are capable of making entire evenings out of watching. Italian clubs are full of people with drinks in hand, shifting their weight almost imperceptibly to the music… and watching. Gazing. Looking. This is the language in which they pick one another up. The interchange of eye-contact. The duration of such gazes and the accompanying body language is the only necessary communication for inviting or repelling first contact.

Thus, while on the treadmill, I am learning to retouch my body language. Awkward and unwanted introductions are only the slip of a smile away.

Tanti Auguri, Tante Sorprese

2007-12-04T19:24:00.000+01:00

My twenty third year of life has come to a close with a highly eventful weekend. Highlights and Lowlights (yup, a good measure of yuck, too!) included dancing, dining, pastries, surprise gifts, quick coffee dates and rather ‘colourful’ encounters with the opposite sex… some for better, others for worse.

While Sunday (December 2nd) was my actual ‘birth’ day, Saturday was our night for dining and dancing. With Michela in charge of dinner reservations and Vince in charge of after-dinner plans, the night was sure to be a late one.

After a quick aperitivo at a cute and sassy local joint called Lady Café, eleven friends – colleagues, students, and former students – gathered round a great big table at Regina Mayor, a fantastic local pizzeria, and did away with the same number of savoury pies over the span of a few hours. It was eleven o’clock when we made our way to our respective vehicles for the 20 minute drive into Brescia, destination: Seconda Classe. “Second Class” turned out to be a small but extremely packed dance bar with a highly energetic live coverband. The place was jumpin’, and the gin tonics were enormous.

By now our number had dwindled to Veronica, her cousin, Valerio, Janelle (another expatriate friend), Vince, and myself. By two thirty in the morning, it had dwindled even further to just the expats – Janelle, Vince, et moi. We carved ourselves a nice spot on the dance floor and let ‘er rip.

Soon enough we found ourselves ready for a bit of fresh air, so we stepped outside into the late night drizzle, ducking under the bar awning where a few others were huddled over lit cigarettes. Within the span of about fifteen minutes, one of them, seemingly drunk but perhaps only extremely rude, began ‘appraising’ me, in English, at the top of his lungs, his ‘compliments’ bordering on outright obscenity. The three of us gaped at him and berated his idiotic comments, but he didn’t seem to realize exactly what he had said. That’s fine. It was laughable after a while. We spent much more time speaking with his friend (who resembled, somewhat, Gael Garcia Bernal from The Motorcycle Diaries, yum yum), who seemed a little embarrassed by the company he was in.

Soon it was time to head home, so we collected our jackets from the fast-closing bar and headed to Vince’s car. We dropped off Janelle at her place then buzzed back to casa Vince where I, not for the first time, crashed on the sofa for a good long sleep.

Sunday morning – day of my actual birthday – I took the 1 pm train back to Manerbio, with just enough time to zip home, clean up, and head back out for a quick coffee with a friend that afternoon. After coffee, I again returned home for a quick ten-minute breather before zipping out with Michela to munch on some castagne (roasted chestnuts), sip on some vin brulée (mulled wine) and do a little shopping. It was around this time that Canada began calling with birthday wishes: all as I was anticipating my upcoming date that evening.

But let’s back up a little bit, because it’s important to understand why I was a little worried about this birthday date. Normally, if a romantic interest offers to come by on the eve of my birthday, I’m giddy with excitement. But that night I was nervous in a less than positive way, and it was due to the last date we had… that ended before it even began! A quick and foul temper had taken him home without a word of goodbye, leaving me confused as to where he was while I was still waiting thirty minutes after our agreed time to meet. Since that awful night, apologies had been made, but tonight, my birthday night, was time for a serious talk about respect and communication. Without it, I had prepared myself to say, there would be no chance of anything between us.

He arrived… 15 minutes late! Not a great start. I had been waiting downstairs in my new stylin’ Italian wool coat, ready to greet him. At least he arrived with pastries! This did put a smile on my face, I’ll admit. We went upstairs and poured some champagne, me, trying desperately to remember the words I wanted to say to him, my planned methods of broaching the subject, and he, without a single thought of ‘conversation’ on his mind. It was hard enough without his advances – new Italian vocabulary always feels foreign on the lips, like a new fandangled pasta shape in an unfamiliar sauce. After a few minutes of struggling to establish physical distance, we were finally standing a few feet apart in the kitchen when I began to explain my misgivings regarding the previous evening’s temper tantrum. At first, he was nodding, agreeing, participating in what I was trying to communicate. I thought: OK, at least you can reason with this guy! Maybe there’s hope after all.

Then, it happened.

It’s hard to explain exactly, but all I can say is: the switch flicked. In one moment he was nodding, conversing, engaged, and the next he was not. He had begun muttering endlessly about how tired he was, how he hadn’t come over for this(!!), how disappointed he was that I was being so ‘difficult’ and, just like a night not too long ago, he left without a single word of goodbye.

I didn’t offer one myself. I watched as he put his coat on while muttering a long monologue under his breath, followed him to the front door as he left without looking back once, and locked the door behind him. From my kitchen window, I saw him walk to his car with the strut of a man ‘in charge.’ Once his taillights were no longer visible around the bend, I poured myself another glass of champagne, gathered the pastries together, took them both to bed with me and wished myself the happiest of birthdays!

The Past Week

2007-11-25T23:23:00.000+01:00

I realize this isn’t a very inventive title, but the truth is that I can’t think of a catchy few-word expression that can sum up the past week. It’s been crazy. And wonderful. Butterflies have made a permanent home in my gut, breaking into their choral symphony too many times a day to count. It’s a mélange of nervousness and anticipation, the causes for which range from the professional to social, and even beyond.

Little by little I’m beginning to live my life in the Italian language. When I spend time with Michela and Dario, we speak in Italian, and when Vince and I go out with Italian friends we’re speaking less and less English… though it partially depends on the company. The trouble is that Vince and I have lately begun to speak almost entirely in slang with one another… and I definitely don’t have a clue as to how I could translate our wacky exchanges into Italian.

I’m watching more and more Italian TV, noticing the bikini-clad women and the idiotic stunts they’re made to do less and less, and turning more focus onto the words and expressions that fly out of the mouths of announcers and news anchors in galloping crescendos. I’m watching Italian films, or, rather, American films dubbed in Italian, and finding more and more comprehension every week that passes. But slowly. Con calma.

Work is getting easier, to tell the truth. I still have a lot of studying and preparation to do every week, but I’m gradually developing a confidence in the classroom that seems to lead to more engaging and interesting sessions. My hours have recently jumped almost double-fold, but I feel ready to exert the extra effort. Even if it means taking the risk of driving my boss’ Fiat Panda (which, I have to explain, is the same age as I), to a neighboring town’s middle school and the three classes of 13 year-olds who wait for me there on Wednesday mornings.

I have been building wonderful rapports with all my students – from the brother-sister combo who are 8 and 9 years old and absolutely full of beans every Friday I see them, all the way to my pair of business men who take extreme pains to instruct me in all things relating to Italian Pop Culture whenever we take a conversation break.

Socially, things have calmed down in some respects, and grown exponentially in others. While I don’t seem to find much time to go to Brescia on the weekends (unless someone’s driving, in which case I don’t mind at all), I have spent more time around the local area, and have built stronger relationships with the wonderful personalities in my immediate vicinity. There’s Francesca, a young, pretty girl with shockingly beautiful eyes who works at the nearby tabacchi; there are all the cashier faces at the local grocery who, while for now are nameless, are extremely friendly and familiar; there’s the woman who works at the butchers, making focaccine and pizzete, who I see a few times a week and always exchange lively and friendly words with; there’s Angelo, who does my hair once a month; there’s Danusa, the spunky spinning instructor at the gym… the list goes on and on. It’s a cozy, homey, small-town feel that I have here in Manerbio, and I don’t mind it one bit.

I have also had the great pleasure of getting to know Michela more and more over the past few weeks. She really spoils me, in fact, and this makes me anxious for ideas of how to repay all her kindnesses. Over the past few weekends, she’s had me over for meals, driven me to local spots like Lago d’Iseo, and taken me out shopping for a winter coat. We’re getting closer all the time, and I do love spending a weekend afternoon and/or evening with her. The trick will be in finding the perfect Christmas gift for her.

Yes, ok. I’ve covered the professional and social spheres, but there is the all-important third sphere – of attraction and romance, that is – that has also received a rather positive jump in the past few weeks. Vince had it in his head to play match-maker, even while I continued to be my peppy, flirty Canadian self within my own quotidian outings. The result was a downpour, you see, that came to a head last weekend and into the early work week.

Side note: I have a personal rule for this blog which says I will never compromise someone else’s privacy without their consent, and so I have chosen not to reveal any details unless they are the sort that serve to paint my own pathetic, bumbling picture without smudging onto anyone else’s! Why not, I say? I serve to entertain, it seems.

Allora, (I would say, before beginning a story in Italian) let me first say that I’ve learned a lot of new “relationship” vocabulary in Italian in a very short period of time. “Relationship” in the sense of two people who seek to maintain a rapport, whether it be a friendship, casual relations, or even those things considered more ‘serious.’ It has been the process of procuring such vocabulary that has been the real gift, however. What I say next I do with only the purest and truest meaning, without a single shadow of triviality: entering the dating world here in Italy has proved to be a truly beautiful, as well as mildly terrifying, cultural experience.

While my Italian remains somewhat limited (though less than before) I can say that my understanding has increased manifold in a short span of time. This has meant that, within only two weekends, I have found the ability and opportunity to take part in not one, but two intense and detailed conversations regarding the state of male-female relations on both the global and personal levels.

If you’ll permit me, I will say that they were truly gorgeous conversations. In the first I was absolutely petrified because A: I had not expected it (Italian men take first dates quite seriously, it would seem); and B: I was so worried my understanding and capability with the language wouldn’t take me far enough to explain fully, with all the delicate details necessary to paint an accurate picture of my past experiences and present situation. But I managed all right. I am learning all manner of adjectives and euphemisms, as well as the numerous uses for the word bello/bella/belle/belli…

At this point, I can say I have two dates on my belt, and a bit more confusion (yes, the opposite of understanding) about the mechanics of Italian logic in this sphere of life.

And, of course, because it’s me…

RACHEL, who can barely remember that the C on the water tap means HOT and not COLD here in Italy (I can be a real idiot sometimes); RACHEL, who spends evenings out speaking a language she has the slipperiest of grasps on (I can be really careless with word choices sometimes, regardless of the language); RACHEL, who agrees to coffee dates with men who have a world of gorgeous women to choose from (I can be really masochistic sometimes)…

Because the subject of all this confusion is the one and only ME,

I manage to make things even more impossible for myself. (You’ll see…) I manage to further complicate this world I am still learning to slalom through. (Just you wait…) I manage the worst possible next step. (And here it is…)

The discovery of a truly fascinating target,
The impetus to seek it out,
And the idiocy to spend far too much time daydreaming about it.

All I can say is that In Palestra has an altogether new meaning now.

Gatto… pardo?

2007-11-25T23:21:00.000+01:00

I have an Italian boyfriend. He’s pretty old, though. And he doesn’t walk very well. But he’s a really cheap date: food for a week cost me only €2.

I found him huddled, unable to move his back legs, shivering and soaking wet outside my apartment during the last downpour. He seemed to be a kitten, but I realized he was only skinny. Very skinny, in fact. I couldn’t help myself. Though I had only a few minutes between classes, I scooped him up in my arms, took him up to my apartment, wrapped him in a towel and cuddled him by the heater while he purred and purred and purred.

I haven’t named him, of course. To do so would only complicate our relationship. The act of naming is the first step towards ownership, and that is a responsibility I can’t take on with a light heart. I want the opportunity to travel, to take off for a weekend here and there, and I have no idea what I would do with him on such occasions.

Since he learned what a sandbox is for, he’s become wonderful company. I just hope he fattens up and gets walking again soon.

(Dateless)

2007-11-25T23:18:00.000+01:00

I am sitting in the balmy, buttery glow of scented candle light, gently though chaotically reflecting on the events of the past weekend up until today. It’s been an unpredictable interchange of tension and shock that I’ve been experiencing in waves throughout the past 96 hours. It’s been a long haul, there’s been little sleep, and my lesson plans have become just a shade more utilitarian for it – straightforward, military-style grammar with aggressive conversation-sustaining techniques. I am, I realize now, quite comfortable in this place – this place of unpredictability. In fact, perhaps I thrive in it. It’s a continual feeling of being poised, ready, expectant, swapping between the necessary extremes of endless patience and immediate action dependant on the moment. When to go for it, full tilt and without a second thought, and when to lay low in the mysterious, though secretly awkward silence of a foreigner who treats elongated dinner conversations as in-class listening exercises.

Essentially what I’m trying to say here is that there’s been a fair share of stress and expectancy over the past four days, well-mixed with action and all the accompanying shades of regret and worry, that have now been smoothed over so perfectly, flawlessly, definitively, that I can hardly begin to believe my dumb luck.

Just one hour ago I had been deep in worry that I might have ‘blown’ it. Now ‘it’ is a gorgeous collage of future potential. A massive blueprint bearing the soft sketches of a primary ground plan.

Tuesday, November 20

2007-11-25T22:45:00.000+01:00

This past weekend was a social specta-ganza.

Saturday. Vince takes me to the nearby medieval town of Cremona where the annual torrone festival is on for the weekend. Torrone is the greatest local in-house confection: nougat usually speckled generously with almonds, walnuts, hazelnuts or pistachios, sometimes mixed with chocolate or fruit. We have a friend there named Giulio (colleague to some of Vince’s students who we both met at a dinner one month previously) who is responsible for organizing wine and torrone tastings at the local five-star hotel. We were lucky enough to be extended an invite, and off we went to make good of it.

Lunch comes first, however. We meet Giulio and his colleagues Marco and Angelo in the main square before making our way to a local restaurant, where we have a good, but rather heavy portion of gnocchetti. Vince helped to finish mine. Then it was off for our tasting, which left little left to desire.

Full of sweet Muscat, spectacular examples of nougat (one made with cinnamon, another with ginger) and some very rich local chocolate confections, Vince and I made our way out into the crowds of stalls to find some of our own.

As we wandered, we were met by a parade of flag wavers, noise-makers, stilt-walkers, and drum-beaters, all wearing medieval garb.

As the sun set and the air turned chill, Vince and I found ourselves back in the main square, where a new crowd was forming around a large fenced-off area.

The parade wound its way through to the open area, little girls were hoisted up on Daddies’ shoulders for a better view,

and the show began.

After the show was over, Vince and I found our friends Giulio, Marco and Angelo, and all said our goodbyes. Vince and I had dinner plans as well – the same group with whom we had eaten torta fritta was gathering at the same restaurant for a feast of spiedo (slow-roasted meats, usually including pork and small birds), with Michela and her husband, Dario, as the main organizers.

We ate. And, once again, a little too well.

Today is November 14th

2007-11-14T20:47:00.000+01:00

I arrived on October 7th, and today it is November 14th. I have been working as an English Teacher for a month, and I have been living as an Expat-in-Italy for only a touch longer.

So? You might ask. What have you got to show for it?

Good question, I would reply. And here is my answer.

Maybe, you might be thinking, you’ve developed this delicious, laid-back, Italianesque daily routine that includes incredible morning coffee coupled with a sweet pastry (true, I would reply), followed by a mandatory four-hour lunch break (also true, I would say, since most everything – supermarkets, cobbler-shops, dry-cleaners – closes between noon and four), all instances of which fill you with a steady diet of the most incredible food you’ve ever eaten in your life? Well, I would stop you there. The problem is that you need a good cook to make good food, and unless I’m going over to my friend Michela’s house for dinner, I can’t say the food (that I make – this is the point, really) is ‘extraordinary.’ It’s pretty ordinary, in fact. And don’t worry – improving my cooking skills is fairly high up on the ‘to-do’ list. I may have to ask for some instruction from Michela.

But, you’d be right: food is a huge part of the ‘everyday’ around here. Life revolves around mealtimes! In fact, you almost never see anyone snacking. There’s breakfast, there’s lunch, there’s dinner, and between them only much-needed digestion time. If you had a four hour break for lunch, you’d take it seriously too. You would eat, and you would eat well… You would have a fantastic, well-rounded meal… You’d feel physically and emotionally satisfied, ready to continue on with your day, nary a thought straying to the proverbial ‘snack-cupboard.’ You’d be living a totally snack-free existence.

This is a lesson that Italy taught me three times previously. In 2003, 2004, and 2006 I observed the Italian people and was overwhelmingly impressed by their endless respect for (yes, capital-M) Mealtime. And now it is 2007: the fourth time I’ve rediscovered this fantastic gastronomic practice. A rediscovery that is no less sweet than the previous three occasions I stumbled upon it, that has given me no less bacchanalian ecstasy than the previous three times I was happily swallowed up in it. I am consumed with the Idea, my friends. The Idea of Mealtime.

All the more reason to become a better cook, yes?

I start with the source. Getting to know your local grocers and vendors is important. For me, walking into town takes from 15 to 20 minutes, depending on my final destination. Thus, premeditation for the next few meals is mandatory. Currently, my favorite stop is the bakery. The woman who owns it (she must, because she is simply always there) is so spitfire, so funny. She seems to have taken an immediate liking to me ever since she found out where I come from. She didn’t believe me when I first told her, then, when I repeated “Ca-na-da” she laughed so hard that she almost choked. She couldn’t believe that I had come all the way from Vancouver to teach in the little country town of Manerbio.

The last time I saw her was just before closing time on a Friday evening. “Tutto a posto?” I asked her (everything all right?). “Lavoro troppo!” (I work too much!) she replied in a theatrical sigh, and, isn’t it always like this for women? she added. I chuckled, not sure what to make of this comment. She looked around, and, upon seeing that it was just she and I in the shop, continued her thought with perfect deadpan delivery, reminiscent of someone giving life-or-death advice to their closest friend:

L’uomo italiano è utile per una cosa… (Italian men are good for one thing…)

She paused for dramatic effect, a knowing look in her eye, then raised her hands, readying them for another famous Italian hand gesture.

Sesso! (Sex!)

She squinted at me, making sure I understood, and I broke out laughing. Looking satisfied that the evening’s lesson in Italian culture had gone so well, she winked, handed me my four tartarughe (small buns shaped like little turtles) which had been sold to me at a discount, and I made my way home, chuckling and cradling my bread in my arms.

In other news, the gym has become a regular fixture in my week. This may come as a surprise. Those who know me are aware of my previous track record with gyms: always an excellent start followed by an abysmal decline. I’m not ruling out the latter just yet, but for now I have every hope that I will be a hard-body extraordinaire by the end of my 9-month contract. I can say with all honesty that I’m doing pretty well thus far: 3 or 4 times a week I am there, doing my thing, workin’ that treadmill, trying to remember which weight-pole-thingy is 10-kilo and which is 18-kilo…

But let’s not lie, here, nor tell partial-truths. There’s a good reason I have been so gym-friendly after my weekend in Vienna, and no, it’s not because I over-indulged there, nor because I have a sudden rush of conscience over my health (it’s there, sure, but as more of a low murmur than a full-out battle-cry). The truth is this…

It took me a day or two to get my butt back on the treadmill after I returned from Vienna. I was tired from the wonderful weekend and maybe a touch depressed at having to return home to work and routine. Last Tuesday morning, though, I was out of excuses. I grabbed my towel and iPod, walked the utterly-non-excruciating 50 paces over to the gym, and mustered all the courage I could for the hour and a half I had committed myself to spending there. I pushed open the door to the sala pesi and met with surprise! Would you believe it? The same smiling face that had given me my private consultation and introduction to the gym a month previously was sitting at the trainer’s table. I realized, suddenly, that I hadn’t seen him at all since our first meeting more than 4 weeks ago.

He interrupted his conversation with another client and came over to shake my hand with the all-too predictable Ciao bella! salutation. He asked me if I had even been coming to the gym since the first meeting, to which I replied: absolutely! (It was true). He went over to his desk and rummaged through the big drawer there. I walked over and saw it was full of printed sheets outlining gym work-out routines, neatly placed in plastic sleeves. At the bottom of the pile was one with my name on it. Do you have time? He asked me, pointing at my chart where it said primo giorno d’allenamento. Yup. I had loads of time, in fact. Good! he said, Warm-up with five minutes on the bike, and I’ll wait for you down here.

As I walked towards the stairs that lead to the upper cardio room, he called after me:

*Rachelle*? he asked, o *RAY-chel*? (He wanted to know if he should call me by the English or Italian form of my name.)

Come vuoi, I replied, uguale per me. (As you like, it’s the same for me.)

He smiled, and I realized that I didn’t know his name.

E tu? Come ti chiami?

He smiled again, and replied:

Roberto!

Off to the sala cardio I went, to mount the exercise bike for a full five minutes. I hate exercise bikes. I mean, really hate. My butt always feels so sore afterwards. But the five minutes seemed to pass quite easily. No complaints, so to speak.

I came back downstairs and Roberto showed me all the exercises for Day One, every once in a while adding in a surprise (and sometimes utterly unintelligible) English phrase for good measure. It was all good fun, and, by the end of our session, arm muscles shaking from the day’s efforts, I was newly inspired to get back into shape.

Go figure.

Vienna Part Four – The Castle

2007-11-06T22:35:00.000+01:00

Stefan, Vince and I awake very late on Saturday and drink a lot of coffee before we get going.

It is my final day, and in remembrance of my first visit to Vienna four years ago, Stefan and I have decided to visit the same yellow castle that we did before. It isn’t before two o’clock that we find ourselves on the subway, enroute to the great attraction.

Outside the gates I spot a stand selling roasted chestnuts. Having never tried them before, Vince and I each get a bag and we three of us share them between us. I decide to keep a few to feed the funny squirrels in the park which I remembered all too well from the previous visit four years ago.

The castle looms into view and so does the great monument sitting atop the hill behind it. I remember it all very well, these same images filed away in my hard drive from the last time I was here – here with Stefan and his boyfriend at that time, Walter.

We march up to the top of the hill for the same breathtaking views of Vienna, and have ourselves a coffee in the café there.

All too soon we are marching back down, zigzagging amongst the trees, the squirrels, the lanes full of fallen leaves and golden trees.

I am full of nostalgia and happiness. Stefan and I link arms as we three walk towards the subway again.

Before we know it, the subject of dinner has come up! I love it. I am surrounded by two men who love to eat, and I too am sporting a very healthy appetite at this point. Vince and I had been ogling the sushi joints that we had seen around Vienna, but Stefan suggests a curry place that is quite famous. Apparently, it’s all you can eat, and whatever you can pay. Literally, you sit down, eat to your heart’s content, then pay whatever you deem to be fair.

Vince and I are sold. We’re on the subway, bound for curry-ville.

We arrive, snag a cozy table near the entrance, and get right down to business. The curry is fantastic – chicken, lamb, lentil… it’s all there. So too is sesame nann bread, green salad and sweet pudding for dessert. We eat heartily, trying to arrange the plates in a manner that allows them all to fit on our small table. Life is good. The next table over has two black men and one black woman with striking and lively American accents. Stefan starts up a conversation with them with an offer of good Viennese chocolate, and we learn that between them exists a mélange of singers, performers and professors of music, opera and theatre. We have a great chat with them then make our way home to Stefan’s cozy flat.

Stuffed with curry, with glee from the marvelous weekend, and a small helping of sadness at the thought that everything will end in a matter of hours, we plop down on the couch and plug Kill Bill into Stefan’s amazing home entertainment system. It becomes the ultimate lazy evening, and three films later all three of us are snoozing in a huddle in the flickering light of the huge plasma screen.

Sleepy eyes find their beds, and I set my alarm for 5:30 AM, enough time to get to my 6:30 AM train.

The nap is short and sweet before I wake up and pull on my traveling clothes. Minutes before my cab arrives I slip into Stefan’s bedroom, share a big hug and a kiss with him, and then peel out of the Viennese heaven of his flat, my boots feeling heavier than they had all weekend, my heart sitting a little lower in my chest than it had just hours before.

…

An incredible weekend it was. I had great expectations and wasn’t the least bit disappointed. I’ve said it so much before, but it can’t be emphasized enough: Stefan is a best friend, a fabulous friend, an unmistakable ray of light! I can’t get enough of the guy! I’m lucky to have a pal like him.

I will admit without hesitation that coming home to small-town Italy was certainly difficult. But, lucky me, in only a few days I’ve already begun to shed my depression and get back into the swing of things. My students and my work here are so uplifting; they give me such a wonderful sense of purpose and happiness I never could have imagined. I have a renewed sense of work ethic, a renewed vigor for language learning, and, above all, a great closet of memories labeled: Another Halloween Weekend Extremely Well-Spent.

Vienna Part Three – Viennese Nights

2007-11-06T22:24:00.000+01:00

Stefan was up early and off to class again, while Vince and I had a vigorous sleep-in. When we finally rise, it was with puffy eyes and yawns that we took the subway back to Stephansplatz, enroute to the Leopold for a good dose of Klimpt and Schiele. We got it, and then munched on a light lunch in the café afterwards.

Vicky got in touch with us then, and we all met at the University. Vicky was the perfect city guide, showing us first the University and the adjacent campus then the biggest and best shopping district the city has to offer. At six o’clock we parted ways. Vince and I, feeling bad for the lack of drinkables at Stefan’s following the previous night’s rendezvous, decide to snag four bottles of wine at the supermarket on the way back.

When we arrived home, we find Stefan bustling away in the kitchen while the most delicious aroma is circulating around the corners and folds of his cozy home. This unbelievable smell, we discover, is his world-class minestrone. Believe me when I say that anything Stefan cooks is world-class! His cooking skills would rival Jamie Oliver’s and of this I’m sure – I’ve tasted his culinary-genius in Vienna four years ago and in Italy last summer, and he has only improved on each occasion.

Vince and I, with mouths watering, unpacked our wine and squeezed into the kitchen to chat with Stefan as he laboured away over the hot stove. Soon Vicky was calling to say that she would be coming over for minestrone too, and bringing her roommate with her. It doesn’t take them long to arrive, and, as the minestrone passes from bowl to spoon to hungry mouth, the moans of appreciation were simply unmistakable. Somewhere, music begins to play, and before we realize it, we’re all in the kitchen, laughing from our full minestrone-d bellies and dancing like crazy people to old eighties hits pumping out of iPod speakers.

Stefan and I are particularly gusto when it comes to the silly-dancing, and before I know it, he’s whispering to me that he’s thinking of skipping his class the next day in favour of going out that night! I squeal with excitement, grab the best clothes I had brought with me to Vienna, and head into the shower to get ready myself.

The five of us are out of the house in no time, marching on foot towards the first destination of the night: SAXX. There, we dunk pretzels into our beer and spritzers while goading the barman into play a little ABBA for us. Even with his misgivings, he agrees, and we pound out a rousing chorus of Gimme Gimme in the smoky atmosphere of the pub.

Vicky’s roommate, Andrea, peels away for home as the rest of us continue on to Maria’s Cantina for some serious dancing. We arrive to a mostly-empty club, but make the best of the space we’re given. Camera’s flash and moves are busted.

Next stop is to a cave of a bar where Vicky’s friend Cristophe is having drinks with friends. We meet him, have a short chat, then leave Vicky to her crowd, sharing big beautiful hugs before parting ways.

Vince, Stefan and I are now on our way to our fourth place of the night: a local bar called Chelsea’s which pumps out the rock and alternative with resounding force. It’s full of students and adults alike, a very casual party atmosphere that’s utterly packed with sweaty dancing bodies. Stefan and I begin to fade, and soon we’re pushing our way out again into the cold fresh air, on our way home.

We stop for würstel on a street corner – a cheesy sausage pushed into a long bun filled with mustard. Heaven. Vince and I savour every bite as we saunter back to Stefan’s place, laughing and joking the whole way there.

My eyes are burning with all the cigarette smoke of the bars. My clothes full of the same sickly sweet smell. All are indicative of these grand nights out. Yet I am, in my exhausted state, filled with the warmest, fuzziest feelings. It’s been a great night, a beautiful weekend, and there’s still a whole other day to go.

Vienna Part Two – Vince and Anna Join the Fray

2007-11-06T22:15:00.000+01:00

I woke up in a fuzz from the previous evening’s escapades. Visions of pirates, of fairies, of lights, laughter and hugs washed over me in a warm and cozy wave. I was sprawled on Stefan’s boat of a couch minutes before my alarm was to wake me up.

I would have loved to sleep another 4 hours, but Vince, my colleague and friend from the language school in Italy, was due to arrive within the hour, and I had promised to retrieve him from the subway station. I showered hastily and pulled on some clothes, staggering out the door to meet him.

Vince, even after a long overnight ordeal of train connections, still looked fresher than me! I took him back to Stefan’s and the two met briefly. Stefan was downing his coffee in the kitchen, looking a little worse for wear with smudgy eyeliner leftover from our fantastic night.

Soon Vince and I were on our way out to be tourists since Stefan had class to attend that morning. On our way back to the subway, Vince and I stopped at Schnitzel House for a condiment-heavy chicken sandwich which we hungrily ate on our way to Stephansplatz. The weather was unbelievable; sunny and superb as we strutted about this incredible Austrian capital, teeming with spectacular architecture, orderly and inviting shops, and a host of world-class museums. We hardly knew where to begin. We walked, talked, and ate some lunch, both of us a little drowsy from our respective long nights.

Soon my cell phone was buzzing – text messages fired back and forth between myself and Vicky, who had offered to show us around today, and myself and Anna, a friend of mine from Vancouver who was studying in Vienna for the term who I was hoping to meet up with that day! It would be the only opportunity for Anna and I to spentd time together in Vienna since she had a flight to Poland the next afternoon.

Soon the four of us were gathered outside the church, Anna hopping with energy, Vince being his cool and collected self, Vicky looking, quite predictably, a little worse for wear, and myself, feeling about as exhausted as Vicky, but slowly gaining in energy as each minute passed in the exceptionally good company around me.

We walked to the Museum Quartier to lay down on the soft benches outside the Leopold, then snuck inside the café for a drink.

Vicky downed her apple juice swiftly while I sipped my lemon soda and Vince and Anna chatted over white wine. After an hour or so of conversation, Vicky left to take a rest at home while Anna, Vince and I continued on to see the True Romance exhibit: a collection of art surrounding the theme of love. It was exceptional, especially the music video of Björk’s All is Full of Love, running on a loop, projected onto a concrete wall, faced by a soft red loveseat.

Anna made her way home for a much-needed rest. She had a dinner party to attend that night before meeting us for drinks afterwards. Vince and I shopped for food and wine on our way back to Stefan’s, and, upon arrival, indulged in an easy pasta dinner. Wine flowed, conversation began, and before we know it, Vicky had joined us for drinks as well, and Anna was on her way to Stefan’s too. I had wanted Anna and Stefan – two of my favorite people in the whole world – to meet for the longest time, and tonight it was finally going to happen! I picked her up from the subway station and we bustled over to Stefan’s in the chilling night air.

Anna was the epitome of sass and sexiness, entering the apartment with gusto and her million-dollar smile, and she and Stefan hit it off easily (didn’t I predict it?). The five of us had a ‘hot tub party’ on the massive, deep couch, drinking all the wine in the house before starting in on makeshift limoncello spritzers. Soon the digital cameras were out and we were taking as many goofy photos as humanly possible. It wasn’t long before all of us were feeling the effects of our previous night’s adventures (Anna too had attended a costume party the night before), and the party split apart with hugs, kisses, and for Anna, goodbyes.

Vienna Part One - Halloween Night

2007-11-06T21:47:00.000+01:00

The train ride from Manerbio to Vienna, with connections, took me nearly 12 hours. Every one of them was worth it: worth the trouble, the discomfort, the fatigue that came of them. Each hour spent meant that soon, all too soon, I would see my friend Stefan again.

On the second train (which took me to Venice) a young man who was a whopping two meters tall (about 6’7’’) struck up a conversation with me. He asked me if I would help him make his connection when we arrived, which turned out to be the very same train that I was taking, in the same car, and in the same compartment. I agreed, of course, and his amiable, conversational attitude took us all the way to Venice in no time at all. On this final train, a 7 hour direct to Vienna, I made friends with a spitfire Austrian couple who, between them, had traveled to Asia, India, Peru and a host of European locales during their full and long lives. They were simply fascinating to chat with.

The sky darkened outside the window, thus ending the sight-seeing portion of the ride to Vienna. My tall friend and I tried to catch a few winks of sleep as the Austrians went to have a beer in the dining car. Before I knew it, my phone had begun to ring, and the picture flashing on the screen was all too familiar: a tall, lanky, handsome figure laughing in a narrow Florence street. I jumped up and exited the compartment in a rush, knowing that the moment I answered it, I would be laughing uncontrollably, simply shouting with excitement: it was Stefan!

He was laughing on his end too. The fast-moving train caused the reception to cut in and out, in and out, but we managed to discuss the manner in which I would arrive at his place once my train arrived at Vienna Sudbahnhof. I couldn’t bear the thought of spending a full thirty minutes on public transit to reach him, so I opted to take a cab straight from the station.

When the train finally arrived, Peter and Linda, the Austrian couple, helped me into a taxi, and we said our goodbyes. My driver was quite a sight to see: a tall man with a round middle, sporting a long frizzy ponytail and bushy, wolfish beard. His cab was an old boxy Volvo with peeling brown paint. When I got into the back seat, I found heavy metal music pumping through the crackling, ancient speakers. I laughed – how perfect! I spoke to him in the clearest English I could manage, and, as I predicted, he responded with perfect understanding and clarity himself. Most Austrians speak English incredibly well, and this gentleman was no exception. We had a perfectly polite conversation about Halloween and the address system of Vienna while he drove me (perhaps a little too fast, but I certainly didn’t complain) to Stefan’s. I paid and thanked him upon arrival, slinging my black weekend bag over my shoulder and skipping up to the house marked “54”.

I found “Grauf” printed on the buzzer marked “5” and mashed my finger hard into the corresponding white button. My heart was beating so hard it felt audible – I couldn’t wait to crush him in a massive hug!

A soft buzz told me the door had been unlocked, and I pushed my way through the heavy wooden door. As I stepped across the threshold, the hallway lamps flickered on. Do they come on automatically, I wondered? No! At the end of the hall was a tall, lanky figure with arms outstretched and a wide goofy grin on his face. I dropped my bag and we rushed together, laughing maniacally and squeezing each other with all our might. We pulled apart, and began our confusing banter of exclamations:

Your hair! – he said – I really like it!

Your costume! I cried – as I saw that he not only had dressed like a pirate, but had done so in a spitting imagine of Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow.

I’m so glad to see you, Rachel!!

Stefan, I missed you so much!!

I’m so glad you’re here!! Come in, come in!

I grabbed my bag and entered his amazing apartment. I was introduced to his roommate Üter, (who seemed nice but quite shy, preferring to keep her arms folded in front of her when not shaking my hand), and then ushered into the kitchen where Stefan’s friend, Vicky, was putting the final touches on her magic wand with a black-tipped marker. She had a joyful smile, and spoke to me in a perfect English accent. Are you British? I asked her. She stared at Stefan with her mouth open and said Did you hear that?? She thinks I’m English!! It turned out she was Austrian too, but spent her summers working in England. She was delightful - loads of fun and quick to laugh. It turned out that she was the one who got Stefan and I invited to the Halloween costume party going on that night.

I sat at the kitchen table, no longer feeling the grime of travel, sipping thirstily on a glass of prosecco that Stefan and she were sharing. Conversation came in an excited flood, punctuated with hugs, pats on the back, and huge, toothy grins. There are some friendships that are so damn easy, and Stefan’s and mine is exactly that.

The minutes were whizzing by as fast as the sparkling white was being drunk: all too quickly! Stefan was looking perfectly pirate-y with his black eye liner, bandana stretched over a long-haired wig, slim black jeans tucked into gorgeous brown boots, gold sash wrapped at his waist and black shirt adorned with a dizzying crisscross pattern of gold safety pins. Before I knew it, midnight had come, and it was time for Vicky and I to get costumed as well.

I had told Stefan on the phone that I had no chance of finding a costume in Italy, which, at best, had Halloween-shaped chocolates, but no other indication that the holiday would be in the least bit celebrated. He had told me that he had something for me, but I didn’t know what it was. It turned out that Vicky had not only gotten me an invitation to the party, but she had brought me a spare costume to boot! I looked at her with such gratitude: I would have been utterly depressed to go without some sort of disguise. What is it? I asked her. It’s on the back of your chair! she told me, and I twisted round and saw something white hanging there.

I yanked off and brought it into range of the candle-light… It was a nurse’s outfit, spattered with blood on the front, and sporting the words “Naughty Nurse” in the same drippy red substance on the back.

I laughed! How perfect! She even had a little nurse’s bonnet to pin into my hair.

I took a quick shower and buttoned up my new uniform, which was quite short indeed. I decided that my black leggings would have to be worn underneath. But what else underneath? I went into the kitchen to find Vicky, who was changing into her Black Fairy costume there, and asked her opinion. She pointed at one of the bras dangling from my hands and said: that one. And you’ll have to leave the first few buttons undone.

It worked. I mean, I was a Naughty Nurse afterall, wasn’t I?

I pulled out all the gifts that I had brought for Stefan: boxes of chocolates and an assortment of Halloween decorations, including the string of pumpkin lights that I had previously entertained in my own kitchen. We draped them over ourselves and began taking pictures of our fantastic selves in our fantastic costumes.

After the photo shoot we began pulling our boots on, stuffing cigarettes into jacket pockets, and putting three more bottles of Spanish-style prosecco into a large paper carry-bag. We were giddy with excitement, and bounced all the way to the party, drinking in the street as we went. (Rachel, you can drink in public all you want, but don’t J-walk in when there are police around, OK? Stefan counseled me.)

In true Halloween style, we passed the cemetery where Beethoven and Schubert were both buried. As we walked by, they popped out from the shadows and greeted us as we made our way to the party.

Vicky kept looking at Stefan and I, laughing, and saying I am bringing the hottest people to the party! I am going to be the most popular one there for bringing you!!

We arrived to an already hopping party. The bathtub was already doubling as a fridge,

Zorro was already making eyes from dark corners,

and many drunkenly rolling eyes and languid smiles greeted us with gusto.

We danced, we smoked, we drank, we partied. Vicky was so pleased with herself and with us, the incredible threesome we were: we’re the porno people!! she laughed, referring to our sexy costumes.

The minutes turned to hours and soon Stefan and I were yawning. Vicky decided she would leave with us, and we three stumbled away from our Viennese Costume Party. Strongly insisting that we didn’t need to accompany her, Vicky made her way to the Night Bus stop, and Stefan and I hopped into a cab.

Stefan and I collapsed into our respective beds soon after arriving home, dizzy and exhausted with all the evening’s pleasures and good company. Kisses and hugs goodnight, neither of us with enough energy to wash off our caked-on make-up.

Thus, my Halloween weekend in Vienna began.

Weekend Plans

2007-10-29T22:30:00.000+01:00

I write to you from my internet connection at school, pounding out entry after entry of memorable moments experienced in my first few weeks in Italy. I can hear Vince’s booming voice in the next room as he annunciates clearly and forcefully for his students during the last half-hour of their night class.

I have a deadline for these blogs, you see…

On Wednesday I will hop on a train bound for Vienna and I expect that at the end of that weekend I won’t have too much memory for what happened before! Now I have shared the best of the past two weeks with you, and with my ‘memory card’ emptied, so to speak, I’ll be fresh and ready for a blissful Halloween weekend in Austria.

I want to back-up a little, to give you some context which will better explain the depth of my excitement for the upcoming weekend. Then, when you read the entry that I write upon my return, it will be further embellished by the background that I give you here.

When I was 18 years-old I packed a bag and went to Europe for 10 weeks. The first week was spent teetering between desperation and worry, it being the first big solo trip I had ever taken before. It took me a full week to open up enough to make a friend, but when I did, what a friend it was!

Stefan Grauf. Austrian by birth, tall, lanky and handsome, conversational in four different languages, smart as a whip, and with a perfectly goofy and carefree presence that so many of us aspire to embody. His friendship became one of the greatest highlights of my trip. Always laughing, making fun of each other, and (at that time) smoking like chimneys at various pizza joints spread along the glorious beachfront passegiata of Viareggio. We were such a pair – I think his boyfriend at the time might have been a little jealous of our instantaneous friendship! It’s rare to find, but unmistakable when you do: we were going to be buds for a long, long time.

It was the easiest decision in the world to visit him again near the end of that trip as I traveled from southern Italy up to northern Germany. As it turned out, I would arrive at his place on Halloween weekend…

The year was 2003.

I don’t think I have to tell you that it was a fantastic weekend – Stefan and I spent our 3 days hopping from Viennese café to Viennese café, checking out the local sights and sharing laughs non-stop. Stefan was such a spectacular cook and made the most incredible lasagna on Halloween night. We gorged on it, plates sticky with cheese, lips tinted heavily with red wine, getting as silly as silly can be.

Stefan and I have always kept in touch since then – he always keeping me up to date on his life and I with mine. When, in 2006, I heard that he would be spending a summer working in Italy, I knew I had to try and get over to see him. Pulling the cash out of my savings (for what else is savings for, except to splurge on week-long trips to Europe to see a best friend?), I found seven days to spend chilling-out with him in his temporary home: a fantastic agriturismo in the middle of the Tuscan countryside.

Stefan had to work during the day, but in the evenings we snuck down to the cellar, grabbed several dusty bottles of wine and took them with us to the outdoor pool. Our midnight swims always resulted in the most ridiculous hypothetical conversations, and it was on a particularly fun and tipsy night that I announced my intention to return to Italy after graduation - most liekly to work as an English teacher.

During that week that we took Stefan’s day off to travel back to Viareggio, where we’d first become friends 3 years previous. We snagged a day on the beach followed by a haunting of the local pizzerias, and burned our midnight oil in Florence. We took the 6 AM train back home the following day, our wet bathing suits soaking through our backpacks as we snoozed noisily in our dusty train compartment.

It is with great pleasure, then, that I announce yet another reunion with Stefan, in Vienna, exactly four years after my first trip there to see him.

Halloween weekend... 2007.

What a blast. There are even more perks than this… as if it weren’t enough just to see my Stefan! My good friend from Vancouver (who I worked with on The Vagina Monologues), Anna, will be there as well, and even Vince will be arriving on Thursday to partake in the fun!

I just can’t wait. At this point, that’s all there is to say. I’m trembling with excitement.

Dinner Party

2007-10-29T20:55:00.000+01:00

Let it be known that I, Rachel, have hosted a successful dinner party in Italy!

Incredible. I can’t believe how nerve-wracking an experience it can be to make dinner for people who are used to incredibly good food! Let’s be honest, though: I was spoiled in terms of company. Michela, who I had spent my Sunday with two weeks ago, and her husband Dario were there, and no two kinder people could have be found. Even though they were Italian, and therefore accustomed to excellent cuisine, they were sure to be polite dinner guests even if the quality of the food was far below what they were used to! To boot, Michela was so sweet as to bring two bottles of wine for dinner and a homemade cake for dessert. The fourth guest was Vince, who is always a champion friend to me, and thus, unless I had the idiocy to poison my dinner guests, there was not much that could have gone wrong.

I set the table with 80% of the dishes I owned, plus a set of jack-o-lantern tea lights that I found at my nearby super market.

Strung along my kitchen window was my favorite addition of all: a set of jack-o-lantern plug-in lights which bathed the counter with a soft orange glow, staring down with toothy grins. I was giddy with pleasure at having found them – I couldn’t believe what incredible joy these little lights gave me! A taste of Halloween! All the way in Italy!

When Michela arrived with her cake and surprise dessert, she saw the tea lights right away and exclaimed with pleasure, demanding to know where I’d found them. We chatted about Halloween while we waited for Vince to arrive, and once he did, I started up the pasta pot.

My tomato sauce, made from fresh Italian tomatoes, had been simmering on the stove since four o’clock that afternoon, waiting for the arrival of the spaghetti. It was our first dish of the night. Michela surprised me when she helped me to add the sauce, because she only used about a quarter of what I normally do! Vince had warned me about this – that Italians use hardly any sauce on their pasta at all. With a wink, he shuffled over to the sauce pot and added an extra dash for himself.

Not bad, not bad. We ate our pasta, chatted about music and movies, and relaxed with a glass of wine. Then, after clearing away the first set of dishes, it was on to the meat course, for which I had skewers of bacon-wrapped chicken, ham, and peppers. Vince helped polish off any remaining meat bits left behind by our Italian guests (what a trooper, eh?).

Then, the big event: coffee and cake. I had been warned about Michela’s fantastic ways in the kitchen and we were not to be disappointed that night. She had made an incredible cake with almond past and a streusel-like topping. I can’t exaggerate when I try to describe it: it was absolutely unbelievable. She made crema del caffé with a spot of coffee, four lumps of sugar and a wild spoon-whipping action in a cappuccino cup to add to our espressos; a lovely companion to the cake and a sugary sweet end to our dinner.

It was an extremely pleasurable night, and I was happy to find my Italian had improved quite a lot since two weeks ago when I last saw Michela and Dario. After a few hours of conversation, the pair left and Vince stayed to help with the dishes… and the leftover wine! He assured me that my first dinner-party attempt was indeed a good start. Together we made jokes under the light of the orange-y pumpkins, slopping dishwater onto the floor and engaging in our most favorite pastime of swapping “college stories.” Around one o’clock he headed back to Brescia, and I went off to bed, feeling spoiled to have such good fun this early on in my Italian experience.

Theatre

2007-10-29T20:13:00.000+01:00

Cristina, my boss, is a sort of personal hero to me. Don’t tell her that – she’ll probably think I’m even weirder that she already does. But it’s the truth. She’s ridiculously smart, extremely well-educated, and one of the fiercest Italian women I know. She will use strong, bitter words to describe herself (“pathetic” being the latest favorite) but don’t let her fool you. She’s a bombshell.

Knowing my penchant for all things theatrical, she offered to take me along to a show she was seeing in a small town outside Brescia, and I immediately agreed.

The show was produced and performed by two local comedians who had been working together for years. Cristina told me that she had been coming to see their shows for a long time now, and counted them among the best of local phenomena. This was really excellent in one sense, because I’m happy to learn and experience all things local, but brutal in another sense because half of the show was bound to be in the local dialect (Bresciano) which is, almost, another language entirely. Lucky for me, the pair were extremely physical, which meant I would have been entertained even if I was entirely deaf! They were excellent, really. I was happy to find that the first part of their show was performed in standard Italian, and, since it re-enacted bits of Greek and Roman mythology, I could follow along perfectly! The two of them were also very accomplished musicians and singers, and had brought in an accordion player to flesh out their musical numbers, which were many. All in all, I was very impressed by how physically talented and artistically dexterous they were.

I was quite stunned, therefore, when I saw the uninspired faces of my companions once the curtain had fallen. They immediately told me with apologetic looks that this show was not one of their better ones. Really? I regarded them with raised eyebrows. Could it be that Italians have such high expectations of their local thespians? Perhaps I could learn a thing or two from this experience.

The conversation that followed in the lobby was most interesting. Even though they weren’t thespians themselves, every one of Cristina’s friends had a very insightful thought about what they had just seen. In fact, the whole audience was packed into the lobby, talking about the show, scrutinizing and debating its stronger and weaker points! I was in heaven. Was all of Italy like this?

Thus, I have resolved to see more theatre while here in Italy. I expect I have a lot to learn from the performers, and maybe even more from the audiences...

The Kids

2007-10-29T19:42:00.000+01:00

My favorite lesson is with a woman named Franca; she and I have private lessons twice a week, and I almost always run over time! She is so keen to talk, so excited to learn and know more, and thus is an extreme pleasure to teach.

Her two children take lessons as well, once a week on Fridays, and I teach them as well. Our first lesson was October 26, which was the last Friday before Halloween. Naturally, I made my lesson about the upcoming holiday, and in preparation made a flashy and engaging PowerPoint about skeletons, pumpkins, witches and ghosts. I had a film picked out as well – “Winnie the Witch” – all in theme, all exciting, all loads of fun.

Unfortunately, I miscalculated my audience… I forgot (“forgot”) that these kids were Italian, and didn’t think about Halloween in the same way I did. They had very curious expressions on their faces as I taught them words like “skeleton” and “ghost”. They understood “bat” insofar as it was followed by “man” and also about the full moon… but to put things bluntly, they just weren’t as excited about learning Halloween vocabulary as I hoped they would be. Their faces finally came to life when they saw the slide labeled “candy”, and also when I pulled out some real candy for them to have while we watched the film about Winnie the Witch. But even then they ate their candy so gingerly, without haste, one gummy at a time… that I was shocked into realizing why Halloween wouldn’t make it off the ground in a place like Italy.

Halloween, as I experienced it as a kid, was so much about the excess of candy… and excess has little to no role in acceptable social practices around here. I watched these polite kids eat their candies like miniature aristocrats, their attentive and interested faces peering at the television screen.

Still, as I watched Winnie the Witch from the back of the room, I couldn’t help but feel a little homesick for shop windows full of artificial cobwebs, for the smell of pumpkin insides slopped on wet newspaper, for the yearly appearance of my mother’s “Halloween Sounds” cassette tape playing loudly in the entry way, waiting for the arrival of costume-clad brats with overflowing pillowcases.

Lunch

2007-10-29T19:26:00.000+01:00

The drive from Brescia to Manerbio is twenty minutes without traffic, forty with. This leaves Vince in a rather dull situation when he has a three hour break between classes – is it worth driving back to Brescia to spend a mere hour in one’s own apartment? Chilling out alone? Eating a hastily prepared sandwich of whatever’s left in the fridge?

Enter new friend, Rachel, with apartment not a few hundred meters from the school. Problem solved! We both teach from one until two in the afternoon, and are ready for a pasta-riffic lunch promptly after. We stroll over to my pad and have ourselves a great Italian-style sit-down meal with a liberal dose of pop-culture conversation. Not only is he such a fun and entertaining guest, but Vince always insists on doing a portion of the dishes afterwards. Such a proposal, if it appeared form the lips of an Italian-born man, would have been somewhat shocking, but there goes Vince! The true American gentleman he is.

Our first lunch left a gorgeous mess of dishes.

Pesto-ladle, basil-crust, onion-skin-florets.

Such magnificence in something so simple and easy.

The Businessmen

2007-10-29T19:21:00.000+01:00

I had written once before about a pair of businessmen that I instruct twice a week and how intimidating a situation I find it to be. Can you blame me? I, at 22 years of age, know next to nothing about the work of businesspeople. My Dad was encouraging when I told him my misgivings, didn’t expect that you’d need an MBA to teach English, did you? he joked affectionately.

Since the first lesson, I have been doing nothing but over-preparing, but nothing I do beforehand shakes me of my rumblings of nervousness. I was so sure that they were looking at me and thinking: how can this young girl teach us anything about English? At my most frightened moments, I half-agreed with these supposed sentiments.

Imagine my horror, then, when I was at school and the secretary, Veronica, approaches me with a serious expression and tells me that the two of them had requested a different English teacher. My face fell. I felt panicky. My worst fears come to life in front of me, intermixed with the horrible embarrassment of the secretary knowing, of my boss finding out that I had failed – failed miserably – after a mere two weeks of teaching.

I must have looked terrible, because a second after she had said it, she reached out immediately and put a hand on my shoulder, laughing! Laughing? I didn’t understand. No, no, no! she said, shaking her head, sono contentissimi! she smiled. What? "Very, very content?” I asked, incredulity melting the furrow of my brow. Ma sí! (but of course!) she exclaimed, and went on to say that they had wanted to know if I would be teaching next year as well, so content as they were with the lessons thus far!

It was my turn to laugh. What a relief! The one group that I had been worried about seemed quite pleased with my lessons afterall. Our meetings have only been getting better and better – today they instructed me well on all things having to do with the most famous Italian football player of all time, Roberto Baggio, shocked to the bone that I had never heard of him before, and we all left for lunch grinning and laughing.

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