Driving Like a Maniac

Driving through lemons

At pie-ah-zah dust-mote, turn right. My travelling companion and I look at each other and fall about laughing. Where?! The Italian pronunciation on the sat-nav is – to put it mildly – appalling. Still, it’s keeping us entertained, and we haven’t even got out of the city yet. That’s another story, though. Where the hell is she taking us? My history of driving in this city is shady at best – the one time I did it I ended up in the worst area of town getting robbed – but my sense of direction is better than the sat-nav’s, apparently. She’s taking us south to go north, and she’s completely lost our destination. I try punching it in again. Palazzo Amerina, right? Maryann glances over. Oh! No! *Piazza*, not Palazzo. I type it in again. The sat-nav still doesn’t recognise it. I’m gonna kill that bitch! exclaims Maryann cheerfully. She found it earlier, so what’s her problem now? We reach a junction. I make an executive decision. Follow the signs to Enna. At least then we’re going in the right sort of direction and we can work out the details further along. Maryann swings the wheel and off we go.

Ten minutes later we’re in open countryside. The sun’s blazing down, and the road is empty. Are those lemons? asks Maryann. I look to left and right. Yep, they most certainly are. After three years in southern Italy it still surprises me that they just *grow* here, and it seems that New Yorker Maryann is just as bowled over. The trees are covered in yellow fruit, crowding outwards between bright green leaves. If only I had a lemon tree, I’d be swimming in limoncello right now. And the greyish ones are olives, right? Right. It’s beautiful out here. I’m glad we ignored the bitch and didn’t go on the highway, says Maryann, as she settles into her seat and adjusts her sunglasses. So am I, although I wish I’d remembered to get my sunglasses out of my bag before I put it in the boot. Never mind. I pull the sun visor down and go back to reprogramming the sat-nav. At least I’ve succeeded in turning her down. Now to see if I can make her speak Italian properly. I scroll through the list. There are three choices for English speakers. This one’s name is Serena. Below her is Daniel, who sounds more interesting than plain old generic ‘English’, which is the third option. Let’s give him a try, shall we? Bye bye Serena – there’s a new voice in town.

Daniel proves just as useless at finding our destination, but at least his voice is a little more bearable than Serena’s. His pronunciation is equally bad, however, with the added quirk of being unable to say the ‘e’ at the end of words. It descends into a guttural computer-y buzz, rather like a burping electronic frog. This entertains us for the whole of the weekend. Little things, and all that.

We reach a junction and finally there’s a sign to our destination. I look at it and the penny drops. Piazza AR-merina, not A-merina. I’ve been typing the wrong name into the sat-nav. Serena and Daniel, all is forgiven. Well, maybe not all, but at least a little.

The road starts to climb. The lemon and olive trees disappear and are replaced by open grassy spaces and wildflowers. It’s a different kind of landscape to the low country around Catania, but no less stunning. That does it! says Maryann. I’m gonna have to take a picture of this. She swings onto a farm track and opens her door. Hot air blasts in, overpowering the air-con and bringing with it a smell of dust and dry grass and sunshine. Finally I can retrieve my sunglasses from the boot, and I grab my camera at the same time. We’re at the top of a mountain, looking across a valley. It’s still early enough in the year that the grass is green, rather than brown, and it’s dotted with yellow and red flowers. It’s gorgeous. At the far side of the valley there are wind turbines, breaking up the green. From here they look so small. And they are, in comparison to the mountains themselves, which roll and climb all around us, as far as the eye can see. I take a photo, knowing that it won’t come anywhere near doing justice to this view. Sure enough, when I glance at the screen, it’s rubbish. I take a long look and commit everything to memory instead, then climb back into the car to continue our journey. Piazza Armerina, here we come.

Image by Chotda (Creative Commons)

by Kate Bailward Posted on April 1, 2012

Posted in Travelling Like a Maniac | Tagged sicily | 7 Comments

Simple pleasures

There’s the usual babble of noise in the classroom. I pull up a chair and settle myself down directly in front of the five teenagers that have come to school today. With my hands clutching the edge of the seat, I lean forward, kick my legs straight out in front of me like a child, look up and take a deep breath.

“I’m going to tell you a story!”

Alessandra perks up, clapping her hands with glee. I’ve hooked my first fish.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” I scan my audience, teasing them. “This is the story … of my top.”

As expected, they fall about laughing. “Does it smell?” cracks Gaia. I wave my hands in front of my nose, playing the clown to keep them sweet. “Yes, probably. Sorry about that.” My ploy works. Gaia’s eyes continue to dance, but they are fixed on me, waiting for the story to continue.

“Anyway, as I was saying … This may look like an ordinary, plain black, poloneck top,” – all five nod in agreement – “but in fact it’s very special.”

I pause for a moment to gather my thoughts. Carlotta looks quizzical and rests her chin on her hand.

“I bought this top when I lived in Puglia two years ago. When I first arrived in Italy, I spoke no Italian. Ciao … grazie … – e basta.” As I say the last two words, I make the corresponding ‘that’s all’ hand gesture, poking fun at my uselessness. There’s an appreciative chuckle from Giorgio. I glance over at him. He’s listening intently, chair pushed back, his head resting on his arms, which are folded on the desk. He raises one eyebrow at me, in a mute, ‘and so …?’ You could hear a pin drop in this classroom right now. I smile and carry on.

“One day, I decided I needed some new tops. I knew what I wanted, and I knew where I could get them: at the market. So I looked up all the words that I needed in the dictionary,” – I mime flicking through the pages, pulling ‘help me’ faces as I do so. A giggle ripples around the room. Francesco and Alessandra lean forward.

“Then I went to the market, and I asked the man for what I needed.”

Carlotta’s eyes are sparkling with excitement above her hands, which she has just clapped over her mouth.

“I asked for what I needed, and he understood me.”

Giorgio sits up and grins.

“He understood me, and he gave me exactly what I asked for – a plain black, poloneck top.” I look over at Gaia, who is bouncing in her chair. “So this top is not just a top – it’s a representation of the first time I not only understood, but was understood by someone else. In Italian.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then all five of them break into spontaneous applause. I couldn’t ask for more.

Image by joelwh (Creative Commons).

This post is a response to the Scintilla Project‘s day 8 prompt: What are your simplest pleasures? Go beyond description and into showing the experience of each indulgence.

by Kate Bailward Posted on March 24, 2012

Posted in Teaching Like a Maniac | Tagged sicily | 9 Comments

Something to believe in

Peggy was a formidable woman. Brought up atheist by Jewish parents, and married to a practising Christian, her faith was, in many ways, cooking – something which she passed on to her daughter, who in turn passed it on to hers. When she and her husband were posted in Northern Italy just after WWII her priority was to learn enough Italian to be able to shop for ingredients.

Sixty years later, her granddaughter arrives in Puglia and continues what she started.

In many ways, although Italy wasn’t somewhere that you’d ever thought of living until you actually ended up here, it’s perfect. Food is such an important part of life, especially in the south. After ten years of snacking on the run in the back of a car between theatre shows, or eating overpriced and disappointing sandwiches at the desk of yet another city temp job, rediscovering long lunch breaks is bliss. You decide that a region which closes all businesses between 1 and 4 in the afternoon is your kind of place.

In Puglia you trek 20 minutes down the hill most Saturday mornings to the market to pester the veg sellers. Some are grumpy; many are friendly, and you learn the names of things which you hadn’t even known existed before you came here. What’s this? –It’s cime di rabe, bellamia. You nod enthusiastically and take a kilo of the stuff because you can’t remember how to say half. Luckily, you fall in love with it and can happily eat it three times a day, wolfing down great bowls of the stuff with fistfuls of salt and chilli flakes ground over the top of it while watching DVDs in your room.

In Calabria eating becomes more social. The classic image of family and friends around a huge trestle table groaning with food under a vine-covered pergola, laughing, singing and eating until they just can’t eat any more? Yeah, it really happens. And you tell someone that this parmigiana alle melanzane is delicious, and they tell you their secret ingredient and you go home and make it and yes – it’s the best thing you’ve ever eaten. And then you make it when you go back to England and it’s worth paying six times the price that you would for the ingredients in Italy because when your mum and uncle taste it they go silent for a moment and then say, god, this is just like the one that Mum used to do … And you glow a little bit knowing that means you’ve got it right.

And now in Sicily your favourite part of the morning is going to the greengrocer’s. Not just because he’s cute – although he is – but because it means that you can dance around the shop while he looks on in amusement, and point to things and say you want some of those – no, a few more – and a big bunch of that, and have you got any cime di rabe today? And he laughs and crinkles his eyes at your terrone pronunciation and the fact that you’re standing right next to it and haven’t noticed when you ask that question. Then he tells you that you can cook the leaves of the rabe, too, and it’s your turn to laugh, because you remember the Pugliese traders telling you that right back at the beginning, before you could speak any Italian at all, but you understood them because their passion and yours were the same.

This is your church.

Image by ljcybergal (Creative Commons)

This post is a response to the Scintilla Project‘s day 6 prompt: Talk about an experience with faith, your own or someone else’s.

by Kate Bailward Posted on March 23, 2012

Posted in Eating Like a Maniac, Living Like a Maniac | Tagged calabria, Italy, puglia, sicily | 9 Comments

Channelling Gloria

We’re in a bar. It’s seventies night. There’s free food. Could this be any better? My partners in crime for this evening, Alison and Kate, not usually big drinkers, are getting stuck in, and we’re all on our second or third cocktail. There’s a cute guy at the bar, and Alison nudges me. Go on! I shake my head, laughing. I may be a bit merry, but there’s no way I’m chatting up a random. It’s just not me. This music, on the other hand – now *that* is right up my street. I pass a note to the DJ, asking for You to Me are Everything. He squints at the piece of paper – I’m not sure if he’s having problems with my Italian, or with my writing, but just as I’m about to get up and help him along, his brow clears. He rattles away on his computer keyboard, then turns the screen towards me with a questioning eyebrow raise. This one? I grin and give him a thumbs up. He nods and pulls the laptop back round, frowning as he concentrates on cueing it to the track that’s playing at the moment. I’m jigging with excitement. As soon as the opening chords start I leap to my feet, dragging the others up to dance as well. I’ve loved this song since I was in the womb, I think. Certainly it’s from the long, hot summer of ’76, when my mum was pregnant with me. She wasn’t into disco, but something of it must have got through despite her best efforts, as I can never resist it.

The song finishes and I head to the bar for another round of drinks. The Italians in the room are line dancing and Alison and Kate join them. When I reach the bar, Alison catches my eye and has another go at getting me to chat up the cute guy, by dint of some very obvious sign language. I’m pretty sure by now that he’s with the barmaid, so I pull ‘no bloody chance’ faces at her across the room. There’s an amused prego from behind me and I turn round mid-gurn to see said barmaid grinning at me, clearly totally aware of what’s just been occurring. I turn bright red, grab the drinks which she’s just put down in front of me and make a run for it before I lose any more dignity.

The opening piano glissando from I Will Survive shimmers across the room. I’m not usually a fan, but for some reason it just *gets* me this evening. I abandon our drinks and tear across to the dancefloor. Instead of heading down the steps which lead to it, however, I strike a pose at the top of them. In my head, I’m dressed in a silver, sequinned fishtail gown and platform heels, with cornrows in my hair and a skinny microphone in my hand. I sing for all I’m worth, the way that I used to when I performed for a living. The way that I never get to do any more. Alison and Kate are shrieking encouragement, and from out of nowhere comes a full Pan’s People-style dance routine, as I belt the song for all I’m worth. By the time it comes to an end I’m covered in sweat and breathless with excitement. Even if it is for one night only, it’s good to be back.

Image by rogilde, Roberto la Forgia (Creative Commons)

This post is a response to the Scintilla Project’s day 5 prompt: Show a part of your nature that you feel you’ve lost. Can you get it back? Would it be worth it?

by Kate Bailward Posted on March 20, 2012

Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged singing | 7 Comments

Life is beautiful

The sun’s burning the top of my feet as I sit at my desk, supposedly lesson-planning, but actually procrastinating as always. I’m holding out for as long as possible before moving, but it gets to the point where I just can’t take any more. I tuck my legs under the chair, relishing the coolness as they move back out of the glare of sunlight coming through the open doors. They feel like they’re three times their normal size and I flinch as I realise quite how cold the marble tiles underneath them are. I hitch my suddenly freezing feet up onto the chair and sit, cross-legged, like a leprechaun.

My ears prick up. There’s that sound like the TARDIS coming from outside again. I don’t know what it is, but every time I hear it the child in me – the one that used to wish on the first star every night that she could become a fairy – is hopeful that the Doctor is going to appear and whisk me away on the adventure of a lifetime. Just so long as he doesn’t take me back to the Blitz. The Empty Child episodes were bloody terrifying.

An accordion player starts up somewhere to the back of the building. They’re getting more frequent now that the sun’s coming out regularly. I like listening to them, even if the sound does make me think of France, rather than Italy. I close my eyes and lean back in my chair to enjoy the music.

A flutter of wings interrupts my reverie. A brave pigeon has just landed on the balcony outside my bedroom and is cocking an eye at me to judge whether I’m a threat or not. Yeah, you bet I am, buster. I glare back at him and flap my hands menacingly. He makes that bubbling coo that pigeons make, as if to say, Ma dai! What’s the problem?I continue to flap. He grumbles back at me. Va bene, bellamia; I’m going. Then he hops through the railing and takes to the wing again. He doesn’t go far – just across to the shady part of the courtyard where the neighbourhood pigeons usually hang out – but it’s good enough for me. I’m a cat person. No birds allowed around here, especially when I’ve got clean sheets hanging on the line to dry.

A breeze rustles through the palm trees in the courtyard. It sounds like the sea shushing on shingle. It doesn’t smell like it, though. Not unless the sea has started smelling like clean laundry, that is. I inhale and stretch my feet out again. In a minute I’ll get up and check if it’s dry – but not … just … yet …

My eyes close.

There’s always time.

Image by Olmeco (Creative Commons)

This post was inspired by the Scintilla Project‘s day 4 prompt: What does your everyday look like?

by Kate Bailward Posted on March 19, 2012

Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged catania, sicily | 12 Comments

Too Young to Die

The first time I left home I was about seven years old. I can’t remember now why I felt the need to do so, but the fact remains that I did. I picked up my favourite doll of the time – one of those hideous things with moulded plastic arms, legs and head, but a soft body – and packed all her clothes into a little red vanity case. I didn’t pack anything for myself; maybe the first and last time I’ve ever been so selfless. Then I took my case in one hand, my doll in the other, and set off for the Big Wide World.

The Big Wide World started in the little Somerset village which existed outside the garden. To get there, you had to wend your way down a narrow tarmac path that led to the Green Door. The Green Door was exactly as it sounds – a wooden postern gate in the six-foot wall which surrounded our garden. In later years my three brothers and I would clamber up and sit on top of the wall, hoarding conkers and throwing their prickly shells over the road into the duckpond. On this particular day, however, I had different plans in mind.

The Green Door was, for an adult, maybe a two-minute walk from the front door of the house. To a seven year old lugging a heavy plastic doll and a suitcase, however, it seemed like an endless journey. I was tiring even before I reached the ten feet of scary shrubbery which you had to pass through just before the gate. Even as an adult, coming back from the pub of an evening, this part was spooky. By the time I got to the gate I was shaky with nerves. Reaching up, I tried to slide the door bolt across as I’d seen grown-ups do so often.

I couldn’t budge it.

Old iron and swollen wood were conspiring against me to stiffen the catch, meaning that I wasn’t strong enough to pull it back. I tried hard to be disappointed, but in fact I was relieved. My big adventure had gone on quite long enough. I turned for home, my pace picking up as I got closer to the house, until I was running into the kitchen to throw my arms around my mother, hugging her as if I’d not seen her for years, rather than half an hour.

She hadn’t even noticed that I’d been gone.

Fast forward 25 years and I’m leaving home again. The suitcase is bigger, and it’s a laptop under my arm rather than a doll, but I’m just as terrified as I was when I tried to pull back the bolt on the Green Door all those years ago. This time, however, the catch is giving and the door is opening. Six months before I’d been an unemployed actor, making ends meet pottering along in dull temp jobs. Now, after a whimsical decision to change careers, I’m a qualified EFL teacher, taking up a job in southern Italy which fell into my lap by chance and which I accepted just as casually as it was offered. I don’t speak Italian and I’ve never been abroad alone before. I’m falling apart.

Unlike before, my mother is fully aware that I’m going. In fact, she got up at 5.00 this morning in order to drive me to the airport. I’ve checked in my main suitcase, somehow managing to avoid excess baggage fees despite having packed about a hundred books, and we’re sitting in a coffee shop talking. Well, Mum’s talking. I’m trying to avoid being sick. We finish our drinks and walk together to the security checkpoint. Alitalia is in its final throes at Terminal 3, and it’s early morning, so it’s quiet in the airport. The woman at the checkpoint is chatty and friendly. She and my mum gossip as they decant my make-up into the regulation plastic bag, while I bite my lip and concentrate on not running away. Too soon, it’s all done. Mum turns to me and gives me a hug goodbye. I cling on to her, trying not to let the tears spill out. I fail, of course, but the Englishwoman in my mother refuses to acknowledge the fact. She pulls back and looks at me, smiling her brightest smile. Oh, it’s going to be brilliant! Send me lots of recipes, won’t you? I blink back the teary overspill, fix a smile on my face and nod. Yes. Yes, I promise. She gives me another quick hug and walks away fast.

The Green Door closes behind me.

Two and a half years later. I’m sitting on the balcony of my flat in Sicily, basking in spring sunshine. My brain has melted into grey goo in the heat and my bones are softening under my skin. I’m vaguely listening to my neighbours bickering in Italian, not even surprised any more that I can understand them. My eyes droop closed. From behind me the opening chords of Too Young to Die play from my computer speakers and I’m taken back to that day, sitting on planes crying behind my sunglasses, wondering if I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life.

In response, the seven year old me grins with admiration.

Image by Thomas Hawk (Creative Commons)

This post was inspired by a combination of the Scintilla Project‘s day three prompt: ‘Talk about a memory triggered by a particular song’ and the bonus prompt: ‘Talk about a time when you left home’.

by Kate Bailward Posted on March 17, 2012

Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged england, sicily | 16 Comments

Grey hair and giggling

Ma, maestra! Hai i capelli bianchi! Arianna is sitting on my lap, supposedly looking at a clock and telling me the time in English, but actually pointing out the grey hairs at my temples, which are all too obvious at the moment as I desperately clip my overgrown fringe out of my eyes. Emilia and Chiara are agog at this new development. They race over to have a look, poking at my hairline and shrieking gleefully. Pinned down by three wriggling, giggling seven year olds, I’m unable to keep an eye out for what the other three are doing, but I can guess. Suspicions are confirmed when there’s an urgent whisper from the door to my classroom. I wrestle my head out of the tangle of tiny hands and arms molesting my ageing hair to see my boss standing there, looking apologetic. Poor guy. He shares a connecting door with my classroom. To be honest, I’m only surprised that this is the first time he’s come in. This class, particularly, always want to slither in behind the bookcase which sits in the alcove next to the connecting door. It drives me demented because they knock all the books out of place, but my boss, sitting on the far side of it, has it much worse. He doesn’t get any of the wonderful moments when I sit down for a second and they all swarm onto my lap for a cuddle, or come up with wonderful, brilliantly imaginative, hare-brained games to play, or just giggle helplessly for ten minutes because – hell – they’re seven years old and that’s what they *do*. No, all he gets is rattling doorknobs and crashing books and a cacophony of babbling noise not half a foot from his desk. God knows how he ever gets any work done.

The girls are irreverently overexcited by this new addition to the classroom. Arianna jumps straight in with the most important piece of information. La maestra ha i capelli bianchi! Guarda! My boss laughs. No, it’s not white, it’s blonde! Right, Kate? He starts to withdraw but just in time remembers why he actually came in. With mock sternness he beckons the two little monkeys at the side of the bookcase out of their hiding place. Come away from there, girls. He gives me a conspiratorial wink then fixes a serious gaze on the tiny troublemakers in front of him. Remember, ragazze – it’s *blonde*. Diplomatic disaster averted, he whisks out of the room before being drawn into any more embarrassing discussions of the Maestra’s failings as a glamourpuss. Never work with pint-sized Italian princesses if you value your self-esteem. There is no-one more guaranteed to point out the fact that you are, whatever you may feel like on the inside, outwardly very definitely a grown-up.

Image by brutapesquisa (Creative Commons)

This post was inspired by one of the Scintilla Project‘s day two prompts: ‘When did you realise you were a grown-up?’

by Kate Bailward Posted on March 15, 2012

Posted in Teaching Like a Maniac | Tagged catania, sicily | 10 Comments

Comfort Food

On days like today, when the wind is doing its best to batter through the windows and even the usually ebullient pigeons in the back yard have gone into hiding from the vertical rain, the only thing to do is to escape to the kitchen and make soup. And I’m not talking about something that’s been puréed into oblivion until it’s no better than water; no, I want chunks of strong, green vegetables to bite into. I want anchovies and garlic. I want beans and chilli flakes and plenty of salt. Something, in short, that will warm not just my stomach but my eyes and mind as well.

First things first: what can I put in it? On a day like today I’m not going outside to buy ingredients if I can possibly help it. I root through the veg bowl. Onions are discarded out of hand. They’re bullies, tastewise – I want the fresh strength of green vegetables, not the insidious cloy of alliums. Lemons and courgettes? Nope, not ballsy enough. I’ll save those for a day when the sun’s out and I want light, tangy summer in a bowl. Ah, what have we here? Broccoletti? Perfect. I chop up a good large bunch, stalks, leaves and all and set it aside while I squish a garlic clove. No mimsy garlic presses in this Italian kitchen. No, the cloves are chopped finely with the surprisingly sharp serrated table knives that are the norm here, and then squished with the edge of the blade. Less washing up, less waste, and far more satisfying as a process. Living in Italy has changed my attitude to garlic. Days were when I would happily chuck three or four cloves into one dish. Not now. One clove, maximum, finely chopped and then mashed into puree with the edge of a knife blade. I’m constantly bemused by English friends who, when I talk about Italian cooking, immediately talk about how much garlic is used here. Um, no. You’re thinking of garlic bread. Which is an American invention. What I love about cooking and eating here is the simplicity of it. Long, slow cooking with minimal ingredients which meld to form a far greater whole than the sum of their parts.

Garlic crushed sufficiently, it’s time to fry it and the anchovies in olive oil. On my stove, this is a precision moment. Yes, I have a gas hob, but there’s very little control over it – even on the smallest ring the temperature starts at HOT and quickly escalates to OHMYGODI’MMEEEEEELTIIIIIIIIING. It’s only a few seconds until the scent of lightly scorched fish and garlic reaches my nose and then it’s in with the broccoletti, turning it quickly until it’s all coated evenly. I keep stirring, tossing the greens around the pan, enjoying the smells coming out of it – like seaweed on the shore on a hot summer’s day. A minute or so more, stirring all the while, until a couple of leaves start to brown. Then it’s time to slosh in some water and leave it all to bubble for a minute or so while I search out the beans that I know I’ve got *somewhere*. Now, just to work out where … Ah! Found them, hiding behind the teabags. In they go. The red of the beans against the vibrant green of the broccoletti is a feast for the eyes, and my stomach wants in on the action. It starts rumbling and I stir the soup in anticipation, willing it to come up to the boil faster.

Finally, it’s ready. I grab a bowl from the cupboard and scoop and pour the chunky soup into it. It’s just as I like it. More like a stew than a soup, with not too much liquid, and plenty of solid pieces of green broccoletti and red beans. This is something to really get your teeth into. The final touches: a liberal grinding of chilli flakes and salt, followed by a spoonful of yoghurt. I take a second to appreciate the irony that the addition of Greek yoghurt turns this, visually, into an Italian flag of a dish – but only a second. Spoon in hand, I dig in and enjoy.

by Kate Bailward Posted on March 10, 2012

Posted in Eating Like a Maniac, Living Like a Maniac | Tagged cooking | 6 Comments

Ciao, bella – bella, ciao

With International Women’s Day just around the corner, here’s a look back at what happened last year. Mimosa, party horns and drag queens: long may they thrive.

********

Middle-aged drunk woman has a party horn. It’s got silver tassles on the end, which she waggles around, watching them catch the light. As she passes the English girls she blows the horn hard and is rewarded with laughter. She tries again, but fails to get more of a reaction, so moves on. There’s a statue of a naked woman at the end of the room, and she heads towards that. There’s a broad smile on her face and a wicked glint in her eye, and it looks as if the statue is going to be the brunt of some mischief. Sure enough, the party horn is placed on the poor girl’s marble hair. This doesn’t cause enough shock in the crowd, however, so drunk woman ups her game. She starts tracing circles around the statue’s non-existent nipples. This garners a hysterical gasp and a storm of giggles from a passing teenager. Drunk woman, in the best clowning traditions, repeats the action: if it makes someone laugh, do it again. And again. And again, but bigger. Hilarious!

It’s International Women’s Day. This is the one day a year when women can escape and go wild down here. And they do. There are a few hundred women in this hotel, and they are all determined to enjoy themselves. The DJ banters over the microphone, egging the crowd on to cheer ever louder. Come on ladies – we’ve got a surprise for you. Let me hear you! Every woman in the room raises her voice as loud as she can – and this being Italy, that’s pretty loud – as Pino, the resident drag queen, shimmies into the room to the strains of Bella, Ciao*.

Pino pulls some bananas out of a plastic bag with a triumphant flourish. The room dissolves into shrieks of laughter. Who’s the head of this table? Everyone points in different directions. She homes in on the woman who’s trying to shrink herself under the table and look inconspicuous. You. What’s your name? The woman turns beet-red and shakes her head. Pino changes to confidante mode, flutters her eyelashes and wheedles, Come on, darling, what’s your name? Through her blushes and laughter, the woman manages to say, Maria. Pino smiles. Do you like bananas, bellamia? It’s a rhetorical question. Maria’s going to eat the banana whether she likes it or not, and she’s going to make it look good. Pino takes her time peeling the skin, keeping a beady eye on the crowd through her enormous false lashes. She makes a suggestive moue and runs her tongue along her top lip before shoving Maria’s head back and pushing the banana into the poor woman’s mouth. Maria promptly starts choking – with laughter, thankfully – and the room erupts.

The floor show continues in a similar vein at each table. When she reaches the English girls, the drag queen stops, a small smile playing around her mouth at the sport she can have here. There aren’t going to be any allowances made. The banana act is repeated, as the whole room whoops and cheers. Her work done, Pino is about to strut away. She turns, but doubles back: she’s just realised that her chosen victim is pregnant. But, signora … What happened here? Well – she rolls her eyes – we can *see* what happened, but how far along are you? Only 4 months? With a 6-month-old at home, you say? There is a brief twitch of amusement from her lips before she delivers her final, killer line: Well – I see *you* have no need of bananas, signora …! She sashays to the front in triumph, waving her highly manicured nails at the DJ, who grins and puts on another song. You all know this one – come on everyone, on your feet!

Later, Pino is sitting on a stripper’s lap, bouncing up and down, wide-eyed and smirking. The stripper looks mortified. Little does he know that his evening is just about to get a whole lot more embarrassing – or entertaining, depending on your point of view. Middle-aged-drunk-woman is powering her way up the aisle, scattering bystanders as she goes. The drag queen’s eyes widen and a flicker of amusement crosses her face before she is pushed out of the way. She tries to protest, but without conviction. This show is just far too funny. Middle-aged drunk woman grins at the stripper, who is looking more terrified by the second. The blood-filled bumps on his chest where he’s waxed too enthusiastically flush scarlet, and he adjusts his sunglasses, as if they can protect him. He puts his hands out in a gesture of supplication, but drunk woman’s having none of it. Batting his protests aside, she plonks her not-inconsiderable weight onto his skinny, waxed lap and starts to wiggle. Pino is in convulsions of laughter, as are the rest of the room. Drunk woman is loving it, and plays to the crowd as she has been doing all evening. She makes a triumphant gesture towards the table of English girls – Who’s having fun now, eh?! Well, actually, I think we all are. Happy Women’s Day, lady.

* English translation of the lyrics to Bella, Ciao here

Images by sukkulaati, cagiflickr and seeminglee (Creative Commons)

by Kate Bailward Posted on March 3, 2012

Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged calabria, Italy | 6 Comments

Singing in the rain

My students are yelling and leaping up and down with joy. Sadly it’s nothing I’ve done to make them so ecstatic. Well, apart from being rubbish at classroom discipline.

It’s Tuesday night and a minute previously we’d been entering the last 15 minutes of the final lesson of the day. I’m about to introduce an activity to finish the lesson but am interrupted by an excited Alessandra. Guys! Listen to this! She starts reading a message from Facebook, via her phone, out loud to the class.

As she reads, her delivery gets faster and the tone of her voice reaches a pitch that only dogs could to pick up on. I haven’t got a hope of keeping up with it. However, the rest of them are with her every step of the way. As she finishes on a shriek it’s like a multiplication bomb has been dropped in the room. Instead of the six students that I had before, suddenly I have fifty whirling dervishes. Out of nowhere a hundred other phones appear. The noise is *incredible*. Laughing, I’ve given up on keeping order and instead just concentrate on not being knocked over by windmilling teenage arms and legs. What’s going on, ragazzi? Antonio takes pity on me and translates, gabbling his words and grinning fit to burst. Apparently all the schools are closed tomorrow, by order of the Mayor, because of a severe weather warning. But the thing is, our school *never* closes! Giulia’s school is practically never open – Giulia cocks an eye at us and nods with matter-of-fact cheeriness – but we never, *ever* get the day off! Ohmygod! At this point words fail him and he starts to whoop with excitement, punching the air and pogoing wildly.

In a last-ditch attempt to regain some semblance of control, I throw him a board pen and suggest playing hangman. With a grin, he draws nine dashes on the board and then whispers in my ear, ’happiness’ has a double ’s’, right?

Image by Mark Sebastian (Creative Commons)