Saints and sustenance

Catania is under siege. Every half hour or so there are more explosions. The sound booms around the city, always from a slightly different direction as the action moves from street to street. For a change, however, this isn’t anything ominous. It’s the Festival of Sant’Agata, and the explosions aren’t guns or cannons, but fireworks.

Sant’Agata was a Christian at a time when it wasn’t great to be such. When she was approached by a lowborn Roman asking for her hand in marriage, she refused on grounds of her faith. Quintianus, the Roman in question, then turned nasty. Agata was imprisoned and tortured – including having her breasts first mutilated and then cut off – before being sentenced to death by being rolled naked on hot coals. Unsurprisingly she died in prison on the 5th of February in the year 251. Her cult, however, lives on to this day, and her remains are kept in Catania’s cathedral. Except for on the 4th and 5th of February, when she is paraded around the city.

Grabbing my camera I head out in search of her. Carried on a silver bier pulled by hordes of white-clothed men, she’s slow-moving and likely to be surrounded by crowds. I know she got going on her journey at 7am, because that’s when the fireworks started. It’s now coming up to 11, so I confidently head for Piazza Stesicoro, about halfway around the circuit. The streets are quiet. Ominously so. I wander for nearly an hour before, despondent, turning back towards home. I’ve missed her.

As I reach Via Umberto, I see a man walking towards me, dressed all in white apart from a black velvet cap. Absently I note that he looks like a butcher. Then I see two more men in a car, again dressed in white. Then some more, walking on the road. These ones, I notice, have white gloves and handkerchiefs tucked into their white rope belts. The realisation filters into my brain that they’re not butchers: they’re Sant’Agata’s followers. The devoti, as they are called, dress like this for the Festival to symbolise purity and humility. Ironically, given that Agata is such an icon of female suppression, until recently the devoti were made up exclusively of men. Traditionally women wear green tunics, not white. In recent years, however, this has changed, and I see lots of young women in the white garb as I carry on walking.

Despite the fact that there are lots of devoti in the streets, there is still no sign of Agata herself. I’ve almost given up. However, 5 minutes from home I see the procession. I’d been hopelessly optimistic in the speed that it would travel and had overshot them by a good half mile. I stand at the top of road and look down the hill. There are floats coming towards me, but they’re moving very strangely. They bob up and down, and every so often they veer off to the right or left. They also stop every few hundred yards. Intrigued, I walk closer. Opportunistic balloon sellers and mobile candy-floss makers stream past me, getting ahead of the procession before the main event comes up the road and distracts people from their wares. There’s a scent of candied sugar in the air and an excited buzz of conversation all around me. Getting close enough to see the first float I realise that these aren’t floats at all. They’re certainly big enough, but first of all they resemble giant candlesticks, and secondly, unbelievably, their movement is completely and utterly *manpowered*.

The candlesticks are known as i cannalori. There is one for each guild in Catania: the fish-sellers, the butchers, the greengrocers and so on – eleven in total. Each is decorated slightly differently, but they all serve a similar function. As they walk the route, they stop at shops and bars to offer a blessing for the coming year. Not every cannaloro stops at every shop, and I’m unsure how this is decided until I overhear a conversation next to me. Yeah, it’s paid for. The cynical side of me suspects there is more than just spiritual protection at work here.

Squashing (with difficulty) my snarky inner monologue, I look closer at the cannalori themselves. Each one is a good 12 to 15 foot high and set on a solid marble base, green-veined and criminally heavy. The main structures are made of gilt-covered wood, carved with images of Sant’Agata, draped with flags and topped with enormous floral heads. Hefting these behemoths are eight men: three ranged across the front, three across the back, and two at each side. The man at centre front is the leader, dictating the movement and pace. The four at the corners, meanwhile, are the heavy workhorses. The cross beams of the candlesticks rest across their shoulders. They puff along the street red-faced, sweating and straining, heads covered with hessian sacks. Unlike the devoti, however, this has nothing to do with symbolism and everything to do with saving their skin. Along the back of the sack is a large padded section, which sits over the base of their necks to take some of the strain. There may be eight men carrying these beasts, but each candlestick can weigh up to 1500lbs. Fifteen. Hundred. Pounds. Or, if you prefer the metric system, 680kg. Divided by eight, that’s still 180lbs (nearly 13 stone), or 85kg each. There are going to be some seriously aching backs in the morning.

I watch in fascination as the leader of the bakers’ canneloro readies to move. They’ve stopped for a rest, facing up the road, but they need to turn to give grace to a bar. The eight men position themselves under the cross beams, squatting like weightlifters. At the leader’s signal they heave themselves upright and perform a little shuffling sidestep. Step, together, step, together. The men at the front do this on the spot, while the ones at the back move to their right. Slowly, the candlestick bobs and sways, turning 90 degrees until it faces the open door of the bar. The owner lounges against the doorframe, laughing and smiling at the honour he is about to receive. The men carrying the cannaloro stagger forward until the front man is close enough for the owner to touch. Something is said – I’m not close enough to hear, but it seems to be a form recitation. The candlebearers reverse. Step, together, step. Back into the road, where they put down their heavy load with relief. The crowd ebbs and flows around them, and the photographers in the melée, including me, take their opportunity to snap pictures. The leader puts a cigarette into his mouth but doesn’t light it. It just stays there as a dangling placebo. One of his team is not so reticent. Leaning up against the cannaloro he sparks his lighter and draws smoke into his lungs as he pulls his hessian sack off his head. Underneath is a blue and white bandanna, jauntily knotted at the base of his neck. He looks like a modern-day pirate.

Two minutes later, the cigarette is finished and it’s time to move on. A community policeman bustles forward, whistle at the ready. The candlebearers assume the position and take up the strain, heaving their load up off the ground again. Faces taut with concentration and veins popping from their foreheads, they do the step, together, step thing again, this time with the front men rotating. Then they’re off. The policeman strides ahead of them, blowing his whistle and waving people out of the way. Once these things get going the momentum carries them forward for a good hundred yards, and there’s no possibility of stopping for idiots in the road.

I watch all eleven cannalori process slowly along Via Umberto, noting the differences in decorations. Some are older than others, bearing pennants embroidered with dates fifty years in the past. What they all have in common, however, is the fact that they are covered with cherubs, delicately painted, often bearing platters. Looking closer at one of them I realise that on the platter is a pair of dismembered breasts. The contrast between the sweet-faced chubby angel and its macabre offering is shocking. Looking around me as the cannalori disappear into the distance I note another – less startling, but equally poignant – juxtaposition. There are still plenty of people milling about dressed in devoti clothing. However, most of them have hitched up their tunics and tucked them into their jean pockets. Some have bomber jackets over the top and all have scarves draped with effortless Italian cool around their necks. Some of these are white, but many more are not. People saunter into bars and shops, and light up cigarettes. A few go into the betting shop to watch the football. The Saint may be out and about this weekend, but she isn’t going to disturb anyone’s routine too much.

I take my cue from the Italians and head home for lunch.

by Kate Bailward Posted on February 13, 2012
Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged , | 3 Comments

In the city

The noise comes from behind me as I walk home, exhausted after a day at school battling sickness, both in the kids and in myself. There’s someone following too close. My hackles rise and I move my bag to my other shoulder, tucking it and myself closer in to the buildings. I put my head down and up my pace. This is one of the better areas of Catania, but that’s not to say it’s safe. Skin crawling, I cross the nightmare junction where the only thing dictating right of way is how much nerve each driver has and try to work out if I’m still being followed. The sound of footsteps has gone. I let out the breath I don’t realise I’ve been holding for the past 30 seconds or so.

That’s when it happens.

The sound of a car crash is both more and less dramatic than you expect. The searing shriek of rubber on tarmac as both parties realise what is going to happen is closely followed by a subdued *crump* as fibreglass and metal fold in on themselves. The expected sound of shattering glass is unnoticeable. Maybe there’s a shout just before or just after impact – it’s difficult to tell. I turn and see a car. A crumpled motorbike. A black-clad rider on his back on the ground, hands to his head. Incongruously, I note that he looks like a stranded beetle. Then I see that the car belongs to a carabiniero. I don’t know whose fault it was, but the poor bastard on the motorbike is going to be up against it either way.

There’s a moment of stillness.

Now people are poking their heads out of bars, sneaking out onto the pavement, craning their necks to see. Even a dog out for a walk with his owner is looking back up the road, head up and alert. Every face is turned back towards the scene of the accident. Urgent mutters pass from person to person. What happened?  Did you see anything? No, no, I just heard it … The carabiniero opens his battered door, radio in hand. The motorcyclist is still prone on the road.

I can’t watch any more and I can’t help.  I turn and walk away.

Image by I K O on Flickr

by Kate Bailward Posted on February 1, 2012
Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged , | 4 Comments

Fortune’s Fool

All men are equal before fish – Herbert Hoover

I spent yesterday afternoon on the rocks. Literally. There’s a small, pebbly, black-sanded beach near me where I like to go on a sunny weekend afternoon. Four harpoon fishermen snorkelled about just offshore, while fish nibbled on the algae covering the rocks at the edge of the beach. Every time the waves came in and went out again I could see their little tails flipped up into the air, wiggling and jiggling like those red plastic fortune tellers that you used to get as a child. The ones that you put on the palm of your hand which then curled up or barrelled over and told you your character or how you were feeling that day or whatever. Due to having naturally cold hands they usually used to tell me that I was near to death. The real fish, however, told me that I was content on the beach, watching the sun sinking lower in the sky as they fed. As some wise man no doubt once said: some days, all you need is fish.

Image by Michael M Way on Flickr

by Kate Bailward Posted on January 22, 2012
Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged , | 3 Comments

Packing wire

I should have known things weren’t going to go smoothly when I arrived at Heathrow on 23 December and it took two hours for our luggage to be unloaded from the plane. I’d had qualms about checking bags in with Alitalia (just google ‘Alitalia luggage’ and you should find plenty of reasons why), but in the event couldn’t get round it because of the Christmas presents I’d bought.  What’s the worst that could happen, though …?

To be fair, I don’t think the blame can be laid entirely at Alitalia’s door on this occasion. When we arrive in the baggage hall at T4 (no, not Terminator; Terminal), Heathrow is in pre-Christmas chaos. Abandoned luggage is piled high at every turn and there is no sign of ours appearing.  I’m all set to leave my suitcase and get it delivered to me another day, but the Italians are made of sterner stuff and are busy creating merry hell at the Alitalia desk.

While the Italians are bellowing, I have a quiet word with one of the ground staff about what is going on. I discover that if planes don’t have to turn straight round and fly somewhere else (as ours doesn’t) they are considered low priority. They are therefore unlikely to be unloaded until the following day, when the new baggage staff come on duty.  Luckily for me, however, Italians can all shout and gesticulate for – well – Italy. They aren’t going anywhere until they’ve had a good old row about it. At one point, it even looks as if it’s about to turn into a fight.  Thrilling!

The staff at the desk make frantic phone calls. A member of the airport police arrives to defuse the situation. He puffs his chest out and moves people back six inches.  Using his best Very Important Voice, he makes an announcement: “Your luggage will be in the hall in 15 minutes!”  Somebody – it *might* have been me, but I couldn’t *possibly* confirm – shouts, “Is that a promise?!”  There are titters from the other English-speakers.  He rises above it and ignores the heckling, merely gesturing in the direction of the conveyor belt. Sceptically we look and see that, far from there being a 15 minute wait, luggage is arriving now. Hooray! We stampede towards our bags and out into the freezing cold sleet of a late-December night in London.  Home at last.

Fast-forward three weeks, and I’m on my way back from England to Italy. Due to some serious shopping, there’s no way I can travel carry-on only, so once again I reluctantly check my luggage in.  Being a good girl, I’ve followed airline guidelines and put my laptop and handbag into my hand luggage, which is regulation size.  I’ve also packed a couple of pairs of shoes and most of my new books in there, so it’s h.e.a.v.y.

When I first flew out to Italy, the guy at check-in weighed my bags, lost his eyebrows into his hairline at how heavy they were, but let me take them on board anyway. However the po-faced woman at the desk this time isn’t having any of it.  I therefore transfer the shoes and books into my checked bag.  She reweighs my hand luggage. It’s still far too heavy.  With barely-concealed disdain she looks at the contents of my little suitcase. Waving an imperious finger she tells me that I’ll have to carry my handbag and laptop separately.  Christ. If I’d known that was allowed I’d have done it anyway.  It’s a brand new Mac and I need no excuse to cradle it to my bosom.

Clutching my laptop and hauling my now rather lighter carry-on bag I head for Security, anticipating all sorts of faffery.  In this, I am not disappointed.  There is, of course, the usual plastic bag farce.  I’m prepared for this, and have already extricated my make-up bag from the tangle of cables in my suitcase.  However, unlike when I first flew to Italy from Terminal 2, when the nice lady at Security had a good old chat with my mum and me while she decanted all my make-up into the plastic bag for me, the chap at Terminal 4 just shoves a bag in my direction and points me to the side while I sort myself out.  I spend the next ten minutes juggling laptop, handbag and suitcase while giving him death stares.

Given Gordon’s blustering about the immediate installation of X-ray scanners, I’d half expected to see them here.  However, it seems it’s still just the standard metal detectors.  We have to remove our shoes and every single layer of outer clothing, though, so the queue is moving tooth-grindingly slowly.  I’m sweltering, having dressed in about 100 layers when I’d left home in the snow that morning.  Every time I think about taking my coat off and shoving it in my bag, though, the queue moves forward and I’m left desperately trying to rezip and pick up everything that I’ve just dropped while kicking my suitcase along in front of me. I give it up as a bad job, and continue to sweat.

When I reach the front of the queue I remove my shoes, remembering just too late that I’m wearing stupid, garish socks.  Damn.  I shuffle through the metal detector.  It beeps.  A serious-looking woman beckons me over and asks what I think might have caused it. I assume it’s my belt, so remove it.  She suggests that it could have been my necklace, which I’d forgotten about.  I shrug and smile.  She glares at me.  Oops.  She gestures that I should assume the position, and pats me down almost indecently thoroughly.  Thank goodness she’s wearing gloves, as the sweat patches under my arms are, by this stage, less patches and more rivers.  The Italians would be scandalised.  Not finding anything obviously bomb-like, she scowls and fetches the mobile metal detector, which she proceeds to run over me.  Sure enough, my necklace sets it off, as do the rivets on my jeans.  She runs it down my right hand side. It beeps.  There is a moment of confusion. Then I realise what has caused it and burst into laughter.  “It’s my bra!  It’s the underwire in my bra!” She gives me a death stare to beat all death stares.  I can’t stop laughing, though.   I continue giggling helplessly as she pats me down yet more thoroughly.  Security lady is, like Queen Victoria, unamused. I, however, chortle all the way to the boarding gate.

Note: This was originally a pair of posts published in January 2010. I’ve got better at packing since then, but security staff are still just as grumpy. 

Images:
Ro_buk [but I’m not there]
Matt Hintsa

by Kate Bailward Posted on January 7, 2012
Posted in Travelling Like a Maniac | Tagged , | 4 Comments

The sea in winter

Fishing boat in a stormWaves crash and a faint thrumming passes through the soles of my shoes. Black basalt rocks split grey-green water, revealing its bright opaque turquoise heart. A second later, and it is frothy white, erupting over the top of the front line of volcanic rock, spilling and foaming through any available space.

People pass. Snippets of conversation: ‘… then you sauté the mussels …’ ‘… ma, tesoro …!’ ‘ … don’t want to live in Milan because …’ A mother and daughter walk past, mother hugging daughter’s shoulders while the girl hunches under the weight. La mamma is all in white with honeyed blonde hair, as glamorous as can be. Her daughter is lumpen and awkward, long dark hair draped around her shoulders, wearing the teenage uniform of too-tight skinny jeans and hoodie, teamed with oversized trainers. Mamma is grilling daughter on her lovelife. ‘…you don’t want to see him any more?’ ‘No, I don’t!’ Mamma sighs.

A Fiat Panda draws up behind, playing a loud, bland remix of an eighties song. ‘It takes a strong man, baby, but I’m showing you the door.’ Heavy bassline obscures the melody and it takes a moment or two to work out why the lyrics are so familiar. A rap cuts in. The boys in the car don’t get out, but sit, windows open and music blaring, until a phone rings. The music is snapped off and replaced by their plan for later. ‘Are you at home, yeah? We’ll be there in 10 minutes.’ The phone is flung onto the dashboard and the stereo returned to its former levels as the boys lean back in their seats and roll cigarettes.

Fishermen congregate on the seawall, rooting through brightly-coloured cold boxes in search of bait. Or maybe lunch. Seagulls float overhead, making the most of the sea breeze and keeping a beady eye on the food situation below.

The Fiat’s door slams, shaking the car. The driver comes round to the seaward side of the car and lights his carefully-rolled cigarette, cupping it in the palm of his hand. The tang of marijuana fills the air as he passes it back through the passenger window to his friend.

An old man wheels his battered bike along the sea wall at a snail’s pace, stopping every few yards. As he passes the various fishermen he peers into their cold boxes, checking out their catch or lack of it. One circuit done, he parks the bike with care and potters over to the nearest fisherman. After a short, animated conversation, Old Man picks up a seat pad and bumbles back to his bike before laboriously settling himself down next to it to regard the waves.

painted ladybird rock, catania, sicilyA family of three park up. The daughter, aged about four, totters out of the car. She is already bundled to the max against the weather, but Mum adds a scarf for good measure. Daughter staggers to the railing and gazes, transfixed, at the waves. Her parents have a hard job persuading her to leave the view and follow them. ‘Come on, let’s go down the steps!’ Daughter follows reluctantly, still gazing seawards. They make their way along the beach to a large rock which has been painted to look like a giant ladybird. Dad carries Daughter along the uneven, stony beach, pointing out different sights as they pass. Mum trails behind, splitting her attention between her mobile phone conversation and her camera.

A middle-aged woman settles herself on a bench, her bright yellow scarf wound firmly around her neck. Pulling up her hood, she fishes a book out of her bag and wriggles into a more comfortable position. Her face creases with concentration as she reads. An ill-timed page turn coincides with a large gust of wind, and she wails briefly as she loses not only her page, but almost the entire book. Clutching the book hard and regaining her composure she turns away, curving her body to shelter the book from any further breezy attacks.

Another family comes onto the beach. The children, a girl and a boy, are older than ladybird girl. The girl runs on ahead and clambers onto the biggest rocks. Her little brother follows, but can’t keep up. Her red jacket starts to disappear into the distance and he calls for her to wait. She throws a glance over her shoulder as if considering the wisdom of this, and seems to decide that it will be more fun with than without him. She scrambles back to fetch him.

A black cat slinks out from behind a rock and begins a fastidious grooming procedure. In the distance the little boy calls to his sister, startling the cat and leaving it suspended mid-lick, one foot in the air and tongue hanging out. Realising that it’s been seen, it glares balefully at the nearest human before stalking to a more sheltered position. Never underestimate the ire of an embarrassed cat.

Big sister has abandoned both red jacket and little brother, and sits kicking her heels on top of the ladybird, holding court for her adoring parents. Li’l bro, meanwhile, is still struggling happily over rocks too big for him to climb without resorting to hands and knees. Crawling, and in dirty jeans, he’s in his element.

The smell of fried fish wafts from an open door. There is a passing glimpse of a chef preparing the evening meal, blue and white chequered trousers pulled up high over large paunch. A pudgy hand, belying its appearance, reaches deftly into a large tray of dark fish and flips one out onto the table. Quick as a flash a knife appears in the other hand and slivers into the fish’s flesh.

The door closes.

Images by Haikeu and Kate Bailward

by Kate Bailward Posted on November 13, 2011
Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged , , , | 6 Comments

Slow boat to Sicily

The ticket has finally been issued. Amid much ciao grazie-ing I’m off to wait for the ferry, or ‘nave’ as it’s known around these parts. At Villa you can catch three different types of ferry. The slowest, but also the most exciting for geeks like me, is the ferry which takes the train. Sicily doesn’t have its own train network, so is dependent on Italy for its rolling stock. However, Sicily is an island and trains aren’t well-known for their flotational powers. So, how to get the trains across? Well, fit up a RORO ferry with rails in its bowels and Roberto’s your proverbial zio. If I’m not in a hurry I love to watch this process. As the boat approaches the shore, its bows start to wind up into the air, like a slow-motion animatronic shark preparing to wolf down its prey. By the time it’s reached the docks there is a huge gaping maw where once there was white sea-splashed metal. Slowly the ferry eases into the shore and the tracks are painstakingly lined up. There is much standing about and waving of arms at this point of the process. This boat ain’t going nowhere for a good half hour. Finally, the train chunters its way slowly along the tracks and into the darkened bowels of the boat. Usually, it’s then backed up at least twice and repacked. I’ve never quite worked out why this is. It’s on rails. How far wrong can it go?

The second type of ferry is, again, a slow boat, but this time only for motor vehicles and passengers. This one is usually the best bet for a regular service. However, you do miss out on the Ferrovie floor show. Dem’s da breaks. The final ferry is the Metromare. This is a fast, passenger-only service. It’s staffed by attractive girls in uniforms similar to those of British Airways in the 80s, with jaunty pillbox hats and rakish neckscarves. As I approach the docks, one of these girls approaches me. She’s a consummate saleswoman, trying her best to lure customers away from the nave and onto (if you believe the spiel) her far superior boat. It’s so much faster! And look how shiny and new it is! Are you French? I can explain in French if you like? Oh, you’re English! Oh, well, I can speak English, too … I smile and tell her in Italian that I already have a ticket for the other boat. With a sigh and a little moue of displeasure that tells me she spends all day hearing this, she turns away in search of a more willing victim.

While the Metromare girl was distracting me, a passenger nave has pulled away from the closest dock. No matter. There are still three other docks, reached by an overhead gallery. Maybe I’ll even get to do some trainspotting. Whee! I start to climb the stairs to see if there are any other boats further across. A man calls to me: There aren’t any! Wait here! The next is at 10.35. Obediently, I sit to wait. More people arrive. The girl from Metromare bustles about trying to coax people to go with her company, but it’s €2.50 and the nave tickets are only €2.20. Also, the Metromare tickets are non-refundable. I sit tight. Half an hour later a nave arrives at dock 3, but there’s a big hoo-hah – apparently it won’t be leaving any time soon because it has to wait for the train which, it being August, is running late. 7 hours late, to be precise. The Metromare girl is beside herself. You can come with us! We leave at 11.15. Just go to the ticket office and get a ticket. Go on!

I return to the newsagent. Grandpa is confused – What the cabbage? This is a very endearing Italian phrase. Rather than say che cazzo? (‘what the fuck?), they say che cavolo – literally translated as ‘what the cabbage?’ Why on earth do you want a Metromare ticket when you’ve already got a perfectly good ferry ticket? I sold it to you myself, not 10 minutes ago! I explain the sitch. He is aghast. But no! Look! There’s a boat arriving just there! He points to dock 1 where there is, indeed, a ferry pulling into shore. It will go before the Metromare, for sure! I start to tell him about the delayed trains, but he gives me a look over the top of his glasses. Was it the girl that told you there wasn’t a boat? I look sheepish. Hmmm, it was, wasn’t it? I confess that yes, it was. He pulls the skin under his right eye down with his forefinger and raises an eyebrow at me. The Metromare girl, in his opinion, is pulling a fast one. He sends me back. It’ll be fine. Just get on that boat there. You’ll see …

I’m hot and I’m tired of waiting around. More than anything, I’m fed up of lugging my bags from pillar to post, and I just want to get across this bloody bit of water. Feeling daring and rebellious, I decide to go against his wisdom. More fool me. On returning to the docks with my newly purchased (from another shop) Metromare ticket I find a very disgruntled woman, who has done exactly the same as I have. Turns out that the boat in dock 1 *is* going. The Metromare girl has done her work well. She didn’t exactly lie – the ferry that’s waiting for the train is going to be delayed for most of the day – but she neglected to point out that the passenger ferries would still be running. Grandpa was right, dammit. I ponder a moment. The nave ticket can be used another day, whereas the Metromare one is only valid for this particular crossing. However, I love this journey. It would be a shame to do it at speed and miss out on the wind in my hair. Decision made: I’m taking the slow boat to Sicily.

I go to get my ticket ripped by the lugubrious, Top Gun-esque captain, who is waiting in a little booth on the dock. His moustache is straight out of CHiPs and his uniform gleams white in the Calabrian sun. He tears the ticket but puts out a hand to stop me from walking further, anxiety in his eyes. Following his gaze, I realise the problem. As this is a southern Italian ferry, passengers walk onto the boat via the same entrance as the lorries and there’s currently a long stream of them driving aboard. I don’t fancy my chances against these behemoths, so I’m happy to stand aside and talk a while. Unlike most Italians, he’s not a garrulous man, but he’s still full of quiet curiosity. Have you arrived on the train? Uh huh. Are you on holiday? Oh, I see. Where are you going? Oh, Siracusa. Yes, it’s beautiful. And Taormina? Oh, how lovely. He nods slowly and a small smile escapes from beneath his walrus moustache. You should go to the Aeolian Islands as well. Take the boat from Messina. Trust me.

A Port Authority man comes over, and the captain hands over my ticket stub. The signora’s ticket.  Concern creases his brow.  I ripped it already. The new man grins. Great! The captain breathes a sigh of relief. No, I don’t need to see the rest – go on board! Oh, best wait for the lorries, though! He scoots back to his duties as truck marshaller and I take the opportunity of the break in traffic to lug my bags aboard. I head to my usual place at the front, squinting in the breezy sunshine, and smile.

Sicily, here I come.

by Kate Bailward Posted on September 20, 2011
Posted in Travelling Like a Maniac | Tagged | 11 Comments

Got tickets …?

The distance from Calabria to Sicily is so small that you can see one from the other. The Messina Straits are, at their narrowest point, less than 2 miles wide. Unfortunately, to cross them you must jump over various fiendish hurdles. From my small Calabrian town to the port of Villa San Giovanni, where one can catch the ferry to Messina, is less than 30 minutes by coach. However, the coaches only run once an hour, stop for lunch in the middle of the day and – potentially most disastrously – run along the A3. Anything can happen between here and there.

Today the coach runs smoothly and we pull into the drop-off area outside the train station (which is, conveniently, slap bang next to the ferry port) right on time. I’m feeling nervous. By the Law of Italian Travel, something has to go wrong somewhere along the way. There are three stages to the journey from Calabria to Catania. The coach is part one. The next bit is the ferry across the Messina Straits. This is my favourite part of the journey. Were it up to me, I’d happily spend my days getting the boat back and forth across this choppy little stretch of water, feeling the wind in my face, tasting salt on my lips, and dreaming of Greek legends. An early childhood by the sea has left its mark on me for life.

Before I can get on the boat, however, I need to buy a ferry ticket. These are bought from a newsagent’s on the train station platform, and cost €2.20. When I paid for the coach earlier, I realised that I wouldn’t have enough money to pay for the ferry as well. No matter – there’s a cash machine across the road from the bus stop in Villa. I lug my bags across and insert my card. The machine chunters a little, then spits my card back at me, telling me that there is no cash in the machine. I swear softly, and haul my bags back across the road to the newsagents, to ask if they’ll take a card. The young man behind the desk smiles sadly and shakes his head. There’s a cash machine over the road, though … I explain that it’s not working. His face falls and then brightens again. Don’t worry! There’s one in the next square, too! Go straight on, then it’s on the left. You can’t miss it. At this point I become aware of his grandfather nodding behind him. He’s not convinced that his grandson’s directions were clear enough. He jumps in to the rescue, guiding me by the elbow to the shop entrance, where he points the direction I need to go. It’s just there, look. Can you see the big banner? Yes? OK, go along that street and you’ll see the bank on the left. Good luck! He waves me off with a smile as I heft my bags back onto my shoulders and start walking.

5 minutes later, as I arrive at the bank, I’m sweating like a pig and cursing my decision to do away with my wheeled suitcase in favour of a cheap rucksack. Thankfully this cash machine has money in it. I reshoulder my rucksack, which is getting heavier by the second, and trudge back to where I started.

On my return to the newsagent’s Grandpa greets me like an old friend. A ticket for the ferry, was it? Just one way? Certainly! What’s that? You want to top up your phone as well? But of course! What’s the number? He pulls his glasses to the end of his nose and smiles at me expectantly, stubby finger poised in readiness over the top-up keypad. In some shops the keypad is passed over for you to type the number yourself. In others you dictate the number to the shopkeeper. It would appear that this is one of the second. This is always a fraught time for me. Firstly, I have to remember my number. Secondly, I have to remember how to say it in Italian. Today, there’s the added interest of Grandpa’s deafness. I start to dictate the number and he stops me mid-flow. What’s that? Did you say five-SIX-three? My number is therefore bellowed for the edification of every customer. For good measure, Grandpa then repeats it at full volume to check that he’s typed it in correctly. You know, just in case any passers-by hadn’t heard.

As my phone beeps to let me know that the top-up has been successfully received, he points at it triumphantly. There you go. All done! What’s that? What, you want a ticket for the ferry as well …?

… to be continued …

Image by Express Monorail

by Kate Bailward Posted on September 13, 2011
Posted in Travelling Like a Maniac | Tagged , , | 3 Comments

Fishing for peaches

I’m staying in a hostel in Siracusa. It’s a couple of days before Ferragosto and the place is packed with people from all different countries: France, Germany, South Africa, England and Italy – and that’s just in my dorm. I’m humbled by the language skills on display here. In the main the travellers are in their late teens or early 20s, and most of them speak English nigh-on fluently. Interestingly enough, though, Italian not so much. When I speak Italian to the desk clerk he’s both surprised and gratified to hear somebody speaking his language.  As an English speaker I could choose to go pretty much anywhere in the world and not bother to learn any new languages at all. For the record, this is not something that either pleases or excites me. In fact, the reason I’m in Siracusa is that I’m on my way to Taormina to enrol on an Italian language course for three weeks. Take that, crappy language skills!

Walking past a cafe I see a tall, elderly man in conversation with a short young woman. As I pass I hear her call to people inside, come si dice ‘la mattina’? Ridiculously enough, I’m the most qualified person to answer, so I leap in. Morning. A big grin crosses the girl’s face and the man turns to me in relief. It turns out that the girl – tattoed, über-cool, beautiful and friendly – is the cafe owner. The man, meanwhile, flustered and out of his depth with only a few words of Italian at his disposal, none of which include times of the day, is Australian. The cafe owner is trying to explain to him when the cafe is open for food. Tomorrow evening, apparently. What time? calls out the Australian man’s wife. I ask the cafe owner and receive the answer, translating it for the Australian couple, who potter off happily.

In a glow of self-satisfaction, I head inside the cafe to order a drink. Fish juice, please! The cafe owner smiles and raises an eyebrow. Do you mean peach? We both collapse in giggles. Karma’s a bitch, but just occasionally she has a wicked sense of humour.

Embarrassingly enough, this isn’t the first time I’ve made this mistake. To a native English speaker, there is little difference visually between the words pesce (fish) and pesca (peach). To an Italian, however, the different vowels at the end of the word change the preceding ‘c’ from soft to hard. Pesce = pe-shay while pesca = pe-ska. The meaning, of course, changes even more. One day I’ll get my come-uppance and be served a glass of fish juice. Maybe then I’ll remember which is which. The trouble is that every time I stop to think about which word I need, the difference escapes me and I blurt out the wrong one. Moral of the story? Ask for apricot instead.

Images by ruurma and immagina on Flickr

by Kate Bailward Posted on August 25, 2011
Posted in Eating Like a Maniac, Living Like a Maniac | Tagged , , | 7 Comments

How to look good naked

(This post was written a while ago, but I forgot to publish it at the time. Sorry about that. I’m catching up slowly.)

All I’m aware of is a look of gape-mouthed horror on Liv’s face. However, apparently she just had her bikini bottoms pulled down to her knees by a particularly large wave. Thankfully she managed to catch hold of them and hoist them back up before anyone saw anything. (We think …)

In an attempt to save our modesty while we keep cool, we do as the Italians do and sit at the breaker line on the shore while we chat. This turns out to be not such a great idea, either. The water is too rough today and it’s kicking the pebbles into a frenzy. Every time a wave breaks over us we end up with more and more stones piled in our bikini bottoms. On the plus side, our arses are being beautifully exfoliated, but (a big minus), as soon as we stand up we look like we’ve done large, lumpy poos in our knickers. We dive, red-faced, into the waves, holding bikinis up with one hand and fishing stones out with the other. Oh, the glamour.

For the rest of the day it’s playing it safe with sunbathing and people-watching. A mum and her toddler son walk across the beach in front of me. Or, rather, he barrels towards the waves while she ambles behind, rapt in a phone conversation. Mum is more aware than she appears, however. Just as her offspring is about to launch himself with gay abandon into waves taller than he is, she kicks off her Crocs, phone still clamped to her ear, and swoops to the edge of the water. With one arm she scoops him up out of harm’s way, while both roundly chastising him for running away and continuing her phone conversation. She grins down at him wriggling at her side as she marches back to their umbrella, not noticing the fact that she’s going through the middle of a volleyball game. The four teenage boys playing eye her with indulgence, and one shouts, ‘wait!’ It’s not clear whether the warning is for his friends or the oblivious woman about to be hit in the face with a ball, but either way it averts disaster. The ball game stops for a moment, and Mama beams and ducks her head in acknowledgment while not changing her course in the slightest.

Five minutes later her son is armbanded and she has abandoned her phone in favour of the waves. Her fuschia-pink Crocs also lie forgotten, just above the tideline, where she kicked them off in her earlier rescue effort. She, meanwhile, is waist-deep in the water, with her son perched on her hip. Both their faces are split with grins a mile wide. The Lido owner’s kids, next to them, dive through the bottom of the waves crashing over their tiny heads. They are burnt black from being on the beach all day, every day, and they emerge sleek as seals from the far side of each breaker, crowing with excitement.

I’m disturbed from my people-watching by the feeling that I, in turn, am being watched. There’s a small boy standing by my feet, eyeing the bag of crisps that Liv bought earlier and which lie, half-eaten, between us. Having caught my eye, he grins and points at them. His mum, meanwhile, is sitting five feet away, gazing in curiosity at the brazen scene unfolding. I ask him in broken Italian whether mamma will approve of him eating crisps. Mamma shrugs and gives me a sheepish smile. I laugh and offer him the bag, from which he takes one and toddles back to his towel, apparently satisfied. 30 seconds later, however, he’s back again. This time he’s braver and comes up next to me before staring pointedly. On the third go round he sits down and just dives straight into the bag. He’s probably doing us a favour by stopping us from eating them. If the sea is going to continue stealing our bikinis, at least our bottoms will be trim when we flash them to the world.

 

Image by Calwhiz on Flickr

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by Kate Bailward Posted on August 12, 2011
Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged , , | 9 Comments