Noah’s Rover

 

Meg and I are sitting on the stairs outside the school. There’s a tiny wee boy from Carly’s class sitting with us, looking very shy. Meg’s phone rings. Yep. No, don’t worry. There’s only one student here at the moment. OK, see you later. She hangs up with a grin. Carly and Ninì can’t get through on the B-road – apparently it’s all closed. Checking my phone, I see that they’re already late, and the detour out to the motorway is going to add a good 20 minutes on to their journey.  This probably means that none of my students will turn up either. Not, of course, that I’m hoping for just that to happen so that I can catch up on my admin backlog and get ahead on my lesson planning. No, not at all. Ahem.

We’ve had dreadful weather for a couple of days and at lunchtime there was a storm of biblical proportions. As Meg and I came off the motorway earlier we had to drive through a flood, and that road’s a lot better than the one that Carly and Ninì are on, so it’s hardly surprising that they haven’t been able to get through. Given that the B-road appears to be made of nothing more than crackers and good wishes, it’s probably been completely washed away. Meg and I settle down to wait.

Finally, the other two arrive, apologising profusely. Ninì unlocks the door and we clatter along to the staff room. Hang on, though. Something’s not right here. This light isn’t working. Oh, and neither is the one in the corridor. Hmmm. Ninì appears at the staff room with a nervous giggle. Er – the electricity isn’t working … It’s not just the fuse box – he thinks the whole town’s out. Meg, Carly and I all go into teacher panic mode. But I need to photocopy! I need the CD player for my third lesson! I need the OHP! 10 seconds later we realise how daft we sound. If we have no electricity, then neither do we have any lights, and it’s going to be pitch dark in about an hour and a half, which means that we ain’t teaching nuthin’. The likelihood is that we probably won’t have any students anyway, as Italians are incapable of going outside in the rain, so it looks like today’s going to be a write-off. In true British disaster spirit, however, we settle down to wait out the remaining hours of daylight, munching biscuits as we do so.

By 5pm, we still have no electricity and it’s far too dark to do anything. Ninì announces that the school is now, officially, closed, and we should head back home. The problem being that between us arriving and leaving, there’s been another opening of the skies, and more roads have been closed. Ninì tells us to head for the motorway, and tells us about a great little shortcut. Grinning and cock-a-hoop at not having to teach two more lessons, we leave the school and find a tailback stretching right the way through the town. This is unheard of. Feeling terribly smug and clever, however, we decide to take Ninì’s advice and get onto the motorway via his clever, secret route.

5 minutes later, we realise the error of our ways. The reason there’s a big queue of traffic through the town is because the motorway exit is closed, and everyone’s been diverted. Swearing a little, Meg swings round the roundabout and heads back towards our start point again, following the diversion. I chat to Carly in the back, not paying attention to the road. Turning back to the front, laughing at a joke that Carly’s just told, I look out of the windscreen and stifle a shriek as Meg slams on the brakes hard.

Ahead of us is what can only be described as a lake, where there should be road.

Oh. Shit.

Meg goes pale. She only passed her driving test in February and has no experience of driving in conditions like this. I can’t say that I’ve got a lot, either, but having a father who’s managed to blow up three different car engines by driving recklessly through floods, I know how NOT to do it. Meg. Go slowly. Do NOT, under any circumstances, stop. If we end up with water in the engine, we’re buggered. OK. Go.

Meg inches forward. At first, the water doesn’t seem too deep and we heave a sigh of relief. As we get further in, however, that changes. Massively. It’s now a good 30cm deep and we can’t see the end of it in either direction, ahead or behind. There’s a nervous squeak from Carly in the back. Girls. I don’t want to worry you but … there’s water coming in back here … Meg throws a look of horror over her shoulder and speeds up. Trying (and failing) to keep my voice calm, I tell her to slow down. We’re catching up with the car in front and if we have to stop, we’re absolutely screwed. SLOW DOWN, MEG. Her knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and any colour she once had in her cheeks has drained down to her toes. I’m sure my face is much the same. There are wisps of steam beginning to creep out from under the bonnet and we’re still nowhere near the end of the flood. Carly, in the back, is ominously quiet. All I can do is stare at the rear lights of the car in front and take comfort from the fact that the water doesn’t appear to be getting any deeper. No shallower, either, but at least the wheels are still, just about, on the road.

Inch by tortuous inch, we creep through the murky brown water.

Meg and I are both leaning forward, noses to the windscreen, straining to see to the end of the flood. There’s no sign of it. Suddenly, however, Meg gasps. Look! The car ahead of us has made it through. We throw each other terrified glances, holding our breath and daring to hope that we might be nearly there.  We’re not out of the shit yet, though. In true Calabrian fashion, the driver ahead of us has anchored on the brakes in the middle of the road, blocking our exit. Meg blares the horn. I’ll say this for her – the girl knows how to deal with Italian drivers, even in moments of crisis. There’s some rude gesturing, but they get out of the way. We are finally back on dry land. Meg pulls into the side of the road, lights up a cigarette and starts to shake. She takes a deep drag of smoke into her lungs, coughs, and giggles. I look at her in confusion. Wreathed in cigarette smoke, she gives a wry grin.  Tell you what, girls. That’s the last time I trust a Calabrian’s idea of a shortcut …

Image by Sylvain_Latouche on Flickr

by Kate Bailward Posted on November 14, 2010
Posted in Living Like a Maniac, Travelling Like a Maniac | Tagged , | 14 Comments

Make ’em laugh

A game of poker. With teenagers. Hyperactive ones at that. I must be mad.

This particular class contains Simone, who had a fabled near-brush with death a few years ago. Had he not had ants in his pants, he’d be dead now, crushed when a school ceiling fell down onto the desk from which he’d danced away just seconds before. As it is, he’s still around and either livening up my lessons (on a good day) or driving me mad with his inability to concentrate (on a bad one). Apparently he’s less wriggly than he was as a small child, but he’s still irrepressible. As I turn off the lights a moment too soon, before the OHP has fully warmed up, the classroom is plunged into semi-darkness. With a joyful yell, Simone is straight underneath the desk. I’ve never understood this game, but my teens in Salento used to play it too. The lights go out: they hide under the desk and scream. I’m utterly confused, but they all find it hilarious.

Back to the poker game. The idea behind it is simple: I show them a sentence which may or may not contain one or more errors. They correct it and place bets according to how confident they are in their corrections.  Chivvying Simone out from underneath the desk, I quieten the group down in preparation for the first sentence.  ‘Place your bets now …’ They confidently hand out a couple of hundred fake euro notes each. They’ve all noticed that the adverb is in the wrong position, but not one of them has remembered that the English don’t talk about going to ‘the sea’, but to ‘the beach’. With an evil laugh, the banker (me) collects up their money. There are disappointed cries all round, and they all try to say that they had, in fact, written that. It’s almost touching how they think they can bamboozle me. Before revealing the correct sentence I had, of course, read what they’d written down. Frantic scribbling while my back was turned, post-reveal, is not going to cut any ice.

I move on to the next sentence. Some pairs get this one right, and there are raucous cheers. Simone is up on his feet, holding court and shouting how much money he’s going to bet on the next sentence. He’s so busy talking that he isn’t even looking at the board to see what the sentence is. I place the acetate on the OHP and the group start to quieten down as they consider it. Simone, however, is still wittering at full volume. Mara tugs urgently on his sleeve to grab his attention and bring him back to the group. He turns his head to the board, still gabbing nineteen to the dozen. ‘200 euros! No, 250 euros! Maybe three hund – oh, cazzo.‘ He’s seen the sentence, and, in a moment of utterly sublime comic timing, dropped the final expletive into a split second of silence in the room. I can’t help it: I start to giggle. Mara looks up, concentrating hard on the problem on the board. I try to stifle my laughter, but she’s spotted me. A grin spreads across her face as she realises what’s caused it. Simone, next to her, is muttering as he tries to work out the correct sentence formation. She digs an elbow into his ribs and points at me; I am, by now, in theatrical parlance, corpsing. It’s infectious. One by one heads pop up as the students realise what’s going on, and the giggles pass around the class like a mexican wave.

When I dismiss the class 10 minutes later, for the first time there is banter and chat with the teacher as they leave the room. Laughter, it seems, really is the best medicine.

Image by Arnett Gill on Flickr

by Kate Bailward Posted on November 2, 2010
Posted in Teaching Like a Maniac | 3 Comments

Fly me to the moon and let me play among the lobsters

Maybe it’s the English-accented Italian, or our clothes. Maybe it’s that we’ve turned up somewhere between 9 and 9.30. Maybe it’s just the fact that they’ve never seen us before and put two and two together, but as soon as we walk in to the restaurant, we’re greeted with beaming smiles and, oh, you must be Alice! From every single waiter. It’s a little unnerving, but rather nice. Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to be (in)famous …

The Wife (flatmate) and I are testing out Bleu de Toi. It’s a fish restaurant in Scilla, which is a pretty little town to which I’ve never been before. In what’s fast becoming a common theme, we get lost on our way there, winding our way through ever narrower cobbled streets in our battered little car. After ten minutes of driving round in circles, Alice whoops loudly, causing me to swerve into a pothole. ‘Bleu de Toi – 500m!’ We pull in and climb out of the car, watched by a dog which is the absolute spit of Sam the Shapeshifter in True Blood. We walk towards him and he gazes beadily, but doesn’t move his position an inch. The restaurant isn’t up his road, though, so we turn back and try another one. Once again it’s clear that we’ve gone wrong so we decide to ask someone. ‘But not *those* guys’, mutters Alice. We pick up the pace a little as we walk past three black-leather-clad Calabrian men in their mid-20s, their stares boring into our backs as we go. There’s a pair of much friendlier-looking men outside the cafe further on, and we ask them instead. Why yes, of course we know where Bleu de Toi is! Just down there. You see that tunnel which looks like it goes nowhere? Go through it! It’s the port down there. Yes, we know it doesn’t look like that, but we promise it is. Park up on the right, and Bleu de Toi’s on the left. Honest! Do you fancy ice cream and aperitivi before you go …? We beat a hasty retreat to the car before we’re drawn into gelato gluttony. Frozen dairy is all very well, but tonight is meant to be all about the seafood.

True to their directions, the forbidding-looking tunnel at the end of the road does, in fact, lead to the port. There are men fishing off the quay, and cobbled streets wind up the hill from the car park. We follow the chattering group of Italians in front of us, who are heading home for the evening, laden with plastic bags of shopping. They peel off and into to their houses one by one, until it’s just Alice and me left walking along what seems to be a very residential street. Can this really be right? There’s nowhere else we could have gone from the port, so it must be, but it doesn’t look promising right at this moment. Every so often a set of steps takes a sharp drop down to the sea on our left, but they’re not for anyone but the people that live in the houses below. We round a corner and the alley opens up into a tiny little square, with a mermaid in a fountain to one side of it. She’s surrounded by ferns and seems to be glowing in the moonlight. Could this place possibly be any more gorgeous?

Just as we’re giving up hope of ever finding our destination, we spot a blue sign up ahead of us. The title isn’t visible from this distance, but, given the name of the restaurant, a blue sign on this street seems like an odds-on bet. Alice chuckles beside me, pointing out the white Vespa parked opposite the entrance, tucked into an ivy-clad nook, framed by cobbled streets and stone walls, and washed with light spilling out of the open door to the restaurant. Picture postcards be damned: this is real life, and it’s beautiful.

Ah, you must be Alice …!

We’re led to a table right next to the fish tank, which is crammed with three enormous rock lobsters, along with various fish. At the point we arrive, all is quiet in Tankville, but as the evening wears on there’s all kinds of intrigue. The biggest lobster makes a move from his end of the tank towards another, smaller, one, but is brusquely repelled. Shamefaced, he backs away, but his exit is marred as he trips over a hermit crab. Damn! Embarrassed, he curls his tail tightly beneath him and drops his (very impressive) antennae until he stops blushing. Meanwhile, a hitherto unnoticed European lobster, far smaller than the rock lobsters, but with claws almost as big as his body, crawls out from underneath the victorious rock lobster. He’s not a happy crustacean. His tightly-bound pincers seem to be weighing him down, and he’s got himself wedged into a corner behind the outflow. Every way he turns, he gets himself stuck. Curling into a miserable ball, he gives up and plays dead.

The rock lobsters, meanwhile, have decided to join forces up at the far end of the tank. Their own infighting forgotten, there appears to be a war of attrition going on between them and the sad one with big claws. There’s a large fish acting as an intermediary, flitting from one end of the tank to another. He’s playing a dangerous game, and keeps on getting himself trodden on. Right, the general says – OWWWWWW! No. Um. No, that’s not what he said. Um – would you mind awfully moving your leg, old bean? You’re standing on my tail. That’s better. Now, as I was saying …

Alice and I are so engrossed in the War of the Lobsters that we’re unaware that we ourselves are being watched. A man in his early 40s has passed by the table a few times, but as we’re near the exit to the smokers’ deck outside, we haven’t thought much of it. Until he comes over and starts talking to us. Sigh. His English isn’t too dreadful, but the crustaceans are far more interesting. He invites us out with him and his friends. I can’t see them, as I have my back to the room, but Alice rolls her eyes at me and indicates that they’re not much cop. We murmur vague platitudes and commit to nothing. He weaves back to his friends, wine glass in hand, and we breathe a sigh of relief. Five minutes later, however, he’s back. And this time, he’s got a note. ‘For you.’ He grins at Alice and hands it over. He’s clearly itching for her to open it up and read it, so she does, albeit somewhat reluctantly. In it is written the address of the place to where they’re going later, along with his phone number. Oh, and a little addendum at the bottom. ‘We are waiting for you! Take care of you.’ Is this is an invitation or a threat? Who knows. Again we smile and say maybe, and he disappears, apparently satisfied.

But no! He’s back again. This time he has a paper plane, which he flies around the table. Where will it end up? Oh, this one’s for me. Deep joy. On it is written ‘I would like to fly with you.’ It becomes apparent that this was written by Francesco (for this is his name) on behalf of his mate Emilio. Who is about 5 foot nothing and wears bottle-top glasses. Oh. Sweet. Lord. Can this get any more cringeworthy? Well, of course that’s a rhetorical question. The next note is in Italian. Something about raining on you, only so that I can dry you. Sounds a bit pervy to me. It turns out that it’s a song lyric, but it’s hilariously awful out of context. We’re running out of evasive tactics and it’s getting perilously close to us having to actually go out with these guys. We’ve already paid the bill – and they’re aware of this fact. There’s a moment of terror when they appear to be waiting for us to follow them, but we circumvent this by rifling around in handbags and talking loudly in English. They file up the stairs and out of the restaurant. We, however, are now left in indecision. Are they waiting to ambush us at the top of the stairs? To be on the safe side, we sit at the table for another ten minutes. There’s no accounting for Italian persistence, but surely that’s enough time for them to have got bored and moved on without us? We creep up the stairs and peek out of the door.

It is.

We giggle all the way home.

Image by Kate Bailward

by Kate Bailward Posted on October 17, 2010
Posted in Eating Like a Maniac, Living Like a Maniac | Tagged , | 6 Comments

Travelling without moving

I’m most definitely lost. I’ve been driving for 75 minutes already and haven’t seen a road sign for the past 20. The road on which I’m driving looks like it’s still under construction and I have to say that I’m somewhat concerned that at the next corner it’s going to stop dead, sending me barrelling down the side of the mountain, unfettered by tarmac or barriers. My phone rings and I pull in to the side with a frisson of relief that I have an excuse to stop driving for a moment.

“Kate? It’s Maryann. I’m about 10k from your town.”

“Wait. MY town? Um – but I’m on my way to Tropea …”

America and England: two countries separated by a common language. It seems that, despite the most meticulous plans, and both theoretically being able to understand each other, we’ve still managed to arrange the most monumental balls-up. When we decided to go to Tropea for the day, I assumed that we’d meet there, given that it’s fairly much directly in between our two towns, distance-wise. Maryann, on the other hand, being a selfless soul with a big car, thought that she’d be picking me up. Oh dear. Still, worse things happen at sea and all that. Maryann resets her GPS, and I decide to follow my spidey-senses and turn around, as I’m still absolutely convinced that I’m on the wrong road.

10 minutes later my hunch is vindicated. I spot a yellow diversion sign for Tropea and swing my battered little Ka around the corner. Back on track. Hooray! Almost immediately the gradient takes a sharp upward turn. I drop the car into second, instantly followed by first as the car growls in protest and lurches to a halt. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all. No turning back now, though. Onwards!

Puttering around a hairpin bend, the road halves in width. There’s a sign telling me that this road is two-way, but I can’t believe that’s true. Maybe in the days when everyone travelled by mule, but with my little car on the road there’s not even room for a motorbike to pass without difficulty. As I climb to what should, by rights, be cloud-level and previously never experienced vertigo starts to kick in, I begin to question the wisdom of following the diversion signs. Grass sprouts through the tarmac and lizards scuttle across my path. It’s safe to say that this road hasn’t been used for a while, and it’s easy to see why. I’m feeling rather like Icarus as I get ever closer to the sun. Exhilaration mixed with a healthy dose of sheer terror. I’d forgotten about mountains, living in Salento, and I’m not used to them being hot and dusty, either. Usually when I’m up a mountain it’s crisp and clear and I’ve got a couple of carbon-fibre planks strapped to my feet, rather than sweating like a pig in a knackered old runabout which, to be frank, I’m not sure is going to make it to the top. On the bright side, if it conks out, at least I’m walking *down* rather than up.

Just as I’m thinking about composing my last will and testament, I notice with a sigh of relief that the road’s beginning to drop away again. There’s a sign to Tropea, thankfully pointing in the direction that I’m going. There’s no bloody way I’d be able to turn around here, so the only way is forward. With a snort of laughter I note that it’s blue – the colour of signs for major roads here in Italy. Going up to second gear for the first time since I got onto this road, the car and I jolt on down the track; calling it a road is, let’s face it, overly optimistic. I take hairpin bend after hairpin bend, each sharper than the last, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. Finally, I swing around the last one and the track comes to an abrupt end as it’s crossed by an actual road. There’s something dreadfully familiar about this. My eyes narrow in recognition.

I’m about 500m short of where I answered the phone to Maryann, half an hour earlier.

Calabria, you’re completely nuts. I think we’re going to get along famously.

Image by e-magic on Flickr

by Kate Bailward Posted on October 3, 2010
Posted in Travelling Like a Maniac | Tagged , | 9 Comments

Delayed reactions

Puffing into Bercy, having crossed Paris in rush hour with about five metric tonnes of luggage in tow, I congratulate myself on having made it in time for the train and without having aroused *too* much Parisian ire. This was the bit of the journey that I’d been most dreading, and it has gone like an absolute dream. I consider going to the first class lounge, but then realise that I’d have to lug my bags upstairs, so decide not to bother. Instead, I plonk myself on the floor until the platform is announced.

And wait.

10 minutes before the train is due, an announcement is put up on the board that the train will be delayed by 40 minutes. Thrillingly, my change in Rome is 33. Is this going to be a problem? Nah – when this happened on the way to Florence we made up the time overnight. It’ll be fine! Creaking to my feet, I decide to worry about it later and head to the waiting room in the hopes that it will be a more comfortable place to sit than on a concrete floor.

It is. And there’s a pretty young Frenchman guarding the door. He even brings me a cup of tea. This just gets better and better. I flop into a squashy leather chair with a sigh of happiness and relax for half an hour. I definitely approve of this travelling first class lark. It seems that the couple opposite me do as well: she’s fallen asleep on the sofa and he’s dozing off in the armchair next to her, with a peaceful smile on his face. I will never travel cattle class again.

I’m interrupted from my happy reverie by the beautiful Frenchman whispering in my ear. ‘Madame, your train is boarding.’ I thank him and start to gather up my bags. The sleepy man opposite me has woken up and gives me a smile. ‘Enjoy Rome!’ I start to explain that it’s not my final destination, but it’s just confusing him. What, there’s something south of Rome? Surely not! I give it up as too complex for a 30 second conversation, smile, say thank you and drag my bags back towards the lift.

Inevitably, my carriage is at the far end of the train. It’s also high off the ground, in common with all the Italian trains that I’ve been on. I throw my smaller bags up and inside and start the arduous task of hauling the big one up the steps. Thankfully, the guard appears at just the right moment and waves me away with a scolding expression on his face, grabbing the bag and hefting it up to me in one fluid movement. It never fails to surprise me how helpful the guards are here. Having successfully got me onto the train, he gives me a cheery wave as I stammer thanks at him. Is he French? Italian? I’m not sure, so burble incoherently in both languages, which seems to do the trick. I’ll find out later where he’s from, but for now I just need to get to my cabin and get rid of these bags. I feel like a particularly overloaded packhorse and am aware that I probably smell like one too. Or, rather, like the packhorse’s elderly owner. The smell of hot horse is something I rather like. Hot, unwashed human, on the other hand …

Studying my ticket, I see that I’m in berth 46, so squeeze along the corridor. Thank god my bag is narrow and deep, as opposed to wide and shallow, as it means that I can – just about – still wheel it through the train. Next time I buy a suitcase, though, I’m *definitely* getting one of the ones with 4 wheels. 2 wheels good; 4 wheels better. Finding the cabin, I start to offload detritus with relief. From behind me, an Australian voice says, ‘I don’t think so!’ I glance around and see a short, middle-aged woman. She points at my cabin. ‘That one’s mine.’ I check my ticket – no, I’m definitely in here. Realisation dawns that she thinks they’re single cabins. ‘Oh, no, I’m in here, too. She gives me the kind of look that indicates that she thinks I’m completely barking. ‘The beds fold down from the wall.’ Not that I have a clue how to do that, but I know they do. She’s still looking doubtful, so I point at the list of numbers on the outside of the door, which are listed one above the other next to little boxes, representing beds. This convinces her, and she gives me an apologetic grin. ‘Hi, my name’s Suzanne. I snore, by the way. And I’ve got a cold.’ What an opening. We both start to laugh as we flop down onto the seat in the cabin and prepare to find out a little about each other. We’re going to be confined in a small space together for the next 15 hours, so that shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s one of the joys of travelling solo – the meeting of people along the way.

The guard interrupts us, bringing bottles of water and taking in tickets and passports. It turns out he’s Italian, so, as Suzanne doesn’t speak any Italian, communication is left to me, god help us. (I’m pleased to find that I haven’t forgotten everything over the summer. A fair bit, yes, but not *everything*.) Suzanne’s face as he walks away with the passports is probably the exact picture of mine the first time it happened to me, on the way back from Salento – a study of abject terror. One of the things that is drummed into every traveller is to never let go of your passport, so it’s terrifying to watch someone walk away with yours. It does make sense, however – the guard can then hand all the passports over to border control in one hit, rather than them having to check with everyone on the train individually in the middle of the night. It’s weird being the one who knows what’s going on for a change. I’ve learnt so much in the past year, without even realising that I was doing so.

Fascinating though it is to find out about someone else’s travels, it’s also tiring. When the guard comes round a few hours later to put the beds down, Suzanne and I crawl gratefully into our berths and fall into exhausted sleep. When the morning comes, we’ll have crossed France and be in Italy, with all its new challenges and excitements.

I can’t wait.

Image by el Chovo on Flickr

by Kate Bailward Posted on September 27, 2010
Posted in Travelling Like a Maniac | Tagged | 4 Comments

Let the train take the strain

There’s the usual scrum for the Exeter train at Waterloo. It’s always announced very late, and you can spot the people waiting for it. They stare hungrily at the departure board, poised to leap into action every time the board is updated. The collective adrenaline is enough to kick start a whole carful of sleepy elephants into action. There’s a tangible slump every time the board changes and the platform still hasn’t been announced. Some (all right – me) try to be clever and second-guess where we’ll be leaving from. A train’s just come in to platform 14. Bet that’s the one. I’ll just position myself *here* in readiness. Come the announcement, I’ll be the first against the gates. Yeah! Oh. Bugger. It’s going from number 11. So much for my predictive skills. Mind you, I already knew they were up the spout, having missed the train I was meant to be on earlier by a matter of about 30 seconds. Advance booking is a wonderful thing, and saves you bucketloads – until you fail to make your allotted train and have to buy a second ticket. At full price. Which is nigh-on 40 quid. No chance of transferring the 15 already spent, either. That extra 5 minutes in bed this morning just cost me quite a lot, in fact. Seems like time really is money – at least when it comes to train travel.

Aboard the train, I gaze out of the window. As we draw into Clapham Junction, an anxious herd hovers on the platform, ready to spring forward as soon as the doors pop open. Their expectant looks turn to abject terror as the doors fail to respond to their fingers jabbing at the button. It’s going to leave without us! You can almost hear their brains screaming as their nerve begins to fail. Some have already taken flight in search of a new carriage, but just as they scatter to other, more hopeful, entrances, the door opens. The more bovine among the crowd, who were too slow or too lazy to move off in search of greener pastures, smile beatifically and amble forward, their patience rewarded. The nervous, darting gazelles, however, are now rushing from door to door, panicking that they will be unable to make their way through the crush. Bleating with fear, they puff inelegantly into the carriage, eyes swivelling as they search in vain for seats. Slow and steady, in this case, really has won the race.

A mother and her 2 teenage children clatter into the carriage. There’s a noisy discussion of where they should sit, as there aren’t any blocks of 3 seats together. Mum tries to shepherd the children down the carriage, but her son appears to have been woken up far too early for a Saturday morning. He thuds down into the nearest seat, dismissing his mother and sister’s attempts to chivy him along. Sister, having been given the green light for insubordination, follows suit and sidles into a nearby empty seat. ‘I’m only going to work anyway.’ Mum is left companionless. She’s unable to sit quietly, though, and pulls a phone from her bag. As she does so she sends her coffee flying. ‘Oh, shit! Sorry, sorry, sorry! Your handbag! Oh no!’ She’s abject with apology, but also thoroughly enjoying the conversational opening. ‘The irony is that we’re going by train because I didn’t want to drive. Can’t do this in a car, can you? Ha ha ha!’ She rifles in her bag for napkins, too busy chattering to be effective. It’s her children, eyes rolling, who produce them.

Coffee mopped and disaster averted, conversation dies and Mum turns her attention to the Sudoku. Scribbling fiercely, writing and rewriting figures, she mutters numbers under her breath as she works her way through it. In contrast to her scatty appearance, her brain is sharp, and she completes the killer version in 10 minutes. Leaning back with a satisfied sigh, she tries for her phone again. This time she manages to retrieve it without disaster. ‘OK, we’ll get to Basingstoke at 11.32. No. No, Dad. No, not twenty-two. THIRTY-two. No, Dad, we’ll just get the bus. No, Dad. No, DON’T come and get us. Well, I HOPE we’ll make the change, but it’s only five minutes. No, honestly, it’s MUCH easier this way. Seriously.’ She is saved from parental argument by the ticket inspector. ‘I have to go, Dad. See you later.’ She fishes in the depths of her bag for her tickets. ‘They’re for me and for these two as well. Yes, changing in Basingstoke. Do you happen to know what platform the train leaves from? We’ll get in on time, you say? Oh, THANK you!’ She beams at the conductor with delight. It’s impossible to resist her cheeriness and he cracks a cautious smile back before scuttling on to the safety and quiet of the next carriage.

The man opposite has a reading tic. He runs his hand up the right hand page, takes hold of the top corner and slips his finger behind it, readying to turn. Except he doesn’t turn. He slides his hand down to the bottom of the page and out, then repeats the action, over and over again. Up. Behind. Down. Up. Behind. Down. Up. Behind. Down. The rhythmic sound of dry skin rubbing over paper is repeated every couple of seconds. Smooth. Crinkle. Swish. Does he like the feel of the paper or the sound of it? Who knows? He is interrupted momentarily by a paper cut on his knuckle. His hand flies to his mouth, and he nuzzles it with surprise on his face. His eyes never move from the page, however.

Paper cut pain relieved, he returns to his routine. Up. Behind. Down. Smooth. Crinkle. Swish.

Image by moriza on Flickr

by Kate Bailward Posted on September 19, 2010
Posted in Travelling Like a Maniac | Tagged , | 7 Comments

Bon Appétit?

I spent three days in Paris and only ate one decent meal. That’s not a good batting record for a country that gave the world Cordon-Bleu and Haute Cuisine, along with the fathers of modern cookery, Carême and Escoffier. French cookery techniques and terms abound throughout every recipe book you read – particularly if, like me, you were brought up on Elizabeth David and the Leith’s Bible. Even the words ‘chef’ and ‘restaurant’ are French. I was really looking forward to stuffing myself silly there, but it seems it was not to be.

So what’s wrong with the Parisian restaurant industry? A large part of the problem could be that there are so many non-natives living in the city – I heard far more American voices than I did French (“Look, honey – Noder Daym!”) – but that doesn’t really explain the whole problem. London has just as much of a multicultural population as Paris, and yet we have a thriving restaurant industry built on just that multiculturalism. Maybe it’s to do with restaurants that are aimed at tourists, rather than locals. I’ve lived in London for over ten years, and I therefore know places off the beaten track. I’m sure Parisians are the same, and spend their time laughing hollowly at the idiots such as me who choose to eat at a cafe opposite Galeries Lafayette. Of *course* you’re going to get ripped off if you go to a place like that. The overpricing was all the more apparent to me, having come from southern Italy, where even high-end food is only €65 per head. Compare that to a soggy croque-monsieur, a small bowl of chips and a carafe of tap water in said cafe in Paris, for somewhere around €20. Ridiculous. I’m sure, if you know where to look, there are good places to eat, but it shouldn’t be the case that tourists are automatically short-changed. Why can’t there be good, reasonably-priced food available for whoever wants it?

To be fair, the problem of overcharging for sub-standard food is not limited to Paris – I’ve encountered the same problem in most big cities, including Rome and Florence. Something that I found far more worrying was the way in which food was served. It came as a huge surprise to me, coming from a French cookery background, to find that after 8 months of eating like the Italians do French food is just – well – de trop. French fashion may be elegant and understated, but their food is quite the opposite – over-composed, overdressed and criminally heavy. When followed by bitter, watery coffee it makes for a pretty unpleasant evening of indigestion. Parisian restaurants seem to be sitting in a time-warp, not even moving as far forward as nouvelle cuisine. Maybe my problem was caused by the fact that I specifically sought out restaurants that served French food, rather than Thai, Indian or even Italian, but given that I was in Paris, of all places, I had hoped that French food would be the best choice.

Having discovered a supermarket on the corner of my street, I was almost ready to give up on eating out entirely and just make sandwiches. Luckily, however, before I did so I came across Bistrot Papillon. Hidden halfway down a street just off the Rue Lafayette, it doesn’t look like much from the outside. Once you get inside, however, it’s all understated elegance, with wooden panelling, highly polished glass and soft-footed waiters in long, white, starched aprons. A classic French bistrot, in other words, serving classic French food in the way that it really *should* be done.

I start with snails in a tarragon and tomato sauce, with garlic croutons. It’s not the traditional way of cooking them, but it’s delicious. The tarragon and the garlic both come through strongly but without fighting each other, and the tomatoes make the dish less rich than usual. Don’t get me wrong – I’m a big fan of garlic butter – but it’s lovely to have something a little bit lighter after a few days of heavy cream sauces and overpowering dressings. I mop up the excess tarragony tomatoes with the fresh bread provided on the side, which is also delicious. The crust is tasty and nutty, while the centre is a little chewy, giving something to really get your teeth into. I hoover it up with greed, almost forgetting that I’m only at the start of the meal.

The waiter interrupts me with a discreet cough, asking if everything is all right, catching me mid-overfilled-mouthful and making me giggle like a naughty child. I think he disapproves of me – I’m too English and too alone to be decent in Paris. I order sparkling water to distract him and return to people-watching, which is one of the joys of sitting in a restaurant on your own. I don’t get the chance to do so for long, however, as my main course arrives. I’ve ordered foie de veau in cranberry sauce – Oh. My. God. It’s so soft that it’s almost liquid in the middle, with a delicate tinge of iron to the taste. The cranberry sauce, on the other hand, is fresh and zingy, cutting through any potential cloy from the liver’s creamy texture. Teamed with mashed potato, this may just be one of the most amazing dishes I’ve ever eaten. I’m still dreaming about it now.

After such a crowd-pleasing main course, the pudding was always going to have difficulties keeping up. Sure enough, when the nougat glacé with red fruit coulis turns up, it’s disappointing, the two elements being nice enough on their own, but clashing badly when put together. I’d have preferred seconds of the main course, if I’m honest, but that, I think, really *would* have sent the waiter over the edge. Instead, I thank him prettily and skip out onto the street, my faith in French cuisine (partially, at least) restored.

Image by Kate Bailward

by Kate Bailward Posted on August 29, 2010
Posted in Eating Like a Maniac, Travelling Like a Maniac | 12 Comments

Left for Love

Parisians are cold, haughty and unhelpful. Oh, and did I mention intolerant of anyone who comes from outside Paris, let alone France? Everyone says it, so it must be true, right? On my short experience of the city, however, I couldn’t disagree more. Hauling an oversized bag, containing a year’s worth of clothes, shoes and paraphernalia, through the Paris métro should be an absolute nightmare. However, at every flight of stairs I reach (and there are many) I have offers of help. As I stare blankly at a map on the wall, trying to work out which line I have to take to get to my hotel, a busy-looking woman of about my own age stops dead and asks, with a smile, if I need help. A taxi driver, on getting stuck in traffic and finding out that I only have €10 on me, takes me as close as he can to the door anyway, despite the fact that it leaves him €3 or €4 out of pocket. Cold? No. Haughty? Far from it. Unhelpful? Couldn’t be further from the truth. Intolerant? Well, if laughing at my accidental use of Italian words and correcting them with a friendly grin is intolerant then yes – but I’d say, on the whole, that the myth of the Parisian personality is just that: a myth.

At Paris Nord, I drag my bag to the taxi rank rather than attempt yet another change of métro. It’s been a somewhat circuitous crossing of Paris. An hour or so earlier, as my sleeper train pulled into Bercy, I realised that nowhere had I written down the address of my hotel. Ah. I know it’s somewhere near Nord train station, as I’d booked it for that express reason, but further than that I’m a bit lost. Thank god for mobile internet, is all I can say. Striking train operators on the RER haven’t really helped my journey either, but I’m within distance now. Lugging my beast of a suitcase across the road to the taxi rank I smile at the first cab driver and attempt to speak French properly for the first time in about 10 years. Astonishingly, I manage not only to make myself understood, but also to flabbergast him when I reveal that I’m English. Ha! This probably has more to do with my inadvertent slips into Italian than my flawless French accent, but no matter. We chat away happily as he drives me to my hotel. In the first of many such conversations that I will encounter over the next couple of days, he expresses shock when I tell him I’m here alone. Really? No boyfriend or husband? But Paris is the city of lovers! It’s almost sacrilegious to admit to being single in this city. He decides, with a wink, that I will find someone here. I laugh and concede. Perhaps …

I can’t say that I’m looking for a lover, but Paris is going to do its damnedest to find one for me regardless. A man walks past me the following day as I wander along the Left Bank in the sunshine. I see dark hair and long limbs, and smell delicious Armani aftershave. Usually that would be the end of it, but this is Paris, where every woman gets to be in her very own Impulse ad at least once in her life. As he passes he glances at me, then stops and asks for directions with a lazy smile. I shrug and tell him I don’t know Paris. No matter – it was, of course, only a pretext. I don’t think I’ve ever been chatted up quite so deftly in my life. Once again, there is shock and amazement that I could even *think* about coming to this city on my own. He falls into step with me as I walk towards Notre Dame, which is where I’d been planning to go. Are you from Paris? No? You’re English?  But it’s impossible! An Englishwoman who speaks French? It can’t be true! 20 minutes later, Notre Dame is far behind us, we’ve crossed the Seine, and we’re back in Le Marais.  Catching me by the arm, he takes off his sunglasses and gives me a dazzling smile. I love Englishwomen, you know … I start to giggle and he grins disarmingly. I must see your eyes! Take off your sunglasses! I obey, laughing, and he mock-swoons. Come for a drink! You can’t possibly leave me now! Regretfully, however, that’s exactly what I have to do. He tells me, with a cheeky wink, that whenever I come back to Paris I must call him up. Just dial 0033 Gorgeous Parisian, OK? He kisses me on both cheeks, murmuring sweet nothings all the while, and I head back to my hotel, giggling like a schoolgirl. I may not have seen Notre Dame, but I’ve been romanced by a Frenchman on the Left Bank of the Seine. I’d say that’s worth missing gargoyles and pigeons for any day of the week.

Images by Kate Bailward and *RICCIO

by Kate Bailward Posted on August 8, 2010
Posted in Travelling Like a Maniac | 11 Comments

The power of caffeine

It may be 30 years since the Strage di Bologna, but Centrale train station still bears the scars of the terrorist bomb that ripped it apart on 2 August 1980. Outside the building the main station clock forever shows 10:25, the time that the bomb went off and killed 85 people. In the waiting room, where the bomb was planted in an air-conditioning unit, there is a hole a metre wide in the thick marble wall, running from floor to ceiling. Most of the room has been rebuilt, but this remains to show, with chilling vividness, the power of the explosion. Next to it, there is a stark list of the names of the victims engraved into the stone, along with their ages. I notice that one of them was a three year old and realise that she would be the same age as me now, had she lived. It’s a sobering thought, and I head towards my train in a pensive mood.

The conductor jollies me out of my sadness, laughing at me and my enormous bag as I trundle along the platform. The platform is low, while the steps are high, and the bag (I have discovered) weighs a ton. I gaze ruefully up at him, giggling at the seeming impossibility of the task. Scrambling down from his eyrie, he chivvies me up the steps, telling me that he’ll pass the suitcase up to me. I warn him that he’ll do himself an injury, but he’s a cheery chap and is as good as his word, despite staggering under the weight. It’s all done with a wink, though, and I sense he’s done this many times. He points me towards the correct couchette compartment and I squeeze along the narrow corridor. Opening the door, I see a shock of white hair poking out from under the sheets on the middle bunk, and a pair of feet dangling over the edge up on the top. Hoping the current occupants don’t snore as much as the ones I shared with on my way to Florence, I drag my bag inside and attempt to stuff it into the space under the ladder. I’m being totally ineffective, however, and there’s a smothered chuckle from the owner of the white hair. He turns out to be a friendly middle-aged Frenchman; he chats to me briefly as he gives me a hand, before heading back to his bunk. I’m not sleepy yet, so hang out in the corridor with the late-night kids. There’s something fabulous about watching the night-time countryside whizzing past outside the window. Working on the basis, however, that the sooner I go to sleep the sooner the holiday will come, I slip back into my couchette compartment. The Frenchman and the pair of feet on the top bunk are both fast asleep by now, and I realise with a sleepy yawn that I won’t be far behind them. I pull the stiff paper sheets over me, punch the pillow into some semblance of softness, and submit to the rattling lullaby of the train’s movement.

I wake the next morning to see the pair of feet disappearing from the top bunk. The white-haired Frenchman is also up and about, and gives me a cheery smile and a bonjour. I fall down the ladder with a yawn and pull up the blinds: it’s a beautiful day in France. The conductor comes in to give us back our passports; I try to speak to him, but my sleep-addled mind isn’t coping with language at all today. I burble a few words of gibberish and he backs away slowly with the kind of wide-eyed smile that I get in front of my students when they’re making absolutely no sense.

My first mission in Paris must clearly be to drink plenty of coffee.

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by Kate Bailward Posted on July 31, 2010
Posted in Travelling Like a Maniac | 3 Comments