Driving Like a Maniac

In Training

Lecce to London: a distance of somewhere around 2,300 km. Most people would choose to go by plane, saving both time and money, but I decide to do it by train. It’s a mammoth journey, but a good one. Train travel is both more ecologically sound than flying, and a lot more picturesque. No waiting around in impersonal airport lounges, twiddling your thumbs for 3 hours – just turn up at the train station and go. Luggage weight limits? None (apart from the issue of having to carry the blinking things, but you’ll all be relieved to hear that my back’s just about recovered now and I no longer hobble about like a pensioner.) Beautiful scenery? This is the Italian Adriatic coast. It couldn’t really be much more gorgeous, as we swish at speed along the coastline, almost within touching distance of the sea. Yes, it’s safe to say that I’ve become a long-distance train travel convert.

The journey starts with a white-knuckle car ride from my town to Lecce. A friend has offered a lift, but she’s Italian and doesn’t believe in driving slowly. We arrive at the train station in record time and I unpeel myself from the passenger seat, into which I have been welded by the centrifugal force, waving her goodbye and promising a visit next year. Swallowing down a lump in my throat at the thought of leaving a place and people who have become very dear to me, I head for the cafe to while away the time until my train arrives.

Ordering a panino, I realise that all the other cafe patrons are either American or Canadian. Lecce is a major hub point for the area, and there are all sorts of people bustling about on their way to somewhere else. There’s a tableful of old Italian men next to me, drinking coffee and shooting the breeze. Their conversation is punctuated with loud shouts of laughter and I settle into my seat, feeling the sun hot on my face and letting the Italian words wash over me while tuning out the English. Suddenly, there is a hubbub as a particularly forceful breeze blows most of the plastic cafe tables halfway across the piazza. There are excited shouts from the Italians, as they race after them, grinning and gesticulating. I join them, but chivalry is apparently not dead: they won’t hear of me exerting myself by carrying a table. No, no! Sit down! We will do it! Curiosity, of course, gets the better of them, and one man starts up a conversation. Checking that I speak Italian (to which I can now say yes, un po – how things have changed since I arrived 8 months ago) he starts to chat to me. Why am I in Lecce? Am I going far? Do I like the Salento? Aren’t the beaches wonderful? So clean! Che belli! His friends, meanwhile, are agog with curiosity on the next table. He returns to report, leaving me to sunbathe a little longer.

It’s nearly time for my train, so I lug my bags across to the platform. If it was ever true that Mussolini made all the trains run on time, then things have changed in the last 60 or 70 years. There is a large crowd of us waiting on the platform, and the train’s running a good 10 minutes late. No matter. It’s a sunny day and I am about to spend nearly 18 hours on trains between here and Paris, so I make the most of the fresh air while I still can.

Finally, the train chugs lazily up to the platform. There are last-minute hugs and kisses as people wave goodbye to their friends and family, and then we are off. I make myself comfortable in the enormous first class seat which will be my home for the next 7 or so hours, and watch out of the window as we leave the south behind. Next stop, Bologna.

by Kate Bailward Posted on July 13, 2010

Posted in Travelling Like a Maniac | Tagged italian, Italy, lecce, train | 12 Comments

All Along the Watchtower

A picnic. By the sea. At night. Well, it has to be done, really. In true English fashion, ignoring the fact that the forecast is for rain, Alex and I pack up a load of sandwiches and wine and head for the hills. Well, the cliffs. We’re aiming for Torre Miggiano, which is on the coast in between Otranto and Leuca. It’s a scary road to drive, as in places it is quite literally crumbling into the sea, but it’s also beautiful and the white-knuckle ride is worth it for the views.

All along this coast is a series of watchtowers. Quite what they were built to watch for I’m not sure (maybe invading Turks?) but they’re interesting structures. Most are crumbling nowadays, but that doesn’t lessen their impact. At the bleakest part of the road, where it runs along the top of sheer cliffs and the wind wuthers its wildest, is Torre Vado. Tonight, strangely, there is a group of about 10 men standing at the side of the road. They look as if they’re waiting for something or someone, but they must have walked a hell of a long way to get where they are currently, as there are no other buildings for miles, and there isn’t a car in sight. Curious. I shrug mentally and carry on driving. A little further up the road we see a couple more men, walking fast along the road towards us. Presumably they’re with the first group, who are waiting for their mates to catch up. It’s an odd time to be out walking in the middle of nowhere, but each to their own.

Rounding a sharp corner, suddenly the view changes. There’s a black police van parked at the side of the road, with yet more men sitting in the road in front of it, looking cold and desolate. A policeman prowls along the knee-height retaining wall running along the cliff side of the road, and there are large plastic bags dropped on the ground behind the van. Alex gasps in horror – I find out later that he thought they were dead bodies covered in blankets. It seems that, far from being hikers out for a walk, these men have come across from Albania. They all look dry, so presumably whichever boat brought them across managed to get them close enough to shore that they didn’t have to swim for it, but they’ll have had to climb a long way up some very inhospitable cliffs to get to where they are now. What makes someone want to take risks like that, knowing that the likelihood is that they’ll be caught and sent straight back? The desperation is heartbreaking. It makes our picnic plan seem a little bit silly, and conversation dies for a while.

When we get to Torre Miggiano, we clamber out of the car into a force ten headwind. Well, all right, not force ten, but it’s pretty blustery up there. We scramble past the tower and down into the chiselled cliff-face. At some point in its history this cliff must have been quarried, as there are regular squared corners everywhere you turn. This makes it perfect for picnicking, with sheltered spots at regular intervals, and a good view of the sea. It also makes it incredibly spooky when the light drops, as the shadows are many and varied. I’ve learnt that it’s best not too look too long at shadows at dusk, as they start to come to life. One I was sure was a dead dog. Or, rather, a half-dead dog that kept twitching its leg. I can’t even blame the wine, as I only had half a glass. Overactive imaginations R US. Anyone would think I used to be an actress …

Images by Kate Bailward

by Kate Bailward Posted on July 5, 2010

Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged otranto | 4 Comments

When I was two, I was nearly new

‘… la bimba?‘ I look up. There’s a two year old in a pink bikini standing in front of me with an enquiring look on her face. I realise too late that she was asking me a question. I have absolutely no idea what the question was, but it seems she wants an answer. I’m stumped. I settle for saying ‘si‘ with a bit of an upward inflection and hoping that it will head her off at the pass. Nope. She repeats again, and again all I catch is ‘la bimba.’ Is she asking where my daughter is? I look confuddled. She tries another tack. ‘Dov’è il tuo amico?‘ Well, actually he’s administering an exam for my PON students in Scorrano today, but I have no idea how to say that in Italian, so instead I smile and tell her it’s just me. This, it appears, is not the right answer. She seems to feel that it’s a bit improper for me to be on the beach on my own. She may have a point, actually. I submit to her attempts to engage me in conversation. She’s now saying something about being sandy. I nod vociferously. ‘Si, si – sabbiata!’ She sighs and rolls her eyes at me. I’m not sure she’s realised that I’m English, as opposed to being very stupid, but she doesn’t seem to mind too much, and it’s good practice for me to have to speak to someone who gives no quarter.

She sashays over to her pile of plastic toys and returns with one as a gift for me. ‘Guarda! Pesciolino!’ I point out that it’s blue. She gives me an old-fashioned look. Ah. Clearly she knew that already. It seems she’s erring on the side of stupidity as regards her assessment of me, as she collects a second toy and waits for me to point out that it’s yellow. When I do so, she smiles proudly. Her parents, in the water, are giving me very disapproving looks, seemingly being convinced that I’m some kind of nutter. I therefore beckon the girl to follow me and replace her toys in the pile with the rest of them. Her mother, with a face like someone sucking a lemon, then summons her daughter. ‘Martina! Vieni!’ Martina isn’t too keen on this idea, being more interested in carrying on chatting to me, but her mother isn’t having any of it and swoops in to pick her up and wade back out into the water, where the strange NON-ITALIAN can’t corrupt her. I laugh inwardly and return to my book.

There’s another young boy and his dad playing on the other side of me. The little boy, I gather, is called Gianluca, and is having a whale of a time filling up a miniature watering can and then pouring the contents into a bucket. Sandcastles? Nah. Digging holes? Nope, not interested. Pouring water from one receptacle to another? BRILLIANT. Dad is going demented blowing up dinghies and armbands, but he’s wasting his time. Simple pleasures really are the best when you’re two.

A mum and her young son come onto the beach. It seems that this isn’t a planned visit, as she’s wearing high heels and his arm is in a cast. He’s desperate to go in the water, and she concedes, although fusses about him getting his shorts wet. He merely grins and rolls them up, negating her argument in one fell swoop. She shrugs and settles herself down on the beach to watch him paddle. In the meantime, Gianluca has bored of water transferral and has been coerced by dad into pottering about with a fishing net. There are, surprisingly, given that there are so many people in the water, some pretty big fish swimming about, but Gianluca isn’t interested in those. No, he wants the little black crabs scuttling along under the seaweed, and is concentrating on his task intently. Inevitably, the boy with the broken arm is desperately curious to know what’s going on, and creeps ever closer to try to catch a peek. Finally, he makes contact with Gianluca, and joins in the game. It transpires that his name is Tomaso. I know this because his mother shrieks across the beach at him when she realises that he’s getting his shorts absolutely sodden. She bustles over to tell him off and, realising it’s a lost cause trying to to keep them rolled up, whips them off him and lets him go paddling in his pants. It’s a disaster waiting to happen as regards his cast, of course. Five minutes later he’s delving too enthusiastically into the bottom of the fishing net and dunks his cast into the water up to the elbow. Mum, scolding fit to burst, drags him out of the water and off the beach. He trails, dejected, behind her, casting wistful glances back at Gianluca, who has forgotten him already and is shouting with glee at having found a big crab scrabbling around at the bottom of his net. Il bambino è mobilè.

Image by Athena_Vina on Flickr

by Kate Bailward Posted on June 28, 2010

Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged otranto, sea | 12 Comments

Journey to Atlantis

‘Teacher! My teacher! Oh my god!’ Lucio, the owner of Atlantis, the restaurant in which we’re eating tonight, is over the moon to see Alex. Alex taught him two years ago, and there’s a lot to catch up on, apparently. ‘I went to London for a year. Una ragazza inglese. Una bella ragazza inglese.‘ Lucio sighs, a far away look in his eyes. ‘It’s finished now of course.’ He winks and roars with laughter before returning to schmoozing around the tables.

There’s a fair bit of schmoozing to be done, it has to be said. Atlantis is a seriously good restaurant, and the tables are all full up, with people waiting to be seated. The setting, right by the beach just outside Otranto’s town centre, is idyllic, and the food is excellent. It’s expensive by Salentino standards (about €65 per head) but absolutely worth it. We start with antipasti misti, which includes both raw and cooked fish. The frittura mista is made up of cubes of white fish combined with razor-thin slivers of zucchini, all dropped into feather-light batter and fried for mere seconds into hot, sizzling deliciousness. Drizzled, as it is, with a thick, sticky, balsamic reduction, I think I’ve just about reached nirvana in terms of taste. That is, until I try the crudo platter, at which point I collapse into a puddle of gourmand goo under the table. As Alex squeezes lemon juice over the raw shellfish, the scallops visibly contract. They really couldn’t be much fresher, and they are utterly delicious. The oysters are plump and juicy, tasting of the sea without it being overpowering, and the clams are little mouthfuls of heaven. The stars of the show, however, are the scampi. Almost translucent (but with just a touch of palest, palest pink to them), they are unlike anything I’ve ever tasted. They are actually *sweet* and I could happily eat them all evening. It’s hard to believe that, once upon a time, they were so little-rated in the UK that they were cheap as chips and used as chicken substitute. Now, of course, things have changed and gone the other way, with chicken being the poor relation. I know which one I’d rather pay for, though, and it doesn’t have wings.

In the break between courses, Lucio returns for more gossip. He rolls his eyes salaciously at us before sitting down. ‘Che cazzo: the English!’ We all splutter with laughter: he’s referring to a large table of middle-aged Chianti-shire exports behind us. They’ve been arriving in dribs and drabs for the past half an hour, every arrival punctuated with a lot of air kissing and ‘buona sera’-ing, spoken with that very obvious Cotswolds twang. It’s strange how alien they sound to me now, after a year of being surrounded by Italians. With a little jolt, I realise that, while far from being a native, I’m no longer the outsider that I was 8 months ago. It’s a good feeling.

Our secondo arrives: a large grilled fish, served whole. The waiter fillets it for us at the table, asking Alex if he wants the head. Always game for a challenge, Alex laughs a little nervously and accepts. Mmm. Fish cheeks. Once again, it’s delicious, and we subside into greedy silence. A plate of more scampi arrives to accompany the fish. This time, however, it’s grilled rather than raw. It’s just as delicious, but in a very different way. I can’t resist grabbing it straight off the plate almost before it’s put down in front of us and am taught the error of my ways as I burn my fingers. That toasted seashell smell is just too hard to resist, however, and I lick my wounds and go back for a second try. They’re cool enough to handle now and I demolish three of them in very short order, mopping up the juices with yellow Puglian bread and a dash of local olive oil. I’m almost too full to move, but then the waiter offers sorbettini and coffee. Well, they aid digestion, don’tcha know? As does limoncrema, straight from the freezer. Now that’s a recipe I really have to learn – my digestive system is absolutely counting on it. Honest.

Image by Kate Bailward

by Kate Bailward Posted on June 22, 2010

Posted in Eating Like a Maniac | Tagged otranto, puglia, salento | 5 Comments

A day at the beach

I have just over a week left in Salento. I’ve taught my final classes and now have lots of external exams to do, but already the air is more relaxed around here. 32 degree heat and sunning myself on the beach no doubt helps that feeling, but it’s also about not having to worry about my students any more. Half of them have already taken their exams and the ones that still have to do them in this coming week – well, it’s out of my hands now. I wish them all the very best of luck, but there’s no more handholding to be done, thankfully.

The beach yesterday was delicious. Or, should I say, the rocks. It’s best to avoid the actual beaches on a sunny Saturday afternoon, as they’ll be rammed. Where we were, there were definitely more people than the last time we went at the beginning of May, but it was far from crowded. We were free to sit and sun ourselves and gaze out to sea. Even, maybe, to fall asleep for an hour or so, waking up sun-toasted and thirsty but feeling infinitely better for having relaxed.

A man walks his dog along the path the far side of the inlet. Emptying his pockets of mobile phone, keys and wallet, he goes straight into the water and takes the dog with him. Holding firmly to the dog’s collar, he gives her a thorough wash, removing the red Salentino dust that she has accumulated on her walk. She submits to this with good grace, paddling furiously to keep herself afloat. He lets go of her collar and encourages her back out onto the rocks, where she scrambles to higher ground and surveys the sea with a big doggy grin. They repeat the process a couple more times, and then decide to swim across the inlet. Vieni con me! calls the man, and his dog paddles after him, racing to be first to the other side. 2/3 of the way across I lose sight of them under the cliff, but I can hear him talking to her, encouraging her the last few feet. Brava! signals that she has safely reached the rocks on our side, and I hear her scrabbling up out of the water and giving a perfunctory bark of triumph.

I wade, thigh-deep, into the water and consider launching myself out for a swim, but decide against it. I’m happy standing here, watching tiny fish flittering just below the surface. They have emerald green flashes down their side which sparkle when they catch the sun. Seemingly all of one mind, they send a series of ripples across the surface of the water as they change direction at lightning-fast speed. Further down, fishes the size of my hand venture out from their hiding places in the rocks to nibble on pink and purple seaweed. The swifts swoop low over the water, wheeling and skimming over the head of the one swimmer left in the water, while their babies chatter and tweet fit to burst in the cliffs. The limestone around here is peppered with deep pits, perfect for birds to nest in, and they clearly do.

It’s beautiful here. Calabria next year has a lot to live up to.

Image by Kate Bailward

by Kate Bailward Posted on June 13, 2010

Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged otranto, salento, sea | 9 Comments

We all scream for ice cream

After a week in which we drove to Foggia (3 1/2 hours each way) and then sat in a room asking students the same questions over and over again for 6 hours, then tried (and failed) to stop them from copying each other’s answers in the written exam, a day out by the sea was very much needed. Happily, Sunday was a beautiful day in Salento, with barely a cloud in the sky. The plan was to potter along the Ionian coast and explore, but when we reached Gallipoli we realised that was where we actually wanted to be. So there we stayed. Gelato first – almond and fig flavour, I can confirm, is delicious, but makes a hell of a mess when dripped down the front of a white linen dress. Luckily there are water fountains all along the sea front, and a quick scrub with a clean wet handkerchief results in the damage being mostly repaired. Except that white linen, when wet, goes terribly see-through. Ahem. Lu sule and lu ientu soon dry it out, though, which is good for the sake of my modesty.

Gallipoli old town is actually an island, which means that you can walk right around it in a circle without ever leaving the seafront. Blissful. When we arrive, just before 3pm, it’s pretty quiet and we have the place to ourselves. Within an hour, though, the Italians are returning from their lunch break and everything begins to perk up again. Spying a group of majorettes and a marching band, we move closer to find out what’s going on. It looks like they’re about to head off, with great pomp and ceremony, but in true southern Italian fashion they actually stay milling around and chatting for another half an hour. We decide to wander on further while they think about what they’re going to do, and cut down a side street which we haven’t been along before. This is a residential street, and there is washing draped from every window, or on clothes horses in the street. In one case, with cheerful disregard for public property, someone has even strung a clothes line between two road signs. Gallipoli has a much more relaxed air than Otranto, its cousin on the opposite coast. It may not be as beautiful, but it’s just as charming, if not more so.

An old man sits on a stool in the shade just inside the doorway to his house, holding a plate of chocolate cake. With shaky hands he carves a piece from the side and brings it slowly to his mouth with an expression of glee. Shining white Broderie Anglaise curtains flutter at every doorway, keeping out the heat and the mosquitoes. A girl and her grandfather zoom past on a moped. She is too small to sit on the back and therefore stands on the footplate in front of her grandfather, grinning fit to burst as her hair flutters in the wind.

Up ahead we hear the crackle and pop of a somewhat ropey sound system, and loud cheers. Rounding the corner, the street in front of the Duomo is chock-full of people, all waving balloons proclaiming ‘I <3 gelato’ or ‘I love cookies’. A woman with garish clown face-paint and a sparkly silver hat dances through the crowd handing out yet more balloons with a grin. A man’s voice comes over the sound system calling for us all to make way – the majorettes are coming through! It’s a team of maybe 15 girls and one small boy banging a drum. The lead majorette is a very serious-looking girl with glasses and a whistle. She marches proudly along the centre of the street, waving regally and exhorting her team to do the same. The older girls copy her, but the littlest girl at the back isn’t doing so well. She’s only about five years old, and is far too busy fending off all the grannies and aunts pinching her cheeks and cooing over her to bother with smiling and waving. She’s having an absolute whale of a time.

The boys in the marching band are also enjoying themselves. They’re much older than the majorettes, being mostly late teenagers. They all wear large plastic sunglasses and grin their way along the street, eyeing up the pretty girls from behind their protective shades. They are kings for the day.

I assume, given our location outside the duomo, and the fact that the majorettes were led up the street by the priest, that the show is due to some saint or another. However, Alex is more astute than me and thinks to actually read the sign hanging next to us: today is the opening of a new gelateria. Any excuse for a party. It’s a perfect day for ice cream and we hang around for a while hoping that there might be free ice cream being handed out, but it seems that we’ve missed that bit of it. There’s only one thing for it: back to the seafront for more aperitivi and sunshine. Bliss.

I’m over at Cherrye’s blog today, talking about Puglia. Why not head over there and have a read?

Images by Kate Bailward

by Kate Bailward Posted on June 7, 2010

Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged salento | 4 Comments

On rags and things that fly

I’m not a big fan of things that fly: they freak me out. And yes, I do include planes in that list. I’m therefore planning an epic cross-Europe train journey home at the end of this month, to which I’m really looking forward. It’ll take me a good 24 hours, but I plan to reward myself by stopping off in Paris for a couple of days and wandering around, taking in the sights. I’m not quite sure why I’ve never been to Paris (I don’t count changing trains at Gare de Lyon as *going to* Paris. Or, indeed, driving around the périphérique, however long we spent on it, stuck in traffic.) but it’s about time that situation was remedied. So, 24 hours to travel up through Italy and France, before taking 48 hours to mooch around Paris and see if I can remember any French. What’s the betting that, after eight months of being unable to hold a meaningful conversation with anyone here, my brain will betray me and the only words I’ll be able to remember will be Italian ones? I can’t wait.

In the ‘things that fly and freak me out’ category are also, of course, birds. My kitchen is therefore currently off-limits, as there is a nest of baby birds hidden in the air vent behind our bin. All you can hear when you enter the kitchen is scritching and rustling and cheeping and I’m sure that, at any moment, they’re going to fall the wrong way and end up *in the kitchen*. The last time I had to deal with a baby bird in my house the bird was fine but I nearly died of fright, so I’m hoping they stay their side of the grille. I could do without my flatmates realising that I’m actually a great big wouss.

My parents came to visit at the weekend, so, to calm my shattered birdy nerves, we went to Zinzulusu cave. I can’t recommend this highly enough: it’s amazing. Arriving along the coast road, at the clifftop there’s a carpark and hundreds of different tat stalls, along with some very un-Italian-looking fast food places. It’s not an auspicious start. Climbing down winding steps to the sea, however, the tourist trappings are left behind and it starts to look much more promising. The path takes you in single-file along a narrow ledge just above sea-level. Just as you think you’re never going to see anything of interest, you round a corner and are faced with the most enormous cave entrance, from the roof of which hang hundreds of stalactites, looking for all the world like dripping rags hung out to dry. Suddenly the name becomes clear – zinzuli means rags in Salentino dialect. It’s an impressive sight, but there’s more to come. The path winds its way back upwards again, and through a smaller, but still quite substantial, entrance into the cliff.

Inside, the gloom is punctuated with low fluorescent lighting, which bounces off both stalactites and massive stalagmites, creating eerie shadows. All through the cave there is the damp drip of limestone-y water, and every corner you round reveals yet bigger formations. There are caves within caves within caves and it’s *beautiful*. It’s even worth fighting my claustrophobia for, although I don’t make it to the final cave, as that means walking, bent double, through a narrow corridor to which I couldn’t see an end. No thanks: I stop in the last grotto but one and marvel at the central stalagmite, which is bigger than me. It’s dark, shining maroon in colour, and has the most amazing textures. In places it’s pockmarked – presumably where the drips from the roof land and bounce – and in others it’s as smooth as marble where the water has run down its sides. Ahead of me a forbidden camera flash goes off. I don’t see the point of flash myself – it’s only going to bleach out the shadows, which are fantastic in themselves. I rest my camera on my knee in a vain attempt to hold it steady while I take a long exposure shot. All thoughts of f-stops and shutter speeds disappear, however, when the familiar leathery wings of a bat flitter at speed out of the darkness towards me. Aargh! I duck out of its way, but it’s been disturbed by the camera flash up ahead and zooms around again, once more only just clearing my head. I am trapped in the bowels of the earth with things that fly! Nightmare! I beat a hasty retreat, back to the safety of the open air and the sea. At least the birds there stay up in the air and out of my way.

Images: papalars on Flickr and Kate Bailward

by Kate Bailward Posted on June 2, 2010

Posted in Travelling Like a Maniac | Tagged train | 10 Comments

Living Like a Maniac

Dear Mike

Hello, and welcome! I’m really excited about our blogswap today. I hope you enjoy yourself here – there’s food in the cupboard and it looks like you’ve picked a great day if you want to go to the beach. A few things to remember:

The neighbour’s dog *is* as vicious as he sounds. I recommend not getting stuck in the stairwell with him but, if it does happen, kicking him with a stiletto heel is quite effective. I’ve left a pair for you just in case.
The car keys are locked away for your own safety. Seriously.
Try dipping tarallini in peperoni piccante and olive oil. Your taste buds will thank you.
The best gelato is to be found in the centre of town (I recommend Sicilian granite mandorle and pistacchio).
Don’t combine 3 and 4 unless you want to be violently sick.

Think that’s all for now. Enjoy your day in Italy!

Katja x

ps: I forgot to take the rubbish out last night. Would you mind …? Ta.

What a great word “maniac” is!

No, really. Forget the dictionary or the Wikipedia page for a second – this is about common informal usage, sans reference book. “Maniac”. “Maniacal”. What do they evoke? All the mad energy but none of the creepifying sociopathy of “lunatic” – and a hint of Back To The Future’s Doc Brown (“Great Scott!”) and Fringe’s Walter Bishop. Dr Horrible is a maniac. So is Doctor Who. They’re all fun, and they’re all slightly bananas – but most importantly, they all get things done. Brilliantly.

So now you’re looking at the title of this website. Well, I can’t comment – I’ve never been in a car with Kate behind the wheel. I also can’t comment if the title refers to Italians in general, since making sweeping statements about national traits is an appallingly narrow-minded thing to do. (Now, if you were talking about *Belgians*, then yes, I’d agree with you. Belgium shouldn’t be allowed to have roads. They’re all insane. Solution: give ’em bikes, which works because Belgium’s really flat. Suggest it to your local MP. You know it makes sense).

There’s a lot to be said for exploring the world like a maniac.

The best way to do something well is to fling yourself at it. Take the author of this site. How would you approach a teaching career abroad? Kinda pick at a few courses, build up a CV for a few years, take a few tentative jaunts to prospective employers here and there, dip a toe and then another toe? That’s one way, and not only is it agonisingly slow, it’s self-defeating because you’re staying within your comfort zone all the while. Or, like the author of this blog, you can get a big run up and then hurl yourself through intensive training, living on your nerves and enjoying the thrilling, terrifying freedom of seeing how much change you can take on the chin without going bonkers.

(I’m not suggesting Kate isn’t bonkers, by the way. This post isn’t a piece of fiction. Thanks).

There’s a big problem with modern life, and it’s this: we like pigeonholing things as “reckless”. Reckless is a bad word that means “unnecessarily risky”. It’s reckless to take a risk with your career. It’s reckless to follow your heart’s yearnings at the expense of your bank balance. It’s reckless to believe things you read in stories, or think in your dreamiest, most hopeful thoughts. And so on. We’ve even fashioned a vocabulary around it. “You want to deliberately make yourself homeless for months at a time? That’s so WEIRD.”

But there’s one very noticeable thing about ‘reckless’ maniacs. They’re happy. Big grins on their faces as they buck convention, risk their social credibility and teeter on the brink of embarassing public failure. Happily.

Sounds like a fun way to be, frankly.

So with that in mind, I’d like to offer up my personal definition of Living Like A Maniac.

1. Since other people aren’t you, don’t follow their orders. This especially applies to adventurous activities like travelling the world. Parents, teachers, friends, work colleagues – they’ll all have something to say when you first air your globetrotting plans. Listen to them, by all means (every suggestion has value, even those from idiots), and process everything they say very carefully – but when it comes to decision time, remember that there’s only one You, and that may call for a strategy that hasn’t been tried before. This is often construed by the world as “being weird”. (“Karl Bushby? Weirdo!” And so on). Congratulations: you’re now turning into a wandering maniac.

2. But the key requirement for a truly maniacal lifestyle is optimism. Maniacs screw up all the time. Take mad professors. Which are they better known for – their successes or their failures? Perhaps thankfully, it’s the latter. And that’s your fate as a maniac – you’re going to spend a lot of time flat on your face. The good news is that it’s a shortcut to success – the more mistakes you make, the quicker you learn what works and what doesn’t. Only thing is, it’s incredibly demoralising – especially when you know you’re perceived as acting a bit weird in attempting it at all. This is where you need to cultivate a maniacally good-humoured self belief that will propel you forwards towards your next facial rendezvous with the ground. Chin up.

3. When practical, do the scary thing. Maniacs test their limits all the time. They toy with discomfort, dabble with self-inflicted anguish. There’s a good reason for this, and it’s that comfort files the edges off your determination. Remember writing essays at school or college, and doing a better job on the ones where the deadline is applying excruciating pressure? Same kind of thing. So instead of viewing terrifying, nerve-wracking things as automatically bad, have a good think about *why* they’re so scary. Think back to times when your heart was in your mouth – how alive did you feel at the time? Have a think about how you’d feel if you actually did them, and why you’d want to. And if the reasons are good – don’t be afraid to be afraid. Maniacs never are.

Mike Sowden is a freelance writer and writes for, among others, MNUI Travel Insurance. He is usually to be found at his blog, Fevered Mutterings. His DVD boxsets, however, are usually to be found in Katja’s flat in London.

Image by KatieW on Flickr

by Kate Bailward Posted on May 26, 2010

Posted in Living Like a Maniac | 7 Comments

On winning at Gallipoli

The first thing you notice is the smell. It’s strong, and not entirely pleasant, although not disgusting either, so long as you don’t breathe it in too deeply. It’s the smell of salt water and fish guts, with a strong undertone of diesel, all melded into one: the smell of a working harbour. Further evidence of this is the sight of rows upon rows of fishing boats, and refrigerated vans lined up neatly waiting for their cargo. Of course, today is Sunday, so it’s quiet at the moment. The wind whips the waves up into a frenzy and catches at my hair, blowing it into an instant bird’s nest. A rusting sign attached to a bank of rock proclaims that this is Yachting Club Gallipoli. The only boats within sight are working ones, so presumably the pleasure-sailors have gone elsewhere, if they were ever here at all. This is the south of Italy, not France. It’s far more reminiscent of Cornwall than Cannes, and all the more interesting for that fact. I stare out to sea until I am rudely roused from reverie by a faceful of salt water, splashing up as a wave hits the sea wall hard. Gasping and spluttering, I hastily head for a more sheltered spot in the inner harbour.

In contrast to the breaking waves on the seafront, the water here is as calm as a millpond, and glittering in the bright mid-afternoon light. I bask in the sunshine and pull out my camera. Fishing nets are piled up on the quay, weighted down with old duvets and bits of broken board to stop them blowing away or being torn. The boats that the nets belong to are tied to stout bollards, which are flaking with rust. Being attacked on a daily basis by salt sea air doesn’t appear to do metal much good – or wood, in fact. The paint on the rowing boats pulled up onto the foreshore is blistered and peeling, which, combined with the cracks in the wood, creates beautiful patterns and textures. I snap away happily for 15 minutes, watched with benevolent bemusement by the bearded harbourmaster as he listens to the Inter match on his car radio.

Walking around to the front of the harbour wall again, I am hit with a blast of salty air. There is a breakwater – made up of huge concrete blocks, each of them four foot across – set out to sea a little way from the harbour wall. On a day like today, when the Scirocco whistles across the Salento, bringing bad weather in its wake, it’s needed. The waves crash against it, sending white spray ten foot up into the air. It seems that Gallipoli is more than used to receiving bad weather and is well prepared to deal with the force of the water crashing towards the shore.

Heading back onto the main promenade, I spy a large, weathered, sculpted fountain at the town side entrance to the harbour. Three dogs flop on its leeward side, sheltered from the wind. They’re a motley crew – one golden retriever, one bristly little rough-coated terrier with a happy grin on his muzzle, and an overweight labrador cross. They probably don’t belong to anyone sitting here now, but have chosen the spot for its prime sunbathing opportunities. As I move closer to take a photo, the terrier stretches to the very ends of his toes and sighs luxuriously, while the retriever twitches his nose at me, checking whether I’m bringing food. (No.) I leave them to their lazing, and head inside the handy next door cafe to start the important process of choosing gelato.

Ice cream cravings satisfied for the day, it’s time to head back home. Outside the cafe the promenade is full of cars draped in Inter and Italian flags. Inter have, apparently, won the Serie A, and everyone is out in the street to celebrate. In the UK, football fans go to the pub when their team wins. Italians, however, head for their cars and drive round and round in circles, shouting joyfully out of car windows and hooting their horns like crazy. I’m not a football fan but the excitement is infectious. If I were stuck in a noisy traffic jam like this in London, I’d be wanting to kill someone within a few minutes, but here I just enjoy the vicarious thrill of victory, and grin along with everyone else around me. I am suntanned, windblown, and very, very happy.

Images by Kate Bailward

by Kate Bailward Posted on May 19, 2010

Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged Italy, sea | 11 Comments

Little Saint Nick

It’s the Festa di San Nicola. The town is decked out like a Christmas tree (appropriate, given the saint we’re celebrating – yes, it’s that Saint Nick), and there are food stalls at every corner. Sweet stalls selling foot-long black ropes of liquorice and enormous slabs of golden peanut brittle jostle for space with vendors hawking buckets of salted anchovies and bright yellow couscous. The air is heady with the toasted sugar smell of candy floss, and stallholders banter as they toss almonds in sticky caramel before dropping them with practised deftness into paper cones for waiting children.

The lights that have been put up in town are amazing. I’ve been watching their slow unveiling over the past few weeks with interest. First came stout wooden poles, painted in the colours of the Italian flag, trailing wires from the top. Then came the frames for the lights, which look like snowflakes in the daylight. How pretty, thought I, until I got up close to them and realised that the bulbs were all manner of different colours. Expecting something along the lines of these shrines to tastelessness, I was pleased to discover that, in fact, they all looked rather pretty when lit up. OK, so they were a little gaudy, but this is Italy, and they do love their bling here. It could have been an awful lot worse. Alex and I amuse ourselves for an hour or so, taking photographs from various different angles. At one point I remove the camera from my face and realise that I’ve been shooting straight over the head of one of my students for the past five minutes. The same one that I ran into in Otranto the other week. This is becoming a habit. We grin and wave at each other and I return to my photography, only to be interrupted by someone shrieking my name. I look up and am practically knocked flat by another of my students as she greets me joyfully with a kiss on both cheeks. She’s with a friend who is mortally embarrassed at being introduced to The English Teacher. Oblivious, my student, E, chatters away about her evening at breakneck speed, asking questions without waiting for the answers and thoroughly enjoying herself. As always, it takes me a moment to translate what she’s saying, but I work out (after I’ve nodded in assent to her last question and received a horrified ‘No!’ from her, that what she’s actually asking is if Alex and I are leaving now. Oh. Er – no. We’re going for gelato. Yes, I know it’s only 10.30. No, it’s not my bedtime yet. No, Alex isn’t my boyfriend. ‘But he want to be future boyfriend of Kate, no?’ She gives me an arch wink as Alex melts into a puddle of embarrassed Englishman in the middle of a very Italian piazza. E shouts with laughter. ‘I must to go to look for the boys rich now. With the cars big! Is good idea, no?!’ She kisses me goodbye. ‘Hello baby!’ As always, I correct her, but as always she ignores me, too excited about whatever she’s doing next to concentrate on the here and now.

Exhausted and laughing, I flop into one of the plastic chairs ranged in the square to listen to the band playing their way through a selection of Turandot highlights. They’ve just got to ‘Nessun Dorma’, and the square is packed with people listening with rapt attention. The conductor plays to the crowd, drawing every ounce of emotion out of his musicians, crouching forward in the quiet parts, then bursting with energy a minute later, his floppy hair flying around his face as he conducts with not just his arms but his entire body. More than one person around me is singing along, and by the time the music reaches its climax I find I have tears in my eyes. There is rapturous applause and then the square clears, straight into the nearest gelateria. I follow the herd. It may be 10.30pm, but this is balmy southern Italy, and eating gelato is a 24-hour pastime here. I gaze in awe at the great mounds of cream, shot through with either brightly coloured fruit syrups or flecks of nuts depending on the flavour, sitting behind the gelateria counter’s polished glass and brass frontage. Amareno and pistachio is my current favourite combination, the dark red of the cherries contrasting with the white of the cream and the near-neon green of the pistachio nuts. I’m very tempted by cassata siciliana, though – it’s just so vivid, with its multicoloured mixture of candied fruit and nuts. The best thing about Italian ice-cream, however, is that it’s not so sickly sweet as the UK versions, and it’s therefore possible to eat an awful lot of it.