Is that an African or a European swallow?

It’s evening in Otranto. We wind our way up the steep steps to the cathedral square, tired after a day in the sun. Following a group of middle-aged Italians, I listen to their excited chatter about the events of the day. It’s Labour Day, and everyone has been out enjoying the sunshine. We make our way slowly (I’ve long given up on my London habit of walking fast – there’s too much to see and to listen to) through one of Otranto’s narrow streets, and I become aware of birds calling overhead. I look up into the fading light and see swifts darting above, swooping from building to building, and making one hell of a racket as they do so. I begin to understand why they could be seen as pests. I’d always thought it was just because of the nesting in eaves thing, but my *god* they’re noisy. It’s not just a benevolent tweet either: this is full on screaming. They’re ever so pretty, with their distinctive curved tails, but I’m very glad I don’t have to live with them. We break out of the street and into the cathedral square, and the noise of the swifts amplifies tenfold. The sky above is filled with flittering, zooming birds, rollercoastering from cathedral window to museum eaves to rooftop and back again, all at speeds that I can barely follow. I’m just aware of hundreds of black shapes skittering over my head, all the while keeping up their high-pitched shrieking. It’s beautiful to watch, and I stop in the middle of the square, a grin spreading across my face. The middle-aged Italians give me an indulgent ‘well, she’s not from here’ kind of a look and continue onwards, but I stay for a few minutes more, drinking in the sight of nature busy enjoying itself.

I’m woken the next morning by birds chattering outside my window. Something has disturbed them and they are in loud mode. I quite like the sound: it’s gentle twittering, rather than the shriek of the swifts, and is oddly soothing. I lie in bed and let it wash over me, unwilling to get up just yet. Their voices subside slowly until there is just one cheeping on the balcony. Next door’s dog begins to bark. I sigh: if I manage not to notice him then I can tune him out, but today is not going to be one of those days. He is shut outside all day, and keeps up a constant cacophony of noise, all day, every day. He’s not the only one, either. I hate the way dogs are treated in this country. I’m a country girl and not overly sentimental about animals, but I feel that getting a dog and then locking it out on a balcony all day is cruel. A *balcony*, for god’s sake.

The mosquito bites on my feet begin to itch again. The zanzare are feasting mightily on me at the moment, and it’s driving me crazy. It’s lovely not having to wear tights and boots all the time, but bare flesh is an invitation for biting. The mosquitoes round here also appear to be some mutant, giant breed, judging by the carnage they leave behind. These aren’t just little bumps: the smallest are the size of old 50p pieces, and the largest swelled to the size of a Wagon Wheel. (The biscuit, not the wooden thing on the side of a cart. Just in case you were wondering.) They take about 3 days to stop itching, but that’s not the end of it: they leave livid red marks and, in some cases, bruises for a further week or more. I look like I have a bad case of psoriasis, which is not an attractive look in the summer. Or at any time, in fact. I pop another of my dwindling supply of antihistamines, add citronella to the shopping list, and plan death to all biting insects.

Image by Kate Bailward

by Kate Bailward Posted on May 5, 2010
Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged | 11 Comments

Mayday

I’m in dire need of summer clothes and nail polish, so had plans to go to the market this morning. Waking up late and flying through the shower, I grab my handbag and race out of the door to start the 20-minute walk down the hill to the market. It’s *hot* outside, and it’s not long before I’m overheated and sweating. I consider stopping for ice-cream halfway down the hill, but the gelateria’s closed. That’s odd. I shrug and carry on. As I get to the bottom of the hill I glance across at the expensive clothes shop. Also closed. I start to wonder if my clock is wrong and it’s actually lunchtime. I carry on and into the market area. What on earth’s going on? Usually the area is buzzing on a Saturday morning, but today the street is as silent as the grave. Suddenly, the penny drops: today is a public holiday in Italy. They haven’t cottoned onto the excellent UK idea of moving bank holidays to the following Monday if they fall on a weekend, unfortunately, which means that we 9-5ers are doing badly this year. It’s a great year for shop workers, though.

I wander back through town, gazing into every available shop window as I do so. I may not be able to spend actual money today, but there’s nothing stopping me frittering it away mentally. By my calculations I would have spent about €300 this morning, so it’s probably just as well the shops weren’t open. I do, however, manage to get some photos of one of the Fiat 500s that still litter this area. 50 years on and still going strong – must be the Mediterranean diet that does it.

When I get back to the flat, Alex waves a leaflet at me in excitement. It’s for a Medieval fair, apparently. Translating it badly in my head I decide that I *have* to see windy dancing (spettacolo delle danzatrici del ventre – actually belly dancing, although I much prefer my translation) and the Grand Fiery Spectacular at the end (grande spettacolo con il fuoco) and we therefore hop in the car. As we reach the Otranto junction we realise that we may not be the only people who’ve had this idea. The road is nose-to-tail with carfuls of Italians making the most of the beautiful weather. We wind our way slowly down the coast road into the centre of town – and straight out of the other side. I’ve only ever been to Otranto in low season. It hadn’t occurred to me that it might be a problem finding a parking space. Bugger. I’m about to suggest to Alex that we carry on driving and go to Gallipoli instead, when the parking angel does some sterling work and a car pulls out of a space right in front of us. Hurrah! It’s even on the right side of town, at the high point above the castle. Perfect.

As we wander out of the side road where we’re parked, I hear a voice saying my name. Blinking in confusion, I realise that it’s one of my PON students, who is out for the day with her family. I think we’re both as surprised as each other, and neither of us knows quite what to say. Do we speak in English or Italian? I have no idea whether her family speak English, and so settle for a somewhat startled, ‘hello!’ and a general wave. There is some rapid Italian between my student and her mother, and her mum’s face, which was looking very puzzled at her daughter speaking to some strange adult Englishwoman, clears. ‘Ah! La professoressa!‘ I smile and nod. There’s some awkward shuffling – do we carry on the conversation or does everyone just carry on as before? I’m about to embarrass myself by attempting to speak some Italian, when thankfully my student’s sister saves the day and carries on walking, bored with the exchange already. With relief, the rest of the family follow. In a moment of sublime comedy, however, there’s only one road into town from here, and pavement on only one side of it …

Finally managing to extricate myself from the convoy of awkwardness and heading down into the castle moat to the fair, I run into yet another of my students – one of my 5-year olds this time. He’s leaping around on straw bales and almost launches himself into my lap. He grins, unabashed, and gives me a wave, but continues his game. I turn my attention to the chickens next to him. Seriously. Live chickens. And, next to them, a man selling broadswords, which are casually plunged into a strawbale. Some kids walking past pull them out and wave them around with gay abandon, and no-one bats an eyelid. I love rural fairs. I’m reminded of one I went to in France as a child, which involved people swimming through peat bogs with a pig under their arm. You couldn’t make this stuff up.

Having tired of jousting and medieval singing, we head back into town for ice cream. Perched on the sea wall we watch a football game going on below us. There are 15 or so teenage boys kicking a ball about with gusto. Every so often it gets kicked into the 10 foot expanse of water between the paved front and the breakwater and there is a chorus of ‘porca madonna!‘ They have a long pole which they use to fish it back to the shore, and before long it seems that this has actually become the game, rather than football. The ball spends far more time in the water than on dry land. Their kicks become harder and eventually the inevitable happens: the ball gets booted beyond the breakwater and into open harbour, out of reach of even the fishing pole. One of the younger boys is despatched to wait on the breakwater for the incoming tide to bring the ball back while the rest of them turn their attention to throwing (open) bottles of water at each other and flirting with the girls who sit watching and smoking, while shouting sarcastic insults. When the ball is finally retrieved, there is a loud cheer from everyone, and grins all round. The game now turns to kicking the ball up from the front onto the piazza, 20 foot above, and then issuing imploring shouts for its return. Can we have our ball back, please, mister? Oh, g’wan! The crowd on the piazza are enjoying the game just as much as they are, and there is jovial banter from both sides. The ball is thrown back down a few times and the boys carry on. Finally, however, one of them boots it a bit too hard. What we on the piazza can see is that they’ve kicked it clear of everything, and over onto the flat roof of a building at the far side of the piazza. There’s a collective ‘oooohh!’ from up above. The boys down below, however, haven’t seen what’s happened and are busily shouting for the ball’s return. The shouts become louder and more insistent, accompanied by imploring gestures, until the situation is explained to them. Ah. They come sheepishly up to piazza level and mill around in front of the building, daring each other to be the first to go up the outdoor stairs and collect the ball. One of them finally finds his nerve and swaggers forward. The rest cluster together and charge after him in a crowd. 30 seconds later they all rush back – they’ve been intercepted by something or someone, and have returned empty handed. The ball game is over for today.

Images by Kate Bailward

by Kate Bailward Posted on May 2, 2010
Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged | 12 Comments

Daydream in Blue

 

We’re somewhere south of Rimini. We’ve been on this train for hours already, and will be so for a good few more. I’ve dozed my way through much of the journey, but am now wide awake and restless. Rimini station was industrial and ugly, the area criss-crossed with giant metal pipes and concrete pillars. It wasn’t a great wake-up call, and I’m grumpy at being trapped on a train without either entertainment or a pretty view. I huff sulkily, belieing my thirty-odd years, and garnering myself an old-fashioned look from the middle-aged Italian next to me. She’s come prepared with a book, but it’s in Italian so I can’t do as my inner Londoner dictates and read it over her shoulder. Instead, I stare mournfully out of the window.

As we glide south, the industrial feel improves, but the land is still rocky, flat, and uninspiring. The sun is sitting low in the sky, and I squint in search of something interesting in the landscape. There’s nothing. I turn my gaze from the right-hand side of the train, where I’m sitting, to the left – and physically gasp. We are in the sea!  Of course we’re not, in reality, but we are running so close to the Adriatic coastline that from my viewpoint it seems like we are. I gaze, open-mouthed, at brilliant turquoise water running up to and blending with the horizon. Sometimes we inch a little further away from the edge, and I catch glimpses of yellow sand and tall, black bulrushes, but it’s the sea that is the star. The colour in the early-evening sun is almost impossible to believe. It practically glows. If I could, I would dive out of the window and into the water, ignoring the Italians’ shrieks of horror at daring to go in the sea before the prescribed summer months. Chuckling to myself at the chaos that would cause, I instead lean back in my seat and enjoy the view.

The guard walks along the carriage, checking tickets. Seeing him, I am thrown straight back to the 1940s: no grey slacks and cheap shirts here. Perish the thought! Instead, he wears a navy-blue serge suit with red piping and matching peaked cap, complete with highly polished shoes and a pocketwatch on a chain. His hair is silver, wavy, collar-length and beautifully coiffed, and he has the most impressive walrus moustache I’ve seen in a very long time. Also silver, it covers the entire area from his nose to his top lip and is fastidiously trimmed, with not a hair out of place. He gazes scornfully at my sleeping travelling companion’s two-day-old stubble, turns up his nose and moves on. I return to my contemplation of the sea, but in that minute of distraction the magic has gone. The water is no longer blue, but murky grey. Smiling, I close my eyes and dream in azure.

This post has been entered into the Grantourismo–HomeAway travel writing competition

Image by Kate Bailward

by Kate Bailward Posted on April 24, 2010
Posted in Travelling Like a Maniac | Tagged , | 24 Comments

Glass of white wine for the lady?

It’s been raining all day. We’ve been to the Uffizi, queued for an hour and a half for the Accademia and seen an amazing metaphysical art exhibition at Palazzo Strozzi. We’ve also stomped the streets until my feet are pretty much ready to fall off. I’m tired, wet and hungry, and therefore cranky. Alex drags me hastily into a restaurant before he gets shouted at yet again.  It’s still only 8.00, so I’m surprised to see a table already filled with people eating. Earwigging on their conversation, I work out that they’re Germans. Ah – that makes sense. No self-respecting adult Italian would eat this early.

It quickly becomes clear that this is very much a family business. The solemn, middle-aged son, in shirt buttoned up to the chin and severely side-parted hairstyle, shows us to a table with earnest care. He’s unusually tall for an Italian. His father, on the other hand, is small and chatty. He bustles up to the table with a proprietorial air, shooing his son back to the bar and handing us a couple of menus.  He doesn’t really expect us to read them, however, and he rattles off their specials of the day with pride. Alex discusses the food, and I catch some of the conversation, but not all. I do manage to work out that he’s asking about the finocchiona, though. I’ve guessed that it’s something to do with fennel, but not got any further. The father beams as he explains that it’s a salami flavoured with fennel (woohoo!), and a Tuscan speciality. Yum. Sounds good. I soon realise, however, that I’m not going to be allowed to order it. As a female, and a non-Italian-speaker to boot, I’m not going to get to make any decisions here. I will be getting prosciutto and melon and will like it. Boring! My Italian’s not up to protesting, though, and Alex is merely sniggering at my outrage. I glower at him and resolve to steal his food. Oblivious to my plans, he goes on to order the sole for his main. The restaurant owner nods busily. ‘Sogliola per due. Si.’ This time, though, I’m ready for him and squawk a protest before he can run away. No! I want the wild boar! Er – please? He looks a little surprised. I’m not sure whether it’s that I’ve ordered for myself or because I’ve gone for wild boar rather than something more delicate, but he writes the order with a flourish on his notepad anyway and potters off to find us a bottle of wine. Now that’s more like it.

Our wine arrives. The label waxes lyrical about birds, of all things. I’m not sure what ‘pispola’ means, but looking at the picture I think it may be what birdwatchers call turdus philomelos or, in common parlance, a thrush. Doesn’t sound too great whichever name you call it. Would madam care for a bottle of thrush? No? Really? How about some turdus philomelos? Thankfully it tastes a lot better than it sounds. Tucking into the starters, which have also arrived, I find that Alex’s fennel salami is, indeed, a lot more interesting than my melon and prosciutto. As usual I have food envy, but at least this time I can blame someone else rather than myself. Result. Alex offers me another slice of finocchiona. I don’t need asking twice: I take two before he has a chance to object. I give him a melon quarter, but I’m not sure he’s convinced it’s a fair exchange. Ha. That’ll teach him to leave me floundering in language hell.

The restaurant is beginning to fill up, so la mamma has appeared from upstairs. She is sporting a fuschia-pink dress covered with a red, food-spattered housecoat, and immediately disappears to the far end of the restaurant to talk to the second and third sons in the kitchen. As well as her garish outfit, she wears milk-bottle glasses and a somewhat forbidding expression on her face. A formidable sight indeed. When she comes to our table to clear our starters, however, she breaks into a grin and chatters away nineteen-to-the-dozen. Of course, I barely understand a word, but it doesn’t seem to worry her too much. It seems that it’s just short-sightedness, rather than anything more ominous, that made her look so gloomy. She’s a rotten waitress, dropping plates and handing the wrong orders to the wrong people all over the restaurant, but she’s so cheery while doing it that no-one minds at all. It’s far more like having dinner at a friend’s house than eating in a restaurant. The slightly rusty mechanics are all clearly on show, but the food is good and conversation even better, so who cares if you get the wrong plate? You just swap with the person next to you and carry on.

When it comes to ordering pudding, Alex protests that he’s full, but our host is having none of it. Off he pops to the pudding trolley and returns with not just one, but a whole plateful of profiteroles which he drops in front of Alex with a tut and a roll of his eyes. Refusing pudding? Whatever next! This is Italy, and here you eat, young man! He also plonks a couple of bottles of liqueur onto the table, along with a rapid-fire stream of Italian and a wink. God only knows what’s in them, as they are unlabelled and clearly home-made, but we pour a shot each and give them a go. I’m still not entirely certain what they contain, but they burn all the way down. It’s a somewhat wobbly walk home.

Image: Alex Palmer

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

Guiding Light


I’ve always been a bit of a ‘chuck yourself in the deep end with no research whatsoever’ kind of a gal. (See also: training to be an EFL teacher on a whim; moving to hicksville, southern Italy for a year; eating tripe.) So when I was contacted by a nice chap called James Gunn at MP3travelclub.com, asking if I’d review his new audio travel guides, I leapt at the chance. “Hang on!” I hear you chorus. “Where do travel guides come in to living life on a wing and a prayer?” Well, I’m glad you asked. Guides may not be my forté, but reviewing falls under the ‘chucking self in at deep end’ heading and is therefore totally fair game.

According to the blurb on the website, all the guides are edited by a BBC-trained script editor and voiced professionally. They are also recorded and produced by a (BBC Radio) producer. The brackets make me giggle. You have to admire the PR nous. I’ll be honest: I’m more than half-expecting them to be awful. As a one-time actor, I’m well aware of how to fool people into thinking your product (which, for me, was – well – *me*) is a hell of a lot better than it actually is. Namedropping is part and parcel of that. I’m therefore very pleased to find that, on this occasion, the product lives up to the hype. The clips are clear and of good quality. The drawback to this is that they are big, so you wouldn’t want to download them to your mobile phone unless someone else is paying. Most are between 1.5 and 2.5MB in size, and they come in bundles, either for city (eg Rome) or area (eg Tuscany). The Rome bundle, for example, contains ten clips: one city guide and nine more detailed ones. The download time therefore quickly adds up. I’d say it’s worth thinking ahead before you leave home and downloading them to an MP3 player while you still have free broadband at your disposal.

In the Italy bundle that I’ve been sent there are 29 clips, voiced by four different artists. I listen to Florence first, given that I’ve just been there and can therefore compare my experience with the guide’s. These are all voiced by Mark Hamilton. He has a pleasant, friendly voice, but his Italian accent is very – er – *English*. This isn’t a disaster, but is a bit distracting for me. I amuse myself for a few minutes, scrolling through the different tracks in Preview and making a pseudo-rap. Bonjorno. Bonjorno. Bon – bon – bonjorno. I know: I need to get out more. Well, that’s what these guides are for. I return to the matter in hand.

The Florence city guide contains clips on the Accademia, the Medici Chapels, the Piazza della Duomo, the Piazza della Signoria and Palazzo Vecchio, the Ponte Vecchio, the Palazzo Pitti and the Uffizi. Some of these I’ve visited, some I haven’t. I decide to listen to the one about the Accademia. There’s a bit of  interesting chat about the history of the gallery and then, unsurprisingly, an awful lot about Michelangelo’s David, which is housed here. There is also mention of the corridor running up to the David, which I thought was one of the most interesting parts of the gallery. It contains a number of unfinished sculptures by Michelangelo, which are fabulous. Seeing the figures emerging from the stone is like seeing Creation, heretic as that sounds. David is, of course, a masterpiece, but seeing the marks of the sculptor’s chisel and the muscles and sinews appearing from cold marble in the unfinished works brought a lump to my throat. I’m left feeling that, although this guide is in no sense inaccurate, it doesn’t capture the full awe of being there.

In a lightning bolt moment, I realise I’m doing this the wrong way around. Guides are intended as tasters to tempt people in. Once you’ve been there and formed your own opinion, they’re redundant. I therefore decide to listen to one on a place I haven’t visited. I scroll through again, giggling to myself at Mark’s ‘bonjorno’ rap, and stop at Naples. This one is voiced by a chap called Melvyn Hiscock. The Internetz can find no evidence of him as a voice artist, but apparently he’s written a book on how to build your own electric guitar. Is it the same person? I don’t know, but if it is then he’s doing a sterling job of diversification. Well done that man. He has a pleasant, light voice which is very easy to listen to. He’s also got great comic timing. Lines such as, “Laws are sometimes obeyed – but more often are not – and you’ll soon see that traffic lights, for example, are mostly for decoration.” could be forbidding in the wrong hands. Melvyn, however, has a light touch and delivers them with a metaphorical wink and a smile in his voice. Would I visit on the strength of this guide? Well, it certainly wouldn’t put me off. My main beef would be that it doesn’t give enough detail. It’s an overview, nothing more. My feeling is that if you’ve paid out for an audio guide then you probably want a more detailed analysis – good places to stay and that kind of thing. There are separate guides to Herculaneum, Pompeii and Mount Vesuvius, which go into deeper detail, but Naples itself felt a little neglected. To be fair, this may be because Naples doesn’t have the greatest of reputations, but surely that’s all the more reason to big up its good points and give clear guidance on which areas are safe and which should be avoided.

Moving on, I listen to some of the Rome guides, more to compare my experiences with them than anything else. They are mainly voiced by Richard Hoyes who, unfortunately, sounds like Leslie Phillips. I’m sure the guides are great, but I couldn’t get past the feeling that I had a creepy old uncle breathing down my neck, and I therefore moved hastily on to Venice, which is voiced by Eve Karpf. I really like her voice, and she’s the only one of the four who can pronounce Italian like an Italian. The guide itself is also better than the one for Naples, giving far more detail and suggestions of things to see and do. Mind you – we’re talking about Venice here. It’s easy to be effusive about Venice. Poor Naples. I resolve to visit just to make it feel less like the poor relation. We southern Italians must stick together, y’know.

Overall, I think the guides are a great idea. They’re good quality, well-voiced and interesting. Having them on MP3 also means that they are more portable than a book when you’re travelling – put them onto your iPod or your phone and you’re good to go. If you’re short of time in a city and want an overview of the main sights then they’re perfect. Don’t, however, expect in-depth analysis or specific recommendations. They are merely starting points from which to discover things for yourself. Although, really, isn’t that the best way?

I listened to the Italy bundle offered by MP3travelclub.com. They are currently expanding their repertoire across Europe, North America and the rest of the world and are looking for reviewers. If you would be interested in reviewing then contact James Gunn via the website for your free bundle.

Image by Anna Jarske on Flickr

by Kate Bailward Posted on April 17, 2010
Posted in Reviewing Like a Maniac | Tagged , | 3 Comments

Cake and steak

 

The journey from Bologna to Florence is an easy one: 40 minutes on a high-speed, comfortable train. If you travel, as we did, just before dawn on a clear April morning, you get to see the sky changing from inky black to velvety midnight-blue in the brief moments in between tunnels. Blink and you miss it, however, as you’ve no sooner noticed it than you’re back in the depths of a mountain. By the time you get to Florence, it’s a surprise to be shot out of the darkness into the bright early-morning sunlight which floods over the tracks, welcoming you to the city.

In a great first impressions moment, the station knocks me sideways. It doesn’t appear to have changed since it was built in Mussolini’s time, and everywhere you look there is gorgeous Art Deco detailing. I’m a sucker for this period anyway, but this is impressive stuff. There are pale brown block marble columns, which at this time of the morning (just before 7am) are casting the most beautiful shadows. All the signage is in that very particular tall, round-edged 1930s font, and contained by similar black borders. Doors are tall and made of black metal and glass, topped with windowed lintels. I feel like I’ve stepped back in time into an Agatha Christie novel. When we then reach the main ticket hall and are faced with a beautiful Deco skylight covering the whole hall, I am in absolute heaven. I could stay here and drool over the architecture all day, were it not for the fact that my stomach has, by now, woken up and is growling at me with serious intent. My brain, on the other hand, is still fuzzy with lack of sleep and in desperate need of coffee. We stumble out of the station into a Florentine morning in search of the nearest bar. Bar in the Italian sense, that is – one which serves coffee and pastries, rather than booze. I may be on holiday, but I draw the line at hard liquor before 7am.

The first vaguely breakfasty place we come to is McDonalds. There’s no way I’m going to go in there in Florence, of all places, when I could get sinful, delicious pastries and proper shots of espresso on pretty much any street corner. We therefore totter 100 yards further on and find a pasticceria. Perfect. In common with so many Italian coffee shops, there is a large glass counter displaying all manner of pastries, each larger and more delicious than the last. I eye up what looks to be a giant doughnut, the size of a small melon, but decide to plump for the safe option: cornetto con crema. I’ve become a bit addicted to these croissants filled with crème patisserie. Biting into them, the filling squidges out of the edges, and you are hit with an instant rush of sugar. Combine this with Italian coffee and you can fly your way through that first, sleepy hour of the morning no problem. Beside me, Alex snorts with laughter. I throw a questioning look his way and he nods towards the window of the bar, which proudly proclaims ‘Bar Napoletana’. We’ve come all this way north, just to end up in a southern Italian bar. We’re brought back to the north with a bump when we come to pay, though. €13 for coffee and pastries. Ouch.

 

 

Now that I’ve woken up a bit, I read the directions that I’ve been sent by the hostel. Quite by chance, it seems we’ve ended up on the right road and are already halfway there. Brilliant. We gather up our bags and stroll through the streets. The city isn’t really awake yet, and it’s lovely to breathe crisp, cold air while taking in some of our surroundings, unrushed by other people. We are on the north side of town, away from the main tourist sights, but you can still see the Duomo from pretty much wherever you are. In a strange trompe l’oeil, when you’re right next to it it doesn’t seem so huge, but it dominates the landscape when you’re further away, towering over everything else. We pass through a small park. There are swings and a flower stall, neither of which are in use at this time in the morning. There is, however, half a bottle of limoncello perched on top of a stone bollard. Somebody clearly had a very heavy night – so heavy that they didn’t even finish it. The bottle remains there for the next 2 days, amusingly enough, although it does move around a bit. I’m not sure if the local tramps are taking a swig nightly or just playing spin the bottle, but it’s entertaining to spot where it’s ended up every morning as we pass through on our way into town.

Having dumped our bags in the hostel we head back into town. It’s a beautiful sunny morning and we take our time to stroll down to the Uffizi to book tickets for the following day. I have a couple of letters to post, so I stop in a newsagent. ‘Avete francobolli?’ Not only does he understand me but he answers in Italian, rather than switching to English as so many people do.  He even smiles at me. The same thing happens in the gelato stall the following day. When I arrive, an American woman is ordering, making no attempt at Italian. The girl behind the counter, on the other hand, is answering in beautiful, only slightly-accented English. I order in Italian and, despite the fact that my accent clearly marks me as a foreigner, she answers me in Italian. Even better than this, I understand everything she says to me. Is the accent clearer here, or is it just that I’m in the right frame of mind? I don’t know, but I like it, whatever it is. They’re small victories, but important ones, linguistically.

It’s not yet 8.30am, and the sun is still low in the sky. As we stand, admiring the belltower in Piazza del Duomo, rays of sunlight spill through the windows, flaring around the edges and setting the piazza alight. Gilding on the side of the cathedral sparkles in the sun, and puddles on the ground glitter. A newspaper stand trundles past, seemingly of its own volition. Runaway train! It turns a corner, and the mechanics behind the machinery are revealed: a man pulling it behind him, bumping over the flagstones and chatting to his companion with animation. A woman cycles past, nearly knocking more than one person over. Not only is she texting as she cycles, but she’s wearing slingbacks with 4″ heels. As she passes me, her phone rings and she answers, a wide smile flashing across her face. ‘Pronto!’ Her conversation carries on as she wobbles across the piazza, scything her way through passing pedestrians and charmingly oblivious to the chaos she leaves in her wake. I step hastily out of the way of another cyclist. This one, however, is completely in control, and whistling a perfect rendition of ‘Là Ci Darem La Mano’. All this before 9 in the morning. I think I love this city.

A little later, settled in a cafe in Piazza della Signoria with cups of tea and large slices of cake, we watch the world go by. Given that I’m never too far from thinking about my next meal, I idly ask Alex what the Florentine speciality is. There’s bound to be one – every town and region in Italy has its own particular food which is, of course, the very best in Italy. No other region can possibly compete! The Salento has orechiette and cime di rapa, which I love. However, I’m also quite partial to Torino’s bicerin and Rome’s artichokes and zucchini flowers. If it’s good, I’ll eat it, regionality be damned. Alex tells me Florence’s food is ‘some kind of steak’. Well, *that* doesn’t sound very exciting. A little disappointed, I put it to the back of my mind and concentrate on the excellent torta della nonna on the plate in front of me. Creamy, barely-set custard sprinkled with golden, toasted almonds and contained in lighter-than-light, crumbly pastry – what’s not to love?

 

Later that evening, I discover the truth behind bistecka fiorentina. On the menu, it’s listed as costing €4.50 per 100g. Well, OK, at that price it’s probably a nice piece of meat, and it’s been a while since I ate steak, so I’ll go for that, please. The waiter smiles indulgently at me. On your own? I look at him a bit blankly. He explains: it’s just that the minimum order is a kilo … I look at Alex. He grins back at me. Fiorentina for two it is, then. 500g of meat each is quite a lot, but I’m sure we’ll manage. While we wait, we get stuck into a good bottle of Chianti and people-watch. There’s a large family on the table next to us and, behind them, a gay couple on a romantic night out. It makes me realise how much I miss living in a big city, where you are free to be whoever you want to be. The Salento is beautiful, but it’s also remote and more close-minded than the cities further north. Before I have the chance to get maudlin, however, our steak arrives. Oh. My. God. A good 3 or 4 inches thick and still attached to a large T-bone, it has been no more than wafted briefly in front of a very hot pan. The outside is seared black, but the middle is still dark pink and uncooked. Perfection. The waiter scribbles a number on our bill: 1400. 1400g of prime steak between two people, one of whom (and I’ll give you a clue: it’s not me) is looking very afraid. Not only is there half a practically-still-mooing cow in front of us, but there is a hefty pile of sautéed potatoes and a giant salad. Not forgetting the 3/4 of a bottle of Chianti which we have yet to drink. I’m in my element. Forking a large piece into my mouth, I find I barely have to chew at all: this is a seriously good piece of meat. I sigh with happiness and roll my eyes at Alex. That’s the last time I listen to his food advice. ‘Some kind of steak’ indeed …

Images: Kate Bailward and Roboppy

by Kate Bailward Posted on April 11, 2010
Posted in Eating Like a Maniac | Tagged | 5 Comments

Night Train to Florence

 

Florence. When I found out that I would have five, blissful, teaching-free days over Easter, the City of Flowers was my first thought. Second thought was, “oh god: the journey.” I love arriving in different destinations, but I hate travelling. For a start, there’s booking tickets. The internet ought to have made all this easier, but in my experience it just complicates everything. It’s so fast-moving that by the time you’ve looked up prices for all the different routes and means of transport, and decided on one, everything has changed and you have to start all over again. Despite this, I give it my best shot. First: the trains. Trenitalia’s website gives me all the details and tells me that there are seats available but then refuses to accept my card. Growling, I try the planes. Flights seem reasonable until I try to book, at which point they mysteriously double in price. In the end I do what I should have done right from the start and go to the lovely travel agent in town. If you, like me, are an expat in Italy, I can’t recommend this route enough. €8-10 is a small price to pay for somebody else to take the headache out of Italian red tape. I cheerfully hand over my card to the smiling woman in the travel agency, and leave 15 hassle-free minutes later, clutching six freshly-printed train tickets, one for each leg of the journey. Perfect.

The cheapest way to make the journey is by sleeper train. It’s a ten-hour journey, more or less, involving two changes of trains, one of which is at 5.40am. Ouch. The first hurdle, however, is for Alex and me to get to the station in Lecce. Easier said than done. Not only is there a lot of traffic, but it’s been taken over by the One-Way-System fairies. Add to this the facts that signage is patchy at best and you’re dealing with Italian drivers, and you have something that resembles the seventh circle of hell. Leaving the ring-road, we get lost in the suburbs for a while, driving around endless identical high-rise blocks of flats hoping to find a sign that will give us a clue of a vague direction to take. Finally, we get back on track and breathe a sigh of relief. But then, right in front of us, a car decides to change lanes without looking and cannons into another. Two front wings crumple and eight Italians spill out of their cars to shout and gesticulate for all they’re worth.  Are we going to be thwarted in our journey before we’ve even got out of the Salento?  Happily, no-one is hurt and there isn’t any major damage, so we zip around the side and leave them to it. We have a long-distance train to catch.

At the station there are plenty of Italians, also heading away for the Easter holiday. It makes fascinating watching. Not one of them arrives at the station alone; they are all accompanied by myriad family and friends, and even more suitcases. One man carries a large cardboard box tied up with string, complete with cunningly devised handle. The writing on the outside tells me that it contains a microwave, but I assume that’s no longer the case. *Surely* no-one takes a microwave on holiday with them. Do they …? Many more people clutch giant easter eggs, a good foot high and beautifully wrapped in coloured foil and ribbons. Everyone has at least one large wheeled suitcase. You can tell the foreigners in the station: they’re the tall, pale ones travelling light and alone, or at the most in pairs. I notice a pair of what look to be German travellers racing through the station, dreadlocks and loose clothing layers flying as they run through the underpass to their train. I don’t know whether it’s that all the Italians are uncharacteristically on time, or whether they just don’t mind if they miss their train, but none of them seem to be in any hurry. They are far more concerned with gossip and socialising as they lug their hundreds of bags onto the platform. I feel I should take a leaf out of their book, but am too busy twitching about missing our train. Alex takes pity on me about 15 minutes before departure and we head through the underpass. When we reach the platform, we cast about for a ticket stamper. Train tickets must be validated with the time and date at the station before you get on the train, or you face being fined. There are therefore bright yellow boxes situated at strategic points around every station, although half the time they don’t seem to work. This can lead to situations where you’ve tramped half a mile across the station to the furthest platform, only to have to run back to where you came from in order to validate the ticket. This is, in fact, exactly what happens to us now. Noticing my eyes widening in panic at the fact that we have a mere 10 minutes before the train leaves, Alex laughs at me, leaves me with his rucksack, and saunters back through the underpass to stamp the ticket. I chew my fingernails and check the clock. It’s all my great-grandmother’s fault. She, apparently, used to insist on being at the station two hours before the train departed. This paranoia has been passed down the family line and, although I’m not as bad as that, I do like to have a good half hour in hand.

Of course, Alex makes it back with plenty of time to spare, and we hop on board the rather swanky-looking train that will take us through stage one of the journey. It looks more like a tram than a train, with platform-level entry doors and wide, concertina-ed carriages which run straight through with no dividing doors. The seats are high-backed grey vinyl, with shiny chrome handles along the aisle seats, for those moments when the train buckets around a corner and sends you flying into a fellow passenger’s lap. The tables are covered in wood-effect veneer, and the whole train has a smell of newness to it. What does newness smell like? Well, rather like nappies, actually … It’s very different to the trains on my local branch line, which are tinpot little puff-puff things from an age long before automatic doors and hot and cold running wi-fi. We stretch out and relax, playing a couple of lazy games of noughts and crosses. The family across the aisle from us watch us with open curiousity as I ask Alex the meaning of various Italian words. The daughter is a vivacious, giggly little thing, coercing her bear of a father into playing one-potato-two-potato with her. He concedes with a paternal chuckle. He’s big for an Italian – well over 6′, and broad with it – and looks and sounds like Tony Soprano, so to see him giggling with his little girl is sweetly incongruous. The train glides on through the night, arriving at Bari bang on time, an hour and a half later.

 

The next part of the journey is the bit that promises to be a proper adventure. This train is much older and more dilapidated than the one we’ve just left. Inevitably, we are at the wrong end of the platform, and have to rush past 10 carriages to get to the one we’re booked into. Puffing slightly, we clamber up the steep steps and into the narrow corridor which runs alongside the sleeper cabins. We are booked into a six-berth ‘promiscuo’, or mixed-sex, cabin. In contrast with the name, I’m relieved to note that there’s not a hope of anything sordid happening in there. The bottom two berths are already occupied by a middle-aged couple, and one of the top ones by a large chap in his 40s. I have the other top berth, and Alex is in one of the middle ones. We squeeze our way into the cabin and release the provided bedding from its plastic wrapping. Making a bunk bed while perched on top of it, feet dangling over the edge and head stooped to avoid hitting the ceiling, is quite hard, I discover. I get the giggles at my ineptitude, which earns me a glare from the woman in the bottom bunk. Of course, this only serves to make me helpless with laughter. I fling the sheet into the corner and scramble down the ladder, out into the corridor, resolving to sort the bed out at whichever point I decide to climb into it. The corridor is crammed with people peering out of the windows. We should have been on the move by now, but the train is still resolutely stationary. I put my hands against the cool glass of the window, leaving a perfect pair of hot handprints: the train is allegedly air-conditioned, but in fact it seems to be super-heated. All around us there is excited chatter and laughter. The holiday weekend is well and truly upon us and everyone is looking forward to whatever plans they have made. For many Italians, this seems to be going to the beach and eating enormous amounts of food. Sounds like a good way to spend a long weekend to me. I look at Alex and he has a worried expression on his face. Ever so casually, he asks how long we have to change in Bologna. He’s been listening to the guard and apparently the train is running 28 minutes behind schedule. This is a bit of a problem: our change is 30 minutes. I seem to have been overtaken by Italian-ness, however, as I find myself shrugging and grinning. The journey from Bologna to Florence is only 40 minutes – if we miss the connection we just hop on the next train. It’ll be fine!

Finally the train is on the move. I watch the lights of Bari recede into the distance and grin with excitement. A father and daughter are watching the darkened landscape from the window next to me, and we exchange smiles. I’m not really tired yet but, realising that I’ll probably not get all that much sleep, I decide to brave the bunk again. This time, to make life more complicated, the overhead light has been turned off, so I’m fumbling around in the dark. Once again, giggles threaten to overcome me, but I manage to keep myself just about under control. The heat is stifling, and I regret my decision to wear a woollen dress. I sneak a peek around the cabin to see if anyone else is awake. Dare I risk taking the dress off? I’m wearing a long-sleeved top and tights underneath it, so it wouldn’t be too indecent, but this is Italy and they get scandalised by the funniest things. The guy on the other top berth is snoring like a grampus, so I’m safe from him. The woman on the bottom berth still has her side light on, but appears to have dozed off, so I decide to risk it. I pull the paper sheet over me, and whip the dress over my head. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m sure it would have been great for weightloss to have kept it on, but it wasn’t at all conducive to a comfortable night’s sleep. As comfortable as a night on a swaying bunk, in a cabin shared with two loud snorers can be, that is. I glance down at Alex, who has his pillow jammed over his head in an attempt to block out the loud rattling noises coming from the men next to and above him. I’m not getting any sleep tonight, clearly. I settle for closing my eyes and relaxing, as a halfway measure.

At some point I must actually have dozed off, because I am rudely awakened at 5.30 by the guard throwing the cabin door open and switching on the light. “Bologna! Novantaquattro, novantacinque!” Relieved to have got a wake-up call, I try to negotiate re-donning my dress without flashing my knickers at the guy in the other top bunk, who is now very much awake. I’m not sure I entirely manage it, but I’m leaving now, so what the hell. Hoping to god that I’ve remembered to pick everything up, I fall down the ladder and out into the corridor. Dawn hasn’t yet broken, and it’s seriously cold outside the cabin. I shiver, but can’t keep the smile off my face. The train has caught up on the delays overnight, and we’re arriving dead on time in Bologna. Florence, here we come …

(to be continued …)

Images: Kate Bailward & Paolo Màrgari

by Kate Bailward Posted on April 10, 2010
Posted in Travelling Like a Maniac | Tagged , , | 6 Comments

On littering and lion tamers

(image by Kate Bailward)

Being a not very organised person who doesn’t think ahead all that far, I’m not registered for a postal vote in the UK. Luckily, other expats are more on the ball than me, and have already received their voting cards, which tell them that the UK General Election is to be held on 6 May.  Bit of a coup, that, given that it hasn’t been officially announced yet, but no matter.  This has thrown me into a state of panic, as I’m not sure the Italian postal system is up to organising this in time. I shall, however, give it a damn good try. I’ve therefore spent the last half hour filling in an application form to send off to my local council. The most complicated part of this, though, is going to be finding somewhere to print the beggar out. The school computer system is nothing if not esoteric. One computer can just about get online (after a *lot* of chuntering), but can’t print. The other – you’ve guessed it – can print but not get online. Given that the form is a web .pdf file, this could be entertaining …

In Italy, elections were held in a number of regions on Monday. To advertise each candidate (of which there seemed to be hundreds), flyers were handed out. Or, rather, thrown liberally out onto the streets like ticker tape. The Green movement doesn’t hold much sway here. The gutters are knee-deep in discarded leaflets and cards, and have been for weeks. This doesn’t seem like the most effective ad campaign to me. I wouldn’t bother picking up a soggy flyer that’s been trampled underfoot and driven over by multiple cars, and I doubt the fastidious Italians would either. Interestingly, for a nation which keeps the interior of their houses so sparkling clean, they don’t seem to give a stuff about the outside. I haven’t seen a street sweeper since I’ve been here, and the election flyers appear to be being left to melt in the rain. Unluckily for us all, it is at just this point that the rain is beginning to clear up. (Apologies to readers in the UK, who appear to be snowed in again. Hohoho.) Here, it’s been gloriously sunny for the last few days. Good news for sun-worshippers, but bad news for the appearance of our streets. Not only are they covered in paper, but we can now see them in their full, shameful, littered glory. Ick.

In my town, the ad campaign also meant that every single billboard was covered with posters of airbrushed politicos, smiling for all they were worth. Appropriately, in a country where appearance is all, you’ve never seen such gleaming white teeth or sparkling eyes, even in Hollywood. Similar to Italian television presenters, the men were mostly well-turned-out but pug-ugly. The women, however, all had to be attractive, as well as being made-up to within an inch of their lives. Well, if we *must* have a woman in charge, at least she should be nice to look at, no? Once again, I have the strange feeling that I’ve been transported back to the 1950s, in so many ways.

Billboards are a serious business here and, unlike the UK, they are kept bang up to date. No sooner had the elections happened than the candidates’ posters were removed from the boards. They haven’t yet been replaced by anything else, but there will no doubt be a circus soon. They turn up every couple of months, live animals and all. The last one proudly advertised a lion tamer posing with one of his beasts. The man’s body was straight out of Mr Universe, but his head was (a) pale and pasty as opposed to glistening bronze and (b) totally out of proportion, being far too small to compete with the rippling chest muscles below. He was also slightly balding. It made me wonder whether maybe there once was a good-looking lion tamer (possibly called Bjorn), with well-developed pecs and a full head of hair. One day, however, he met with a nasty accident. Lions are everso prone to munching on meat, bless ’em. The circus launches the hunt for a replacement.

Lion tamer required.
Must be good with animals and available immediately.

A new daredevil tamer arrives, but he’s a bit disappointing in the old looks department. Plus, he’s called Kevin. Oh dear. “He’ll never sell any tickets!” thinks the Ringmaster. “Hmm. What to do? I know! Let’s take Bjorn’s photo, remove his head, and put Kevin’s in its place! Brilliant! No-one will *ever* know! Now, does anyone round here know Photoshop …?”

by Kate Bailward Posted on April 1, 2010
Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged | 11 Comments

Fruit Salad

(image by Darwin Bell on Flickr)

Fruit Salad. It’s a rubbish food, but a brilliant game. For those of you who were never drama students, Fruit Salad is a game similar to musical chairs.  To play, you form a circle, with one fewer seats than there are players. The player *sans* chair stands in the centre, and is the caller. In the simplest form of the game, each player is assigned a fruit name: apples, oranges, pears, bananas etc. The person in the middle calls out one of said fruits, and everyone assigned to that fruit jumps up and rushes around madly trying to find an empty seat to sit in. Meanwhile, the caller is doing the same, hoping to leave someone else standing in the middle to be the new caller. There is much pushing, shoving, and hilarity, and at least one person will end up falling on their arse, giggling fit to burst. To add spice to the game, at any time the caller can shout ‘Fruit Salad!’, at which point everyone has to leap to their feet and find a new place to sit. It’s energetic and madcap, and can keep a group entertained for hours. In summer school last year my students broke three chairs playing this game, in their determination to be the first into a seat. Despite damn nearly also breaking their heads as they went flying, they refused to play any less fiercely. I loved them for that.

So, how is this useful to me as an EFL teacher? Well, I don’t think there’s a language point that it can’t be used to teach. It’s merely a case of modifying the phrase the caller is given. My favourite form is ‘I have never’, which is ideal for practising present perfect. The caller has to say something they have never done – except that they are, in fact, lying. Everyone who has also done whatever nefarious deed it happens to be has to find a new seat. This always starts off being pretty tame (I have never been to school), but quickly escalates into dark confessions (I have never had sex in a cemetery at night with my best friend’s little brother.) It’s always entertaining to watch the caller squirm with embarrassment when they’re the only person that’s done what they say they’ve done. Or the only one that will admit to it, anyway.

I’m working with an elementary group in one of my outside classes at the moment. Present perfect is way beyond them at this point in time, but I can use the game to practise the past simple of ‘to be’, plus ‘could’, our grammar point for the day. I give them the phrase, ‘when I was a child, I could …’ and let the game commence. There are nearly 30 kids in the group, and it quickly gets cutthroat, with the usual Italian urge to cheat coming to the forefront. Rather than leaping to their feet and rushing to the nearest chair as soon as the caller says their piece, there is a minute of inactivity, as friends make eye contact across the circle and arrange to swap places. This will never do. I haul one of the worst offenders out of her seat and order her to be the caller. She looks at me with injured innocence. I raise a disbelieving eyebrow at her. She concedes that she may have been stacking the odds somewhat in her favour. The rest of the group titter. The game is on again, and this time they’re really into it. *THWACK!!* Paulo, the littlest boy in the group, sends himself flying over backwards not once but twice. *SNAP!!* Francesca breaks a shoe. *DOINNNNG!!* Giulia and Giuseppe crash into each other mid-circle, rebounding like comedy cartoon characters. It’s Six Nations Rugby crossed with Spongebob Squarepants and it’s *brilliant*.

Ten minutes later, Luigi is sprawled upside-down on the floor with an expression of dopey amazement on his face. Sara is dusting a large footprint off her bottom. Alessio is whistling and looking pointedly in the other direction. Federica is clutching two halves of a broken chair and Elena is laughing so much she can’t stop hiccupping. The end of lesson bell breaks through the anarchy and there is a loud, disappointed, ‘nooooooooo!’ from the class. It’s a wonderful moment for me, the creator of chaos. I gaze proudly at my savage, breathless little charges, knowing that, whatever else they may forget, after today they’ll always know *exactly* how to use ‘could’ correctly.

My work here is done.

by Kate Bailward Posted on March 26, 2010
Posted in Teaching Like a Maniac | 9 Comments

Cheats never prosper. Allegedly.

 

(Image by Kitsu on Flickr)

Bladders relieved, we head into the lecture hall where the written and listening exams will take place and start to set up the room. There’s a feeling of lightness about today, which probably has a lot to do with exhausted delirium, but is enjoyable anyway. The teacher from the Vieste school who is co-ordinating today’s exams looks like a Chuckle Brother, but less tastefully dressed. He’s wearing a maroon tracksuit (at least it’s not a shell suit, which are terrifyingly ubiquitous down here), and has a black canvas manbag slung across his torso. The strap is tightened too far, and, due to his stoop, it seems to be folding him in two. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

The students congregate outside the double glass doors to the hall, smoking and posturing for all they’re worth. We let them in one at a time. Each has to be seated at a particular desk, and their ID checked to make sure that they’re not a ringer. Worryingly, when I ask one boy (dubbed MetalKid, due to his leather jacket and greasy hair) for his ID, he doesn’t understand the question.  I repeat it, slowly and carefully. On the third time of asking he tells me in halting English that his teacher has it.   Chuckle Brother, however, dismisses the need for said card with a flippant wave of his hand. “No, he OK. Va bene?” Hmm. Well, I’m not going to get into an argument about potential corruption at this point. Besides, if MetalKid’s the ringer, then the poor sap he’s replacing is really grasping at straws. I let it slide.

The pile of garish coats and bags grows at the side of the hall, along with a small collection of mobile phones. The only things they are allowed to take to their seats are pencils, rubbers, sharpeners, ID and themselves. Everything else must be deposited with us for safekeeping. This is to minimise the chances of cheating, although I’m sure some bright spark will find a way of tattooing notes on the inside of their eyelids or something. Alex has a student known as WonderBoy, due to his semi-genius tendencies. This is a man who is more than capable of passing by fair means, probably while standing on his head and performing a faultless rendition of Handel’s Messiah via the medium of Mongolian throat singing. However, in his final lesson before the exam, he asked if he could look at other students’ papers if he didn’t know the answer. About to start laughing, Alex looked at WonderBoy’s face and realised that he was (a) deadly serious and (b) quite surprised that it wasn’t allowed. Here’s a radical idea, kids: how about you learn the subject properly, rather than thinking up ever more elaborate methods of cheating? No? Oh well.

The Boss explains exam procedure in Italian, the main thrust of the argument being ‘no cheating.’ Ha. If they drop something on the floor, they have to put their hand up and summon one of us to pick it up for them, to avoid any accusations of foul play. This, of course, means that we are kept very busy. I have a sneaking suspicion that quite a few of the boys are hoping to get a peek down Buxom Female Colleague’s top, as they seem more than disappointed if I answer their call. Some questions are genuine, and almost heartbreaking. One boy asks, with a desperate look in his eye, if I can tell him the meanings of words that he doesn’t know. Half the kids don’t sign their papers, despite that bit having been explained in Italian by The Boss in his pre-exam speech. I wonder if their teachers have told them anything at all about the exam, or whether they’ve just been dumped in cold. I suspect the latter, poor sods.

The reading and writing exam takes 90 minutes, during which time we have a look through the paper to answer it ourselves. Actually, we spend most of our time giggling and trying to hide the fact from the students. Unfortunately for us, we are seated on the dais in a lecture hall, and are clearly visible to the 50-odd teenagers ranged in front of us. A kid at the back, known to us as VestBoy due to his vile knitted waistcoat, is the most unsubtle cheat in the history of the world. I glare at him, but he’s completely unabashed. He does give up on the rubbernecking, but only in order to fall asleep. I try to point him out to Alex, but find myself incapacitated by laughter. I slide, slowly and carefully, down behind the desk and cry with hysteria.

The written papers over and done with, it’s time for the speaking exams. We work in pairs for this: one examiner speaking to the students, and the other marking them. Alex goes first as the interlocutor (the grand name for the person with the script), and I sit back and enjoy the sun on my neck. The first few students in are dismal. One boy doesn’t even manage to reach the minimum fail mark, and all we can do is give him a zero. None of them seem to understand the word ‘bought’. There are a good few comedy gold moments, though. When asked to talk about things they could do when on a camping trip, one student says (totally seriously), “We can go for strip in forest.” Er – yeah. After Alex and I have swapped roles, a pair of boys come in. I describe a situation to them, which they then have to discuss. A young man is leaving home and his parents want him to decide which of his things to keep, and which to throw away. The (theoretically) stronger student tries to help his mate by rewording the situation I’ve just outlined. Except that he gets it back to front. “Do you know Kate? Well, she is leaving home! What should she take with her to university?” Utter, chaotic confusion ensues. Brilliant.

It’s nearly 5pm and still a beautiful afternoon. All the students have made it through the exam room and out the other side. Alex and I hang out of the window of the classroom, watching tiny, neon-orange bugs pootle across the stone windowsill. We hold a lazy basket competition, trying and failing to throw a screwed-up piece of paper into the bin across the room. Alex finally pots it, but only after a good 15 attempts and much derisory laughter. It’s all in the wrist, apparently. “Andiamo, ragazzi?” The Boss chivvies us, grumbling, out of our sunny spot and into the back of the car. Bye, Vieste. It’s been a blast.

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by Kate Bailward Posted on March 23, 2010
Posted in Teaching Like a Maniac | 9 Comments