Driving Like a Maniac

Viaggio a Vieste

Image by Cindy47452 on Flickr

It’s 6am. Even the local cockerel isn’t awake yet. The town is cloaked in mist and the car windscreen is covered in a heavy layer of dew. Alex and I climb in, bleary-eyed and shivering. The windscreen wipers shriek when I turn them on, making us both jump and then giggle with tired hysteria. I put the car into gear and start the short drive to school. As we approach, the mist begins to glow red. “Look – a spaceship,” comments Alex. Even at this time in the morning he’s quipping, damn him. Of course, it’s no spaceship, just The Bossmobile – an enormous 4×4 Volvo, in which he is about to drive us to Vieste. The journey will take about 4 hours, even with The Boss’ super-fast driving skillz, so we climb in and settle down, hoping to get some more sleep before we have to start work. Today is an exam day and we, as Cambridge Oral Examiners, have the dubious honour of haring around the region to speak to students and seal their fate. As regards passing or failing their exam, anyway.

In the event, sleep is elusive. The Boss favours his music L.O.U.D. My knee vibrates where it rests about an inch from the speakers, and my poor, shrunken, sleepy brain rattles in my skull. Ah well. At least the views are pretty outside the window. The palicelle, whose spiky, succulent leaves are dusty grey-green in the height of the day, are given unexpected life by the early-morning dew, and are bright and glossy – at least until the sun gets to them. Mist sits in pockets in the fields, just beginning to be burnt off by the first fingers of sunlight. It’s elusive stuff: caught from the corner of the eye, it wraps the olive trees in a heavy grey-white blanket. Look straight at it, however, and it disappears like – well, like *mist*, funnily enough, wreathing its way up and out through the branches. Wrecked cars on the top deck of a transporter float above the low-lying grey vapour. They paint an incongruous picture of modernity, contrasting with the peace and traditionalism of the olive groves next to them. A pair of birds wheel in midair – maybe fighting, but, equally, maybe flirting? They rush together as if to attack, but then circle around each other, wing-tip to wing-tip, in an intricate, lightning-quick dance, before dashing apart and starting the sequence all over again.

As we reach Lecce, the sun is beginning to poke its way through the clouds of mist. Soft early-morning light falls on buttery Salentino stone, giving it life and turning it a warm, rose-tinged yellow. Stone from this area is highly rated, being soft and easy to carve. Looking at the tones of its colour this morning I see another clear reason why people want to use it. The castle is breathtakingly beautiful and, right at this moment, looks far more inviting than repelling. Just as well there aren’t any invading hordes on the way.

We pass through olive grove after olive grove, as the Bossmobile munches up the miles. You’d think it would get monotonous, but, in fact, they’re all very different. Some trees are squat and low, with multiple base trunks where they’ve been grafted and regrafted. They reach no more than about 10 foot high, with low, densely-fruited branches. Others, in contrast, wave spindly, twisted fingers 20 foot into the air, reaching for the sun. I’m not sure whether it’s different varieties of olive or just different farming methods, but it all adds to the richness and variety of the view. The groves drop away for a moment, as a quarry bites into the landscape, and reappear again as quickly as they went. Stone and olive oil. Not two things that you’d immediately think of in the same sentence, but, when it comes to industry, here they go hand in hand.

Insistent disco pounds out of the car speakers, syncopated with the bumping of the tyres as the Bossmobile roars over the terrible road surface. As we rattle further north, 70s disco gives way to 80s electro. If we went as far as Rome we might even get up to the present day – who knows? On the other side of the motorway there is a filling station with a giant, fibreglass Jesus on the forecourt, hands raised to the sky. There’s a carved stone version on the road from my town to Lecce (known by Alex, due to mispronunciation of the word Gesu by teachers past, as the big Gazoo), which I’d always been quite impressed by. This one, however, is three times the size, with his cuffs painted gaudy blue and his beard and hair brown. It looks like an animatronic robot. Pure anti-aesthetic genius. A little further on there’s a deserted petrol station which looks as if it were built purely for Apes and Pandas. (For non-Italian readers, those are both vehicles – southern Italy may be wild, but we haven’t been overrun by diesel-guzzling wild animals. Yet.) The roof is far too low for any lorries to be able to get in, and the forecourt is only about the size of my front room. The paint on the sign is blistered and peeling; like a child’s toy left out and forgotten for the summer, it’s oddly poignant.

It’s about 8.30 and the sun is now well and truly up. The Bossmobile roars into a filling station. “Caffè, ragazzi?” Alex and I crawl out of the back seat and cross the forecourt. It’s a pleasant surprise to find that we’re right next to the sea. I’ve clearly been looking out of the wrong window for the past half hour. I’d been so distracted by the fact that there were hills that I completely forgot to look anywhere else. Hills! Salento is as flat as the proverbial pancake, but now that we’ve got into Puglia, the land has started to rise up again. It’s not like we’re in the Alps or anything, but there’s definite undulation. Fabulous. It gets even more exciting as we get closer to Vieste. For the last 40 or 50km we are driving along mountain roads, winding their narrow way ever further upwards. Usually this would make me feel a bit carsick, but by this time I’m so desperate for a pee that I can’t think of anything else but the excruciating pain in my bladder. Beautiful sea views be damned: how long before I can become acquainted with the nearest bathroom? We reach the top of the mountain and The Boss starts to ignore the SatNav. I assume this means that he knows where he’s going, but apparently not. We double back on ourselves three times before he stops to ask for directions. Meanwhile, I’m dangerously close to wetting myself and, from the pained look on Alex’s face, he’s in pretty much the same situation. Aargh! Luckily, just before there is a disaster, we pull into the school grounds. Alex and I race past the crowds of nervous-looking students and into the nearest loos. Crisis averted. Now, about these exams …

by Kate Bailward Posted on March 21, 2010

Posted in Travelling Like a Maniac | Tagged lecce, puglia, salento | 2 Comments

The Python School of Language

One of the cornerstones of EFL teaching is eliciting. Essentially, it’s all to do with trying to draw out the knowledge that students already have. This is for a couple of reasons. Firstly, there’s no point teaching something that they already know. (Believe me: I’ve done that a few times, and it’s immensely frustrating.) Secondly, the reasoning is that, if they have to struggle to discover the word, they should (in theory, although it doesn’t *always* hold true …) retain the knowledge.

Students aren’t always keen on eliciting, and I’ve had to break some of the classes into it gently. This is especially true of children who have previously only been taught English by an Italian teacher, whose language skills may not be much better than the students they’re trying to teach. They’re very keen on merely diving straight into the dictionary, rather than giving me a chance to explain in English. This is bad for two reasons. One: it means that they put very little thought or effort into learning the word, and it’s likely to go in one ear and out of the other. Then two: as I’ve discussed in posts passim, Italian/English dictionaries are often not of the highest quality. Three: (ah, okay, there are *three* reasons) – THREE*: they’re not very good at using the dictionary. This results in frustrating discussions such as the one I had with an adult class the other day, in which one woman insisted that ‘wages’ (in the context of money) was a verb. “Um, no,” said I, in patient tones. ” ‘To wage’ is a verb, but ‘wages’ is a noun.” She wasn’t having any of it, though. “But it SAYS in my DICTIONARY that it’s a verb!” This is the moment when doubt in your own language sets in, and my smile began to falter slightly. However, I stuck to my guns, while racking my brains for what on earth her rubbishy dictionary had come up with. “Er – I doubt it …” Not in the least trusting the dictionary to be correct, I looked at the page that she was waving imperiously in my face. Vindicated, I smiled at her, meeting her snooty gaze head on. “Read the example. You can wage war,” (and by GOD I’d like to do that right now) “but ‘wages’, in the context of money,” (which is, after all, what we’re talking about, you dappy moo) “is quite definitely a NOUN. Right. Moving on …”

Eliciting can be done one of two ways: either you give them the word and try to draw out a definition, or you give them a definition and see if they know the word. I usually favour the second method, and can often be seen, at the beginning of a class, acting out little playlets for my students. For instance: ‘ooh, the other day I was walking down the street and I saw ROBERT PATTINSON!’ (Wait for shrieks of joy from the girls in the class) ‘However, I was really stupid: I didn’t stop to talk to him or get his autograph. What’s the name for that feeling?’ Sometimes, you get an answer pretty much straight away. That one worked well, and I got the answer I was looking for, which was ‘regret’. However, on other occasions, you are met with blank looks and insouciant shrugs, in which case it’s time to give them the word and move on. Then there’s the middle ground, where they shout out numerous synonyms for the word you’re actually trying to draw out of them. This can take a while, but is a great test of their vocabulary. ‘No, not that one, *another* word. Go on!’ The other evening I spent 20 minutes eliciting four words from my teenage class. That’s WAY too much time, but they were being pretty slow about it all. Exhausted, I tried to move on to the actual exercise in hand. However, they had other ideas. “More! Vai, Kate, vai!” No, I think not. It’s time for you beggars to do some work now, rather than just watching me prance around like a performing seal, thank you very much.

On Friday night, Alex and I watched The Holy Grail for about the fifty-billionth time. I’ve always found it hilarious, but the witch scene suddenly took on extra significance, and we spent the entire scene absolutely wetting ourselves. This is *exactly* what it’s like trying to elicit vocabulary from some classes.

BEDEVERE: Tell me, what do you do with witches?
VILLAGER #2: Burn!
CROWD: Burn, burn them up!
BEDEVERE: And what do you burn apart from witches?
VILLAGER #1: More witches!
VILLAGER #2: Wood!
BEDEVERE: So, why do witches burn?
[pause]
VILLAGER #3: Be … cause they’re made of wood …?
BEDEVERE: Good!

Bedevere, you are an EFL teacher’s hero.

(click on the images to go to the videos on YouTube)

Click on the image to go to the video on YouTube — Bedevere and the Witch: Monty Python's Holy Grail

* Yes, I may have spent too much time watching Python over the weekend. This is another brilliant clip, and they can’t count either.

by Kate Bailward Posted on March 14, 2010

Posted in Teaching Like a Maniac | 6 Comments

Not Without My Children

I went away to boarding school just before my ninth birthday. I absolutely loved my prep school: we climbed trees, rode ponies and had midnight feasts, all in the beautiful surroundings of a Jacobean house in the Dorset countryside. It really couldn’t have been much more Enid Blyton if it tried. The girl who lived over the road from me in our village went to the same school. She’s a year older than me, but started school in the same term. When we arrived in the school grounds, we yelled with delight and ran straight out onto the lawn to play while our mothers unpacked our trunks and organised our dorms. When they then came to say goodbye, we acquiesced with barely-concealed ill-grace, and promptly returned to whooping and cartwheeling across the grass. Our mothers, on the other hand, drove out of the school grounds, stopped in the nearest layby, and burst into tears. I’ve always teased Mum about this, but today that’s coming back to bite me in the bum. Sorry, Ma. I’ll never make fun of you again. Well – not until the next time, anyway …

Due to bureaucratic shuffling, as of this week I’m giving up my two lowest level private classes and instead teaching two outside classes. This means that I have lost my five-year olds. Much as I may have bitched and moaned about having that class in the past, having actually handed them over to the new teacher, I feel surprisingly emotional. As I type this, I am sitting in the staffroom, listening to their voices coming along the corridor and feeling like a total traitor.

There is only one girl in the class, among four boys. She and I have therefore built up a bit of a girlie bond, despite her shyness (to the point of muteness and tears) with me at first. She now chatters away nineteen to the dozen, requesting piggybacks and asking me to draw mermaids, or whatever else takes her fancy that day. I am her protector when the boys get a bit boisterous, hoisting her up out of their reach and acting as a physical barrier. She plays on this shamelessly, teasing them and then rushing across to me, swarming up onto my back, shrieking with laughter. Today, when she came in, she was ushered towards the new teacher’s classroom. Suddenly the shyness was back. Her face fell, and she stopped speaking. The look on her face was heartbreaking. Unsure, she hung back, and looked back along the corridor. Seeing me standing in the staffroom she smiled and then quietly came to stand next to me, rather than follow the new teacher. I could have cried. Somewhere along the way I’ve grown ridiculously attached to these children. So much for not being maternal.

The boys in the class are, as five-year old boys should be, silly and boisterous and entertaining and endearingly delicate underneath the bluster. One in particular has a solid, round-faced look to him, and is usually the one rolling around on the floor fighting. Unsurprisingly, he is often the one who ends up in tears because he has been charging around like a bull in a china shop, then fallen over and bashed his head. In that wonderful way that five-year olds have, however, it’s merely a case of picking him up, dusting him down and giving him a cuddle. If only all adult problems were as easy to solve. Or maybe they are – perhaps this is where I’ve been going wrong all these years?

Another of the boys is a wiry little thing with a razor-sharp brain. He’s the kid in front of whom you have to watch what you say, because he picks it all up like *that*. He also has the most fantastic silly streak. I have never laughed so much as when he created a game the other week which involved taking the bin bag out of the bin, then putting the bin upside-down on his head. Because he’s so tiny, it dropped straight over his shoulders, pinning his arms to his sides, leaving his wrists flailing wildly out of the bottom. He then careened madly around the classroom, while the rest of the class chased him, laughing like drains. I was literally crying with laughter. Trying to make this into a teaching experience, I seized the opportunity to present prepositions of place – Gianmarco is IN the bin! – but was laughing so much that I couldn’t get the words out properly. The boy is a physical comedy genius. GENIUS, I tell you!

The other class that I am giving up is older: mainly nine- and ten-year olds. Their level of English is therefore good enough that I could explain the situation to them. Most of them were pretty laissez-faire about it, but one girl looked as if she was about to burst into tears, and mimed giving me a big hug. It’s odd how so often they seem not to care, and then suddenly you realise that, as Professor Higgins might put it, you’ve grown accustomed to their face. Turns out that teaching’s easy: it’s the leaving that’s hard.

Image: moominmolly

by Kate Bailward Posted on March 9, 2010

Posted in Teaching Like a Maniac | 5 Comments

I know a fruit when I see one …

(image by Lucian Teo on Flickr)

In a change from teaching, today is a day of learning. Sadly, it’s a Saturday, and none of us are best pleased to have to be in school for 9am for a day of exam induction. Blech. We faff about in the hallway, putting off for as long as possible the moment of actually having to start work. There’s a surprising (but pleasing) sense of camaraderie; we’re so rarely all in the same place at the same time that it’s a novelty to see everyone. We have a mini-staff meeting, which basically involves having a bit of a grumble and a giggle. It may not solve anything, but it makes us all feel better. It’s amazing what a whinge can do for the soul. The school receptionist, having turned the alarm off and let us in, leaves us to it, hiding her face: she’s run out with only a cursory attempt at make-up on this morning, knowing that she can go back home to bed as soon as we’re safely in the building. She’s gorgeous whatever happens, but Italian women don’t do bare-faced chic, and she clearly feels naked without foundation.

Shuffling into the multimedia room, we are met by the exam board representative. He’s a floppy-haired university lecturer in his 40s, with a severely sibilant ‘s’. (And that’s a sentence he’d not be able to say with ease. Ha.) He chivvies us in. “Let’s get started, OK?” We amble to our seats, the teachers from my school bagging the desks at the back of the room, like naughty children. Let the Lecce lot, who are running late, take the seats at the front, under the instructor’s beady gaze. It’s amusing to be on the other side of the teacher-student relationship for a little while, although I feel a twinge of guilt towards our instructor. Teachers make dreadful students: we ask far too many questions and concentrate even less than our charges do during the week.

With the exception of Alex, who has a 9am class twice a week, none of the rest of us are ever in school at this hour, and there is plenty of ill-concealed yawning going on. This isn’t just from tiredness. The training involves watching a lot of videos of real exams, and writing down the marks that we would have given the candidates had we been the examiners. If we get within one mark of the real examiners then we are considered fit to do the job. If not, we have to keep watching and marking tests until we get it right. Yes, it’s just as tedious as it sounds. Still, it should all be worth it in the summer: we get paid extra for examining, and it’s a bit of a change from teaching.

The morning goes surprisingly quickly. The instructor is as keen as we are to get this over and done with, and we race through the first part of the day. In the afternoon, the old hands head off to another room for a refresher course on examining advanced students, while we newbies are trained up on young learners. This is a lot of fun: we are allowed to practice on each other, and spend an amusing couple of hours pretending to be exceptionally dim 7-year olds. It gives me hope for my students: certainly they are an awful lot more proficient than many of the kids in the videos, who all pass with flying colours. As our instructor puts it: if you can find a pulse, they get a mark. If they then speak, they’ve aced it. From the examiner’s point of view, it’s all about coaxing the information out of the child, using gesture and generally being as unthreatening as possible. For large portions of the Starters test (the lowest level), all the kid has to do is point at a picture to show that they’ve understood. “Where’s the pineapple, Letizia?” (Blank look from child.) “Letizia. Where’s the PINE-AP-PLE?”. (Child sucks thumb, completely unconcerned with daft questions in a language she doesn’t understand. Examiner taps picture of pineapple.) “Letizia?” (Child gazes questioningly at Examiner.) “Is THIS a pineapple?” (Examiner looks madly encouraging, while jabbing finger deliberately at picture. Child finally ventures a reply.) “Yes?” (Examiner collapses with relief.) “YES! Goooood!”

In one of the videos, the examiner is a woman called Trish, who is wearing what I think to be an obscenely low-cut top. What is it about primary school teachers and boobage? There’s probably something deeply Freudian about it all, but it’s very offputting to watch. Put them *away*, woman! I think I’ve turned into a prude since moving to Italy. Now that’s something I didn’t expect to happen. Given that most of the Italian women you see splashed across international news are part of Berlusconi’s coterie of long-legged lovelies, most of whom are ex-game show hostesses, there’s a tendency to think that that’s the norm. Actually, it’s very different; certainly down here. Covering up is the name of the game. Maybe it’s just that they all believe it’s freezing cold, and things will change in the summer, but even in October, when it was still pretty hot, people were scandalised by me not wearing tights. As a redhead, I think high summer could be painful. I’m wilting just thinking about it.

by Kate Bailward Posted on March 7, 2010

Posted in Teaching Like a Maniac | 6 Comments

Lost in Translation

(image by Hryck on Flickr)

Songs are a fabulous teaching tool. The repetition of language is great for making words stick in students’ heads, and the fact that they’re listening to music makes them feel like they’re not learning. When I was at college, learning how to teach, our tutor gave each of us a card with a word or short phrase written on it. We had to listen out for that word/phrase and leap to our feet whenever we heard it. We spent the lesson being riotously joyful, leaping up and down, giggling. And yes, I remember most of the song now (Emily Kane, by Art Brut, since you’re asking). When it was my turn to teach a lesson using song, I chose Everybody Knows (Except You) by The Divine Comedy. It’s one of my favourite songs anyway, and has a really sweet sentiment behind it, as well as a simple, catchy melody. By the end of the lesson the entire class were singing along to the chorus and smiling fit to burst. Yes, I’m a big fan of using music in lessons.

Just recently, however, I’ve discovered the flip side of this coin. When I first heard Lily Allen’s F*** You Very Much, I giggled a little bit, and then promptly forgot about it. That was in the UK, and f*** was bleeped out with ridiculous sound effects. A few months later, I heard it on Italian radio. However, this time, the F-word was there in its full glory. Shamefacedly, I must admit that, again, I found this funny. I didn’t really think it through, though. My students may not be able (or, more likely, willing) to repeat and retain simple points of grammar in lessons, but by GOD they can pick up on a swear word. I’ve had to reprimand more than one group for singing ‘F*** you! F*** you very, very mu-u-uch!’ in class. ‘But it’s a SONG, teacher!’ they grin, all wide-eyed, fake, injured innocence. ‘By Leeeely Allayn!’ Yes, I’m well aware of that, thanks. Now stop singing it. I mean NOW.

From a teacher’s point of view, I don’t want my students to learn swear words as part of their everyday language. Their vocabulary is limited enough as it is, without resorting to cheap tricks. When they can express themselves eloquently and appropriately without the aid of bad language, then, and only then, can they maybe start to consider the fruitier side of English. Even then, it needs to be limited: one of the problems with swear words becoming ubiquitous is that they lose their power. Lily Allen’s song actually has a very serious point to it, being anti- gay-bashing and racism. However, because of the way it’s written, with a happy, bouncy melody (one of her stocks-in-trade), and simplistic lyrics, all that is noticed is the fact that she’s saying the F-word. 12 times, in fact. I’m not offended by the word, but maybe that’s the problem. It’s become so usual to hear it in everyday speech that it’s useless. I’m as guilty as anyone of overusing swear words, so am not standing in moral judgment. However, there are lines of propriety. The fact that my students didn’t realise that it’s monstrously inappropriate to sing those lyrics in a classroom situation speaks volumes, I feel. It’s not entirely their fault: they’re just repeating what they’ve heard on the radio. They know it’s a bit naughty, but assume it’s OK because it’s in a pop song. Well, kids, I’m here to say that it’s not. Quite unexpectedly, it seems that I have limits after all. Fancy that.

by Kate Bailward Posted on March 4, 2010

Posted in Teaching Like a Maniac | Tagged language | 6 Comments

Eating the Italian way

(image by ehpien on Flickr)

Thankfully, the train does indeed go to Lecce, as I have a lunch date to get to, with Tina, of Tina Tangos. There’s only one thing better than eating delicious food, and that’s sharing it with someone who appreciates it just as much as, if not more than, you do. I practically have to be rolled home later in the afternoon, dozy and replete. Just as well it’s a long walk from the centre of town to the train station in Lecce or I’d probably still be digesting now.

Lunch starts (as all good lunches *should*) with a glass of prosecco and various nibbles. There are salty peanuts and deliciously plump, juicy green olives. However, the best bit is the ever-present bowl of that Salentino speciality: tarallini. It’s impossible to eat just one of these delicious little savoury, crunchy biscuits. Tina and I dive straight in, wondering as we do so how they’re made. Are they baked or fried? They taste so light that I feel it must be the former but, as Tina points out, how can anything baked possibly taste so good? Excellent point: I pop a few more into my mouth and munch happily, feeling the sun warm on my face as I watch the Leccese people passing through Piazza Sant’Oronzo. Food, drink, conversation and human observation: my cup runneth over.

Tina has been given some restaurant recommendations by a friend of hers (a chef, no less), so, our appetites stimulated by the prosecco, we head off eagerly in search of food. Along the way we ooh and aah over the Leccese architecture. This is the first time I’ve seen Lecce in daylight, and it’s just as beautiful as at night, albeit in a different way. At night, the baroque buildings are floodlit in multiple pastel colours, but during the day there is only the sun to do that same job. On a bright spring day like today, the light bounces sharply off the reliefs of each pale stone. In contrast, deep shadows appear around the ornate carvings, emphasising even the tiniest details in a way that the softer lights at night just can’t. It is impossible not to feel at peace, surrounded by such beauty. Even the rush-hour lunchtime traffic can’t spoil it.

We try a few different side streets in search of an open restaurant. Strangely, given that it is about 1.30 on a Saturday, many of them are closed. Still, this is Italy: there will always be somewhere good to eat, even if it’s down an unexpected alley, and so it proves on this occasion. Turning a corner, we see an open door, and smell fresh fritto misto. Looking at the menu board outside, I see they have octopus: I’m sold. With almost indecent haste, I follow Tina inside and we sit ourselves down.

In a restaurant, sitting with the menu in front of me is always a time of agonising indecision. Everything looks good here and, were my stomach as big as my eyes, I would happily scarf it all down and probably ask for more. Sadly, my appetite is far more limited than my greed. Luckily, Tina is in just the same sort of quandary, and we decide that there must be sharing, in order to maximise courses and our food-tasting potential. We therefore agree on an appetiser of burrata, followed by a pasta dish each, and a shared bowl of fritto misto. Perfect.

I’ve never had burrata before, and am very excited by Tina’s description. Apparently, it’s a Puglian speciality: cheese, filled with cream. Oh. My. God. I’m in artery-clogging, diet-hating, dairy heaven. I am a girl who can and does happily eat clotted cream with a spoon, straight from the pot. And by clotted cream I mean the proper Cornish stuff, thick enough to stand a spoon in, and lusciously yellow in colour. Cheese – well, it’s disgustingly common for me to eat a large block of the stuff at one sitting, with nary a biscuit in sight. To slightly misquote Vizzini: never go up against a Westcountry girl when cheese is on the line. Clearly the Puglians are people after my own heart.

When the burrata arrives, it doesn’t disappoint. It looks innocuous enough: seemingly just a lump of mozzarella (although, admittedly, fist-sized), surrounded with tomatoes and rocket. However, cutting into it reveals its sinful heart: cream oozes fatly onto the dish, spreading slowly out to combine with the juice from the tomatoes. Tina and I spoon it eagerly onto our plates, add a slick of yellowy-green olive oil and a little salt for good measure, and then scoop it into our mouths with sighs of happiness. This is what food should be all about: texture, taste, and utter, delicious enjoyment.

While we concentrate on the burrata, silence falls temporarily. However, it’s not long before conversation starts again. Appropriately for this kind of lunch, it mainly revolves around food, and different tastes. I’ve noticed since I came to Italy that my tastes have changed, and I have developed much more of a sweet tooth. Before I arrived I would have chosen cheese and savouries over chocolate any day, but I now find myself actively seeking out puddings, and spooning Nutella straight out of the jar. Don’t get me wrong: I still absolutely adore cheese, and could eat it forever, but to that love has been added the sweet side of the spectrum. Tina suggests that it’s maybe because Puglian food is quite salty, which is possible. However, I think it may also be to do with the fact that foods here aren’t as sweet as the UK. Or, rather, there is far less artificial sweetness. It’s honey rather than saccharine, with none of the bitter aspartame aftertaste, and therefore much more palatable.

We are interrupted in our musings by the arrival of our pasta dishes, both of which are just as delicious as the appetiser. I’ve gone for papardelle in a pork and wild boar sauce, while Tina has gone for strozzapreti with salmon and rocket. Strozzapreti translates as ‘priest strangler’, and we laughingly ponder on the reasons for the name. To me the pasta looks like little pieces of rope, so I suggest that could be the explanation. However, I’ve since found out that it’s because a priest actually choked himself to death on this particular pasta, while shovelling it down with a little too much enthusiasm. Blimey. Still, it certainly looks delicious and, if it tastes anywhere near as good as my papardelle, would be well worth dying for. I’m in seventh heaven.

Leaning back in our seats and taking a deep breath, we quail slightly at the thought of yet another course. Is it actually possible to fit any more food in? Apparently yes: as the fritto misto is placed in front of us, the batter gently crackling as it cools after being lifted, mere seconds ago, from the fryer, and giving off the most tantalising hot seafood smells, suddenly we both find a compartment of space left in our stomachs. The calamari is mouthwatering: tender but with a slight bounce and resistance to it, giving it substance. However, the best taste by far is the baby octopus. Covered in feather-light batter, with delicate grey tentacles and that delicious, slightly meaty yet still unmistakeably marine, taste to it, if I weren’t so full I could guzzle this forever. I am a very happy woman.

by Kate Bailward Posted on March 1, 2010

Posted in Eating Like a Maniac | Tagged lecce | 11 Comments

Roll up for the mystery tour

(image by Paolo Margari on Flickr)

It’s a day for an adventure. Buying the train ticket is the first challenge, at which I almost fail. ‘Biglietta?’ asks the station attendant, as he walks past me. I nod and reply in the affirmative. He strolls into the office. ‘Una?’ Again, I reply yes, and then tell him that I want a return. He rolls his eyes. No, not one, but two, in that case. Using exaggerated sign language and speaking very slowly, he patiently tells the idiot foreigner that there = one, and back = *another* one. Oh, I see. Oops. I grin sheepishly. Tolerantly he shakes his head and issues the tickets. I take them and head onto the platform to wait. Well, I say ‘platform’: the tracks are at ground level. To get to the far side, you simply wander across them. No bridges or underpasses here: this is a proper old-fashioned branch line. Brilliant.

An old man approaches with a grin and starts to talk. ‘Scusa me – sono Inglese,’ I say with an apologetic shrug. ‘Non parlo Italiano.’ This doesn’t put him off in the slightest. ‘Ah, Eeengleesh!’ Not in the least fazed by the potential language barrier, he then launches off again in Italian, asking why I’m here and whether I like the area. He’s a nice old chap, keen to tell me all about Salento, and where are the best places to go. It seems the sun coming out has brought out the friendliness in the locals. We chat for a while: or, rather, he chats, and I smile and nod in understanding. Every so often I attempt a reply, but invariably forget the important verbs. ‘Um … andare Lecce. Er … visitare … er … amici. Americano.’ His brow furrows. Eventually he works out that what I’m *trying* to say is that I’m going (vado) to Lecce to see just *one* (amica) American friend of the female variety (americana). Bless him: he doesn’t mind my dreadful Italian at all. It’s nice to have a chat with a random person. He rattles on about the frescoes at the church of Santa Catherina in Galatina, and the freshness of the water at the beach at Porta Cesare. He also keeps telling me about the ‘sabbia’ at Otranto. It takes me a few moments, but I work out that ‘sabbia’ is sand. He repeats the word again, and the guard pops his head around the ticket office door and offers, ‘sand!’ I laugh and nod: I’d got that one, but his comic timing is perfect. The guard stays to chat. It turns out his English is pretty good, and he tells me about his son, who, he is inordinately chuffed to announce, passed the first level Cambridge English exams last year. I tell him that I’m an English teacher and he shakes me enthusiastically by the hand and introduces himself: ‘I am Gianni!’ He beckons me out of the wind, behind an open door, and proudly shows me a picture. ‘My second children! No,’ he corrects himself. ‘Not children. Boy. *My boy*.’ He smiles a bit shyly. ‘If you ever need any help with shops or … anything. I give you my number. You call me. My wife, she is very simple girl.’ He tears a piece of paper out from a pad in the office, on which he has written his name, his home number and his mobile number. I almost cry. This is the Italy which I was promised, in which people offer you kindness for no reason other than the fact that you are a stranger and you might need it. ‘Next time, I speak English, you speak Italian, hey?!’ He grins, and gestures to the train, which is chugging into the station. ‘This is the train. Goodbye!’ He waves me off with a big smile, and I climb on board, feeling ridiculously cheery.

The train is made up of just one carriage, with old-fashioned, high-backed, leather-covered, sprung seats. I can’t remember the last time I had such a comfortable journey. Not only are the seats great, but the track is smooth, and there are no teenagers playing mobile phone music. Bliss. I settle back and look out of the window. I have to change in a couple of stops’ time, and so look out for place names as we pass through. We reach the stop, and I climb down the steps. The station is made up simply of 4 tracks, right next to each other. There are 3 other trains, all looking exactly the same as the one I’ve just got off, with doors open wide. Should you wish to do so, you could get to the platform by going straight through all four carriages, barely a leap from each other. The final scenes of Slumdog Millionaire flash through my mind. Fabulous. However, that doesn’t help me in knowing which carriage to pick, so I ask an official-looking chap which one I should be on for Lecce. He gestures towards the train I’ve just got off: that one! Oh. Er, right. A little confused, I head back. Clearly I’m not the only one, as there’s an Italian girl climbing off as I try to get back on. She asks me which train she needs for Lecce. I point at the one on which she’s standing. She looks just as befuddled as I do. ‘But I thought we had to change here?’ Yeah, me too! I smile and shrug. She calls over my shoulder to the guy waiting next to the carriage. ‘Lecce?’ He gestures again and nods vigorously. It’s this one, definitely. Still not entirely convinced, we both climb back on board and settle ourselves down. Well, if nothing else, we’ll have company when we end up miles from anywhere. It’s Saturday and the sun’s out: let’s go on a magical mystery tour!

The train glides on through the Salentino countryside. Grey-green olive trees contrast with rusty-red oil drums and bright orange, yellow and purple flowers. Spring is most definitely arriving, and it feels fabulous. Bright green, glossy ivy wraps itself around faded brown bamboo. Fierce February sunshine against sun-bleached white rocks makes me squint, despite my sunglasses, and I lean back in my seat, closing my eyes and enjoying the warmth on my face. When I open them a few minutes later, we are passing a level crossing. Two mopeds, each carrying the obligatory pair of teenagers in skinny jeans and padded jackets, are at the front of the queue, and they toot their horns at us, grinning. Not for the first time in Italy, I feel like I’ve gone back about 50 years, but today it’s definitely a *good* thing. Washing hung out to dry whips wildly in the wind, fighting against the pegs which hold it in place. A bright pink umbrella, spokes bent grotesquely in all directions, perches in the top branches of a leafless tree; strange fruit, comically out of place and yet seemingly just right where it is. Clearly I’m not the only one who can go adventuring.

by Kate Bailward Posted on February 27, 2010

Posted in Travelling Like a Maniac | Tagged language, salento | 13 Comments

Country Roads, Take Me Home

“Let’s go for a walk.” Alex has popped his head around my door, bundled up in coat and hat. I’ve been sitting and staring blankly at my computer screen for hours, and therefore agree with alacrity. It’s been a long week, and fresh air should clear my head. I hastily pull on shoes, grab my coat (which I leave, in daredevil and shockingly un-Italian fashion, unzipped), and follow him out of the flat.

At first, we are mired in tarmac. I long for green English fields and mud. Suddenly, however, we cross a busy, dusty road and, with no warning, are no longer in the town. The endless garishly-coloured blocks of flats, all topped with multiple ugly TV aerials, have disappeared, and we are surrounded instead by stony fields and vineyards. Every so often there is a smallholding, with rows of vegetables growing outside. A dog watches us carefully as we walk past, the arc of his muzzle infinitely slow and smooth, no other movement betraying his almost imperceptible observation of us. It’s not until we’ve completely passed him by that he decides to leap to his feet and bark. It’s as if he’s the early warning system for the lane that we’re on: instantly, up ahead of us there is an answering cacophony of yapping and woofing. It’s not a problem, though. These are Italian dogs and they are therefore chained up outside their owner’s houses. I’m sure if you dared to venture close they’d have your arm off, but we are at a safe enough distance.

The lane narrows, and becomes merely a dirt track. Volcanic rock breaks through the earth from beneath the dust and grass, and dry-stone walls flank us either side. Some are in better repair than others, but even the slightly rickety-looking ones are standing firm. These stones have probably been here since the beginning of time. They may have started out on the ground, but they’ll be placed back into the walls over and over again, a shining example of eco-conscious recycling, by farmers marking the edges of their land. Of course, it has little to do with any concern for the environment. In the same fields, there are piles upon piles of rubbish: an old cast-iron bathtub draped with an old bicycle tyre and sporting a plastic bag flying from one of the taps a particularly notable example.

One wall, a marvel of straight-sided engineering in spite of the irregularity of its component parts, has plastic bottles planted into its top at 3-foot intervals. I can only assume it’s some kind of irrigation system, or maybe a rudimentary bird-scarer. If it’s the latter, it isn’t working very well, as there are clouds of starlings perched in the olive trees next to the wall, scavenging whatever they can find. As we pass by, they launch into the air in a wheeling, chattering, cloud, annoyed at our disturbance of their thievery. The only other birds to be seen are magpies, which pop up everywhere, luckily for the superstitious: it’s far more likely that you’ll run out of rhyme than you’ll see just one for sorrow.

Brushing past a plant growing out of seemingly inhospitable rock, suddenly there is the rich, hot, spicy smell of Indian restaurants. Curry plant! I pinch the leaves and breathe in the scent deeply. Not that I’ve ever really considered its origins, but I don’t think I’d thought of it as Mediterranean. Stupid, really, given that it looks so similar to rosemary and lavender, even if its perfume is somewhat different. A little further along, there is sage and thyme, of varying different types, and bay trees sprout prolifically along the track. There are also acorns strewn liberally underfoot which could, although I’ve never tried them, no doubt be added to a meal somehow. The wild pickings, added to the chillies, olives, vines and other cultivated crops growing in the smallholders’ fields, would make for the most wonderful feast. It’s small wonder that the Italians are known for their food when they have such bounty growing on their doorstep.

We pass what looked from a distance like a small storage barn. On drawing closer, we realise that, in fact, it’s a shrine. The entrance is protected with a locked, ornate, metal gate. Peering through the curlicues and decorations, we see a faded painting on the back wall, of a mitred bishop, flanked by a couple of pilgrims. Round here, it’s quite possibly Sant’Oronzo, although it’s hard to be sure. There are candles melted fatly on the altar in front of whichever saint it happens to be, and faded flowers, left by hopeful supplicants at some time in the not-too-distant past. Christ might have stopped at Eboli, but there is clearly still a need for a mystical higher power. In this sometimes savage scenery, prayers for protection and prosperity abound.

Image: Kate Bailward

by Kate Bailward Posted on February 22, 2010

Posted in Living Like a Maniac | 11 Comments

Coughs and Sneezes Spread Diseases

(image by mcfarlandmo on Flickr)

I teach a class of 5-year olds. Well, I say teach: it’s glorified babysitting. They tear around the room causing havoc while I hold up flashcards, which they sometimes deign to acknowledge. When they do so, their favourite game is to try to ‘win’ cards from me by saying the right word. This could be a great teaching tool, except that they haven’t totally grasped the concept of actually saying the word correctly to win the card, and instead just take it as an opportunity to snatch the cards from me. When I then take the card back, there is inevitably a tantrum and a sulk, and at least one child will say a Bad Word to another one. I tell you: teaching the 5-year olds would be great for my language skills if I wanted a career as a docker. Before Christmas, there were a few weeks when they kept singing Postman Pat in Italian. “Brilliant!” thought I, and sang along in English in the vain hope that they might take note (no such luck). I couldn’t work out, however, why they found it so hilarious and kept dissolving into giggles at the end of each verse. So I listened a bit more closely and realised that the words ‘kaka’ and ‘pipi’ were cropping up with alarming regularity. Ah. I see …

When I first started teaching this group, we’d sit on mats on the floor. I’m 5’11”, which is probably a good 4″ taller than most of their fathers, let alone their mothers, so I reasoned that I’d be less threatening to them down on their level. However, as they’re destructive little monsters, they spent the lessons dismantling the mats and throwing them at each other. I therefore dispensed with comfort (as well as not worrying so much about being threatening – clearly not much fazes them!) and we sat on the floor (when they weren’t roaring around the room climbing on the tables, that is …) This was fine up until a few weeks ago, when I was told that I wasn’t allowed to do this any more. The reason? They might have got wet outside before the lesson, and sitting on the floor would therefore give them a cold.

The illogicality is astounding, but typically Italian. The English may be obsessed with the weather, but the Italian attitude to it knocks ours into a cocked hat; specifically, the weather and the effect it has on one’s health. EVERYTHING, it seems, can cause a violent upset to one’s wellbeing. At the moment, it’s the change of seasons that’s doing it. Everyone talks grumpily of the arrival of spring. Me, I can’t wait, but apparently it’s a dreadful thing for the delicate Italian constitution. It’s the switch from cold to warm to cold to warm again, so I am told. Sniffles abound. None of them seem to have made the link between the number of paper tissues that they use and then chuck on the floor. Viruses, anyone? It’s one of the viler parts of my job, clearing up my classroom after a lesson, as there will be at least one (and usually far more) discarded snotrag just dropped carelessly under a table somewhere. It’s hardly surprising that they all get ill if this is their attitude. There’s no reasoning with them, though. Otherwise rational and intelligent people will present, as scientific fact, the advice that coats should be firmly buttoned up to the neck before daring to even *think* of venturing outside. Cold, fresh air causes all *manner* of illnesses, don’t you know? Really, if you think about it, it’s amazing I’ve lived as long as I have.

by Kate Bailward Posted on February 20, 2010

Posted in Living Like a Maniac, Teaching Like a Maniac | 17 Comments

I am the Ostrich

(image by Gilmoth on Flickr)

After a long absence, the sun has come out in Salento today. It’s beautiful. I’m sitting here writing next to an open window, a light, warm breeze ruffling the curtains, and the sunlight glinting off the screen. Actually, that’s a bit annoying, but we’ll ignore that. Except that I can’t, because now all I can see is the grubby fingermarks on my screen. How do those *get* there? I blame the Mac monkeys in the factory, as I’m damn sure I’ve never poked my screen about. Oh well.

On the subject of hidden dirt, I got into my car earlier and noticed just how much *crap* there was over the outside of it. While it’s been pouring with rain it’s not been obvious, but now? Oh dear. This weekend may have to be spent with a bucket of soapy water and a large sponge. In the meantime, I’ll just take emergency intermediary measures: i.e. making liberal use of the windscreen washers, and driving in the dark as much as possible. Nothing like ignoring a problem to make it go away.

The sun seems to have drawn out some of the crazier drivers around here as well. This morning I have had to swerve to avoid not one but two cars reversing at speed into my path. I was also stuck at a roundabout for a good minute, while a pair of old biddies drove their knackered old Fiat Uno v e r y s l o w l y past my junction. In the usual Italian fashion, they stared, utterly unabashed, at me as they did so. I’m slowly getting used to this, but it’s still pretty disconcerting. Especially when it’s car drivers doing it. Look at the ROAD, dammit! As well as the staring, these two were having a heated debate, complete with waving hands, which was even more unnerving. What with the eyes not being on the road and the hands not being on the wheel, it’s a miracle they made it across the roundabout at all. Sometimes I think Italian cars must be magic. How else do you explain the way in which they stay on the road?