Driving Like a Maniac

Roman Holiday

(Amusing graffiti in Trastevere, Rome)

Total spend of somewhere around 300 euros, seriously aching, blistered feet, nearly 20 hours on long distance coaches, and some really dreadful photographs. So was my trip to Rome worth it? Hell, yeah!

My weekend starts in a dark, rainy coach park. The coach is scheduled to arrive at 8.20pm, which it duly does. It doesn’t say Roma on the front, though, which confuses me. I ask another passenger. ‘Per Roma?’ ‘Forse …?’ he replies, with a slightly quizzical look. I decide to ask the driver, who confirms that this is the coach I should be getting onto. I therefore do, and settle myself down for the 10-hour journey ahead of me. Half an hour or so later the driver makes an announcement. I’m not really listening, but luckily the man sitting next to me (who, by chance, is the one who I spoke to in the car park) is more on the ball. ‘Roma?‘ he asks. ‘Si,’ I reply. ‘Cambiamento qui!‘ he replies, with a slightly frantic look. Turns out that the coach doesn’t, as I had thought, go straight through to Rome. This one, in fact, goes to Pisa, approximately 260km north of where I want to end up. Thank heavens for friendly passengers, is all I can say. I’m sure Pisa’s lovely, but it would have been an awfully long way from my bed for the night.

The coach pulls in to Rome Tiburtina at just before 7 the next morning. I stagger blearily to the nearest metro station and thence to Termini, where I grab overpriced coffee, croissant and city map. Looking at the map, my hostel is the opposite side of town from Termini. However, I decide that I might as well start as I mean to go on and walk. It’s the start of a beautiful day in Rome, and the fresh air helps to clear my head. I wander happily, taking in Quirinale and Via Corso along the way, and setting my bearings for the next three days.

Arriving at my hostel in Trastevere, I climb the narrow stone steps to the second floor. As I do so, I surprise one of the staff, having a crafty cigarette out of the window. Clearly, the guests don’t usually come up the stairs. She gives me a cheeky grin and waves me through the door, pointing out the lift as she does so. I take her hint and don’t use the stairs for the rest of my stay. (Actually, that has more to do with my aching feet than anything else, but that’s by the by.) I check in at reception, and am told that my room isn’t ready yet, as I’ve arrived very early. I therefore dump my bags in the luggage room and go off for a wander around Trastevere, armed with the map that the hostel gives me which is, annoyingly, far better than the one I’ve just paid €2 for at Termini. Ah well.

Wandering happily, it’s hard to stop grinning like a loon. This is the image of Italy that I’d hoped to see when I first moved here. It’s all narrow, cobbled streets, with vine-covered walls, and interesting things around every corner. The views of the city from Gianicolo are also – well – breathtaking. I am, to be fair, very tired from 10 hours travelling and little sleep, but it’s hard to stop a lump rising in my throat as I reach the Independence monument and read about Garibaldi and his troops, resisting the French. The inscription on the side of the monument reads: ‘Roma o Morti‘. The memorial itself is a beautiful piece of sculpture, all clean marble lines and symmetry. Janiculum Hill nowadays is peaceful and quiet, but it must have been somewhat different in the years of the war of independence, and the contrast is poignant.

After the emotion of the war memorial, I decide to head into the Centro Storico to see some of the more classic sights. Campo di Fiori is everything that an Italian market should be. It’s bustling with people, and has fascinating stalls at every turn. I make up my mind to come back later, for Christmas shopping opportunities. In fact, I never manage to return, as I am so busy cramming everything else into the short time that I have in the city. Ah well. There’s always next time.

Carrying on, I reach Largo Argentina, which is a very bizarre place. In the middle of a busy modern square, surrounded by traffic, there is an area of Roman remains. So far, so usual in this city. However, as you get closer, you notice that the place is absolutely crawling with cats. (In fact, you notice the smell first, but that’s by the by.) Turns out that it’s given over to a cat sanctuary. The thing that I found so fascinating about it is that the cats quite happily just hang out in the Area Sacra. There are no fences, and nothing to stop them from leaving. However, they choose to stay there. I felt an eerie sense of something pagan and ancient at work, keeping the cats there to protect the old temples. I know – I’m a crazy cat lady. So shoot me.

(All images by Kate Bailward)

by Kate Bailward Posted on December 8, 2009

Posted in Travelling Like a Maniac | Tagged rome | 1 Comment

The kitchen diaries

(image by EagleXDV on Flickr)

Our oven is a fearsome beast, heating either at blisteringly hot or HOTTER THAN THE SURFACE OF THE SUN. The simmering ring doesn’t even work. I assume it’s not considered worthwhile using such a small amount of gas. My current game is therefore trying not to burn things to a cinder. I’m not very good at it. The trouble is that I put something on to heat up, then walk away and start to do something else (blog/twit/facebook – sometimes even something worthwhile). Five minutes later I return to a kitchen full of smoke and a blackened pan. You’d think I’d learn, but no. I’m far too impatient to stand in front of the stove waiting for water to come to the boil. Besides, as everyone knows, a watched pot never boils, so it’s only logical to walk away. I’m saving time and energy. Honest.

The oven has no grill, but there is, strangely, a small cupboard built in underneath the hob. We store our washing powder in there, which results in total sensory confusion as one smells aloe vera and lavender when cooking lasagne. It’s also useful for the regular occasions when I drop cutlery down the back of the oven by mistake, while washing up. The cupboard is open at the back, and it’s therefore possible to crawl inside the space and fish the hapless spoon or fork off the floor. I’m sure this wasn’t planned usage in the original design, but it’s good for numpties like me. Many is the time one or other of my flatmates has walked into the kitchen to see me kneeling with my head in the oven. I shouldn’t think they’ve ever been seriously worried, though. Gas in this country has a far stronger smell than in the UK. Potential Plaths would have to be pretty strong-minded (and weak-nosed) to bear the smell for long enough to do the deed. A car crash is far easier to arrange, and suits the Italian sense of the dramatic much better.

Speaking of which, there are a fair few people gunning for that to happen in my town at the moment. As I drive to work, there is one set of traffic lights. At certain times of the day you might find 5 or 6 cars in the queue; rarely more. However, Italian driving being what it is, the last person to arrive in the queue often decides that they can’t POSSIBLY wait, and they roar to the front, slamming on their brakes as they reach the crossroads and find people driving across them. Surprisingly, they seem nonplussed by this state of affairs. Clearly the Italian driving test is rather different from the English one.

by Kate Bailward Posted on December 3, 2009

Posted in Eating Like a Maniac, Living Like a Maniac | Tagged cooking | 4 Comments

Well, it was bound to come up at some point …

On Tuesdays and Thursdays I teach a group of five 15- to 18-year-olds. They may know the language of grammar (auxiliary/modal/state verbs, adjectives, subject/object/pronoun etc), but putting the rules into practice is an entirely different matter. They’re a really entertaining group of kids, and I enjoy the lessons. However, they are experts at diverting onto subjects that they want to talk about, rather than the things that I think we should cover. Let me take you back to last night’s lesson …

I start by recapping on past continuous vs past simple, which we had covered in the previous class. I then illustrate this by playing the song ‘Don’t You Want Me?’ by Human League. (You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar, when I met you. See? Genius!) They enjoy this, but as soon as the song finishes there is a flurry of Italian. This often happens, and is usually one of the weaker students trying to work out how to say something in English. (They are still very much at the stage of direct translation, which makes for some amusing sentences at times. ‘You do me? Yes?’ Er – no …) I listen in, and catch the words macchina and cimitera. Worrying! Cars and graveyards are not really two things which you want to hear linked together in a sentence. I must be pulling one heck of a face, as there are gales of laughter, and they switch to English.

‘What religious you?’ This isn’t what I was expecting at all, and the confusion must be showing on my face. They misinterpret this as me not having understood the question, and launch onto another tack.

‘The man he … er …’ (Mime of smells and bells action, along with blessing and singing.)
‘Oh, you mean priest?’ (Katja writes new word on board and students diligently copy it down.)
‘Yes! Yes – er … he can marriage?’

You have to admire their tenacity. They may not have much vocabulary, but they generally get their point across. We go on to have a short discussion of Roman Catholicism vs Church of England/Anglicanism. This is a bit of a minefield, as I’m not totally sure of the ins and outs of the various strands of Christianity either, but I manage to teach them that CofE priests are called vicars and yes, they can get married. I mentally abandon the rest of my lesson plan. Federica, the girl who is leading the discussion, usually sits silently in the corner looking terrified; English conversation on random subjects is miles better than nothing at all.

‘In classroom, you like crucifix?’ (pronounced croo-chee-FEEK-sa, and accompanied by one of the other students jumping in excitedly with ‘cross! cross!’) I’m not quite sure what they’re getting at here, and, again, clearly look mystified. She carries on. ‘Because in Italy, is big problem. Croce (cross! cross!) – er, yes, cross in classroom. Teacher no like. You like?’

Five teenage faces grin expectantly at me. I giggle nervously. ‘Er – they’re fine?’ I mumble. ‘You like?’ ‘Well, I don’t mind them …’ Is this really the moment to start trying to explain the niceties of ‘like’ vs ‘don’t mind’? Oh well – I’ve done it now. Luckily, it passes them by. Phew. They are now far more concerned with trying to establish why, if I like crosses, there isn’t one in the classroom. This is easy – I can blame it all on the boss. Hurrah! ‘But – boss Italian, no?’ Well, yes. Yes he is. ‘He teach religious at Cambridge, no?’ That’s a new one on me, but I suppose it could be possible. ‘I don’t know – maybe he did …?’ They seem pretty convinced of this fact, which is, of course, lending weight to the argument for a crucifix in the classroom. I’ve completely lost the thread by this point and am merely standing there looking confused, while they argue it out between them. Eventually they decide that it’s because this must be the way that classrooms are in England. ‘You no learn religious in England, si?’ Idiot me decides to be honest. ‘Well, actually, yes. I went to a church school …’ (At this there is an incredulous ‘Si?!’ from all of them.) ‘…and my brother’s wife is …’ At this point, Ettore, who has been unusually quiet for the last five minutes, chimes in. ‘Brother’s wife?’ Damn. Possessive ‘s’. ‘Er – yes, the wife of my brother.’ ‘Wife?’ Oh sweet lord. This is getting really complicated now. Luckily, the girls are on the ball. ‘Si! Ettore – che stupido! – Cognata!’ Ah yes! I knew I knew the word for sister-in-law – I’d just forgotten it at the crucial moment, as usual.

Having got that out of the way, I reveal that she is, in fact, a religious studies teacher. This is almost too much for them to take. Religion? In England? In SCHOOL? Mamma Mia! They are a little disappointed to find out that SIL educates children on all religions, not just fire and brimstone christianity, but clearly curiosity has now been satisfied. We can now move back to Eleonora’s favourite subject: teasing me about Alex.

A few weeks ago, again in one of the class’ distraction maneouvres, they started to ask me about myself, and discovered that Alex and I are flatmates. This resulted in a hilarious exchange, in which Eleonora asked me if I ‘wash Alex slips’? I misheard this, and thought she was asking if I watch him sleep. Confused (as ever) by this, I asked her to repeat. When I still didn’t understand what she was asking, Ettore, with a grin, flashed the waistband of his CK (of course) underwear. ‘Slips! You wash?’ Yet another occasion when I have found myself literally doubled over with laughter at the unpredictability of my students. I’m not sure they believed me when I said no; Eleonora has now taken to popping her head around the door of Alex’s classroom before lessons and saying hello to him, accompanied by a cheeky wink and storms of giggles. I think he may also get a ‘hello baby!’ at the end of the class, as I do. As ciao means both ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’, lower level students often get confused. I always reply with ‘bye bye!’, but the subtle hint isn’t getting through. I’m going to have to point it out soon – but it’s just so cute …

Photo by pedroprats on Flickr

by Kate Bailward Posted on November 27, 2009

Posted in Teaching Like a Maniac | Tagged italian, language | 13 Comments

On Middle English

Yesterday, as I chatted to my students, I discovered that they have read Beowulf and the Canterbury Tales in their usual school. Flabbergasted doesn’t really cover it. I asked if they had read them in English and they said yes. I realised when I got home that it could have been the modern English versions – they didn’t seem to understand when I asked WHICH of the Canterbury Tales they had read – but still. That’s quite a big ask for teenagers who have trouble even with the present simple. Italian schools are clearly hardcore.

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by Kate Bailward Posted on November 25, 2009

Posted in Teaching Like a Maniac | 2 Comments

Woman cannot live on pasta alone

When I told people that I was moving to southern Italy, usually the response was something along the lines of, ‘oh, the food’s WONDERFUL there!’ This would closely be followed by something about endless sunshine. The sunshine bit is holding up pretty well today – it’s nearly 4pm on a late-November afternoon and my flatmates and I all have clothes hung out on the balcony to dry, and most of the doors and windows are open. On the food front, however, I’m a little disappointed. Yes, the pizzas are far better than even the best UK versions, and there is fresh veg aplenty. However, Italians are desperately provincial about their food. If it doesn’t originate in Italy, you are unlikely to find it here. Curry spices? Not a hope. Peanut butter? Well, you can get it, but only the Skippy stuff, at hugely overinflated prices. In the UK it’s very easy to evangelise about food being local (I’m a big proponent), but it’s also a doddle to cheat and pop down to the local corner shop and pick up some bananas, or tomatoes in the middle of December, when you’re sick of eating turnip for the third week running.

Italians are, however, exceptionally good at bottling seasonal fruits and veg. If it can be shoved in a jar with some herbs, salt and/or olive oil, it will be. Pomodori alla contadina, carciofini, acciugi (which become alici when bottled, for some reason), peperone piccante, capperi, passata – the list goes on. This is a saving grace when cooking, and means that pasta sauce can be easily spiced up with something a bit more interesting. That does bring me onto my next point, though – pasta. There are entire aisles dedicated to the stuff in the supermarket, in every possible shape and size. Doesn’t really matter, though – it’s still JUST PASTA. I know that Italians will evangelise about it, and say that you can only eat certain sauces with certain shapes of pasta, but ultimately it’s just a starchy carb, which is a vehicle for some sort of sauce. It’s dull. Variety, for me, has become eating penne rigato instead of fusilli. I long for Thai, Indian or Mexican food, and I am SO looking forward to going to England at Christmas for a proper roast meal. *drools*

Cooking here is taken very seriously. The three-hour lunch break is not just because of the heat in the summer; it’s because it takes that long to cook, eat and digest a decent meal. I approve of this mentality, it must be said, and, bizarrely, am losing weight despite eating pasta twice a day. Hooray! However, there are times when the last thing you want to do is slave over a hot stove. On hungover mornings, an English fry-up is a mammoth undertaking, involving substituting pancetta for bacon and marinading cannellini beans in passata, salt and pepper, boiling water on the stove and dry-frying bread in a pan, as baked beans are impossible to buy and Italians don’t do small kitchen appliances. Finishing work at 9pm (as I do) and then having to cook a proper meal isn’t much fun, either. However, on the occasions when I just can’t face it, there is always the local delicacy, taralli, to tide me over. These are similar in texture to breadsticks, but are flavoured with stuff like peperoncini, cipolli or oregano, and are formed into little twists, looking a bit like bready kisses. Usually combined with one of the local Salentino wines, they’re known in our flat as scooby snacks, due to being impossible to put down. Pringles have nothing on the addictiveness of these things. Yum.

Photo by Sebastian Mary on Flickr

by Kate Bailward Posted on November 22, 2009

Posted in Eating Like a Maniac | Tagged cooking, salento | 8 Comments

DLaM and the Deathly Tobacco

(image by Whisperwolf on Flickr)

Learning Italian is a bit of a hit and miss affair with me. I have neither the time nor the inclination to sit down with books and learn by rote, so I tend to pick up words and phrases from my students. I’m therefore excellent at asking questions which start, ‘che significa …?’ or ‘come si dice …?’, and can also reel off a great long list of the names of foods, shops and domestic animals. Actually holding a meaningful conversation with an adult Italian, however, I struggle with. Alex has offered to give me informal lessons, which will be hugely useful. However, there are limits to his knowledge, as I discovered yesterday.

Last night, for some reason, I became curious about the translation of ‘fioretta’. Fioretta al cacao is the cheapest version of chocolate-hazelnut spread that you can buy here. A grade up is nocciola al cacao, and then at the top end of the market there is Nutella. The word for hazelnut is ‘nocciola’, so nocciola al cacao is obvious in its translation. However, the fioretta al cacao that I eat is still just as hazelnutty and chocolatey as Nutella, so why does it not claim nocciola in its name? Alex didn’t know the meaning of ‘fioretta’ either, so he turned to the dictionary. First he tried the children’s version, which came up, hilariously, with ‘a small sacrifice’ as a translation. However, the adult dictionary came up with an even better explanation: ‘an act of mortification’. Brilliant! Only in Italy could one mortify oneself with a small chocolate sacrifice before 9am every morning.

On a roll, we turned to one of our favourite games: translating written Italian literally. This is usually played with the labels on bottles of wine, which may or may not account for the fact that we find it so sidesplittingly funny. This particular bottle was an absolute gem: É un rosso potente e diplomatico, ricco di sole e sapidità; naso complessa di prugna, more, cuoio, con note che tendono al tabacco morbido. A complex pruney nose and notes of deathly tobacco? Genius! I also love the fact that, despite it being potent, it is essentially tactful. What more does one want from a €1.75 bottle of local wine than the fact that it will kick you in the head but retire discreetly afterwards?

by Kate Bailward Posted on November 20, 2009

Posted in Eating Like a Maniac, Living Like a Maniac | Tagged language, wine | 3 Comments

On banking and stalkers

It is a little over a month after my arrival in Italy. I am in my classroom, planning three lessons for later in the day. I’m not getting all that far, as I keep being interrupted by my special needs stalker, Francesco. He latched onto me a few days previously, as I went into reception to photocopy materials, and hasn’t left me alone since. Stella, in an act which probably seemed hilarious at the time (and, to be fair, I’d probably have done much the same thing had I been in her shoes), egged him on and brought him to my classroom to ask me out for pizza. Unfortunately, this has backfired in that he now knows where I am, and keeps coming into the classroom every five minutes to ask, ‘School? You? Domani? Yes? I love you!’ Even if I weren’t madly busy, this would be annoying by the second go, and it has been going on for three days now. Arg. How does one politely turn down someone with special needs, who is a good 10 years too young, and speaks minimal English? It’s a kicker and no mistake. I settle for pointedly closing the door behind him as he leaves and hoping that he gets the message.

No such luck – there’s a knock at the door. Sighing and fixing a rictus grin onto my face, I turn to face him, opening my mouth ready to tell him for the eleventy-twelfth time that I’m busy, dammit. ‘Fra … – oh, hi, Oliver!’ Oliver is my boss. We don’t usually cross paths very often, so I’m a little concerned that he’s come to my classroom. I rack my brains thinking which kid has ratted on me for giving them a dressing down, but can’t think of one. ‘Kate, the bank have called. Your account is ready.’ This is momentous. Wheels were set in motion for this the day after I arrived. This being Italy, however, nothing happens quickly. I don’t have a contract yet, either. É cosi. ‘Can you come now and sign the forms?’ Not really – I have way too much to do – but if I want to get paid in the next couple of days, I need to get this sorted out, so I grab my keys and follow him out, mentally waving goodbye to my lunch.

In the car, Oliver prepares me for the experience that is an Italian bank. ‘Make sure your hand is warmed up – you will have to sign about a hundred forms.’ I laugh. He looks at me. Oh. He means it. I flex my fingers. His phone rings and he gropes in the footwell for his bag. ‘Pronto.’ Clearly the message about mobile phones and driving hasn’t reached Italy. The phone conversation carries on as he parks (despite myself, I’m impressed at his managing to parallel park while holding a mobile phone to one ear), gets out of the car, locks up, walks over the road to the bank, enters the doors, and for a good 10 minutes further as I stand like a lemon in the lobby. Oliver is rarely off the phone, I have discovered in the short time that I’ve known him.

Entering an Italian bank is a bit like entering MI5, I imagine. Or maybe the space shuttle. You must ring a bell, at which point the outer door slides open. You then step into, in effect, an airlock, and the outer door closes automatically behind you. Only then will the inner door open and let you into the lobby. In the lobby is a cashier, who eyes you suspiciously. However, as I’m with Oliver, I’m allowed to pass without comment. Phew. We walk to the Director’s office. This, again, is very unlike English banks. For a start, all I’m here for is to open an account – when was the last time an English bank manager dealt with such a menial task? Also, her office door is wide open. I suppose with such fearsome security at the front door, there’s no need for her to shut herself away inside as well.

We go into her office. She doesn’t speak English and I speak minimal Italian, so Oliver is translating for the pair of us. As predicted, my hand goes numb from signing so many documents. It’s a little unnerving signing without reading, but I have no choice. I just have to hope that I’m not signing away my firstborn child to Berlusconi or anything like that. Oliver explains that the bank account that I’m opening won’t have any charges attached (yay), but that there are conditions attached (boo). Firstly, if I use my card at other banks’ bancomats, I will be charged for doing so after the first 30 withdrawals. Secondly, I will be charged €2.50 for each ‘movement’ (Oliver’s translation). I laugh at this and mime making single steps through the bank, while totting up €2.50 for each one. Oliver doesn’t find this as funny as I do. Oops.

I am handed my cash card and an envelope containing the PIN. Bizarrely, the PIN envelope is part of a huge pile of such things, and the reference number for it is written by hand into a big logbook. It may well be the same in English banks, but I’ve never seen it happening before. Intriguing. I am also given what is known as MR PIN. Basically, it’s a little gadget that auto-generates a second PIN for added security when making transactions online. Oliver reverently mutters something about algorithms. I look dubiously at what appears to be a more soberly-coloured Tamagotchi. Oh, and – surprise, surprise – if I lose it, I have to pay a charge. Whoopee.

Finally, a good 40 minutes after we entered the bank, I appear to have a bank account. Hooray! The bank manager and I shake hands and ‘piacere‘ each other, and Oliver and I return to the front door, where we go through the exit airlock (separate from the entrance one). Once we are outside, he laughs and tells me that banks are usually much more serious than that. Blimey. Still, at least it’s all done now. Until three days later, when they phone to say that there were some forms they forgot to ask me to sign …

Photo by David Muir on Flickr

by Kate Bailward Posted on November 14, 2009

Posted in Living Like a Maniac | 3 Comments

The End of the World. Well, Italy.

(Image by freto78 on Flickr)

The first week of November has been beautifully sunny and warm, so it’s a disappointment to wake up on Friday morning, my day off, to find that it’s grey and threatening rain. By Saturday this has turned to torrential downpour. Alex and I spend the day sitting in our respective rooms staring out of the window and wishing the day away. By the evening we have resorted to games of Snap and Black Queen, adding arbitrary rules to make the games slightly more challenging. A bottle of wine is downed, as if to prove the Italian flatmate’s observation that we drink too much, and we are in bed early, feeling miserable.

It is therefore very exciting to wake up on Sunday morning to bright autumn sunshine. There’s not quite a cloudless sky, but the rain looks to be holding off today. We consult the map to find out where we should go, although anywhere would be better than the inside of the flat. Otranto is discussed, and dismissed, as being somewhere that we have already been. Gallipoli is suggested, but discarded. Our eyes travel further down the page, right to the southernmost point of Italy, where the Ionian and Adriatic seas meet: Santa Maria di Leuca. An adventure, by George!

An hour later and we are on the road. Alex is chief mapreader: no mean feat, given that the map that we have is from a leaflet about local festas and has nothing so constructive as road names or numbers marked on it. By our calculations, once we have got onto the correct road, it’s pretty much straight down the peninsula. However, road signs in Italy are nothing if not esoteric – it’s as if they want to make up for the straightness of the main roads by sending you on a wild goose chase along mule trails. If there is a turning off to the right of the main road to a certain town, rather than signing the continuing road straight on, it is signed directly left. This throws us a couple of times, but we manage to stay on track for the most part, and the detour around the centre of Scorrano is quite pretty, really. We chuckle about the signs at the entrance to each town: ‘centro abitato‘. Well, thank you for pointing that one out. People! In a town! Who’d have thought it? We also laugh slightly grimly at the ‘pericolo‘ signs at some of the larger intersections. Is there an Italian crossroad that isn‘t dangerous?

We turn off the main road, following the signs for Leuca. As we come over the crest of the hill, past the town sign, the sea suddenly appears directly ahead of us, and there is a waft of salty air through my open window. The sea never fails to lift my spirits, and I can feel the misery of yesterday’s rain being totally banished. We drive slowly down the hill, taking in our surroundings. At the bottom of the hill, at one end of the seafront promenade, is a small marina. We park beside it and climb out of the car, pulling our coats closer at the sudden blast of sea air. There are a few people out and about, but the feeling is mainly of an out-of-season seaside town, which is, of course, exactly what it is. I am in heaven. Alex and I walk to the edge of the promenade and gaze out to sea in silence. I glance at him and see his face set in wistful contemplation – I imagine mine looks much the same.

The sun is sitting quite low in the sky and reflecting beautifully off the waves. There are some surfers further along, in the small patch of water that breaks onto sandy beach, rather than basalt rock, and I pull my camera out to try to get some pictures. After only a couple of shots the battery indicator starts flashing. I hunt hurriedly for the spare battery which I always carry with me – stupidly, on this occasion I have managed to leave it at home. I move further along the promenade, closer to the surfers, and perch myself on a low wall to get a few final shots before the battery dies completely. The people here are different from the ones in my town. They are coastal folk, with long hair, salty clothes and eyes creased from looking out to sea. They are quieter and not so prone to staring. A surfer-type perches a little further along the wall from me, pulling one knee up to his chest and resting his chin on it as he watches the three surfboards out in the water. My battery dies completely. I sit, pushing the hair out of my face and licking the salt from my lips, at peace.

The sun goes behind a cloud temporarily, and I realise that I am cold. I stand up and find Alex a little further along the promenade. We walk in companiable silence to the far end, being joined by a dog with sand on her muzzle and a happy smile on her face. I’m not sure who she belongs to, but for half an hour she adopts us, sitting peacefully while we watch the sea, and joyfully attempting to climb into my lap and lick my face when I perch on the wall. We turn around to walk back, and she comes with us, trotting purposefully a little way ahead of us. Five minutes further on she finds some new owners climbing out of a car, and we lose her. We carry on, walking towards the lighthouse. There is a crepe stall, which has pretty much every flavour you could wish for – so long as it is on a base of Nutella. I am sorely tempted but decide to hold off. There is a little girl there who is not being so abstemious. Her father has lifted her up on the counter, and she is perched there making her selection, legs dangling in woollen tights, with wild curly hair and a cheeky grin.

We realise that the lighthouse is out of walking distance of the promenade and so return to the car. The seafront is one way, and we are therefore temporarily driving away from the direction in which we need to be headed, but how hard can it really be to find an enormous great building with a flashing light at the top? Apparently very. As soon as we leave the seafront the lighthouse disappears from view and we are pushed onto a road which signs towns 45 minutes’ north. For a few minutes it looks as though we may have missed our chance to see the Santuaria. Suddenly, however, we turn a corner and are back on the main road, with Leuca signs aplenty. We have somehow done a circuit of the outskirts of the town, and are now back on track. Hooray!

In contrast to the beautiful bleakness of the seafront, the Santuaria is absolutely crawling with people. The car park is rammed, but I spot a car about to leave. It has a disabled sticker in the window, so I give them plenty of space to pull out. Major mistake. An Italian driver and his po-faced wife are nothing like so charitable, and sneak behind the car as it pulls towards me. I make a valiant effort to barge through, but fail miserably. The air in the car turns blue but luckily another space comes free and this time I am quicker off the mark. Sorely tempted to key the Italians’ car as I walk past, I settle for calling them unmentionable names loudly in English. There are moments when not being understood is a real advantage.

by Kate Bailward Posted on November 9, 2009

Posted in Travelling Like a Maniac | Tagged language, sea | 3 Comments

Penny for an ex-leper?

(image from Old School Paul on Flickr)

One of the things that I really miss about the UK is Germolene. It is usually the answer to all my minor skin complaints, including (but not limited to) the many stupid injuries I inflict on myself in the garden and kitchen, and the occasional bout of eczema. It does the job, it smells fantastic and, most importantly, it’s PINK. What more could one ask?

After a week or so in Italy of wearing no make-up or jewellery and feeling dreadful about myself, I decide to pull myself together and start making an effort. This includes putting on earrings before I leave the house. However, due to being a bit run-down, after only a few days I have a cracking case of contact dermatitis on my earlobes. Attractive. I search in the local shops for Germolene or, at a push, Savlon, but apparently such things don’t exist here. Hydrochloric acid and razor blades freely available for children to play with on the bottom shelf of any supermarket near you, but antiseptic cream? Perish the thought! Beginning to get a bit desperate, I call into a farmacia that I haven’t yet tried. On the shelves are typically overpriced homeopathic remedies and face creams, but nothing of any use to me.

After a few minutes of me looking lost, the man behind the counter approaches and asks if I need help. At least, that’s what I assume he says – I actually have no idea. I apologise for not speaking Italian, and attempt to describe what I need. The word ‘antiseptic’ clearly isn’t universal, however, and he looks mystified. I dither around for a little while longer, and then decide to try the direct approach. I pull back my hair and gesture towards my ear, while making an ouchy, disgusted face. Ah yes – that does the trick instantly. The man recoils visibly and scurries away behind the counter to pull open a drawer filled with various medications. With a flourish, he produces a tube of cream, explaining that it is crema antibiotico. This sounds promising, and the packaging certainly looks like the right kind of thing, so I nod enthusiastically. ‘Nove euro‘, he tells me. Gasping at the exorbitant price, I hand over the money and drop the cream into my bag.

When I arrive home I decide to check out what the cream contains, before actually putting it onto my skin and potentially making the situation worse. The name on the tube is Gentamicina, so I type this into Gearch and start reading. Imagine my surprise to discover that it is often used to treat leprosy and staph infections after surgery. I hadn’t thought my dermatitis looked THAT bad, but maybe I’d been deluding myself. I’m reminded of Monty Python’s Life of Brian: ‘Look. I’m not saying that being a leper was a bowl of cherries. But it was a living. I mean, you try waving muscular suntanned limbs in people’s faces demanding compassion. It’s a bloody disaster.’ A little further investigation, however, shows that the cream I’ve been given is singularly low dosage. Particularly effective if the wound is weeping, apparently. Lovely. I decide to brave it, and apply the cream. Thankfully, a few days later, the dermatitis is gone.

Germolene would have done it overnight, though.

by Kate Bailward Posted on November 6, 2009

Posted in Living Like a Maniac | 6 Comments

Strollers

(image by Paolo Margari on Flickr)

It is an Italian tradition to take an evening stroll, known as the passeggiata. It is far less about getting fresh air than seeing and being seen. This country is all about the outward appearance. Strange, then, that clothes, toiletries and make-up should be so criminally expensive, but that’s another blog for another time …

It is Friday night, at the end of my second or third week in Italy, and a friend of Alex’s, G, arrives at the flat, suggesting we go to a local festa. Annoyingly, he is drop-dead gorgeous – I say annoyingly because I have no make-up on, and am red-faced and sweaty after having been cooking all afternoon. I beat a hasty retreat to my room and put some slap on, hoping that I’m not being too obvious. Not that it would matter if I were – this is Italy after all. They don’t do subtlety. I return to the sitting room with a smile. Andiamo? We troop downstairs and into G’s car. He speaks minimal English, so Alex is in interpreter mode for the evening, which is quite hard on him, but we manage to work it out. Indeed, there is one point when G is talking about ‘gamberetti’ and I have to translate the word for Alex. Hehehe. I may be a failure at the language of lurve, but by god I know how to speak foodie.

There is some banter in the car as to whether we should really go to this festa. G shrugs and says it will probably be boring. Alex and I are just happy not to be either teaching or sitting in the flat, knackered. There is a moment of indecision and then G swings the car around dramatically – we go to Lecce! This is exciting. Alex relates the story of me driving there pointlessly the day before to G. I hadn’t realised that, unlike my town, it’s actually quite a big place. I managed to get there OK in the car, but then couldn’t find anywhere to park. I am quite pleased to find that they think me brave for attempting it, rather than being a bit of an idiot for not succeeding. Clearly even Italians think that their driving is nightmarish! Going with someone who knows where they are going is therefore a FAR better idea, and I acquiesce happily to this plan.

We arrive in Lecce and immediately get snarled up in traffic. Light by London standards, but still not inconsiderable. I gaze out of the window at the hundreds of people walking about – this is passegiata time. Most of the people walking around are young – under 40. There are families with pushchairs, teenagers, men and women, all dressed to impress and keeping a close eye on everyone else. They all look very much the same. With the worrying over outward appearances comes conformity. They are all beautifully turned out, but individuality seems not to be a concept that is embraced here.

We park up and walk along the street to the main square. The sheer number of people in the street is amazing. Even so, I stand out in my blue boyfriend jeans. Even the plainest jeans here are dark, fitted and feature at least a diamante pattern on the back pocket. I feel dowdy up against the Italians. This thought doesn’t occupy me for long, however, as G, Alex and I start a conversation about cameras. We are all keen photographers, although from the sound of it G is in a slightly different league to Alex and me. He waxes lyrical about his new SLR and gently teases Alex about his Samsung compact. My Canon comes in for some slightly surprised approval – yes, machismo is alive and well here. Still, at least from him it’s done in a friendly fashion.

Suddenly, conversation is cut short as we round a corner into a large piazza. “Sant’Oronzo!” cries G, as he gestures dramatically towards the column in the centre of the square, which features said Saint. We go to take a closer look, and come across a Roman amphitheatre right next to it. This place is brilliant! G is fairly laissez-faire about the amphitheatre, which is clearly part of an archaeological excavation. Most of it is still hidden underneath the piazza in which we’re standing, but there’s a good quarter of it on show. I hang excitedly over the edge of the bridge, looking at the way the amphitheatre has been designed with areas for the animals underneath the seating for the crowds. Fantastic stuff.

Noticing my excitement at the architecture, G leads on, and I begin to understand his nonchalance. This is but the tip of the iceberg. Every corner we round seems to have an ornate baroque building or statue, each more impressive than the last. Not for nothing is Lecce known as the Florence of the South. This despite Lecce being an older city. Ah well – we are but peasants down here, after all …

We wander happily for an hour or so. Somewhat ridiculously, we end up in an Irish pub – it seems they get everywhere. It’s a little different to the Irish pubs in England, though, as it is crammed full of teenagers. So far, so similar. However, these teenagers are drinking coke, eating the most delicious-looking pizzas and chatting at full volume. Apparently not so similar as it would first appear.