Driving Like a Maniac

Aubergines, three for a paaaand!

(image by Piccolina Photography on Flickr)

The next 10 days are quiet. Classes are taking a while to be programmed in – obviously, George’s departure has upset the timetabling a bit. It’s quite a relief to be starting off slowly, as it gives me the chance to remember what I’m doing, but it does also mean that occasionally I have a little bit too much time to think. There are still days of crippling homesickness, but they become fewer and fewer as the days go on and as I get to know my way around. Alex and I become closer and spend a lot of time having surreal and ridiculous conversations which no doubt bamboozle our Italian flatmates, but which make us laugh like drains. I feel that I have my first friend here.

The day after the motorcycle incident, Alex and I make our way to the local market, which happens every Saturday in town, being careful to avoid the town square, as this is where I’m supposed to be meeting Valerio. Ahem. The market proves to be lively and bustling with people. I make a beeline for a sunglasses stall and the man at the stall starts straight into his spiel. I clearly look completely lost, as he switches to French, at which point, I suspect, a big smile comes across my face. For the first time in 10 days I can understand somebody speaking a foreign language and it makes me feel great. I hadn’t realised, until that point, how much I missed conversation. Obviously I have been talking to Alex a lot, but it’s great to be able to engage a stranger in conversation as well. The trader tells me he is Senegalese and we chat a little as I try on a few different pairs of sunglasses, all of which are enormous, knock-off designer-type things, from which I would usually run a mile. Still, when in Rome and all that … I choose a relatively non-gaudy pair, check with Alex that I don’t look utterly ridiculous, and we carry on through the market, which is enormous. Many of the traders are, like the man I’ve just chatted to, Senegalese, and so I hear a lot of French. There are a lot of clothes stalls – clearly this is where the Italians shop for everyday clothes. It’s good to know that I won’t have to bankrupt myself shopping for knickers at Burberry in the future! I feel like I would like to look closer at some of the stalls, but at the moment I am too unsure of myself with the language, so I just make a mental note for when I feel more confident.

Further on from the clothes stalls, there is a small vegetable market. Alex dodges off to buy veg from one stall, while I carry on wandering. Here, I feel more confident – food is something that is pretty easy to translate. I’ve read enough Italian cookery books to know the names of quite a few things, and so I dive in. Easy stuff to start with – melanzana, zucchini etc. I get into a bit of difficulty when I can’t make the man understand that I just want one aubergine, not one kilo (!), but eventually I manage to untangle my tongue and say ‘solo una’. He’s not the friendliest trader (I find a much more accommodating one the next week), but I come away with a sense of achievement at having got what I wanted and made a semi-stab at speaking. I find Alex chatting to a trader on another stall, and bask in his amazement at how much I have managed to buy. How on earth did you know aubergine? Oh, I’m just a genius. Y’know. ;-) We banter happily about Italian words as we walk back up the hill to the flat. I stop momentarily to buy a clothes horse (the one at the flat is desperately rusty and I have no intention of putting my clean clothes anywhere near it), and once again manage to complete the entire transaction without Alex’s help. As I leave, the Italian stallholder says, ‘merci’. I’m an international woman of mystery, clearly.There’s no way on earth I would ever be taken for an Italian, but it’s quite nice not to be instantly pegged as English.

by Kate Bailward Posted on October 30, 2009

Posted in Eating Like a Maniac, Living Like a Maniac | Tagged italian, language | Comments Off

The Motorcycle Diary

Strangely, with George gone, things begin to get better. Alex comes out of his shell, and we discover that we have a shared sense of humour. I am still homesick, but it’s not quite so overwhelming. Sadness does have a season, and mine, at this point, begins to pass.

When I have been in Italy about a week, I decide to go into town. I need to go to the chemist and it’s a nice day, so I walk in. I wear (and this has a strong bearing on the story) a white linen shift dress, sleeveless, although not strappy, sitting fractionally above the knee, with bare legs and a pair of sandals. Nothing shocking about this in the UK. However, here (I now realise), women don’t show bare skin apart from on their arms. I therefore attract rather a lot of attention. I hear several cars hooting as they go past me, but (in my unassuming English fashion) don’t realise that they are, in fact, hooting at me.

In a narrow street on the way home, a motorbike toots his horn just behind me. Now, remember that I have lost my sunglasses. I am about to discover just why Italians wear them at all times of the day and night. It is to avoid eye contact, because eye contact is an invitation to conversation. As the motorbike hoots, I move to the side of the road, and glance at the rider as he passes. Mistake no.1. 20 yards up the street he pulls up in front of me, takes off his helmet and starts to say something. I assume that he’s asking directions or something (oh! the naivete!), and start to stammer out the one phrase of which I’m totally sure in Italian: ‘non parlo Italiano!’ This is mistake no.2. I’ve now spoken to him, which gives him the absolute right to ask me out. Of course! Why would it mean anything else? No matter that I speak about 10 words of Italian and he speaks absolutely no English – we should ABSOLUTELY go out! Tonight! Yes! And let’s go for a ride on the motorbike! I’ll take you for a drive! Give me your phone number! This, of course, all in Italian and (from my side) violent blushing and stammering as I try to tell him that I’m about to meet my friend and I really MUST GO. I’m being FAR too polite, I have since discovered. The only way to get rid of unwelcome advances from an Italian man is to cut him dead. The more you talk, the more convinced he is that you’re falling for him. Eventually, I agree to meet him the next day for a coffee, in order to get rid of him. I never thought I’d be the girl that stands someone up for a date – but needs must when the devil drives …

I thought that would be the end of it. However, he then absolutely INSISTED on taking me home. No matter that it’s a 5 minute walk up the road: he will not be happy until I’ve got on the bike. I make terrified faces. He promises, ‘piano! piano!’ I start to walk away – he follows. Once again, my innate English politeness backs me into a corner, and I climb onto the back of the bike. I’m wearing completely unsuitable clothes, I have no helmet, and I’m terrified that I’m going to fall off the back, but we make it back to my flat safely. As I climb off the bike, I notice my Italian flatmate and a couple of his friends (who, it turns out, are Carabinieri (policemen) – oops) are just arriving home. They stare, agog. I blush violently. Valerio (for that is motorbike man’s name) says, ‘amici?’ Hoping aginst hope that this means ‘friends’ rather than ‘we’re now engaged – come meet my mother’, I nod. He kisses both cheeks and climbs back on the bike, waving goodbye. ‘A domani!’

I go back into the flat, giggling slightly hysterically. Alex is there and I relate the story. Italian Flatmate then appears from his room. ‘Kate! You – motorbike?!’ Er – yeah. I blush and giggle. The carabinieri are in fits of laughter, saying something about no helmet and (I think) being mad, although they might have been threatening to arrest me for breaking the law, thinking about it. Ah well. Sharing a flat with a lawyer (for that is Italian Flatmate’s profession) could have its advantages in cases such as this. Ahem.

Just to be on the safe side, however, I buy sunglasses the very next morning.

Photo by ale2000 on flickr

by Kate Bailward Posted on October 28, 2009

Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged language | 10 Comments

Darkest Before the Dawn

The next day dawns sunny and gorgeous. Fantastic. We head into school late morning, hoping to catch up with the boss and start getting organised for the start of term in a few days’ time. Hmm. Not so much. The school is quiet – although we do get cake from one of the receptionists, who is getting married soon – and the boss isn’t in. When Alex calls him, he is given a bit of an earful and told that the meeting is at 5, as organised (no, actually, it wasn’t, but never mind …). George and I start to poke around the teachers’ room to see what the books are like. Alex seems worried and self-deprecating, and very keen to point out that he’s not the senior teacher. OK, fine – but you’ve been here an awful lot longer than we have, so how about you give us an idea of the setup? No, it’s not happening. He is wrapped up in his own private misery for the moment. This will pass, but at this point in time it seems worryingly ominous. Coupled with this, George is becoming twitchier and twitchier by the minute, and looking increasingly likely to jump ship before Christmas. To top it all off, the weather breaks and it starts bucketing it down with rain. I am wet, miserable, and homesick. This really isn’t the way things are supposed to be panning out.

George and I go for coffee in town, and he confirms what I suspected: he can’t see himself coming back after the Christmas holidays. My heart plummets. By the next afternoon, when we have had a day sitting inside the flat watching the rain, with nothing to do, he is saying that he can’t see himself lasting the week. We spend Sunday cooped up indoors, trapped by the weather and lack of transport. On Monday, a day when I am hitting my personal lowest ebb, he goes into school and hands in his notice. He catches the train to Milan the next day. I spend the night crying.

This has been the longest – and possibly loneliest – 4 days of my life.

by Kate Bailward Posted on October 27, 2009

Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Comments Off

Arrival

(image by Konrad on Flickr)

As I walk tentatively out into the arrivals lounge, I see two men, one holding a sign bearing my name. The man holding the sign is slightly built, with buzz-cut dark hair, looking to be in his early 30s. The man standing next to him looks rather like a trendier version of Father Christmas, with closely-cropped, thick, silver hair and a goatee. This, it turns out, is my boss – the other man is Alex, who is one of the existing teachers and my flatmate, as well as being one of the main contributors to keeping me sane in this place. There is general introduction and shaking of hands, and we head to the car to wait for George, who is the other teacher arriving that day. George is someone who I have worked with before, and I am looking forward to seeing a familiar face. There is some general chit-chat about whether I have been to Italy before (yes, but only the north), and whether I speak Italian (no, apart from hello, please and thank you). I mechanically go into actress mode, smiling for the cameras and being far more enthusiastic than I actually feel at that moment. Having been travelling since 5am, I’m officially shattered – it’s now nearly 9pm.

George’s flight arrives and we all troop back into the arrivals lounge to greet him. There is some joking about how you can tell these are the foreigners, in their winter coats and pale skin, arriving into a night which is still not just warm, but hot. George finally appears, looking just as nervous as I feel, which makes me feel better. We chat about mutal friends and our respective journeys, while the boss greets someone he knows, who happened to be in the airport. It’s nice not to have the spotlight on us for a moment.

In the car, I rest quietly, tempted to doze, but not quite able to just yet. The boss and Alex chat a little in Italian, but mainly in English, which I appreciate. I learn a new phrase from the SatNav: ‘svoltare a destra’. She’s quite insistent, in the way that SatNavs tend to be. Alex is amazed the next day when I repeat this phrase back to him. How did I remember that? Just one of those things that I do, I guess. This is turning out to be my main method of learning Italian so far: hearing words and storing them up to ask Alex the meaning later on. It may not be the most conventional way of learning a language, but since when did I ever do things the easy way?

We arrive at the flat. It’s dark by this point, as it’s past 10pm, so there isn’t much to be seen until the morning, but first impressions are good: the flat is big and I have an ensuite bathroom. I lose no time shifting the room around to make it more livable and unpacking all my stuff, which seems like pitifully little as I hang it up, despite it being so stupidly heavy in the suitcase. George, Alex and I chat briefly around the dining table, but it’s not long before I have to admit defeat and say goodnight. We arrange that we will go into school the next morning to have a look around and get our bearings, and I retire gratefully to bed, where I fall into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

Tomorrow is another day.

by Kate Bailward Posted on October 25, 2009

Posted in Travelling Like a Maniac | Comments Off

New Beginnings

There were things that I had prepared myself for before moving to Italy: the lecherous men (check), the crazy driving (check), the amazing food and wine (wine – definitely check). I hadn’t, however, expected thunderstorms, ridiculously expensive clothes, even in the discount stores, or being unable to show some bare-skinned lower leg without being branded a scarlet woman.

Let’s start at the beginning.

A little over three weeks ago I climbed on a plane from Heathrow to Milan, and thence to Brindisi. I carried two (ridiculously overweight) suitcases and a mounting sense of fear at what I was about to do. Moving to a foreign country of which I don’t speak the language, to start work in a place to which I’d never been, for a boss with whom I’d had a sum total of 2 email and one 5-minute phone conversations, in a job for which I (still) have no written contract, living with three other people whom I’d never met, in a flat which had been rented for me by the aforementioned boss, and for which I didn’t even know how much rent I’d have to pay, suddenly didn’t seem like such a good idea. There are adventures and there are adventures, and this seemed as if it might all be too much of a leap outside of my comfort zone. The 6-hour wait for my connecting flight in Milan only served to emphasise some of the difficulties ahead of me: how does one buy a bus ticket into town to get some much-needed lunch when one doesn’t know the words to ask? (Biglietto, I eventually work out – although once I get into the city I can’t then find anywhere that sells them, so, in desperation, hop on the bus without one and hope for the best.)

Once I reach the airport again, the flight from Milan is delayed – so much so that the screen at the departure gate suddenly changes destination while I am still queuing for the plane. Panic! Have I missed my plane? I haltingly say to the man in front of me, ‘Brindisi?’, while pointing at the screen which now reads Frankfurt. ‘Si, si – Brindisi!’ he confirms. I breathe a sigh of relief, while secretly being a little disappointed that I can’t just turn round now and get on the next flight back to England.

As I sit down in my seat on the flight from Milan to Brindisi, the Italian guy next to me asks where I’m going. ‘Brindisi,’ I reply. Then, as I realise the stupidity of this statement – he means my final destination, not where the plane’s going – I tell him the name of my town. ‘Where?’ Doubt sets in about my pronunciation, and I whisper the name again. ‘Oh. Right. OK.’ He has nothing more to say about the one-horse-town that I’m going to. End of conversation. The flight is turbulent, both in actuality and in terms of my emotions. I spend the next couple of hours fighting back tears, not altogether successfully.

On arrival at Brindisi, I climb onto the bus from the plane to the terminal and realise that I’ve dropped my sunglasses on the plane. I consider going back to get them, and think better of it. (I will regret this decision in a few days’ time – but more on that later.) I collect my bags, take a deep breath, and walk through to the arrivals lounge, wondering how the hell I’m going to recognise my boss, who is picking me up from the airport and who, you may remember, I have never met. My life as an expat has well and truly begun …

Image by DrJohn2005 on flickr

by Kate Bailward Posted on October 23, 2009

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