Paris when it sizzles

When you read this I’ll be on a train on my way to Paris. Ah, the wonders of scheduled posting! In honour of this, here’s a previously unpublished story of another Parisian night back in August. It won’t be as warm this time around, but it doesn’t matter – as the song goes:  I love Paris in the springtime / I love Paris in the fall / I love Paris in the winter, when it drizzles / I love Paris, in the summer, when it sizzles / I love Paris every moment, every moment of the year …

Like an idiot I came out with a pencil but no notebook. I’m pleasantly full after a meal of beef tartare served with crisp, fat chips and a carafe of wine, and want nothing more than to sit, digest and people-watch; thank god and traditional Paris brasseries for brown paper table mats.

Rue de Lappe in the 12ème arondissement is just as Paris ought to be of an August evening. The restaurants, brasseries and bistrots are all packed with people, as is the street itself. I don’t know if the French have a word for what the Italians call ‘la passeggiata‘ – the late evening walk – but there are plenty of people doing it here in the middle of Paris. It’s a people-watcher’s paradise.

French fashion is somewhere in between English and Italian. There’s no bling, but it’s very put together. Where the English look scruffy, the French look tousled and sexy; where the Italians seem flashy, the French look elegant. Which isn’t to say there aren’t occasional disasters: denim hot pants over thick, white, embroidered tights isn’t a look that anyone should aspire to.

The brasserie I’m sitting in is typically French, with small, marble-topped cafe tables outside. They’re perfect for dinner à deux, or for groups of friends to pull together and squash themselves around, shoulder to shoulder, laughing and chatting – or just toute seule to watch the world pass by. Imitation wicker-backed chairs are all voluptuous curves and duo tones, and dark wooden panelling is offset with etched glass and art nouveau pictures on the wall. I’m comfortable here. Who cares that I’ve forgotten how to speak French when the waiters are happy to laugh at me and my Italianisms. There are always menus to point at and after a glass or two of wine the French comes back – or I don’t care any more about sounding like an idiot. One or the other.

The two women next to me are here to drink wine, smoke cigarettes and gossip. I, however, am here for the food. Paris, you and I may have fallen out on this subject a while back, but when you do dishes like the beef tartare that’s just arrived in front of me I can forgive you everything. A perfect mound of dark red meat is thrown into visual contrast with white and yellow egg on top, and silvery-green chopped capers and onions on the side. Taste-wise, worcester sauce and tabasco splashed liberally and mixed with a careless couple of swirls of the fork make every mouthful different. It’s the first time I’ve eaten it, but it won’t be the last.

The American couple on the table behind me have had a few glasses of wine and are getting louder. The woman begins to spout vitriol about another woman they both know. “Let her go out and get someone else to pay – because they will“. Hell hath no fury … The husband lapses into silence in the face of her vehemence and the wife fiddles with her earrings, eyes darting around for a distraction. She snatches up the pudding menu and scrutinises it, chewing her lip with increasing desperation until her husband takes the hint: “So, honey, what are you going to have?” Verbose with relief to be back on neutral ground, the wife chatters about chocolate versus coffee. Her husband summons the waiter with a crooked finger and a nod.

Delicious smells waft along the street from other restaurants. It’s a melange of roasting meat, Indian spices and piquant sweet and sour Chinese sauces, with a hit of grilled cheese from the bistrot kitchen. It’s almost too much to bear. I muse on my next move: pudding or another glass of wine? That is the question. No – the real question is can I remember how to ask for it in French? I refuse to cave and speak English. Scanning the menu, I notice the digestifs. Ricard! Now there’s a plan. I smile at the waiter and he takes my order, coming back moments later with a shot of Ricard in the bottom of a highball glass, along with a jug of water. He pours the water over the pastis, turning it from oily amber to cloudy white. I settle back into my chair, happy.

Ricard is the drink that just keeps giving. The first glass is viscously aniseedy; syrupy despite being half and half water. I savour it, taking small sips and topping up with water when the glass is half-emptied. The texture becomes lighter, but the aniseed after-kick is just the same from first taste to last.

A group of English girls – and one boy – pass. Art students at a guess. Long, gangly, porcelain-white legs emerge from floral mini dresses, underneath thick-rimmed glasses and rainbow-coloured hair. They’re followed by thick-set French boys with heavy-lidded eyes, whose big shoulders look even bigger in their wifebeater tops. Many men would look thuggish, but somehow these boys make it look good. Vive la France.

A silver Renault Clio cruises through the crowds of people, French rap blaring from its open windows as the lights begin to go out further along the street. It’s 11pm and the restaurants are closing in favour of clubs. Blue lights flicker on in what looks, from the outside, like an art gallery, but can’t be. The reflection of pink neon from the chi-chi shoe shop over the road turns the windows into a violet fantasy. I pay up and head for my hotel to dream of red meat and golden wine.

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Winter babies

Snow, snow and more snow. While my sister-in-law and my brother were in hospital producing niece number two, niece number one was busy building snowmen. Snowman count in the garden? Currently five, plus three snow angels. It’s amazing how much more fun the white stuff is when combined with a nearly-two-year-old.

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Sunday

sunshine and mist by kate bailwardSteam rises from the ground as the sun hits yesterday’s puddles. A dragonfly skitters past on the wing. The fields the far side of the stream are shrouded in early-morning mist which the sun is doing its best to burn through. In an hour it will be gone but at the moment it’s like we’re buried in a pillow of cloud. Black trees stretch spindly, winter-leafless fingers into the white, while green grass has turned silver under dew. Behind me I hear the cat change position and look round. He stretches in a panelled patch of sunlight, bisected by the gentle shadows cast by the window frame.

Later, outside walking with the dogs. Yellow flowers. Red and orange berries. Golden-brown leaves. White seed-pods, thin as tissue paper, pulling at brittle winter sunlight and turning themselves into white-gold haloes. Ice on the puddles looks like wrinkled cling film: I walk on it. A satisfying cracking sound shatters the illusion.

“You’re a little cow! If you do that again I’m going to smack your bottom!” The harsh tones of a mother to her daughter pierce and muddy the crisp, clear air. In response, the child wails. I don’t know what she’s done, but my childless, left-leaning hippie sensibilities rail at the mother’s aggressive choice of language and push me firmly into the kid’s camp.

sunday by kate bailward

Black Dog and Stinker lollop on ahead, splashing through puddles and stopping at intervals to sniff at pieces of grass. People who’ve never seen a terrier run before will point out their strange gait. “She’s hurt! Look! She’s hopping!” They are first confused, then grudgingly admiring when you tell them it’s just a terrier thing. Why use four legs for charging around when you can go just as fast with three and give one of them a rest?

The dogs whimper and squeak as they scrabble at either end of a hole running through knotted tree roots, huffing through their noses at whatever scent they’ve picked up. There’s a tang of fox in the air, but 10 to 1 it’s bunnies that they’re after. I leave them to it and carry on walking. It’s not long before I hear the splash and spatter of their paws as they charge through muddy puddles to catch up with me. I envy them their lightness. My boots suck and squelch in the deep, sloppy mud and I slow my pace, remembering a childhood incident where the foot kept going while the boot stayed behind, mired in muck.

The sun’s out but it’s still bitingly cold. My nose feels three times its usual size, with only half its mobility. I sniff back a drip that’s forming at the tip, wrinkling the bridge as I do so, and feel every pore unfolding in slow motion afterwards as it returns to its resting position.

icy reflections by kate bailward

On the way home Black Dog overshoots the yard gate, as usual. She stops as I call her name. She’s caught the warning tone and knows what it means, but still stares wistfully at the main road up ahead for a moment before trailing after me. For a dog that had the skin flayed from her foot in an altercation with a car as a young’un she hasn’t learnt a lot. In her head, the road is adventure and nothing will convince her otherwise.

Birds whirr out of the barn roof as we three galumph past. Rooks caw. Country lore runs through my head as I see a solitary crow (a rook on its own is a crow, and a crow in a crowd is a rook) perching on the power line, shifting from foot to foot as his stubby yet lethal beak leads his mean, beady eyes into a middle-distance stare.

We return to a smell of roasting meat and the sound of Elaine Paige on Radio 2. The dogs gallop into the kitchen, racing round the central island as if they’d been gone for weeks, rather than an hour. I herd them into the bathroom to wash the mud off and their elation turns to dejected misery. Stinker gets the water treatment first, shivering all the way through despite the warm water, while Black Dog cowers behind the cistern, doing her best to sink through the floor and disappear. She just about tolerates the bath and being bundled in a towel afterwards, but as soon as she’s released she shoots upstairs to rub her ears on the carpet in protest at her brutal mistreatment.

I drain the filthy water out of the bath and wash my hands for lunch.

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The Great British Pub Quiz

Book with no words - SPIngram
Book With No Words: SPIngram (Creative Commons)

“Drake,” says Kev.
“Francis?” asks Jim.
“Sir,” replies Kev.

It’s the Sunday night pub quiz. The main claim to fame of this little pub in the middle of the Dorset countryside is that CJ from Eggheads pops in every so often, but other than that it’s a regular hangout for my dad, his quiz partner Kev and my brother on a Sunday night. Exchanges like this are commonplace – general knowledge is the currency and there’s no need for haggling. Well, maybe on the picture round, but that’s because we’re all rubbish at it. “Rene Zellwegger? Can’t see it, myself,” says Dad with a dismissive shake of his head. It turns out later that I’m right, and the point we’d have gained would have won us the quiz. “Rene Zellwegger’s got piggy eyes,” he chunters in the car on the way home. “That woman didn’t have piggy eyes.”

Quizmaster Andy is a genial kind of a chap with a rotund beer belly, a Westcountry accent and tribal tattoos down his arms. The tatts don’t fit with his personality, which is the smiley, mild-mannered teacher-type that nobody listens to. When faced with a roomful of quiz attendees he spends his whole time repeating questions – he’s grown so used to nobody paying attention that he does it automatically. He’ll get halfway through a sentence and without breaking stride go back to the beginning. “Who sailed on the – so, who sailed on the Pelican?” Just for good measure he’ll then spell the word he considers most likely to cause confusion. “That’s P-E-L-I-C-A-N.”

We’re not doing well tonight. Sneakily, Andy has put the theme from Downton Abbey into the TV theme music round. It’s one of my mum’s favourite programs, not least because she has the house to herself on the night that it airs – as Dad’s always out at the pub quiz.

“In the paralympics – so, in the paralympics, what’s the other name for Murderball?” Dad’s convinced it’s wheelchair basketball. When we find out at the end that it’s wheelchair rugby, Dad spends a good minute berating himself for his own stupidity while James, with admirable patience, points out that he said that at the time. “What?” says Dad, knitting his eyebrows and jerking his chin into his chest. “Well, I didn’t hear you. If I’d heard you I’d have agreed.” There’s no arguing with that. Jim shrugs and pushes his glasses back up his nose.

In the pop music round you can tell which questions Andy’s written himself as opposed to finding on the internet as he’ll announce how easy they are before reading them out and then give heavy clues after. “We’ve had this one before, but – thing is – can you remember it?” He chuckles to himself. “What name does musician Alecia Beth Moore – so, what name does musician Alecia Beth Moore perform under?” Jim writes ‘Pink’ immediately, but has barely finished forming the final K before Andy’s dropping heavy hints to the room. “She’s recent, yer, yep. She *definitely* had a hit in the last year …” Jim brings him to a stop, knowing that this round is the one that we’re making a killing on. “All right, Andy!” Andy chortles and moves on to the next question. “Ooh, this is an easy one …”

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The Twelve Months of Twenty-Twelve

I never can resist a chance to have a sing song, especially if I get the chance to do silly actions as well. Two years ago I wrote a review post of the year, based around the 12 Days of Christmas, which is one of my favourite Christmas songs for precisely those reasons – singing and silliness – and it worked so well that I thought I’d recycle the idea with some tweaks for 2012.

So, without further ado, clear your throats and warm up your glasses because here they are: the twelve months of twenty-twelve!

In the first month of 2012 my true love sent to me
fishes and a day by the sea

In the second month of 2012 my true love sent to me
the Festa of Sant’Agata,
and fishes and a day by the sea.

In the third month of 2012 my true love sent to me
childhood memories,
the festa of Sant’Agata,
and fishes and a day by the sea.

In the fourth month of 2012 my true love sent to me
Angelo’s piano,
childhood memories,
the festa of Sant’Agata,
and fishes and a day by the sea.

In the fifth month of 2012 my true love sent to me
internet TV stardom,
Angelo’s piano,
childhood memories,
the festa of Sant’Agata,
and fishes and a day by the sea.

In the sixth month of 2012 my true love sent to me
families Sicilian,
internet TV stardom,
Angelo’s piano,
childhood memories,
the festa of Sant’Agata,
and fishes and a day by the sea.

In the seventh month of 2012 my true love sent to me
rain and muddy wellies,
families Sicilian,
internet TV stardom,
Angelo’s piano,
childhood memories,
the festa of Sant’Agata,
and fishes and a day by the sea.

In the eighth month of 2012 my true love sent to me
the finding of THE ONE,
rain and muddy wellies,
families Sicilian,
internet TV stardom,
Angelo’s piano,
childhood memories,
the festa of Sant’Agata,
and fishes and a day by the sea.

In the ninth month of 2012 my true love sent to me
language, port and rivers,
the finding of THE ONE,
rain and muddy wellies,
families Sicilian,
internet TV stardom,
Angelo’s piano,
childhood memories,
the festa of Sant’Agata,
and fishes and a day by the sea.

In the tenth month of 2012 my true love sent to me
a trifling vendetta,
language, port and rivers,
the finding of THE ONE,
rain and muddy wellies,
families Sicilian,
internet TV stardom,
Angelo’s piano,
childhood memories,
the festa of Sant’Agata,
and fishes and a day by the sea.

In the eleventh month of 2012 my true love sent to me
stories, myths and legends,
a trifling vendetta,
language, port and rivers,
the finding of THE ONE,
rain and muddy wellies,
families Sicilian,
internet TV stardom,
Angelo’s piano,
childhood memories,
the festa of Sant’Agata,
and fishes and a day by the sea.

In the twelfth month of 2012 my true love sent to me
mussolini fish art,
stories, myths and legends,
a trifling vendetta,
language, port and rivers,
the finding of THE ONE,
rain and muddy wellies,
families Sicilian,
internet TV stardom,
Angelo’s piano,
childhood memories,
the festa of Sant’Agata,
and fishes and a day by the sea.

I hope you’ve enjoyed singing along to 2012 as much as I have. Here’s to 2013 being even bigger, better and brighter in every way.

10 … 9 … 8 … 7 … 6 … 5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1 … HAPPY NEW YEAR!

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A vegetarian’s nightmare

‘Twas the day before Christmas, and all through the house, many creatures were stirring …

Carols from Kings in the kitchen compete with Prince Caspian in the sitting room, distracting me as I write at the dining room table. My computer keys rattle and Black Dog sneaks in, her claws tip-tapping on the stone flags. She settles at my feet. Granny’s soprano voice warbles from the kitchen. “Peace on earth, and mercy mild …” She stops as Mum asks her a question about moussaka. “Well, I always used to do it this way …”

There’s a muffled whistle from the road outside. Someone from the village walks past, dogs galore galumphing at her heels. The rain’s stopped temporarily, but there’s more predicted for this evening. I hear Dad and Jim discussing how best to get to Rob and Leila’s house for Christmas lunch tomorrow. Here’s hoping Rob will have managed to fit the turkey into their oven. At least they’re only 10 minutes down the road: if the turkey has to be cooked here then it can still be in the right place for lunch long before it goes cold.

I sat in the kitchen attempting a Very Difficult Sudoku this morning as Mum and Rob dealt with the turkey. It arrived from the farm like a victim of a BDSM session gone bad, its head covered by a plastic bag and all its feathers pulled out. The indignities weren’t yet finished, though. Mum and Rob sliced through skin and twisted at tendons for an hour and a half until all that was left was a giant, meat-covered ribcage, stuffed with orange and onions, slathered with butter and wrapped in muslin. Mum and Rob stepped back, flushed in the face and beaming at a job well done.

My Sudoku attempt, however, had failed horribly.

However you’re celebrating, I hope you have a good day tomorrow: Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

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Christmas, Cake and Kittens

buccellato by Kate Bailward

Normal service is a bit disrupted at the moment, but I’ve got an excuse, honest. Well, a few, actually: 1) I’ve just done a 3-day cross-European journey back to the UK, via train, plane and Chunnel, and am in a state of discombobulation as a result.

2) I’ve been shortlisted for the Write Place at the Write Time Literary Journal’s annual competition – winners will be announced on December 20th – and 3) I’ve been busy writing stuff for other places, including this and this, as well as cooking like a maniac and writing about the results here.

Hopefully all will be back to normal on DLaM soon, but in the meantime, here are some kittens at play.

Awww.

Gratuitous kittens by Kate Bailward

 

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Fish, art and fascism

“What are you doing?” shouts the old man at the fish market. “You’re painting the fish black! It’s a Mussolini fish!” Lucia, half-laughing and half-horrified, tries to quiet him down, but he’s having none of it.

It’s about 9am and we’re at La Pescheria in Catania. We’ve been here since just after 7, which is a time of the morning that I don’t often see nowadays. It’s been worth it, though. We’ve come to watch Victòria Rabal work on the Catania leg of her latest project, Gyotaku: Capturing the Spirit of Fish. Victòria is a Spanish artist based in Barcelona, which is where this project started.

No, wait – it started much longer ago and far further away than that.

Gyotaku is a Japanese word that means ‘fish rubbing’ and it originated in the traditional fish markets of Japan. Stallholders at the markets would cover the fish with soluble ink and press paper onto them to create a transfer. They would then put the resulting picture up on the wall, along with the price.

Out of practicality comes beauty. Victòria isn’t a fish seller. She’s an artist. One of her missions with this project is to ‘bring the fish back into the light’, so we spend a good amount of time walking around the market talking to the fish sellers, trying to find the perfect specimen. There are plenty to choose from. La Pescheria runs every morning and is full of vendors hawking their wares. When we arrived at 7, most of them were just setting up, but by 8 they’re in full flow. Lucia and I wander around in Victòria’s wake, asking questions of the stallholders. Lucia points at some squid-like fish. “What are these?” The man looks at her with a patient smile. “Er – squid, signora.” Lucia bursts into raucous laughter. “Of course they are! I’m so sorry!” It seems I’m not the only one who’s a bit fuzzy-headed at this hour.

Victòria has chosen her fish – a large capone, the length of my arm. Her son, Xavier, looks on a bit nervously. “We have to eat that later. I don’t know how we’ll get through it …” When I see him the next day he confesses that they gave it away to a beggar woman. A gentle smile spreads across his face as he tells me. “She seemed happy.”

We go past a stall that’s selling live fish. Most are stored in large blue buckets of water under the stall, with a few being put into polystyrene boxes on top for display purposes. I peer into one of the buckets: it’s full of fat, langoustine-type crustaceans. A bucket one along contains eels, insinuating themselves smoothly, liquidly, endlessly around one other. The stallholder fishes some out to put on the display, but drops one. It slides, fast, across the cobbles as the stallholder chases after it, making ineffectual grabs as it slithers out of his hands time and again. I teach Lucia and Xavier the English idiom ‘slippery as an eel’ and Lucia tells me that there’s a stallholder who fishes freshwater ones straight out from a grate in the middle of the market.

La Pescheria sits over the top of the river Amenano which runs through Catania. It mostly hides itself underground, but it can be seen at la pescheria as it runs under la Fontana dell’Amenano, and also in the lava tunnel under Ostello. One night last winter, we teachers went to Ostello and sat on cold, damp stone in the lava cave drinking cocktails and enjoying the sound of the river. Tom’s curiosity (and drunkenness) got the better of him and he took off his shoes and socks and paddled up the river into the gloom. He was gone for five minutes before coming back, thoroughly spooked. “It’s dark in there!”

Lucia tells me that in years gone by, when Ostello used to do music nights with paid entrance fees, people would enter the river at the fountain and wade through the tunnel to Ostello to avoid paying. We both shiver claustrophobically at the thought, but the little devil at the back of my mind wants to try it anyway. The same devil that tells me to climb narrow stairwells or go down mine shafts and then runs screaming when he can feel the walls closing in around him, leaving me fighting for breath and light-headed with panic.

Victòria has found a corner of the market with a friendly stallholder who can lend her a table to work on. She lays out her materials: ink; brushes; giant fish. Behind her she puts an A3 portfolio and a cardboard tube. These contain the paper that she uses to create the transfers. The paper in the portfolio is standard stuff for test prints, but the paper in the cardboard tube she makes herself. It’s light and tissue-like so the breeze wafting through the market this morning doesn’t make our lives easy. At one point, Xavier, Lucia and I all three are trying to keep a piece of paper, eight foot long and covered in wet ink, under control. We don’t entirely manage it. It’s just as well the ink washes off easily.

Victòria’s having problems. Again the breeze coming through the market is making life difficult: the ink’s drying too quickly so she can’t get a good transfer. We’ve gathered a crowd and she’s tight-lipped at not being able to get the results she envisioned. She sends Xavier off to get water.

Lucia and I hang on to the tissue paper, marvelling over the details. It may not be exactly what Victòria was after, but it’s still beautiful: the paper and ink capture the scales and undulations of the fish’s flesh, even down to its scars. The bit she’s having difficulties with is the dorsal fin, which she has to hold out from the fish’s spine as she paints it, then maneoevre the delicate paper over the top of it and press it onto the fin without either ripping it on the fierce-looking spikes, or letting the fin retract. More hands than two are needed. Lucia steps in, hovering paper over the top of the fish ready to drop as soon as the ink is on. Victòria presses the paper onto the ink and peels it back. She smiles: she’s got the print she wanted and the fish lives once more.

Victòria’s work can be seen in Catania until 9 January 2013 at the Carte D’Arte exhibition at Piazza Manganelli, 16.

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Highway Robbery

The below account of what happened on 27 November 2011 was originally published on my now defunct Cowbird profile. At the time I needed to write about it, but didn’t want to rehash the details a million times with everyone I knew, so hid it away. Now, a year later, having just come back from another visit to Calabria which involved another complex (although thankfully much duller!) journey, I thought it was time it saw the light of day.

“BRIT-TAN-I-CCA, yes?” Nora, my Italian boss, is pressing her leg against mine under the table in a desperate attempt not to laugh. She has come along to the police station in case of language difficulties, but we weren’t expecting these to belong to the Italians in the room. I’ve been doing fine so far – Nora’s been pretty redundant in terms of translation services – but the friendly, white-haired carabiniero that is taking my crime report is having problems. He attempts to type in my nationality again, using one plump finger and spelling it out loud, syllable by syllable. “BRIT-TAN-I-CHE. Correct?” I nod, straight-faced. My leg, meanwhile, has gone numb from where Nora is clutching it with her free hand under the table.

“So, signora. You were robbed last night, yes? Please tell me how this happened.”

“OK. I was on Via Plebiscito …”

I’m driving around the outskirts of Catania after a weekend away with friends in Calabria. I’m happier than I’ve been in ages. I’m also lost. I’m looking around me for a sign – anything – that will tell me where I am. I knew as soon as I did it that I’d taken the wrong junction off the motorway, but by that time there was no helping it. I can’t even tell if I’m heading the right way. My sense of direction, usually very reliable, has failed me completely and I don’t recognise a thing. Am I going into or out of town? I don’t have a clue. Every so often I find a sign for a place name that I vaguely recognise, but inevitably as soon as I start to follow them the signs then disappear. This is Italy, after all.

It’s been a good 45 minutes since I came off the motorway and I still don’t have the foggiest where I am. Then I see a road name: Via Plebiscito. This is both good and bad. I recognise the name and I know I’m not too far from the centre. However, this is also one of the most notorious streets in Catania. If I had the choice, I’d avoid it, but the traffic is such that I can’t turn round and if I could I’d probably end up even more lost. Snapping the radio off so that I can concentrate I drive on.

It’s a surprisingly pretty street. There are wide, tree-lined pavements garlanded with fairy lights. Stalls selling barbecued meats appear every twenty yards. People are out and about, talking, laughing, enjoying the run-up to Christmas. For some reason it makes me think of Paris. I smile. Maybe it’s not such a bad area as people make out. I relax my grip on the steering wheel and try to work out in which direction I’m going. From my memories of the map, Via Plebiscito is a very long road. However, I can’t remember exactly where it comes out. Racking my brains, I keep driving.

Suddenly, I am aware of a moped so close behind me that he’s almost riding pillion. My warm fuzzy feelings disappear. At the back of my mind I remember driving with Nora when I first arrived in Catania. Whenever a moped came close to the car she would slam on the central locking and grab her handbag, muttering dire curses in Sicilian. I reach my elbow back to hit the lock on my door. It meets only smooth plastic, so I search the dashboard for the central locking button.

There isn’t one.

I’m in the worst area of Catania, at night, on my own, and I Can’t. Lock. The Doors.

I clutch the steering wheel and look in my rearview mirror. The moped’s gone. My momentary relief is yanked away from me as I realise with an icy gush of fear that it’s because he’s now right beside me, peering in through the passenger window. Desperately I pull the wheel to the right to try to crowd him out, hoping that he won’t have space to open the door.

He drops back.

I exhale. I’m not out of the woods yet, though. I’m still lost. I’ve got more of an idea where I was than ten minutes before, but I’m still not sure how this road links up to others that I know. The traffic has eased, but there are cars parked along both sides of the road, so there’s no turning round. All I can do is keep driving and hope that a familiar landmark comes up sooner rather than later. Up ahead, there’s a moped turning around. He’s blocking my way, so I slow the car to a stop.

I realise what’s going to happen just a split second before it does so.

It’s the same moped as before, and he isn’t trying to turn around; he’s making sure that I can’t drive forward. He stares straight at me, eyes insolent through the gap in his helmet. I stare back, on the verge of blaring the horn. Suddenly, there’s a loud clunk and a rush of cold air from the passenger side of the car as the door flies open and I understand, too late, that it’s a two-man team. I look over, terrified, and see black balaclava, gloved hands, black jacket. The sound of his breathing and the rattle of the door as he grabs the pile of stuff I’ve left carelessly on the front passenger seat is deafening. I cry out and make a futile grab after my belongings, but he’s gone.

I stare at the space where my bag once was. The passenger door is still hanging open. I can see my favourite scarf lying on the ground outside, but there’s no way I’m getting out of the car to get it. I become aware that I’m clutching my bodywarmer, the only thing that I managed to grab back from the thief. In a fit of anger I throw it over my shoulder into the back.

Then I start to shake.

I pull the passenger door closed. The world has closed in around me. I have no awareness of anything but my immediate surroundings. Through a fug of shock, I notice that the thief hasn’t managed to get my handbag. It had been sitting underneath my overnight bag and he’d missed it. At least I’ve still got my phone and money. I grab the bag and push it under my seat, winding the strap around my leg as I do so.

A man and two women are walking across the road towards me. They look concerned. They mouth questions at me through the window. I’m still too confused to be able to open it. Instead, I open the door a crack and manage, somehow, to stammer out a sentence in Italian: “Hanno rubato la mia borsa.” They’ve stolen my bag. The three Italians look horrified and move to the side of the road as if to talk to me further, but dull acceptance settles in my brain. I close the door and drive off, shaking my head in mute apology to them.

As I drive, I mentally go through the contents of my bag. At first I’m cheered that my phone, money and cards weren’t in there. But then it hits me like a sucker punch in the stomach: my passport. My passport was in there.

I start to cry.

With the tears come the recollections of the other things that were in my bag: Kindle; camera; driving licence. Along with all the other bits and pieces that are of no value to anyone else but me: my favourite pyjamas; make-up bag; Italian dictionary. I try to laugh at the thought that there is also dirty laundry in there. Take that, you bastards. It doesn’t comfort me.

Headlights come up fast behind me and a big black car roars past, making me jump. I realise that I’ve been driving for the past five minutes with not the slightest awareness of my surroundings. There’s nothing I can do about the bag at this point in time but it looks like, in my dazed state, I’ve driven into a worse area than the one where I was before. Here there are no pedestrians, no parked cars, no houses: just empty warehouses. The absence of human life unnerves me. If I get into trouble here, no-one will help me. I clutch the steering wheel and peer through the darkness in desperate search of roadsigns. Something. Anything. Where the FUCK am I? I turn down another street and realise that I’m back where I was five minutes before. My breathing has become shallow with panic and I can feel myself getting light-headed. I tell myself to calm down. It doesn’t help.

Rigid with fear, I speed up and turn down a different street. Finally, up ahead I see the dual carriageway and the port: I know where I am. The tears start again, although this time they’re of relief. I wipe my clammy hands on my jeans and take a deep breath.

The worst is over.

Posted in Living Like a Maniac, Travelling Like a Maniac | Tagged , , | 14 Comments

In the market for … something

“Signora! Sig-NOR-a!” It’s the market trader’s call. It’s not directed at anyone in particular, as I thought when I first started going to La Fiera, as the daily market in Catania is known, but more a general call to arms. It’s specific enough to make people think that they’re being spoken to directly so it pulls in the customers, and it may be sexist, but the plain fact is that most of the shoppers at the market are women, so there’s little point in the stallholders shouting the masculine form.

On the other hand, the traders themselves are mostly men, so there’s plenty of flirting and charming that goes on. It’s always worth putting on make-up to go to the market, I’ve found: it gets you much better service. They’ll still sell you short weights if they think they can get away with it, but at least they’ll do it with a friendly smile and some flirtatious chat. And even at short weights you’re still getting better quality at a cheaper price than the supermarket, as well as the whole experience being about a million times more fun, so it’s worth it.

The other day I wanted to buy a pineapple. I spotted a stall that had lots of good-looking specimens, so stopped to look closer. As I was eyeing them up, the guy behind the stall started doing the market trader spiel. “Only €1.50, each one!” I picked a couple up to check for mould or bruising and he spread his arms wide with a disingenous gesture. “Aw, c’mon! They’re all the same – all delicious!” I bantered back, “I don’t have the slightest doubt!” Then, with a grin, I handed over the best pineapple. “I’m taking this one, though …” Recognising that he’d met his match, he laughed. “Where are you from?” We chatted for a little while, and as I left he pulled out possibly his only English phrase: “Bye bye!”

When I walked through the market two days later there was a yell. “Ciaoooo!” I looked over to see the pineapple seller grinning and waving. You’d almost think I was a local.

Earlier today: another day, another pineapple seller. I haven’t noticed him before – maybe he’s new – but he’s young and good-looking and I’m wearing a short dress, so he goes on full charm offensive as I walk past his stall, even so far as calling me signorina, which is a surefire way to win my heart. “Pineapple, miss?” I smile. “Not today, thank you.” Having got a response he grins and starts the hard sell. “C’mooooon! They’re really good …” I enter into the banter. “But I’ve already got one at home!” This isn’t a lie. I’m eating pineapple like there’s no tomorrow at the moment. He is unabashed. “Throw it out! Buy one of mine instead!” He roars with laughter, as do I, but I carry on walking; I’ve got vegetables to buy.

Ten minutes later, after a chat with two traders on neighbouring stalls who turned out to be brothers in law – the one who I eventually bought from was hilariously smug that he’d beaten the other to my custom – and weighed down with bags full of vegetables for the princely sum of €4.50 all told, I pass the pineapple seller again. He shouts across at me, “So, have you decided to buy one yet?” I call back, “Not today. Maybe tomorrow?” He grins and winks. “I’ll be here, waiting for you!”

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Posted in Living Like a Maniac | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments