Popular Posts

Tuesday 15 December 2015

A Lesson in Dialect

I can’t speak Italian. Neither could most of my ACLE colleagues. And that’s why my first camp director and her friend liked to get us to repeat various phrases we didn’t understand, falling about laughing when they heard them. One evening, they started teaching us dialect. And so, in the first week of my travels, a mission was born. I was going to learn the same phrase in the dialect of every region I visited.

Speaking of the country as a unified whole, Italy is very young. Its history is complex and confusing and I cannot make any claims to expertise here, but scholars generally agree that the Risorgimento that led to Italian unification began around 1815 with the Congress of Vienna and the end of Napoleonic rule, and ended around 1871, when Rome officially became the capital of what was known as the ‘Kingdom of Italy.’ Before this time, ‘Italy’ was separated into many different ‘city-states’, each with its own ruling family trying to extend their territory and influence, as well as overseas monarchs (such as the Holy Roman Emperor and the King of France) fighting over what part was ‘theirs’.

What does this all mean for Italian as a language? Florentines claim ownership of ‘true Italian’ as we know it; largely because the Tuscan dialect is the closest to classical Latin, because of how large and central Tuscany is, and because of what has been described as the ‘aggressive commerce of its most influential city, Florence.’ Florence also produced Dante, Petrarca and Bocaccio, who arguably did for Italian what Shakespeare, Milton and Tyndale did for English. However, across the rest of Italy, regions had developed their own languages that didn’t just differ from region to region, but from city to city and even town to town. Much like the similarities in the development of Cornish and Breton through their closeness in trade and commerce, you find surprising links and similarities in the dialects of various parts of Italy and its neighbouring countries. The further into the Dolomites you go, the more Germanic the dialect sounds. Likewise, visit Savona or Genoa, and their dialects are very similar to those spoken in the northern coastal regions of Sardinia – largely due to trade and migration. In fact, I remember my Savonese host mother telling me that when her mother, who was from a town just outside of Savona, Liguria, met her future husband (from Sardinia) – she felt she was only able to fully trust him and therefore marry him because they spoke such a similar dialect. Even across many parts of Italy today, dialect is what children grow up speaking at home and ‘true Italian’ is what they speak at school. So, when Italy became unified, there wasn’t necessarily one common language. My Savonese host father told me of accounts of utter chaos in the First World War, because young recruits from all corners of the country would assemble for training miles from home with little or no knowledge of any language apart from their local dialect, and be almost completely unable to understand the commands issued to them by leaders from other regions.

Therefore, dialect is still a stronghold across huge parts of Italy. Along with the Italian reverence for family, this is probably one of the many contributing factors as to why Italians have historically remained within the area in which they grew up. Their cultural identity isn’t just a national one but a regional one. Many of the Italians that I met are immensely proud of their dialect.

Here are the phrases I collected throughout my time:

Notes:
·         In the interests of pronunciation, I have followed each one with a version using British English phonemes where necessary.
·         I have grouped them according to location, with those areas close to each other listed together, so you can see the similarities and differences more easily
·         For any Italian readers, apologies for the expletive in the Sicilian phrase. It couldn’t really be helped!
·         Also for any Italian readers, please correct my spelling where necessary!

 ‘What are you doing?!?!?!’ (In sixteen different dialects, spoken with the necessary angry/confused hand shaking and in an aggressive tone)

Italiano (true Italian): Cosa stai facendo?! (Cozza sty fachendo?!)
***
Padovan: Coxa sito drio fare?! (Coxa seato dreeo fah-reh?)
Cavallino: Cossa sisto drio far?! (Cossa sisto dreeoh far?)
Venetian: Cossa ti si drio far?! (Cossa tee see dreeoh far?)
Vicentino: Cosa fetto?! (Cozza fetto?)
Mantovan: Cosa set dre far?! (Cozza set dreh far?)
Bergamo: Set dre a far?! (Set dreh a far?)
Castel Goffredo: Cosa se de a far?! (Cozza say say a far?)
Gorla Minore: Cousa te set dre fa?! (Coosa ti set dreh fa?)
Milanese: Sa te dre fa cousé?! (Sa teh dreh fa coosé.)
Savonese: Cose ti feh?! (Cousseh ti fé?)
South Piemontese: So cet foi?! (So chet foy?)
Roman: Che stai a fa?! (Keh sty a fa?)
Neapolitan: Ma che stai faschen?! (Ma keh sty faschen? I know there’s a problem with the way I’ve spelled ‘faschen’ in the Italian version – in the absence of knowledge I used the British phoneme to denote a ‘sh’ sound, but included the ‘c’ for stress and emphasis – it’s not an entirely soft sound.)
Pugliese: Ma cesta fa?! (Ma chesta fa?)
 Sicilian: Ma che minchia fa!!? (Ma keh minkia fa?!!!)

You can see from this how similar those ranging from the northern regions of Venice across to Milan are. Many people from these areas can understand one another quite easily when they’re speaking in dialect. However, when you consider how close places like Milan, Gorla, Bergamo, Vicenza, Mantua and Castel Goffredo are (they’re all situated within a roughly 50 kilometre radius), you realise that their dialects are really quite different. Move down south and the snappy shouts of the Romans, the Sicilians and the Pugliese are almost unrecognisable from the rolling syllables of the north. In fact, you would be forgiven for thinking that ‘Che stai a fa?’ and ‘Cosa sito drio fare?’ were completely different questions! Now, put a Roman army captain in charge of a contingent of Venetian soldiers speaking only dialect and you’re asking for trouble!


I love studying words and etymology, particularly with regard to how social and political conditions have affected language, and this task of learning a little about Italian dialect was absolutely fascinating. It has provided me with a bit more of an understanding of Italians and their national identity, what has made them who they are, how they think, their history as a nation and how all of this is reflected in the Italy I experienced when I visited this summer just passed. What started by accident as a laugh with a camp director and my friends, has turned into a fascinating exploration of language, lifestyle and history, and I am by no means finished with it yet. 

Friday 4 December 2015

'My Trip to London'


Looking back across my childhood, it’s really no surprise that I caught the travel bug. Although there were no sun-soaked holidays in the Med, no middle-class skiing trip in the February half-term, no money for much more than a leaky tent pitched in a half-empty field on the south coast of Cornwall (and what more, frankly, does a child need for a fantastic holiday?), I was always encouraged to be curious, to explore, to interrogate, to discover things for myself and to be open-minded.

I recently started to scrapbook my travels, and I’ve made some amazing finds along the way. I thought my scrapbook material only went back as far as my trip to Cambodia four years ago, but in fact, recent sorting-out of all the paraphernalia in my parents’ garage has unearthed ticket stubbs, brochures and boarding passes from a trip I took to New York aged seventeen, and even thought-provoking souvenirs from a battlefields tour to Belgium I went on with school, aged fourteen. But by far the most satisfying, most nostalgic, most heart-tugging discovery, was the account I wrote of the trip to London I took with my Dad, at the tender age of seven. I remember writing it on the train home, and now I’m a ‘grown-up’, I can see in it the tell-tale little signs of the nomad I would grow up to be. And I’d like to share it with my readers, whoever and wherever you are, if anyone even reads this little offering. I’ve left the spelling mistakes in because, well, it was written by a seven year-old. (And they’re cute)

‘My Trip to London.’

On Thursday morning we had to rush because we got up late. We rushed to the train station and got there just in time. We had Kit Kat Chunkies for breakfast! We got the train at sevon-thirty and got to London at eleven-twenty. We played hangman but the journey was really boring.

We got on the tube-train to Russel Square. We got on the Northern Line and the Piccadilly Line then we found our hotel. It was called ‘The Celtic Hotel’, it was clean and simple with very friendly people.

After a short break we went for a walk around Covent Garden. Dad was disappointed that there were no street entertainers. Then we walked on to Leicester Square where we went to the ticket stall and got three tickets to see Cats. I jumped up and down and was really exited. The girl in the ticket stall wanted to come with us.

Then we walked around London a bit more then maid our way back to the hotel where we waited for our friend Lisa to goin us. She arrived at six-thirty and we went for an indian curry. THEN WE WATCHED THE FONOMINAL FANTASTIC CATS! I got a program witch Old Deuteronomy signed for me. I didn’t want it to finish at all because it was so fabulous.

We walked back to the hotel very happy very exited and very tird after our first day in London, we collapsed down on our beds and fell asleep.

Friday

We got up at sevon thirty and had a bath and went down to breakfast. I had shreddies first with orange juice. Next I had bacon, eggs and beans with hot chocolate. My Dad had suger puffs and an English breakfast. Then we caut the underground to the Millenam Dome. We had to go on the Piccadilly Line then the Northern line then the Jubilee line. We got to the Dome at ten o’clok.

DOME

  1. At the senter of the Dome we watched the millenam show with lots of people in the air. It had three acts
  2. Sky scape. We didn’t get to do it.
  3. Body. I didn’t like it very much the heart was horrid.
  4. Play. I really enjoyed playing on a piano where you press a button and roll a ball.

I went on a maze I almost won. On my second go the boy said that I was eavern better than him. It was an interactive computer maze that I had to stand on.

  1. Shared ground. We tell the time capsule about our naiborhod and our life.
  2. Jorney. Jorney was about how we do and how we might travel in the futer.
  3. Living island. Living island is about how we waist water in this contry.
  4. Home planet. We travelled through space back to Earth again.
  5. Talk. It is important to talk. I found it a little bit boring. Having my photo with E.T was great.
  6. Work. We played computer games and answered questions on tel.no’s.
  7. Mony. We didn’t get to do it.
  8. Lernig. Lernig was a big school corridor with a horrid headmaster.
  9. Millenam Jewles. Millenam Jewles was boring but pretty.
  10. Our town stage. It was ok but it was in Welsh so I didn’t understand it.
  11. Rest. We lied down on a hard stone floor and watched the lights change. I kept sliding down the wavy bits and Dad told me off.
  12. Faith. We didn’t get to do it.

When we got back to the hotel we asked if there was anywhere for us to have an indian curry. Then we went back to the hotel and went to bed.

Saturday

We got up at sevon o’clok. We had breakfast then left for the train. ‘I don’t want to go home’ I told my Dad, just as we were about to leev.

The End.

By Charlie Jessica Murrell – Edwards.

I hope you enjoyed it.

Monday 30 November 2015

Moving On

This wasn't going to be my next entry, but life cropped up and fed me some material so there you go.

A chance remark made by my Dad when we were Skyping one evening while I was in Italy inspired the title of this blog, so it's about time I made reference to it again, and this is something pretty much everyone can relate to:

I'm leaving home. (Actually, at the time of publishing, I have left home)

We all leave home at some point (or at least we're supposed to). I've left home several times already. When I was eighteen I left home to go travelling. When I was nineteen I left home to go to university. When I was twenty-two I left home to go travelling. But this is a different kind of 'leaving home'. This is kind of...it.

Vamoose.

See, the house I grew up in is very little. And my family are very...big. And there are no opportunities in Devon, and it's logical, and, quite simply, I love my boyfriend and I like the thought of living with him. (Again, time-of-publishing update - what is this thing called 'compromise'? And why must I apply it to the piles of his clothes on the bedroom floor? Watch out darling, 'Boots' is about to happen to the shower room). But sitting in my childhood bedroom, sorting my things out and realising that this room will soon belong to my youngest brother, shook me a bit.

I found us the place and Ewan moved in a month ago while I was still in Torbay studying for a CELTA. Both our names are on the contract but I'm so used to being his visitor that I'm still having to make a conscious effort to refer to it as 'our' place. But that'll change as I adjust.

It wasn't the knowledge that I'd be moving my life and my base to a new, comparatively unknown location that gave me the jolt. Not even the suggestion that I could be getting cold feet over the next stage of our relationship or, I'm a little ashamed to say, seeing the realisation dawn on my lovely Mum's face as she stood in the kitchen doorway - 'I just realised... This is kind of it, isn't it Charlie?' No, it was when I remembered that my childhood bedroom is going to be taken over by my youngest brother. The little bit of space I've called my own since the bundle of joy arrived thirteen years ago - yes, changes were made when I left for university and my relationship to it has changed several times over the years but it was still, essentially...mine.

That room saw me through my Busted phase, with posters on the wall and 'surf hair' wax (how??) on my shelf. Then my McFly phase (similar), followed by the Emo phase (Busted posters replaced by Panic! At the Disco and Fall Out Boy ones, hair products replaced by kohl and ALL THINGS BLACK WITH PINK STRIPES, and Green Day lyrics scratched into the desk). Then my Christian phase (let's please not go there), my psycho-bitch A Level revision phase, my 'where is home - London or Devon oh God what IS my identity' phase, my 'well I've finished uni and NOW FREAKING WHAT' phase, and finally, my 'return home temporarily to gain another qualification and then bugger off for good' phase.*

Magnolia walls, floral bedcovers and Penguin Recycled Classics are to be overtaken by...a superheroes theme.

Transience is healthy. Too much permanence leads to rot and stagnation. As ever, it's about balance. 

It's time for me to move on. I made the choice and I'm happy that doing so means that my little brother will have the opportunity to experience having a space to call his own. I'm happy that this little room will be able to do the same for him as it did for me. But the fact that this little sanctuary won't be mine any more is a bit of a tug. Until the new place with Ewan starts to feel more 'mine' than the room that was 'mine' for so long, I suspect I'll probably feel a bit placeless again.** And that's fine.

One door closes, another opens. Transience is always a given. It's time for one chapter to end, and another to begin.




*Because you see, even though I'm 'moving in' with Ewan, my career choice is kind of...roaming 
** What is it with this notion of property anyway? I sense a black hole opening...

Sunday 8 November 2015

Pizzeria 'Formula Uno'

Located a mere 10 minute walk from Termini station and advertised as ‘The Best Pizza in Rome’, this pizzeria comes highly recommended for when you want good grub on the cheap, away from the tourist crowds. Just seconds away from my doorstep and recommended by my Air BnB host Enea, I thought I’d try this place out to see if it really was as good as he said.

Situated just off the Via Tiburtina, (via Degli Equi 13), this unassuming little place serves up an array of pizzas from 7.30pm-midnight, six days a week. This pizzeria is a stronghold of the locals, and you can expect to be the only tourist in sight. You’ll also find yourself practicing your restaurant Italian but don’t let these things put you off; wherever the locals go you can guarantee good quality, and this pizzeria really is worth a visit!

What you see is what you get with Formula Uno. White-washed walls sporting pictures of Formula One cars and racing legends, simple unadorned wooden tables and service that meets the bare minimum to avoid anyone making a complaint; but the pizza comes out fast, hot and REALLY tasty! In my three days I tried Margherita (of course), Melanzane (aubergine) and Peperoni (peppers- not salami!). They were simple, fresh, filling and satisfying. One of these followed by a gelato from any of the several gelaterias on the Via Tiburtina was more than enough to keep me going until breakfast.

The pizza toppings are all described in English (which I found surprising given that I was the only tourist around). With pizzas ranging from €5-8, you can get a decent sized pizza and a drink for under €10, and ¼ litre of house wine costs the same as a small bottle of mineral water, €1.50!  It’s worth noting that Italians generally drink water alongside their alcohol, so if you want to blend in a bit more in this almost entirely local pizzeria then I would recommend doing that; it also doesn’t hurt to make sure you’re fully rehydrated after a day sweating your way around the streets of the Centro Storico!  There is no cover charge, so you don’t have to worry about being shafted for an extra €3-6 when the bill comes out (il conto, per favore). Tips are not included in the bill, but tipping is down to your discretion  - tipping in Italy is generally neither required nor expected.


I really enjoyed my meals at Formula Uno. As I was alone in Rome for the first time and still adjusting to being back in a country I hadn’t visited for over a year, to be able to eat so well and so cheaply was a real comfort, and started what would become a four-month long taste odyssey.

Sunday 1 November 2015

So much Yum in your Tum that you'll get a Big Bum: A Few Simple Italian Recipes

Seasoning for Just About Anything

When I was working in Bergamo, my half Italian half German host mother who grew up in Brazil (she spoke three languages, not one of them English, and I didn’t speak any of hers) made me the most mouth-watering roasted vegetables I’ve ever eaten, and it was all down to the seasoning.

Place rosemary, sage (dried or fresh), garlic and salt (heavy on the salt light on the garlic) into a pestle and mortar and crush into a paste with olive oil. Add to meat, fish or vegetables and roast/fry/grill/barbecue. Quantities depend on the amount of food you wish to season, so it’s largely guesswork I’m afraid. Happy concocting!

Spaghetti agli Olio ‘a la Barbara’.

This is a meal that was cooked for me by my lovely Sicilian host mother, Barbara. It is yet another celebration of the simplicity of Italian cooking and is well worth a try at home.

Serves 2
Ingredients:
150g spaghetti
Olive oil
1 fat clove of garlic
½ red chilli, finely chopped (it depends how much tingle you like, add more if you want more kick)
Handful of fresh parsley, coarsely chopped.
Parmesan to serve

  1.    .Place a saucepan of cold water on to boil and add salt.
  2.        Cover the bottom of a frying pan with a generous amount of olive oil. Finely chop the garlic and    add to the oil to heat gently. Don’t let it burn!
  3.       When the water has reached a rolling boil, add the spaghetti. Don’t snap it in order to get it in, that’s really not the point of spaghetti! Use a bigger pan, or push it gently. The packet will usually give you an indication of how long to cook it for in order for it to be properly al dente.
  4.      .As the pasta cooks, add the chopped chilli to the oil and garlic.
  5.       Once the spaghetti is cooked, drain and add it to the oil, garlic and chilli, along with the parsley. Toss to combine.
  6.       Serve with grated parmesan.



Salmarillio ‘a la Barbara’

Another recipe given to me by the lovely Barbara, this dressing for fish followed the spaghetti agli olio. We had it on swordfish, but it would work very well with any sea food.

Tip: prepare this before you start cooking the rest of the meal, as it will give the flavours the maximum amount of time to infuse.

Again quantities depend on how many you’re cooking for, but allow for a good generous ‘slosh’ per person, plus a bit extra in case anyone goes for seconds. The amount we made served four.
In a small bowl, combine a generous amount of good olive oil (not quite enough to make the garlic float) with chunky chopped garlic (about two or three cloves), a small handful of parsley and the juice of half a Sicilian lemon. Leave to infuse and spoon over fish when eating.


Pasta a la Pomodoro

I know I know, everyone knows how to cook pasta a la pomodoro. But this recipe is, for me, as much a recipe for a good meal as it is an exercise in nostalgia. I was keen to learn more about Italian cooking and my lovely host father Stefano couldn’t be more willing to oblige. Immensely proud of his country’s food heritage, Stefano first pointed out to me that the key to brilliant cooking is simplicity. Pull together three or four perfectly matched ingredients and you’re away, and this is the baseline of all Italian food. He then ploughed through this recipe with me late one evening after work while I struggled to simultaneously follow his instructions and write them down, which resulted in a messy kitchen, a messy Charlie, a messy notebook and a truly gorgeous dinner. Writer’s paradise.

Serves Three.

Ingredients:
200g pasta (any will do, although penne, fusilli or spaghetti are usually used)
Olive Oil
3 cloves of garlic (1 per person)
Fresh tomatoes. Typically they use the ‘dotterino’ variety, but we used three large beef tomatoes. One per person if you’re using large ones. If you’re using Dotterino you’ll have to use a bit of guesswork, but any leftover sauce can always go in the fridge for later!
Chunk of pecorino cheese OR parmigiano reggiano/grana (parmesan)

Note about the cheese: ‘Grana’ is what we know as Parmesan. Stefano was very particular about highlighting the difference between grana and parmigiano reggiano. I understood that they were two names for the same thing – parmesan - but apparently they’re not. I think what he was trying to tell me was that parmigiano reggiano is produced in the area between Modena and Reggio Emilia, and that grana is produced around Bologna, Farrara, Mantova and Rovigo, and that therefore they are different cheeses and must not be confused. He also implied that grana is a lower class of cheese than parmigiano. So for the rest of the trip I had no idea if I was eating grana or parmigiano but surprise surprise, they tasted pretty darn similar to my foreign, amateur tastebuds!

Finally a handful of fresh basil

  1.      Add enough oil to cover the bottom of a medium sized pan. Add the garlic cloves whole and unpeeled. Cook over a low heat until they start to go brown.
  2.       Meanwhile, boil water in a separate pan for the pasta. (See steps 1 and 3 of the Spaghetti agli olio recipe for the proper Italian way to cook pasta.)
  3.       Chop the tomatoes and place in a colander over the sink, to drain the juice. Add the tomatoes to the garlic and oil and add a little salt.
  4.       While everything is cooking away nicely, grate your cheese.
  5.       When the pasta is cooked, remove the garlic from the tomato sauce, drain the pasta and add it to your sauce, mixing thoroughly.
  6.       Roughly chop the basil and scatter it on top of the pasta.
  7.      Serve with a generous handful of cheese!
     
Of course I gorged myself on loads of different meals over the course of the four months I was in Italy, but these are four of my top dishes from the summer. They all have different flavours and elements, but there are two things they all share in common, and those are: simplicity and joy. Each recipe is so straightforward but so lovely, and each one is made with the same aim in mind – to provide sustenance and pleasure to loved ones and friends. Watching Stefano explain how to make the perfect tomato sauce, Barbara lovingly prepare her family’s favourite meal and Susie glow with pleasure as I exclaimed over her roasted vegetables, the knowledge that – for Italians – food is about so much more than just eating was reinforced for me again and again, and is something that I have carried into my own cooking since returning home.

Monday 19 October 2015

Running With Water

I’m sitting on a stone outside the B’n’B’ near one of Mantua’s outlying villages at 7am on a Monday morning, waiting for my camp director to pick me up so I can begin my ninth consecutive week at camp. There is no one else around. Just me, sat on a stone, with an empty b’n’b at my back and a maize field stretching out in front of me.

I’m preparing to move on once again, with the paraphernalia of my identity as an ACLE Tutor scattered around me and my rucksack at my feet. Not just through my time working for ACLE, but throughout my life, I have become comfortable with my identity as something of a nomad. I spent years fighting it but I finally surrendered – catchword of the summer – and the liberation and growth that has happened since then has been immense. Perhaps that’s why I travel.

‘What was it my dad called me the other day? Ah... Transient One.’

We are all transient. Coming to terms with our transience is one of the most difficult life lessons we all have to learn I suppose. And so, sitting on that stone outside that nameless B’n’B’ in rural Lombardy, feeling very smug about having just applied a Very Big Life Concept to a Comparatively Small Occasion, the name of this blog was born.

This entry is dedicated to documenting those glorious, transient memories I made over the summer, because despite thinking we’ve come to terms with the transient nature of everything, we will still try to contain, to quantify and keep hold. This is a re-living, a re-telling, and a re-sharing of moments with those I made these memories with, as well as evidence of the fact that you can never predict what is going to happen when you travel.

#1
Looking out of the coach window on my way from Ciampino airport into the city centre upon my arrival in Rome, I spot a man headering a football right in the middle of two rows of stock-still traffic.

#2
The scent of honeysuckle that coats the walls surrounding the garden at the back of the Vatican Museums.

#3
Selfie sticks are possibly the most irritating things ever invented.

#4
When your amazing Sicilian host family take you to the opening night of a beautiful club on the beach and you dance until 3am and they arrange for the DJ to give you and the friends you’re travelling with a shout-out on your last night in Sicily,and Jellyfish happens on the dancefloor, and lemon vodka is literally a cup of vodka with a slice of lemon in it (well, not literally...), and Giovanni ‘Travolta’ Cilia OWNS the dancefloor with his moves and then you go to bed with your head ringing and knowing you have a six-hour coach journey the next morning but sod it that was amazing and you LOVE ITALY!

#5
Eating pecococca per vino for desert; a variety of peach that is ONLY eaten after being steeped in red wine. My host father said he’d let me know when it was ready to eat, so there I am, patiently contemplating my wine-soaked fruit, when my eight-year-old host sister appears and swipes my host father’s cup from under his nose, scoffs the fruit, drains the glass and smacks her lips in satisfaction.

#6
Singing along to ‘See You Again’ in the car on the way from Rodia to Messina Coach Station, where we took the coach to Puglia, and struggling not to cry.

#7
Flashmobbing Alberobello the night we visited the trulli.

#8
Steaming along the autostrada from Rodia to Messina on the back of Giovanni’s motorbike.

#9
Watching the energy in my class turn from borderline chaotic to totally Zen in the space of one David Gray song.

#10
Host father: Don’t worry Charlie, tomorrow we will stay at home and eat soap.

#11
When your incredibly sweet host mother turns to you and announces, ‘But Charlie, it’s SO DIFFICULT to cook for you because you’ve been all over Italy and tasted so much already!’

#12
Sitting at the table with my host family in Savona while my sweet little host brother recites a poem he wrote in Savonese dialect for me, which his father translates into Italian and then his mother in turn translates it into English.

#13
When your nine Level Threes burst into song in the middle of your lesson, and you realise they’re singing ‘Glad You Came’ just for you.

#14
Falling asleep next to Ewan on a mountain-side, surrounded by surely the most beautiful panorama the Little Dolomites have to offer.

#15
Sitting outside ristorante ‘Algiubagio’ in Venice, twizzling our Spaghetti Primavera, watching the boats going to and from the Fondamente Nove. Ewan chuckles and observes that we’re seated in the romantically lit outdoor area of a posh restaurant overlooking the lagoon...right next to a bus stop.

#16
Sitting in the kitchen with Susie one day after camp, scoffing Sicilian biscuits and discussing the beauty of travelling. I speak no Italian, German or Portuguese. She speaks no English. It doesn’t matter.

#17
Wednesday of my final camp. Our most adorable camper can only come in for the afternoons because his school has started already, and as he enters the canteen at lunchtime, the whole camp erupts into a huge round of applause and cheering.

#18
Lexi commenting on the pizza in da Michele, Naples:
‘I feel more strongly about this pizza than I do about some men that I’ve dated.’

#19
Every time Brigitte tried to speak Italian

#20
Giovanni on the dancefloor in M’ama Club, going crazy for the Black Eyed Peas.

#21
Giovanni modelling his new beach shorts and shuffling around the garden in his six year-old daughter’s shoes, singing his shoe size, because the flip-flops his family got him to match are too small.

#22
The Thursday of our last camp together, Josué and I are ‘hiding’ from the children during a scavenger hunt. He is balancing and bouncing on a row of low bike railings and I’m sat with my back to the school wall. We’re chatting about life, about knowledge, about work. He starts to bounce with a look of intense concentration and then announces, whilst bouncing and frowning at his feet, arms out for balance and lips slightly puckered, ‘Yeah... I really want a proper job. I think. I mean, I like wearing a tie, you know?’

#23
Host brother: What is the name of the wife of the chicken?
Me: Dorothy.
Host brother: ...

#24
Being thrown around in the waves the day we went to the beach at Tono, Viola shrieking with euphoria and somehow managing to jump on top of me every time I succeed in regaining my balance. Something is hilariously funny and for some reason I just can’t stop laughing, which doesn’t help the falling-over situation. Water in my mouth, nose, eyes and ears, sun on my head, the sound of five people screaming with laughter and, through the spray, Viola, Morgana, Brigitte and Josué’s faces mirroring my own, Carlotta sat on the water’s edge and Mia barking at us protectively.

#25
On Bergiggi beach with Becci, the waves are too rough to swim so we’re concentrating on just staying upright. A particularly strong wave sends me crashing into Becci, who has her back to me. She whoops in surprise and flings her arms out in a fruitless attempt to break her fall. Snorting with laughter and spitting out sea water, we struggle back to standing and brace ourselves for another wave.

#26
Becci coming out of the toilet at the Centro Nautico Vadese and announcing, ‘It’s a squattie. I just pissed all over my shoes.’

#27
Just had the strangest encounter in the McDonalds at Verona Porta Nuova station. A lady (she was a bit rough-looking but she didn’t look totally destitute) came and asked for my fries. Now, I’m really not averse to sharing my fries with a roughish-looking lady who is polishing off a burger I guess another generous-looking traveller donated, so I told her very clearly (in my baby Italian) that yes, she could take one or two. But when she went to take the lot, I became a bit confused. I removed her hand from my lunch and repeated my offer of a few, not the lot. But I guess that’s an all-or-nothing situation, and she obviously felt I should check my privilege, because she told me to go fuck myself. Now why did I come out of that feeling like a bad person? And why, if she was so hungry and I so stingy, didn’t she just grab the 5 euro note and my purse, which were sitting right next to the tension-inducing fries the whole time? 

#28
Asking the bus driver for my ticket to the airport in Italian, and HE RESPONDS IN ITALIAN! Well it only took until my very last morning...


This is just a handful of the most precious moments I shared with just a few of the people I had the pleasure of meeting over the course of the summer: mostly fellow tutors, travel companions and, largely, the wonderful host families I had the luck to live with. Once again, thank you.

Monday 12 October 2015

L'Antica Pizzeria da Michele

L’Antica Pizzeria da Michele
Via Cesare Sersale 1
Open from 10.30am – midnight Mon-Sat

If you do nothing else during your trip to Naples, visit this pizzeria. Service leaves rather a lot to be desired but oh, sweet mother of all things holy, the pizza is a gift from the gods.
This is the pizzeria Liz Gilbert wrote about in Eat Pray Love. It has pictures of Julia Roberts tucking into her Margherita con doppia mozzarella (double mozzarella) pasted all over the walls. The pizza oven is IN the main seating area, and there is magic in the hands of those pizza chefs. After finishing her first slice, my travel companion Lexi placed her hands on her hips, eyed her pizza frankly, then looked at me and announced, ‘I feel more strongly about this pizza than I do about men that I’ve dated.’

The decor will probably remind you a bit of your Nan’s utility room, (cracked white and green ceramic tiles and strip-lighting, anyone?) and the long plain tables facilitate seating for maximum customer capacity rather than an intimate meal, but that’s part of the charm of the place. You can’t help but get talking to the people next to you, especially if you’re there alone.

My biggest piece of advice would be to GET THERE EARLY. It’s only a 10-15 minute walk from the central station, but make sure you arrive at 7pm on the dot or you will end up queuing half the night for your dinner.  If you’re going for lunch, be there at 12, or you run the risk of them running out of dough and that would just kill you. The Margherita con doppia mozzarella is €5 and is the most expensive pizza on the menu. Otherwise you can order a straight up margherita or a marinara (no mozzarella) for €4.50. All drinks cost €2.

Very little can prepare you for Neapolitan pizza. I had been in Italy for four months already by the time I hit Naples, and even my mind was blown. To give you some indication, this is how Liz Gilbert described it:

‘Holy of Holies! Thin, doughy, strong, gummy, yummy, chewy, salty pizza paradise. On top, there is a sweet tomato sauce that foams up all bubbly when it melts the fresh buffalo mozzarella, and the one sprig of basil in the middle of the whole deal somehow infuses the entire pizza with herbal radiance...  I love my pizza so much, in fact, that I have come to believe in my delirium that my pizza might actually love me, in return. I am having a relationship with this pizza, almost an affair.’


There you have it kids. Enjoy.

Monday 5 October 2015

Summer of Surrender

This summer, I spent just under four months working and backpacking around Italy teaching English at summer camps. I'm not sure where it germinated, but somewhere around week four I realised that myself and those around me were using the word 'surrender' a lot, and that this word was starting to become the catchphrase of the summer. Here is a list of everything I found myself surrendering to over the course of my travels.

Surrender to the nerves and excitement of an upcoming trip... You have no idea what the next four months holds in store...

Surrender the little voice that is telling you to stay. You were born in the digital era – you’re never really that far from home.

Surrender all of the non-essential stuff that won’t quite fit in your 35ltr rucksack. You’ll only end up dumping it somewhere along the way.

Surrender to the difficulty of watching your Mum put on a brave face as she stands on the station platform while you put her through the stress of watching you go into the unknown again. Sorry Mum.

Surrender to a similar feeling when your partner takes you to the airport and you wade resolutely through security while he walks in the opposite direction.

Surrender to the grin that erupts all over your face as you leg it through arrivals to the coach that’s waiting to take you to your final destination. (Or starting point??)

Surrender to the satisfaction of having successfully navigated unknown streets to find your room. So you made a doofus of yourself finding the right building, but you’re here and it’s always better to ask, right?

Surrender to the exhaustion.

Surrender to the weather. Hot or cold, you’ll acclimatise.

Surrender to the embarrassment of asking for help on the metro and realising you were putting the ticket in the wrong way. You’re a tourist.

Surrender to all of the working and living conditions you find yourself in over the summer.* They will all ultimately make you more adaptable, more flexible, and a lot more resourceful.
*unless they’re really awful. Then speak up.

Surrender to the Glad Game,* and play it every day without fail.
*see Pollyanna

Surrender when a child in your class is sick from the heat and has to be taken away in an ambulance. Surrender to the guilt. Surrender to the helplessness. You gave them breaks, you made sure they were hydrated – his mother didn’t tell us he suffered from low blood pressure.

Surrender to the full spectrum of your emotions. One day you will laugh until you choke, the next you will cry until your eyes itch. It’s all part of the game.

Surrender to the fact that you will have no control whatsoever over your life for the next four months. It’s liberating.

Surrender your time-keeping device whenever possible.

Surrender to generosity.

Surrender to the size of Italian vodka measures. It will just help you tear up that dance-floor even more enthusiastically!

Surrender to the moment.

Surrender when your host families take five hours to plan an activity together. Find a chair, take a seat, they’re Italian.

Surrender to the fact that mosquitoes ADORE you.

Surrender, occasionally, your own individual desires if they are not in accordance with the rest of the group. Don’t sacrifice all your plans, but it’s good to realise that some things are just intended for next time.

Surrender to JOY.

Surrender to the consequences of your mistakes. All of them.

Surrender to the fact that situations arise when you least expect them.

Surrender to the inevitable.

Surrender to the heat.

Surrender to the discomfort.

Surrender to the pleasure of air conditioning and a cold shower after a long, sweaty day at work.

Surrender to embarrassing situations.

Surrender to the bliss of stepping into a cold shower after ten hours of relentless SWEAT.

Surrender to dictatorial camp directors. They’re in the minority and there’s really nothing you can do about them.

Surrender to exhaustion in all its manifestations.

Surrender to changed plans.

Surrender when people let you down.

Surrender to being pushed out of your comfort zone.

SURRENDER when the universe proves to you YET AGAIN, that THINGS HAPPEN FOR A REASON.

Surrender to the bliss of tucking into a really, really good pizza. There is honestly nothing better in this world than a perfectly done pizza. Honestly. (You think you’ll enjoy that oven-bake-from-frozen supermarket trash after you’ve eaten pizza at a buffalo mozzarella festival in Naples? You’ve been spoiled for life darling. Surrender to it.)

Surrender to the fact that you’ve become an insufferable food snob.

Surrender your expectations.