Espresso Surprise

We walked into our favourite local bar and passed a guy who was already standing at the counter with an empty cup in front of him. Gi ordered two espressos and then approached the cashier to pay for our coffees. This guy at the bar was blabbering in a crazy tone, complaining to the world at large. Initially we thought he might be a bit mad. A cursory glance of his appearance certainly supported that impression. He looked drunk or crazy, his rugged face, weathered wrinkly skin offsetting dark sunken eyes. Combined with his white unruly hair he looked like a long lost great uncle who has led a hard life and always smelled of cigarette smoke and sourness, with rough facial stubble, and overly familiar hands. At first glance he looked unclean, and if you saw him sitting on a bench in the park you might mistake him for a hobo. However, at closer inspection he was of working class, freshly shaven, his slender, wiry frame clad in well worn but clean clothes.

The bar man, preparing our coffees, was nodding his head as if to acknowledge what the old guy was saying without really paying attention. The cashier was an even uglier, even older man, and together with another customer they all seemed quite bored with the old guy’s presence, largely ignoring him, certainly not responding or engaging in conversation, silently willing him to leave.

Our arrival gave the bar man a distraction from the old guy’s monologue and he looked relieved to direct his attention elsewhere.

Gi needs to understand what is being said to him if someone in the vicinity seems to be talking to him. So despite the old guys crazy appearance he bluntly asked “What’s the matter with you?”

The old guy responded, “The matter with me is my bleeding family, families here, families there, what a pain in the arse they are. They always think they know things but they don’t know shit, they only think of themselves”.

“Fair enough, but I still have no idea what you are talking about”, Gi retorted and the audience at the bar quietly chortled.

The old guy said “I was married to a great woman (in Italian, like English, the word great also translates to very big and even though Gi understood that he meant great as in fantastic he momentarily considered making a joke that ‘Maybe you’re better off without her if she was that big. Exactly how much space did she take?’ but decided it was too inappropriate). Continuing on, he said, “Well she died about 3 years ago, and the loss utterly and totally broke my heart. My whole life fell apart. I was an absolute mess, depressed, drunken, angry, and bitter - the lot. And it took the greatest courage and effort to finally accept what had happened and really move on; to realise that she was indeed dead, but I wasn’t. I was still here. There are still others around me and I had to continue living. Life goes on.”

As he talked our coffees arrived. Ripping open the pyramidal packets of sugar we poured it into the thick dark liquid, stirring until it had dissolved, all the while listening to the old guy as he started talking about going out again, being part of the outside world. His family seemed happy that he was out of his grief, living life again.

The story continued to unfold; he met this woman, he courted her. She made him feel whole again, they are both very happy together, and everything was great. That is until the day he decided to tell his family about her. To say that they were distraught would be the greatest understatement. His family were completely against the relationship, one hundred percent. They just could not comprehend how he could possibly have done that, gone down that avenue, gone with someone else as though he should still be worshipping his dead wife. They couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t accept it.

Following their reaction, he decided the best course of action would be for them to meet this woman. Then hopefully they would see what he and she had together, how happy he was with her. He arranged for his new girlfriend to go to the family house the following week. This gave his family a weeks notice to prepare themselves for the occasion. It also gave his girlfriend a week to brace herself as well.

However, two days before she was due to go and meet the family she found out she was pregnant.

The old guy, still leaning against the counter, but now more animated and looking directly and solely at Gigi exclaims, “Now here I am, already a father, and a grandfather, at 69 to be a father again to the child of a 39 year old”. At this, Gi almost choked on the coffee.

He emphasised “There is a thirty year difference between me and my pregnant girlfriend. But what is time?” he asked, “And what is age when you have happiness and love?” Good questions, indeed.

The family meeting was subsequently cancelled, the couple having decided that they needed more time to think things over now that she was pregnant. But he still told his family about the pregnancy. The fireworks exploded, they told him he was crazy. To say they were angry would be another understatement.

Having thrown back the last dregs of our coffees, we were ready to leave. It was then that he delivered this gem, “Ultimately”, he said, “it’s the women, they’re like that, they all want children”. Gi turned around and in accordance with a local custom to eliminate bad luck began vigorously scratched his balls saying by way of explanation “Excuse the rude gesture but it’s never been as duly needed as it is at this moment. I’ve been in a relationship for twelve years without that being an issue and I don’t need an old codger jeopardising my lifestyle first thing in the morning”.

The barman, leaning against the back counter, was now openly laughing, enjoying the performance.

The old guy countered with “But they are like that, they’re turning me crazy, I’ve already had five espressos this morning”, genuinely believing every word having lived it, struggled and suffered, he was convinced it was reality for all.

Gi said “God at that rate if you have a couple more you could go out and impregnate five or six more women”. The bar man and cashier laughed harder, and as we headed in the direction of the door Gi threw in “And you’ll turn into a horny Tasmanian devil”. The bar man choked. The old guy looked lost, like a teenager caught with his pants down, our coffee cups sat empty on the counter.

We left him standing at the bar, Gi wishing everyone a good day adding, “It was a wonderful moment”. The wonder is in imagining what the woman is like, how the next chapter of drama will unfold and whether Viagra was involved.

Monday 22 May

Hello world. Still in the process of writing about the weekend....spent some time on Sunday with skeletons, oh and had dinner with the in laws but the two events are not related.

BTW for those of you that failed to pick up on my sarcasm in the last blog... I was already planning to use some of the content of these blogs for publication in the hope of greater glory and financial gain... Gi is not (only) the brilliant strategist that you all think.

We are leaving for London on Wednesday on a trip that was booked while in the depths of in law hell. We decided late last week that we can't really afford to go, financially and because this week Gi starts at the New Form Care clinic but who's going to throw away tickets that can't be cancelled when the accommodation is free and the train to Rome (yep, European connections are crap sometimes) is already paid booked.

Check out the weather forecast....looks like we are heading straight back to winter.

Wed, May 24Light rainmin: 11°Cmax: 14°C
Thu, May 25Heavy rainmin: 10°Cmax: 16°C

So, we've decided to suck it up and enjoy it regardless. I'm making a list of things to buy like a bra (remind me to tell you a story about buying a bra in Italy sometime). We'll catch up with friends, eat some ordinary food for a change (ordinary as in probably not great) and blow some pounds on the London Eye if I really feel like being crazy.

I have a temperature today, feel cold although it's definitely T-shirt weather, and generally tired and listless. Gi reckons I need to rest...not sure how much more resting I can fit in really...but have decided it's because he keeps me awake at night with his diesel locomotive snoring.

Wrote a poem today...haven't done that for years.

Cheers

J

Mistaken Identity

16 May 2006 Mistaken New Farm Cafe

Gigi and I are spending so much time together that I’m starting to forget what it’s like to go to work, do AFS stuff, see friends & family, do house stuff and only spend a few hours with him each day. Despite living in the centre of one of the world’s most chaotic cities we have a completely different pace of life. And I kind of like it. I’m adjusting to not having a pile of tasks to accomplish each day, meetings to attend, deadlines to meet. I like being busy, productive, useful but sometimes I get caught up being busy for busyness sake, and forget to do the little things that make life’s journey sweet, something to be savoured.

I’m developing the habit of rising before Gigi to write in the mornings while he sleeps. He tends to read later into the night, so there is about a two hour time gap at opposite ends of the day when we each get to do our own thing. It’s funny, I must be getting older, but I never thought I’d enjoy writing in the mornings. I used to hate getting up in the mornings to study, often falling asleep again over the books. But then there are those of you that know me well and would be saying that I don’t like to anything much in the mornings, including speak.

Gi is incredibly supportive, giving me all the time and space I need to write. He is my editor, pulling out my grammatical errors (I hate it that he’s studied grammar and I don’t know a past participle from my left elbow) and generally reads everything I write. He’s funny though; this morning he had a brain wave, and suggested that I should keep writing, publishing the blogs and then in time pull them altogether and send them off as a book or something. Brilliant; wish I’d thought of it myself!

We have just returned from a walk around town having stumbled across an ‘Elettricita’, a shop of electrical items, where I finally found a lamp to hook onto the bookshelf above my desk (red to match the office rubbish bin and pencil holder!) and Gi found a matching red bedside lamps for his late night reading. Two happy campers!

The original purpose of this evening stroll was to locate a health clinic that one of our new neighbours advised is looking for practitioners. Unfortunately the directions provided were a little hazy, but as we were wandering back up Via Duomo, the road where you find the striking cathedral, all manner of wedding shops and bookshops for religious texts, I noticed a sign across the road inside the entrance to a building. I thought it read New Farm Café, and deciding it was too much of a sign crossed the road to investigate. For those of you playing at home New Farm is one of Brisbane’s oldest, and hippest, suburbs with a plethora of restaurants and cafes. Of course in Brisbane a café is somewhere to meet friends, have a coffee and sit and chat for as long as it takes. I’ve been quietly looking for an equivalent in Naples where it’s not going to cost me a bomb to order a coffee and sit down (in most of Italy you normally order a coffee at the bar, stand up, have a quick chat, throw down the coffee and head out the door), and where I can sit and write on my lap top safely without attracting unsavoury attention. A New Farm Café in Via Duomo, literally 5 minutes from our place, seemed like a miracle.

Entering the courtyard, ignoring the portiere standing bored by the huge doors I walked towards the sign to discover it actually ready ‘New Form Care’. The symbology on the sign and a peak inside looked like it might be a health centre. Returning to Gigi who was now asking the portiere what the business did I overhead him respond that it was a beauty clinic. Theoretically, a beauty clinic is not somewhere for Gigi to practice his Chinese medicine, but the billboard out front clearly indicated that it was more than a beauty clinic. I reckoned that the portiere had never even been inside, and following my intuition suggested we go inside.

A woman called Dora met us at reception; her colleague was mopping floors in the background. Assuming Gi was potentially a new client she asked him what services he was looking for. Explaining that he was indeed a practitioner of Chinese medicine and Tui Na massage, looking for a place to work having recently returned to Naples from Australia they spoke for some time about his treatments, study, and reasons for returning to Naples. Dora looked into Gi’s eyes, firm and steady on several occasions, initially suspicious and cautious, trying to determine if he was genuine. I watched as she began to relax, her colleague came over to join in the conversation, and while they remained professional some of her initial guard dropped.

Before I realised what was happening Dora was giving us a quick tour of the centre. As expected we entered a room segmented off with dark curtains, much like I’d seen in other local beauty clinics, with tables for beauty treatments, tanning under lights. We passed through a hallway, and a door that opened out to a garden area that was still under construction to another section with small private rooms for consultations, acupuncture and relaxation massage. By this time Gi and I were both very impressed with the layout, aesthetics, cleanliness and organised set up. To our surprise Dora then led us down some stairs carved out of the sandstone, into a cavern beneath the business. This was a room that they renovated themselves, and before us was a sauna, heated bed with ceramic tiles, Turkish bath and shower coming out of the pale rock face. It was a downstairs conversion to rival any basement bar & poolroom. Every aspect of the centre reflected tranquillity, innovation, dedication, and style.

A Doctor Renato runs the whole establishment and Gi has an appointment with him on Thursday, hopefully to discuss the possibility of working from the clinic.

The other encouraging thing is that this morning Gigi returned to Piazza Bellini, behind which is a small laneway of alternative shops, including a restaurant, bookshop, art space, shop to buy organic and anti allergy household items etc. There is also a ‘Centro Shen’ where they seem to hold evening seminars and practice some alternative therapies. Gi came bouncing home excited to have discovered that the whole place is set up as an association, run by a guy from Melbourne and his Neapolitan wife. They are currently in Australia, but there is the possibility of him using the facilities for treatments, giving seminars and instructions on Qi Gong.

After two months of being ‘stuck’ it seems that he’s now taking the first steps in the right direction. Now if only I could find a friendly sit down café to write…

Urban Cave

16 May 2006, Urban Cave

Don’t tell Gi but I’m stealing his expression to describe our new house: ‘urban cave’. The thing about the centre of Naples is that much of it has been dug out, and in fact you can tour the catacombs to really see the extent of this and their historical contribution. The building we live in has also been dug out at the bottom, and then subdivided to create smaller living spaces to accommodate the growing population.

Let’s enter the urban cave for a tour. Crossing over Piazza Cavour, one of the main connecting transport links in the centre, and on the busy Via Foria you enter the small side street Via Antonio Villari and walk about forty metres up the steep incline to the building No 28. Entering through the security gate you walk down a narrow passageway, passing a couple of front doors and washing hung on racks making it even narrower until you emerge into a small open area with natural daylight. There are always a couple of people sitting out here, smoking, putting on their shoes, watching time pass, washing clothes. It’s customary to greet everyone you see, so with ‘Good day/morning’ or ‘Good evening’ or a less formal ‘Ciao’ as you pass by before entering another narrow dim passageway to the left. Here the clothes are hanging on clothesline that’s been strung up against the wall and each day it’s a study of undergarments and work clothes. Once again the daylight beckons and in front is a small shared open clearing where someone is growing flowering pot plants and occasionally someone leaves washing on a rack to catch the sunlight.

Before the clearing is a gate, this is our gate. I think we are the only people to have a gate, a fence and a formally segmented courtyard. It’s a piece of heaven. I can close the gate and it effectively means our neighbours shouldn’t enter, but should call out for our attention if they want to talk. It is also a space where we can hang washing in some privacy. The external walls here are painted a bright friendly yellow. The courtyard is recently tiled, unlike other parts of the building where the tiles are ancient, mixed due to repairs or broken. The front door is solid and formal with a heavy brass knocker and a horrible sounding buzzer that I hope never to hear again. We only have one external door, and to the right of that is our one window, underneath which sits the air conditioning unit, another blessing. The windows are triple glass to keep the noise and cold out, with grey steel security shutters which block out the phone reception when we close them at night. The landlady has offered to install insect screens and replace these security shutters with something that lets in more light. I wonder how long that process will take to be completed.


Come on in. Walking through the front door you step onto a low marble step before stepping onto the large square terracotta tiles on the floor. Now you are simultaneously in the living room and my office. My desk is to your left. I can’t tell you how happy I am to have a desk where I can leave my laptop and writing notes without having to pack up to set the table for dinner. In front of you are the two sofa lounge chairs provided by the landlady, which convert into single beds (and a double bed if you push them together Italian style). We’ve bought a bookcase and it sits between them in the corner and a Euro 9- white Lack table from IKEA as a coffee table. The wall to the left has three long shelves.


Directly to your right is our dining room, with a table that extends out to seat six or folds down completely. I bought a red tablecloth for it but it quickly became apparent that I would need seven, or need to wash it every day. So, we’ve resorted to a lovely PVC plastic cover for everyday, saving the red tablecloth for guests.

Three steps further to your right is the laundry that consists of a washing machine and … oh yeah that’s it. This is also the kitchen, modern, gas cooker, electric oven, fridge and freezer behind a door. Most of the kitchen equipment belongs to the landlady but we’ve bought a couple of bits and pieces. The nicest thing is to have a fridge, washing machine and stove/oven that are in good condition. Behind you, so turn around, you step back into the living room. If you move to your right you see an old cupboard with a marble top (the landlady’s), which we’ve converted into a pantry. It’s also extra bench space when the cooking gets a bit frantic.


Step up onto the split-level and beside the marble top cupboard is a lovely set of drawers we bought at IKEA. Gi and I each have one drawer and ‘share’ the bottom. Luckily they are nice and deep but it’s going to be an incentive not to accumulate a heap of clothes (more a problem for Gi than me). You are now in the bedroom. To the left is the bed, it’s neither a single nor a double; the locals call it ‘one place and a half’ or something. We had discussed replacing it with a double, but after a week we have decided we can live with it. It’s on a slat base with a comfortable mattress…but then sleeping on a floor with nails would be an improvement on the bed we slept on at the in-laws. The problem with replacing it is that this bed fits exactly into an alcove, and if we put a double bed in that space we won’t have room to move. The only thing I’m worried about is if we have ‘mature’ guests who need a little more room, and would find sleeping on the fold out sofas uncomfortable.


The other thing in the bedroom is the wardrobe, another IKEA purchase, which we bought to replace the landlady’s wardrobe as it was too tall, old, dark wood and with the hanging rack going from front to back instead of left to right. The furniture we bought from IKEA is all lighter wood, or white, which reflects the light (remember we only have one window) and makes the place look less cluttered. The landlady had a heap of colourful opaque curtains surrounding the bed, a bit like a harem. We’ve replaced these with heavy cotton white and beige curtains, which we can draw across for privacy when we have guests, and to create a small dressing room outside of the bathroom.

That brings me to the bathroom, which is directly across from the bed. We’ve put four square mirrors up on the sliding bathroom door to use as a long mirror. The bathroom is modern with white tiles and a row of decorated blue and yellow tiles at shoulder height. The exciting thing about the bathroom is that it has a good, functioning shower, a toilet with a toilet seat, substantial cupboard space, a nice big sink, extraction fan and lights above the mirror. This all sounds like a pretty normal bathroom but it’s these little things that can be difficult to find in rental accommodation here, especially all of them together. It’s pretty small in there and I’m still coming to grips with living with a shower curtain again (I tend to have water going in all directions) but it’s mostly when I bend over to pick up the body wash that it sticks to my bum and invades my privacy.

The walls are all rendered white, with a rough texture that is pretty standard. The ceilings are curved, in accordance with pre-Roman architectural requirements applied by Neapolitans digging directly out of the original rock (‘tufo’ which we think translates to sandstone) to supply themselves with building materials from within the confines of the city. They did this as are result of the occupying Greeks’ prohibition on the import of building materials to limit the growth of the city. The ceiling curves down at the corners of the room, providing the building structure above with foundations and support. It’s the rock that they dug out, that provided the building materials for the houses that are above ground level.

The landlady’s husband is in the process of installing a buzzer which visitors can ring from outside on the street. At the moment Gi has to call me on the phone to tell me he’s forgotten his keys and can’t get in the front gate. The other problem with urban cave living is the humidity. It’s not warm, sticky humidity like we know in Brisbane. But it’s a problem in a lot of Naples’ housing so you can buy kits of crystals at the supermarket that absorb the moisture from the air. I was a bit sceptical but they work. The air conditioner is also on a timer that circulates the air even if we are not at home.

The neighbours seem to be a collection of immigrants from Eastern Europe, quiet polite Neapolitans, and loud, rough locals who are very curious about everybody else’s business. We’ve been advised by the landlady to keep one woman, Pasqualina, at arms length. The postman leaves all of the mail with this lady and she distributes it around the building. She also cleans a number of the apartments. Her son, Enzo, owns and has almost finished renovating the apartment next door to us. She actually lives in an apartment across the street. Enzo lives with his mother, like most good Italian sons. Gi tells me he was hit by a truck and has had several operations which have left him with a limp, a lot of pain and unable to work. Enzo’s father is another Luigi, and in contrast to his wife, Pasqualina, he is polite, well spoken and minds his own business. Of course everyone in the complex already knows Gigi by name, I’m still ‘Signora’ or ‘l’Australiana’ at this stage.

The couple living on the other side of us have a window that would look out onto our courtyard except they’ve put up a piece of cardboard for privacy. I think they are Polish, as the TV seems to play Polish soap operas all day. There is a woman living on the next level up who is rough as guts. Her name is Rita; she has a baby and a boy who is about 8 years old, cocky and rude. Rita has two outbursts every day, with screaming, shrillness and swearing that would make your grandmother blush. I can’t work out if her husband is Neapolitan or from Eastern Europe, but I can tell you he’s not pretty in his pyjama pants with his white belly and hairy chest hanging out. It’s funny; some of you know the problems we had with the family living next door to us at Fitzgibbon. Gi commented yesterday that they have been reincarnated in Rita.

A lot of the language I hear around me is Neapolitan, and I must say I’m struggling to keep it straight in my head what is Italian and what is local dialect. I need to be able to understand both, but definitely need to be able to use the Italian words when I speak.

The only thing I forgot to mention was that there is a local magazine for Naples published monthly with information about culture, traditions, personalities and events. This month the cover features a gorgeous black and white close up of Sofia Loren’s face with red roses on one side. Sofia of course is Neapolitan, and they are rightly very proud of her beauty, poise and talents. To advertise the magazine all of the newsagents have these huge posters out on the street. I’ve been eyeing them off for a couple of weeks, and the other day Gi went in and asked if we could have one. The newsagent was so impressed at having being asked that she gave it to him…normally people just steal them. So, now I have a picture of Sofia and roses nailed to the bedroom wall. She watches over us while we sleep. (Gi’s mother and sister think I’m slightly nuts to want to bring something in off the street and hang it on the wall).
So that brings us to the end of the tour. It’s certainly different, but it’s comfortable, with more modern conveniences than I had dared to hope for, and with room for two guests and some inventive storage ideas I’m happy. We are hoping to get the Internet connected but the phone companies make it sound almost impossible. In the meantime the ‘Internet Point’ is about 50 steps from the front door. With time it will become even more ‘us’, we might buy a TV (yep gone cold turkey again) and I’ll probably even work out how to talk to the neighbours.

Mother's Day

As in Australia, it was Mother's Dday in parts of Europe yesterday, including the land of spaghetti. It was also a day of quiet celebration having moved into our new place a week ago. Everything is just about in order, just need to buy a rug, but in the meantime I'm happy to shuffle around in my socks.

Mother's Day means you call your mother. My mother arrived in Venice on Saturday, in the company of my father of course, for the start of their 40 day cruise around Europe. I called her very briefly, and had a strange convoluted conversation as they were on a ferry in the canals of Venice. I then tried to call the other two mothers in my life, my sisters. Left an answering machine message for one, and spoke to Tania while fighting to be heard above the din of traffic and children screaming in the concrete playground nearby.

The other delightful surprise of the day was receiving a sweet Mother's Day SMS from Maddie, our AFS daughter from Austria, who we hosted until January of this year for a few months. You don't necessarily need to give birth to them to be a mother!!

We had Gi's mother and sister over for dinner. It was nice but I have no idea what they think of our new place - they didn't really say. Probably too small, too old, too much in the middle of the real Naples for them. It doesn't matter really. Four hours, antipasto, pasta with chick peas followed by indulgent pastry sweets (I don't like them, too sweet, which is kind of lucky otherwise I'd roll out of town) was more than enough. They even brought the dog!

I'll post photos of our place this week. Oh, and please forgive the size of the birthday blog. Gi reckons it ends on a bad note, when in fact I've left out most of the screaming and hysteria that ended the day after my birthday. I'll leave it to your imaginations.

Belated b'day bulletin

2 May 2006, Napoli

This is my birthday bulletin.

The only thing I really wanted for my birthday was two days of peace, two days alone with Gigi and two days exploring.

Prep Work
After much discussion and investigating a possible long weekend visit to Copenhagen we eventually decided to visit Paestum. However, with Monday 1st May being the Labour Day public holiday we were inevitably going to deal with long weekend travellers, traffic and crowds. The other problem was that Gi’s sister needed a ride home from work midnight on Saturday night. With this in mind we offered to play taxi and borrow the car for the Sunday and Monday. As usual Gi confirmed this arrangement with his mother early in the week, emphasizing that we could make other transport arrangements if it wasn’t convenient to borrow her car. (The reality is that ordinarily they spend most of the weekend in bed, and at home; maybe venturing out to the shopping centre, to walk the dog or buy cigarettes.)

Friday evening Rosa asked us what we were planning to do for the weekend having, assumedly, forgotten that it was my birthday and that we were going away for two days. Gi explained our plans again, only to be told that she needed the car on Sunday. Of course it was too late to hire a car at a reasonable rate, and catching the train would severely limit our mobility. Gi made all the right noises like ‘well, it’s your car so if you need it we’ll change our plans’, with me sitting there screaming on the inside, fully aware that the car would only be used for 1-2 hours over the two days. The thing I’ve learnt about being here though is that if you sit still and quiet for long enough, eventually whatever it is that you want will be made available. Making a fuss, only stirs up the dust and god knows what else, making a bigger mess, ending in what they call a ‘discussion’ (albeit heated) and what I call an ‘argument’.

So, Saturday night we played taxi, collecting Irene from the pizza joint where she works as a cashier. I was already tired, and concerned that we were going to end up waiting around at the piazza (note piazza, not pizza) waiting for her to finish hanging out with friends. Thankfully by 1am we were home, with ‘Tanti Auguri’ (the Italian equivalent of ‘Happy Birthday”) ringing in my ears.

Great Escape
Early Sunday morning and my mobile phone squealed for attention with birthday wishes from my family in Brisbane. The highlight of these phone calls is speaking to my nieces who are at that tender age where they are keen to talk on the phone but don’t understand that you can’t hear their nods or facial expressions in response to questions like “Are you at nana’s place today?” “Are you being a good girl?” Their mother, my sister, quickly follows on the phone to reassure me that we were engaged in a conversation, I just couldn’t see it.

Gi and I rose early and left the house dark and slumbering, stealing out to make our way south of Naples, circling round the south side of the Vesuvio on the A3 freeway. Bypassing Salerno, the autostrada curves over the top of the coastal city marking the end of the Amalfi Coast. Continuing on the A3 with three lanes of traffic travelling in each direction, Gi frequently changes lanes to overtake oldies dawdling at 40k/hr and moves aside for BMWs and Audis racing along at 200 k/hr. At Battipaglia we leave the freeway and drive through some pretty uninspiring sprawl, which you just know is hiding some lovely countryside. The road is lined with signs for ‘Mozzarella di Bufala’ and Gigi gets increasingly excited, remembering that this area is famous for its quality mozzarella. We stop to buy supplies for lunch and follow the yellow signs to Paestum.

Temple Party
A Unesco World Heritage Site, Paestum was “founded in the 6th century BC by Greek settlers and fell under Roman Control in 273 BC, becoming an important trading port” (Lonely Planet). However, it’s the three Greek temples standing majestically in fields of wildflowers that are one of southern Italy’s most famous images. Entering the site the first, and smallest, temple is the 6th century BC Temple of Ceres. It’s captivating, sitting adjacent to the ruins of the housing area and main business street. We explored ruins of the amphitheatre, forum, the senate and pre military training centre and swimming pool. Standing in the Roman Amphitheatre I could imagine the life that once filled the arena, the roar of the entertained crowd, sporting events, the market bizarre and community activities.

Gigi is particularly useful when visiting historical sites, pointing out details of floor tiling, varying wall constructions (some Greek, other styles Roman) and the entryway to a house or shop (now just a pile of rocks for those of us without imagination), highlighting sculptural details that are still visible some 2600 years later. He rattles on with information about the people, the times, the sequence of events, until you cry out for him to stop, the various dates, and names like Neptune, Hera, Athena, Apollo, Zeus and Poseidonia swimming around in your head.

The most impressive, and best-preserved, monuments on site are the two temples standing at the far end. The Temple of Neptune, about 450 BC, is the largest, most intact and undoubtedly the most beautiful. Beside it stands the Basilica, Temple of Hera, built about 550 BC, Paestum’s oldest surviving monument and truly majestic with remains of a sacrificial altar at one end. The whole site is ringed by a striking 4.7 km of walls. These temples emanate a pride, an atmosphere of humanity and history that you have to experience to understand.

A mandatory visit to the museum across from the temples was rather uninspiring. It’s a surprisingly unappealing, modern, square building nestled in amongst the haughty tourist cafes and tacky souvenir shops. The museum houses an array of objects that have been removed from the site in order to preserve them: internal frescos, vases, figurines, marble sculptures. Our complaining stomachs quickly sent us back to the car to collect our picnic supplies, passing the members of a Harley Davidson club occupying most of a café’s outside tables. Their leather-clad limbs sprawled out, bandanas providing a splash of colour; their faces open with laughter and relaxation.

Having parked in the village away from the main road we set up lunch on a large square rock, a block from someone’s house before Christ was born. The ruins are spread across the whole community, in backyards, alongside the road, holding up shopfront signs. My birthday lunch is a delight. Fresh bread, balls of mozzarella cheese plump, rich and white, milk oozing at the slightest touch, accompanied by grilled eggplant marinated in balsamic vinegar, olive oil, chilli, garlic and parsley. We eat, leaning over the edge of the picnic block with the juices dripping and a sense of tranquillity and satisfaction.

Hotel Calypso

Our next priority was to find somewhere to spend the night. Driving away from the temple ruins we followed some Agritourism signs (farmstay) entering one such property to see the local train disappearing directly behind the house, the small car park overflowing with vehicles, and the outdoor area full of kids with pastel sweaters slung around shoulders, the air full of their annoying, spoilt shrieks. Turning the car around before I could say ‘romantic birthday weekend’ Gi headed in the opposite direction. We soon stumbled across a charming hotel on the seaside and booked in for the night. The lobby was full of antique furniture, every wall adorned with a painting. The original floor tiles, locally manufactured and glorious with warm yellows, mint greens and cobalt blue led us to our double room. No one can explain it to me but a double room in Italy often means two single beds pushed together. It didn’t stop us from collapsing though, the drive, sight seeing and lunch pushing us into the snooze zone.

Springtime means that the days are getting increasingly longer, so rousing ourselves at 5pm we still had several hours of daylight to enjoy. Roberto, the proprietor, spent some time going through a local tourist booklet pointing out other places of interest. We learn that his father has operated the hotel for 40 years, with Roberto taking over about eight years ago. He takes obvious pride in the environmentally friendly facilities, and impressive restaurant menu that caters to vegetarians. A woman from Eastern Europe (maybe Poland or Romania) cleans the restaurant floors, and as we head down to the beach for a stroll at Roberto’s suggestion she clambers up onto the windowsill to clean the windows. I watch her teetering on tiptoe in an effort to reach the top of the window, wondering what sort of life she’s left behind to come and clean in Southern Italy.

The beach was empty except for a group of students building a sand castle, turrets, towers, and moat - the works. It’s difficult to imagine how different it must look in August when the whole coast is crammed with Italians escaping the heat and their normal lives for summer holidays. Roberto admits that he prefers the quieter times of the year, when he can spend time with guests, enjoy the beach. Upon learning that I’m writing he reveals that his wife writes poetry. And as we walk along the beach, dodging the waves chasing our ankles and frayed blue jeans, we hear the tale of his heartbreak. A tale of a girlfriend who after twelve years of engagement presented him with an account of every wrong he’d committed over that time and advised she was leaving. He described it achingly, and somehow fondly, recalling feeling tranquil, listening to her complaints, all of them valid and just, failing to retaliate with a list of his own. Mixing Italian and English to say that some of the strongest memories in life are from times when you are sad and down. “Even the blues are beautiful”. It’s true.

Between the hotel and the beach is the garden, a lovely patch of green for restaurant diners. Strolling back towards the hotel, Roberto steers us through a patch of neglected garden, underneath some trees heavy with perfumed white flowers, to show us his carrot patch. These are special carrots, from seeds entrusted to him by a man who belonged to the international ‘Seed Savers Association’. Finicky to grow, we watch as he weeds, talking to his carrots, freeing them from suffocation. It’s both puzzling and endearing to have a patch of carrots in the middle of a wilderness of weeds, but somehow very Italian.

The hotel appeared deserted except for a slightly bored girl at reception, and the thick waisted cleaning lady. However a number of vehicles parked outside indicated that we were not the only guests. I wondered why it was that we hadn’t seen, or heard, anyone else though. This country is not known for its quiet, unassuming, subdued people. Perhaps their afternoon slumber had extended into the early evening.

Sunset saunter

Our sensitive host had suggested that the nearby seaside town of Agropoli was best explored in the afternoon. The road swings past untidy beachside sprawl, and an assortment of accommodation often only used for two months of the year; tired holiday villages, camping grounds locked up and desolate. Entering the esplanade it was apparent that Agropoli itself was nonetheless a popular long weekend destination outside of summer. Following the crawling traffic, and avoiding what appeared to be every pram in the region, we arrived at the port and parked after convincing a young woman that her little matchbox of a car didn’t need two parking spaces. Thankfully a male friend was supportive, encouraging her to reposition, aware that her driving skills were incredibly ordinary. After three attempts, and much huffing and puffing, she emerged, impeccable in white, obviously the sort of woman who could handle a mascara wand better than a steering wheel.

We walked out along a concrete quay that protected the small harbour and a colourful collection of craft: cruisers, yachts, fishing boats, dinghies and police speedboats. Behind us ‘perched on a high promontory overlooking the sea’ (Lonely Planet) was the medieval historical centre. On the other side the road wound up around the hillside, past a decaying villa. At one point I watched three white campervans chug up the hill, only to disappear over the horizon.

The next thirty minutes were serene and magical as we sat watching the sunset over the Mediterranean Sea, turning occasionally to watch the charming township of Agropoli come alive with lights. A young man sat nearby reading a book by the twilight, but with the fading light eventually even he left, stuffing his book into his back pocket. Another man arrived and set up his fishing gear on the rocky alcove below, perched under a rather unattractive sculpture of Madonna and Child said to offer protection to all those who for whatever reason fare the sea.

The disc of the sun slowly slipped down through the clouds, hovering at the edge of the horizon, resulting in all those glorious colours that you never want to wear as a bridesmaid: apricots, musky pink, golden yellow, lilac, lemon. Behind us Agropoli stood proudly beneath a mass of clouds tinged with pink and grey offset against an enduring blue sky. Sunsets are subtle, an everyday occurrence. But somehow watching a sunset slows down time, lets you listen to each breath, creates an atmosphere of serenity, as Mother Nature’s painting spills out across the sky.

Cake & presents?

As twilight fell, we drove back up to the base of the historical centre, parked and climbed the stairway to the medieval core of the town. With countless hidden pockets, a crumbling castle, potted geraniums it was a lovely place. We located a pizzeria recommended by the Lonely Planet called Pizzeria U’Sghiz (don’t ask me how to pronounce it) where the pizzas are made on wholemeal flour. As a pizza purist Gigi was sceptical but we ordered some pizza to takeaway and a bottle of homegrown Peroni beer and sat out on the viewing platform with the port way below us. I wasn’t expecting a big fancy dinner, presents or a cake, luckily because none of them materialised. However it was a lovely romantic evening and a birthday that I’ll remember for a long time.

Spring searching

Having enjoyed the pleasures of an ‘almost’ double bed in our private room overlooking the hotel garden we checked out the following morning and went in search of another of Roberto’s recommendation. Using three maps, none of which were sufficiently or accurately detailed, we first drove in the completely wrong direction south along the SS18. As we drove up a mountain, our error became more apparent so turning around we followed our noses to find the Capodifiume Sanctuary. The area is the site of some ancient springs, where the bubbling water just appears from nowhere coming up out of the earth. Unfortunately, they’ve built a park, swings, and picnic area beside it, which was now full of families playing soccer and scattering their rubbish in defiance of the signs that strictly forbid both activities. Luckily, it started to sprinkle so as we explored the springs and the ruins of another temple submerged in the water, a plethora of umbrellas, plastic bags and jackets were used to shelter under by the picnicking groups. The sprinkle became rain and the young trees were obviously not going to provide sufficient cover. We watched as everyone proceeded to pack up, throw children into cars and abandon their public holiday plans although it was quite obvious that it was just a spring shower and would pass quickly, which it did.

Heading towards home we drove some lovely Campania countryside, hillside olive groves and patches of vineyards catching my eye. Lemon trees, bowing under the weight of their fruit, splashes of red and pink potted geraniums, and the yellow flowers of wild friarielli adding colour. Terracotta rooved farmhouses were scattered across the landscape like toys on a carpet of green left by a child who had moved onto a new game. The rain had settled the dust and the fresh smell of the earth wafted through the air.

Taking a different route home we followed the Litoranea, the minor road that hugs the coast to Salerno. I have to say that it’s not a particularly inspiring coastline, but I can see that in the heat of summer with the colour and activity of tourist crowds it’s a more interesting place. Once again Gi stopped for mozzarella supplies, this time pulling into a produce consortium for local freehold suppliers of buffalo milk.

Slightly further down the road we parked beside a major intersection to buy fresh bread. I watched in amazement as two throbbing Harley Davidson bikes stopped in the middle of the intersection, effectively blocking a semi trailer waiting for the lights to change. With enough space between them the whole contingent of Harleys drove between them, keeping the group together. The two bikies were now blocking not only the semi trailer but also a growing line of cars. Quickly becoming impatient some of the drivers behind began practicing their beeping skills, with one of the bikies, helmet on, bandana wrapped around the lower part of his face, giving a cursory wave to the truck driver as though to imply that surely he understood the need for them to hold up the traffic. I watched as about sixty bikes cruised by, leather tassels flying; low slung, the epiphany of cool and in stark contrast to the nerdy weekend crowd out for a picnic.
We cruised home in the early afternoon, keen to avoid the traffic that would build up as everyone headed home from their long weekend activities. My wish for a two days of exploring, alone with Gigi had become a lovely reality. In fact it goes down as a birthday to remember. The two days of peace was also a reality…until we got home only to have discussions of dinner, and other issues of resentment, result in one hell of a family mess, reminding me that a permanent escape from living with the in laws would be the best birthday present I could receive.

In like Flynn

10 May 2006, Piazza Cavour, Napoli

It’s official. We’ve moved! We’re free, independent and enjoying our privacy. Gi has already enjoyed the pleasures of cooking naked in a kitchen organised to his personal requirements. Similarly I’ve enjoyed showering guilt free with a bathmat and late night skips to the kitchen for a drink without fear of disturbing anyone else.

I’m sitting in one corner of our place at my new desk, feeling somewhat unable to convey what’s happened over the last couple of days.

After my birthday, Gigi and I spent the week in limbo, having verbally committed to the mini apartment at Piazza Cavour but having to wait til Saturday 6th May for anything more to happen.

I’ve learnt that Naples is city where it’s best not to expect things to go according to plan. Unfortunately I’m a planner, an organiser, and once a plan is in place it’s pretty challenging for me to deviate from that course. So, I spend a good deal of my time here preparing myself (in my head) for the fact that an appointment, an invitation to dinner, a bureaucratic process or someone’s promise will not eventuate…at least not according to (the original) plan. Oh, it will probably happen, in due course, but that could mean weeks, months, or worse, before they remember, make it a priority, clear the red tape, or even be bothered.

The landlady of the mini apartment is a local, but she’s spent time in Australia along the east coast working on a cruise ship between Sydney and Cairns. In fact she had those yellow road sign souvenirs stuck up on the window and over the weekend arrived dressed in a fleecy blue jumper with Aboriginal art design on the front. I haven’t gathered the full story but it seems that she bought the mini apartment when it was still in it’s original, historical condition (read: cave like) and had it fully renovated before living in it part time (with various other members of the family at times) as her work is sometimes based in central Naples. Her name is Annalisa, she is somewhat alternative and, like a lot of Neapolitans, she likes to chat (read: for Jenny lose time, procrastinate), seems to do things at the last minute and has a wide circle of well-connected friends (read: potentially helpful for Gi’s work). Interestingly Annalisa is a teacher, and she was first married to a man in Greece.

Her husband Maurizio (I assume they are officially married, although I’m no longer surprised to discover that a long standing couple have never formally married here, but are simply engaged) is a robust man with a beard, long unruly hair who usually wears one of those fishing or hunting vests with lots of pockets bulging with all manner of useful paraphernalia. Maurizio is the doer. He gets things done, and has a gentle way of moving his wife along while giving her propensity to over communicate the space (and patience) it needs. (In fact, thinking about it I bet Annalisa is an Aquarian just like my mother and Gigi). So far he seems to be a gentle, caring man with a dry sense of humour – I like him.

This whole process has been a little unusual by local standards and certainly compared to Australia. There are a number of local newspapers and weekly journals published each week that list property for rent or sale, vehicles for sale, employment opportunities and general trading (like the classifieds or Weekend Shopper for those of you playing in Brisbane). We had decided to focus the search for a place on something that would accommodate Gigi and I, his mother and his sister however it became increasingly obvious that finding something suitable was going to take much longer that we were prepared to wait. Gigi had seen the ad for the mini apartment at Piazza Cavour previously and kept mentioning to me that he still liked the idea of living in the historical centre of Naples and that perhaps we should look at it. This is a bit like proposing that you want to live in Fortitude Valley or New Farm which generally means higher rent, less space and potential problems with neighbours in compact living arrangements, parking etc.

One day Gigi rang the number on the ad for the address. The next day we used the Internet at Piazza Cavour and wandered past the address to check out the local area. It’s fifty metres from the piazza and literally in the heart of the city. Here’s how events unfolded from that point on.

· Gi called again and we went in to have a look.
· A place we’d been considering as a family group at Pomigliano was delayed again, so Gi rang Maurizio to express our interest in the mini apartment. He offered them Euro 100 / month less than they were asking, half expecting a counter offer that we wouldn’t be able to afford.
· On 25 April, we were invited to their house to discuss the rental arrangements with Gi’s offer having been accepted. They live on the other side of Naples, near Baia and the Acropoli di Cuma (see previous blog “Liberation Day”), in a villa with two teenage children (who I suspect are from earlier marriages), three big dogs, a cat and a kitten who enjoyed using my hand as a scratch and claw toy. They know that we are also renting out a house in Brisbane, and felt that while the rent was below market value they wanted tenants that would look after the place and the furniture. One of us must look clean and decent!
· We had a second look at the place and discussed with Maurizio what items of furniture we wanted to keep and what could be removed. As a furnished place it should at least come with the kitchen, oven, fridge, bed and some living furniture. This place has new IKEA kitchen and bathroom, plus a washing machine (hallelujah), stereo, two lounge seats that convert into single futon beds (yet to be tested) plus other bits of dark wood antique style furniture. Maurizio advised that Annalisa was out of town the following week and still had a few personal items to remove (an understatement).
· Saturday 6th May we met them both at the apartment at 5.30pm, expecting to hand over the bond, finalise the agreement and start moving in that evening. However, I was fully expecting something to not go ‘according to plan’. Inside the apartment it was clear that Annalisa still had most of her personal items to remove. As far as I could tell the only thing she had already taken was clothing. The bathroom, kitchen and living area was full of toiletries, food, books and knick-knacks.
· Having underestimated how much stuff she still had to move, they packed up several bags and a box of things, planning to finish up on Sunday. As a compromise we handed over half the rent for the month and received one set of keys giving us access the following day. After unloading the car, we started cleaning and isolating Annalisa’s personal items to avoid a repeat of the halfhearted procrastinating process of that afternoon.
· At midnight we left to pick up Irene (Gi’s sister) from her Saturday night job and went home to the dodgy bed, mouldy ceiling and smoking mother-in-law (of course I mean she smokes, not that she’s smoking as in highly sexed).
· Sunday morning we headed to IKEA to research furniture and pick up some of those essential things you need in a new place (read: towels, quilt). What should have been a ten-minute trip took almost two hours first going in the wrong direction, taking the wrong freeway and following IKEA signs that led into the centre of a drug-dealing zone. To compensate we had lunch at IKEA amongst the Sunday crowd of unhurried well-groomed Neapolitans and their complaining, noisy children.
· The rest of Sunday was busy cleaning the rest of the apartment, going through the contents of the kitchen and trying to rearrange the existing furniture. It became apparent that the ‘small’ wardrobe would also need to be removed and replaced with drawers and a wardrobe to fit our clothes.
· Annalisa and Maurizio arrived at 8pm right on time for the 5.30/6pm appointment we had made the previous day! Having separated and bagged up her bathroom toiletries, fridge contents and collection of knick knacks it only took two hours to load up an antique glass cabinet, 2.10 metre tall wardrobe (yeah, the small one I mentioned before), and an antique tub chair all the while being interrupted by curious (read: nosy) neighbours and sidetracked with Annalisa and Gigi being Aquarians and being in the same room together.
· Finally they left, having exchanged two more sets of keys for the remainder of the bond. Of course, ten minutes later they were back to collect the handbag Annalisa had left in the flurry of farewells.
· Monday dawned after our first night sleeping in a new place where a strange click at 3am wakes you, as does the fridge and the alarm at 8am. We had become accustomed to being woken by Rosa’s neighbours who routinely start loudly and persistently rousing a child named Claudia at 6.30am who obviously prefers to sleep. With the doors, window and shutter closed in our new place we hadn’t heard a peep and were glad to have missed Claudia’s annoying fatherly alarm.
· Monday we headed back to IKEA (after a direct ten minute drive), first stopping at ‘Leroy Merlin’, exactly the same as Bunnings just more expensive. Amongst other household items we are now the proud owners of a wardrobe, drawers, bookcase, desk and the famous IKEA Lack table. Gigi spent a good part of Monday afternoon and Tuesday doing the assembly thing (I managed the Lack table…don’t really have a brain for following diagram instructions).
· More unpacking and organising Tuesday.
· It’s now Wednesday afternoon, 10 May and with the loan of his mother’s drill set and tall ladder we’ve finished putting up hooks, clothesline and a new light fitting. The washing machine is still doing overtime having purchased sheets, table clothes, tea towels, curtains and even more bathmats. The fridge is partly populated, the suitcases are empty, we’re in and pretty much sorted.

I’ll have to describe the mini apartment that Gigi and I now call home in a future episode. Maybe some photos too – I take a photo of Gi standing naked at every sink we own or rent. Of course he’s not facing the camera. I’ll see what I can manage.

Mr President

Well, I didn't have Marilyn singing 'Happy Birthday' seductively in my ear, but suffice to say it was a fabulous day. Birthday blog coming shortly. Many thanks to those that sent emails, SMS or called. And to those that forgot...don't worry, I have your names in my little book of revenge.

Love and smiles from the land of buffalo milk mozzarella