Ripped Off

2006 June 26 Ripped Off

Imagine I’m leaving a dark, smoky room. There is a big flat screen TV on one wall, chairs scattered around the room, but they are all facing the TV. I pay for my drink, a beer, and walk down the stairs into the sun filled piazza. Inside my head I’m screaming every bad word I can muster. They run through my head like rain runs into the gutter, and down into the sewer. I walk home, through the late afternoon light, it’s still very warm. The streets, festooned with flags, explode with cars and scooters, horns blaring, heads and arms hanging out, broad grins on every face.

We lost. They won. I can’t believe it. I’m a new fan, how could they let me down like this? They won. Italy won, by one goal. Australia lost, and now we are out of the World Cup, our first ever. After watching the entire game, alone, in a bar filled with enthusiastic Italians (Gi had to work, can you believe it?), I feel I’m entitled to say that Italy really didn’t deserve to win. We certainly didn’t deserve to lose like that; in the last minute of extra time in the second half, and a penalty goal to boot. Ridiculous, humiliating!

As I left the bar, trying to look resolutely proud without being too disappointed, I dropped the comment ‘We were ripped off’ to three guys wearing Aussie shirts who were sitting there looking shattered. During the break I’d said ‘Hi, at least you’re supporting the right team’. They looked very much like accountants or software programmers, and were obviously passing through on holiday so I didn’t chat any further. But it was comforting to know that I wasn’t the only Aussie in that dark, smoky bar.

During and after the game I received text messages from my initially supportive, then consoling friends around the world. Jenny Wilson and her daughter Amy were snuggled up on the couch under blankets in Brisbane watching in the early hours of their morning. Garo in London had just raced home from closing the hair salon to catch the second half. Esther in Germany was keen to see Australia win having lived in Oz on exchange. Doeng from Thailand, having just visited us in Naples, was in a bar in Bangkok where 90% of the patrons were supporting Australia.

Now rest assured I know virtually nothing about soccer (oops, sorry football) but I though Australia played very well. The statistics flashed up that Austalia had 59% ball possession to Italy’s 41%. Italy also had a red card. Being better sports, and less violent on the field, Australia did not. The Australians however need to master the art of dramatically falling over, tripping on thin air and fake ankle injuries. I thought the Italians were much better at this aspect of the game.

However the Italian newspapers are reporting how well Australia has played, and that we’ve made significant improvements as a team. The atmosphere in that dark, smoky room certainly reflected that, as you could almost feel the worry and anxiety around me. Imagine if Australia had won…oh, no, then the Italians would be claiming that half the team are from Italy or Greece or Yugoslavia. I think they now recognise that Australia is a team of the future, and a force to be reckoned with in the international soccer league (oops, sorry football).

Never mind, the boys did well for their first trot out on the World Cup arena. They’ll be back. And in the meantime I just have to decide who I’m going to support now. Maybe Germany, maybe England? It’s a shame Thailand aren’t playing.

It Stings

26 June 2006

It Stings

They say the best things in life are free. That all knowing, all doing group ‘they’ may not always be right, but last night ‘they’ were spot on.

We caught a bus (free, no one pays for tickets) to Piazza Caritá and then walked a few blocks to the majestic Piazza del Plebiscito. We were there for the Cornetto Free Music Festival. Cornetto, as in Australia, is a type of ice cream and have been sponsoring the annual music festival for several years now, kicking off the summer season of entertainment across Italy. Last weekend the concert played to tens of thousands in Milan. Next weekend I have no doubt that the billing of Black Eyed Peas and Subsonica will draw a crowd of hundreds of thousands in Rome. Last year something like 240,000 attended.

But tonight it was Naples’ turn. We arrived before 9pm to find the expansive piazza surprisingly only half full. However, once the dinner hour passed, and the clock moved around to 9:30pm the crowd slowly assembled. Turning 360 degrees I photographed the former royal palace behind us, the elegant Carabinieri (police) headquarters to the right and one of Naples most impressive churches standing as a backdrop to the stage erected in the piazza.

Standing on the unforgiving grey cobblestones we enjoyed a local performer, Carmen Consoli, sometimes singing in Sicilian, accompanied by a mandolino, trumpet and flute. Her songs reflected the age old struggle between the sexes. One song was about a bride being left at the altar, wearing a white silk dress, standing before a priest wearing a look of embarrassment. She sang of her missing fiancés unfulfilled promise of marriage, having said yes to his simple, seemingly honest proposal. Carmen also sang of a womaniser; a man who neglects his wife, his family, and the pet dog, looking for self gratification, having lost his way. Her voice was clear and strong, filling the piazza, the acoustics quite amazing in such a grand empty space.

While the crew decked out in black changed the stage setting for the next band we stood watching the spectacle around us. More people were arriving, it being just after 10:30pm. The eight statues of important Kings of Naples stood guard behind us as people rolled up hashish joints, smoked cigarettes and slugged beer. Looking up you could see the haze of smoke, the plume hovering between the stark concert lighting and the blackness of the night sky. The church behind the stage was now illuminated; it’s creamy texture, grand dome and sweeping semicircular colonnades stunningly framing the large screens, intricate stage scaffolding and bursts of coloured lighting.

Three television personalities were presenters for the evening, but honestly we could have done without them. The noise of the crowd generally overwhelmed their idle chit chat while we waited, and combined with a range of sound and vision technical difficulties they looked amateurish at best.

In amongst the crowd, local men, budding entrepreneurs, set up with huge plastic buckets full of ice and cold drinks, loaded onto trolleys. As the night wore on a number of them erected beach umbrellas above their trolleys, a means of advertising their whereabouts. I watched with amazement as the umbrellas clearly impeded the view of the stage. It seemed that each umbrella went up for a brief time, perhaps ten minutes, before the pressure of a complaining crowd caused them to fold. The more enterprising of the drink men moved through the crowd, crying out ‘beer, water, beer, water’. Laboriously pushing their trolleys before them the crowd would slowly part and reconnect, much like a slow moving, half sunken row boat across a pond.

The crowd reflected the diversity of the city. Families, lovers, groups of friends, mates from all backgrounds, most of them were there to see one man: Sting.

The lights on stage brought it out of the blackness and there he was, on stage, his bass guitar at the ready. Wearing a burgundy and navy blazer he initially looked very English private school. The jacket soon came off to reveal he was dressed in his uniform khaki T-shirt and baggy charcoal pants held up with cream suspenders. He sang most of his classics including “If you love somebody”, “Shape of my heart”, “Fields of Gold”, “Desert Rose” and “If I ever lose my faith in you”. The crowd joined him for “Message in a Bottle”, “Every Breath you Take”, “Walking on the Moon” and “Englishman in New York”. Towards the end of the gig his band played an impressive version of “Roxanne” intermingled with “Feel so Lonely”. It’s hard to believe that “Roxanne” was the first top 40 hit single for The Police way back in 1978. You wouldn’t know Sting wrote and sang that song almost thirty years ago from the crowds’ reaction. A good portion of them would not have been born in 1978.

The cameras focused mostly on Sting’s face and the enormous screens on either of the stage showed that he was clearly enjoying himself. He was a consummate performer, and the band was brilliant. Gi was particularly impressed when he sang the names of the band members by way of introduction.

Sting performed three encores and it was 12:30am when he finally left the stage in a blaze of red and yellow lighting.

Some of the crowd stayed on for the final act, Skin, but three and a half hours standing on uneven cobblestones, amongst the fog of hashish and cigarette fumes and the summer humidity was enough for most. The music had been first class and the crowd behaved beautifully (illegal substances aside). We joined the moving throng as it ebbed out of the piazza. Our normal bus had long since gone to bed, so in accordance with what Gi and his friends did on a regular basis as teenagers after a late night out, we walked home. The joy of living in the centre of the city means it only takes about 20 minutes, at a fast clip.

I never imagined that I would have the opportunity to see Sting perform live. And to watch him belt out one classic song after another, his poetic lyrics flowing over the royal palace, in such a majestic place was a special treat.

The fact that it was free made it all the more enjoyable. Sting for free in Naples on a summer night: who would have guessed?

Get Well Cards

Get Well Cards
16 June 2006

Stop already! The get well cards you are all sending me are starting to take over our urban cave (Jane, read with big dash of sarcasm). I’ve lost Gi amongst the Hallmarks.

You guessed it; I’m going to tell you about my hand. My right hand, the damaged one. Remember? What do you mean you didn’t know I’d hurt my right hand? Where have you been, under a rock? Didn’t Gigi call and tell you? God, do I have to do everything myself!

It all started years ago, when Gi became friends with this fellow called Fulvio. Now, Fulvio was the first of the Neapolitan network that I met some twelve years ago, and I always thought he was a lovely, funny, intelligent guy with the most intriguing dark, wavy hair. Skip the intervening twelve years, to last month in England. I’ve changed my opinion of Fulvio, not because of anything he did personally…oh no, if anything his time in England has made him even more courteous, funny and relaxed in a thirty-something-kind-of-way…no, it’s more about what happened as a result of our friendship with Fulvio. So, by extension he must carry some of the blame. This is, after all, the private world of Jenny we are living in.

So, Fulvio moves from his homeland, goes and gets himself educated and then finds a job in the university city of Oxford. He also hooked up with a delightful English flower called Sophie who just happens to be born and bred not too far from Oxford (please, don’t ask me the name of the place, I think it had E and N in it but I’d be guessing if I said it was something like Newbury). Fulvio’s work in Oxford is going well, Sophie has moved away from her acting aspirations and completed her studies in education, starting work as a primary school teacher. They have also outgrown their flat in Oxford and bought a semi detached house in a nearby market village called Wantage. For those of you that don’t know, a market village is a town that combines the charms and lifestyle of rural living with the proximity and access to a major urban centre. Wantage does just that with Oxford just 20 minutes away, London a bit over an hour by car if the traffic is reasonable.

We just happen to book our flights to London to coincide with the weekend when they move house. Gi, gallant and muscular, goes up to Oxford to help Fulvio move furniture, boxes and a piano. I go up later the same day, having decided that I’ll be more of a hindrance than a help (being pretty much over moving after packing up our whole lives just recently in Brisbane).

We spent a lovely couple of days with them, getting to know Sophie, warming the friendship fire with Fulvio and enjoying the comfort of their lovely new home, English garden and the supermarket literally over their back fence.

Here’s an extract of some of the thoughts I captured that weekend:
Gi and I wandered into the heart of the village today to the farmers markets, which consisted of about twelve stalls. I can only imagine what they’d think of the Farmers Market at New Farm. We discovered the local church and old cemetery with its fallen headstones romantically leaning askew in the vivid grass. A hidden alley arcade revealed a crystal shop, traditional tearoom bursting with families enjoying scones, jam and cream, a jewellers and a shop crammed with local handicrafts. Further meandering led us to stumble across more charity shops in a three-block radius than any community could possibly support. The pubs are adorned with traditional black and white roof trim and names like ‘Shoulder of Mutton’ and ‘The Kings Arms’. The historical red brick terraces always draw the eye and were a particularly striking backdrop to the striking pale statue of a local hero branding a sword in the town square. A blue sky would have made it picture perfect but unfortunately the pale gray sky continued to deliver a gentle rainy mist.

And then that evening
It’s almost perfect. I’m sitting in a living room in a market village in England. A celebrity charity soccer match (football as it’s known outside of Australia) is on the ‘tele’ and my favourite celebrity is on the field. Robbie is wearing the No 3 shirt for England, playing against ‘The Rest of the World’ team. I’m happy to report that he looks good in his soccer (football) kit and every time the camera focuses on him he’s madly running, crisscrossing or sliding along the grass to block the ball, a very serious, determined look on his gorgeous, talented face.

The only other names that I recognise from the celebrities on field are Jonathon Wilkes, Robbie’s best mate, and Maradona, the famous Argentinean who played for Naples. Now there’s a man who’s turned his life around through the wonders of stomach stapling and overcoming a cocaine addiction. Ewan McGregor, the actor (you know: Star Wars, Moulin Rouge and Trainspotting), is part of the commentary team, so his lovely Scottish accent and face are another treat.

The charity, Soccer Aid is supporting UNICEF, in particular children in Africa. The British media of course has reacted to it in a variety of ways; supportive and congratulatory to patronising and dismissive. A journalist commentator from ‘The Guardian’ believes the celebrities should stick to doing what it is that they do best, singing, acting, having large exaggerated breasts, and instead of increasing their celebrity and asking the general public who don’t have any money to donate, that they should just make large, impressive donations themselves. Frankly, I don’t mind watching Robbie run around a green soccer (football) pitch (or is it a field?) (Old Trafford for those playing at home) for a couple of hours. There are worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon (actually it’s 8.3pm but the sun is only just now thinking about setting).

I just hope that they have a naughty insider look at the locker room at the end of the match when they all jump in the showers….Robbie looks his best when he’s out of uniform! Not sure that I think the same about Maradona though.

After our second night, and one fall down the narrow, steep carpeted stairs common in this part of the world (yeah, that’s me sustaining the carpet burns without having the sex) we look around and realise that unless we leave them to it they are still going to be unpacking at Christmas time.

Fulvio drops us off at the bus stop where we jump on the ‘Oxford Tube’ coach back to jolly ‘ole London. It’s a reasonably quick journey back despite some major roundabout road works and the public holiday long weekend traffic. At Victoria Station, Gi jumps out leaving the arm rest down. He’d been leaning on it during the trip. With a queue of people behind me, I go to grab my bag only to realise Gi has taken it with him. Turning I slide sideways to get out into the aisle, but get stuck, not realising that the arm rest is down (instead of being fluorescent orange it’s the same colour as the floor and the seat). This damn arm rest has effectively halved the space I have to get out, but not wanting to hold everyone up I just push through, still uncertain why I’m stuck. I manage to get my right hand caught between the rest of me and the arm rest, crushing it, twisting the fingers around, bending it all backwards awkwardly. But still I push, now embarrassed in accordance with local custom that all these people are waiting for me. I finally push my way through, limp off the bus and double over in pain, my right hand thrust between my thighs, which always seems like the safest place to put something that needs mending or hiding. The tears start. Initially I think it’s a bit like when you bang your knee on some furniture, there’s no real harm done but the sudden sharp pain comes as a shock.

I’m in denial for the next few days about how badly it’s hurt. Gi manages to carry my bag and sundry other items around London without complaining, but he makes it clear that I have to stop hurting myself. In his mind I’m just like a blind rhinoceros, thrashing my way through the jungle until I hit a boulder or a tree. I try to ignore the fact that my hand is badly swollen and I’m generally unable to do anything with it. The problem is that we live in a right handed world, and while I’m left handed, like most lefties I’ve adjusted and do more with my right hand than I ever realised. The second problem is that we are staying with friends, and every new person I meet I find my right hand caught up in a bone crushing British handshake before I can squeak ‘I’ve hurt my hand’. I can’t work out how to stop them in time, politely, so I endure the handshakes but try to avoid using it.

Everything hurts. It hurts me to wash my hair, towel off, tie my shoelaces, lie in bed, read a book or hold a cup of coffee. My palm starts to show a tell tale black mark, a bruise, which slowly spreads to the base of three fingers. The swelling doesn’t seem to recede, but instead the top of my hand starts to go an attractive yellow, like I’m a newborn with jaundice. I walk around London with my right arm across my chest, my right hand resting on my left bosom like I’m in an advertisement for nail polish, in an attempt to keep it out of harm’s way. I try cream for the swelling and pain killers but nothing seems to help. I can’t close my hand into a fist, and whenever Gi tries to touch it to assess the bones I yelp and slap him away. Even putting my hand in my pocket makes me cry.

Stubbornly I keep using it, not knowing what other choice I have. Gi helps but I’m trying to hide from him how bad it is, having an innate distrust of foreign (read: non-Australian) medical systems, doctors and X-ray machines. Every time someone asks if I’ve had it looked at I visualise my right arm encased in plaster. My two sisters and I have never broken anything except the odd toe or finger during a netball match. Our family are therefore not experts at living with an appendage in chalky, itch inducing, plaster for six weeks or so. And at the age of thirty-six (did I say that out loud?) I don’t have any desire to experience it. Besides, how am I supposed to use my laptop with one hand? I’d have to go back to hand writing my stories and in 2006 I’m just not interested…besides I can’t read my hand writing anymore.

We get home to Naples. I bandage it up, and while it helps keep it still, I feel more incapacitated. The bandaged hand also draws more attention and my inherent shyness makes me want to avoid that at all cost. At Gi’s insistence I bought some Arnica in London, a homeopathic remedy for bruising, and it seems to help.

It’s been almost three weeks now. I can finally make a fist again, but I wouldn’t dare use that fist against anything other than a bowl of jelly. I have almost full movement back, but I don’t have any strength. I’m still washing my hair, it’s uncomfortable but the sharp stabbing pain has waned. I’ve taken to asking Gi to do the hard stuff like open a new bottle of mineral water and use the tin opener. Every day I accidentally over extend it somehow, making the bed, squeezing out the mop, lifting a heavy saucepan, but it’s better than it was. I know that it’s still mending inside, in fact I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve fractured it, but I’ll wait until I get home to have that X-ray thanks very much.

Getting back to Fulvio, why am I blaming him? Well, he decided to move to Oxford. And if we hadn’t caught the ‘Oxford Tube’ at his recommendation with its convenient power points for laptops, comfortable seats, regular departure times and fold down arm rests to visit him and the delicious Sophie I wouldn’t be in this mess, on the bench, injured. I know, you’re thinking I should blame Gi for leaving the rotten arm rest down when it clearly should have been returned to the ‘upright position’ like they tell you on the plane, but I need Gi to open bottles, carry the shopping and scratch my back, so the blame is better placed elsewhere…like Fulvio.

What do you mean, ‘don’t you think it’s your own stupid fault?’ Whose side are you on anyway? And no, the rhinoceros theory carries no weight at all.
Oh, and stop sending me those damn get well cards, thanks very much.

Jewellery Heist

11 June 2006
Naples

Dreams: Jewellery Heist

Last night I dreamt in Italian for the first time (since last living in Naples anyway).

I’m with a group of kids, and we walk into a jewellery store except it’s more like a Tabaccaio (Tobacconist) store in Naples where you walk in the front door to a small open area directly in front of a counter with glass window. The proprietor stands behind the counter and he’s the only person who has access to the tobacco products, transport and lottery tickets, mobile phone recharge cards etc. After you pay he will slide the items under the glass panel, much like a bank teller.

I’m wearing my red cardigan and woolen gloves. The kids are between 8-15 years old and there are about 5 of them with me. We brazenly walk in. It’s empty of other customers. I tell the lady behind the counter to give me all of the money. We are not interested in the jewellery. I don’t have a gun or other weapon and don’t speak to her in a particularly threatening manner. The kids are standing beside me, or at the door watching out. Despite the fact that the glass panel should mean they can’t reach anything they do have access to some tubs of lollies on the counter. As the lady organizes I watch as some of the kids stuff their pockets with peppermints and take handfuls of Jaffas. I’m wondering why there are Jaffas in Naples (I’ve only ever seen them at home in Australia). The lady pushes the cash underneath the glass partition. As I turn to leave I tell her not to call the police. She assures me that she won’t, now looking a little afraid, explaining that “This is going to ruin us”. I fail to understand how robbing her of some cash and sweets is going to end the business.

We head down the street, it’s full of people and traffic all moving in the same direction, at about the same speed, like a tidal wave. Gi appears by my side. As we walk I start stripping off my red cardigan and gloves concerned that if she does report us to the police that I need to change my appearance so I don’t match the description she gives them. Gi pulls the wad of money from his pocket and waves it discreetly at me. I wonder why he’s carrying the cash when she just gave it to me, but instead ask him “Have you got it all? Didn’t you split it with the kids?’ The kids have all floated off into the crowd like fairies on the wind, satisfied with their haul of lollies.

Lying in the gutter against the curb is my old, old backpack, purple and green, from my first overseas trip to Europe. On top of it sits my new digital camera. I wonder how they came to be there, and why everyone is stepping around it, ignoring it. I stop to bend down and stuff my clothes into a small backpack when suddenly a guy on a bike almost rides over the top of me. It’s as though I’ve broken an unspoken rule by stopping in the middle of this moving mass of people, putting others at risk. The bike rider grimaces and grumbles, shaking his fist at me, before cycling around.

I don’t know where Gi and I are walking to, but we seem to be going in a particular direction, although it might just be because everyone else is going the same way.
I remember snippets of the dialogue in Italian, and where my Italian vocabulary is lacking it was by thought transfer with an Italian accent.

Hello World

16 June 2006 Email sent to friends and family
Hello world

I’m flying in for an email visit in an attempt to maintain contact. My ability to email you all individually is curtailed by one simple factor. Money! I have the time to email even the Prime Minister of my good nation. But, having moved into our own personal urban cave for two, we have struck trouble getting a phone line fed into the apartment, so the promised internet connection has been grounded before take off; a bit like some of NASA’s space shuttles.

And without my own personal connection to the internet I have to leave the house (yep, scary but true), walk thirty steps to the Internet Point and pay by the minute. So, that’s where I ‘come a cropper’. You know I’m not a working girl anymore and have submitted to being a kept woman and at the moment the keeping is a bit slim so I don’t get much pocket money. Thus, I’m resorting to a mass email, not as bad as a group orgy, certainly not as messy, but I hope you appreciate the effort just the same.

That said I have been posting news, stories and photos to our Blog. Some of you might not have been introduced to our blog. What’s a blog? It’s our own personal internet page. I write it and post it up on the internet for your pleasure. So if you are getting emails you can certainly go to the blog. Find it at www.jennygi.blogspot.com .It’s easy. Check it every week or so (not every day like some of my sad friends who are keen armchair travellers and cry foul when I fail to get online as regularly as they make their cups of coffee or take lunch). You can also send me comments, at the bottom of each story, news of yourself or feedback about how boring the story was maybe.

So, now let’s get to news of us. Forgive me for those that have heard it all before.

We made it to Italy, and after two nightmare months living with my in laws (lots of complaining on the blog in March and April) we moved into a micro apartment in the very heart of Naples historical centre (visual tour on the blog in May). Gi has started working at a clinic three minutes walk away called New Form Care. It seems to be going well. It’s a lovely set up and the women he works with (why is it always women??) are great. Asked me the usual ‘why don’t you have children?’ question and didn’t flinch when I gave them the honest answer. I like them for that alone. He is also in negotiations with an association to do a day / week through them with the view to teach from September. I think he’s also considering approaching another clinic as well that is within walking distance. It’s been a difficult process finding the right sort of places (the city is awash with beauty centres, where solariums are the main business as evidenced by the orange people walking around outside) but it seems to be coming together now. He is a little concerned about the seasonal fluctuations but I’m confident that as summer passes he’ll have an established client base and reputation much the same way as he did in Brisbane.

I’m writing, each day, for several hours and really enjoying it. It’s something I’ve wanted to do since choosing accounting over journalism at the end of high school. I was a little afraid that it would be a teenager ambition that should have faded. However, it feels like I’m getting better, using the blog to practice but also saving work that I’m hoping will feed into a book. In the meantime I’ve approached a few local English schools for work but don’t expect anything to come of it until the new school year starts in September.

We are both enjoying being in Naples. Last time we came to Italy in 1999 we spent a month here getting over some mad culture shock, then two months in Sardinia. The next three months were back in Naples and then Gi was ready to run away, so we did, to London. But this time, he’s enjoying his city. Being in his mid thirties brings with it a certain level of respect that he hasn’t experienced before. Just because he has tattoos, people don’t automatically dismiss him as a punk anymore. He’s also developed a different level of tolerance for all the things that should be better in Naples. Me, well, I’m being a bit lazy with the language but it’s slowly getting better. Although yesterday, to my horror, I found myself speaking a combination of Thai and Italian language (in the same sentence) to the guy at the stationery shop. He answered, like it was completely normal. Bless him.

Naples has changed a bit. I read yesterday that in 1995 the historical centre was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The restoration work that is going on around the city centre is proof that the administration has finally recognised the value in preserving and beautifying what is truly one of the world’s prize cities. The historical significance, culture, dialect, food (produce and cuisine), art, museums, natural beauty of the bay and the volcano and Neapolitan lifestyle etc all add to the flavour of the place. And just down the road is the Amalfi coast, Greek temples, more ancient ruins, hot springs, mountains, beaches, islands, orchards…no wonder there are six million people living in Naples and the periphery.

A typical day starts slowly, we rise late morning, head down to the local markets where we pick up fruit and vegies from our favoured street vendor, fresh mozzarella, warm bread from Gi’s preferred bakery before heading home to cook a late lunch of pasta. Gi heads to work at the clinic at about 2:30pm and I often spend the afternoon writing on my laptop. It’s spring now and twilight lasts until about 9:30pm, but I try to buck the local custom and prefer to have finished dinner by then. After dinner we usually take a stroll, either through the historical centre and its piazzas, statues and alleyways, or down Via Duomo to the 24 hour video outlet. We still don’t have TV so videos are the late night substitute for my television addiction. We are still enjoying the ordinary, quietness of this routine, but as the summer approaches and we have more visitors I expect that we’ll be out and about exploring, and playing tourist more often.

Most days are warm, lending to hot now, the sky bright blue. The crazy rains of spring seem to have almost finished. Gi is not looking forward to summer, Naples gets stiflingly hot I believe, the heat trapped between the buildings and under the pollution, absorbed into the black pavements and cobblestone roads laid down some Roman centuries ago. I’m yet to experience it, but reckon if I can handle Bangkok and Qld I’ll be right. Anyway, our micro apartment has all the mod cons, including air conditioning.

Gi’s enjoying being closer to his family and we usually have Sunday night dinner with them, as is the custom here. The World Cup 2006 has just started and after watching my first ever soccer game on Sunday night I’m expecting to see a lot more of the game over the next month or so. Most of Naples probably assumes that I support the Polish team, as I generally get mistaken for a Polish, Ukraine or Russian immigrant. Not much I can do about it, they all seem to have dyed red hair and dour expressions, much like me!

We spent a week up north near Udine with Gi’s aunt and family in March. I’ve been there before but came away with the impression that the weather, food and place were all grey. This, of course, is not true. We will be spending four nights up there with my parents during their three week visit to Italy in August. Mum and Dad began their four month tour of Europe about a month ago, and are currently on a cruise ship. They fly into Naples in August, and then after a few days of local sites we hit the road for two weeks. It’s exciting to finally be able to show Mum and Dad a bit of Gi’s world.

Other than that we spent a night away for my birthday at Paestum, the site of the Greek temples south of Naples, and another UNESCO world heritage site. For anyone who has done the usual tourist trail in Italy – Vatican, Pompeii, Capri, Venice, Florence – I would recommend it as a must see. The temples and ruins are just spectacular. And the local Battipaglia region makes the most delicious fresh mozzarella cheese I’ve ever had, the buffalo wandering around in the nearby paddock.

At the end of May we spent a week in London visiting friends and breathing in the Britishness of it all. Gi’s friend, Fulvio, was moving house so we went up to Oxford to help and met the delightful Sophie. Unfortunately, on the way back, I managed to crush my right hand as I got off the coach and after nearly three weeks it’s still not 100%. But it’s only when I do domestic things like mop the floor, hold a heavy saucepan, open a bottle or tighten the coffee pot that it really hurts! At least now I can wash my hair and lie in bed without the pain bringing me to tears. I’m a pretty bad patient at the best of times but wanting to avoid foreign X-ray machines and medical systems only made me worse.

News at home: my two sisters are manic trying to get everything in order for the opening of Kim’s child care centre on 3 July. They’ve both been studying, overseeing the construction of the centre, playing entrepreneur and dealing with their respective two children. Tania’s Katy and Sarah are now of an age where you can talk to them on the phone and cute as a pair of cream cakes. Kim has Joshua who is a real little boy now, and Lachlan who was born in February the week before we left Australia. He has the most amazing eyes now I’m told. I’m counting on those eyes staying the same so I can see them for myself on my next visit home.

We are quietly thinking about organising to meet friends based in London and elsewhere across the continent in mutually inconvenient destinations like Prague. London has earned its reputation as one of the most expensive cities in the world, and we might as well explore other parts of (cheaper) Europe while we are so close. If anyone reading this is interested, let us know. I can’t believe it but all of August is already booked up with Mum and Dad, followed by our AFS daughter Lucie coming for a visit. September will largely be spent recuperating, financially and emotionally, but come October and onwards I expect we’ll be itching to do some travelling.

Well I think that’s enough. Gi misses Brisbane and Australia more than I do at this stage which is just fine with me. When the homesickness hits me, it gets messy. I don’t miss my work as an accountant at all. But I do miss my network of family, friends, and my AFS volunteering, pretty badly. It takes ages to make new friends in this city, I’m so obviously an outsider, and when everyone makes the assumption that I’m from Eastern Europe here to steal a job it makes it worse. But it will happen. Gi on the other hand is making heaps of connections through work and slowly finding the old friends that he left behind who are still here, or happen to be back.

Would love to hear from all and sundry. Please accept my apologies for sending the same news to everyone. Also, apologies to those that have received personal information they would rather have not known. Rest assured, we are happy, getting more settled each week and finding our place in this ancient city. (Mind you, the locals can’t quite believe that we’ve left our lives in Australia – the flavour of the year here – to move back here. They just don’t get it.) We have beds for two, please come and visit, it’s a first in first served basis, but you are all welcome. There is a B&B about thirty steps away if the Mirto residence is already full. A great pizzeria, café, pastry shop and post office are about the same distance from our front door. What more could you ask for?

Love and smiles
Jenny, and Gigi. (Remember to check www.jennygi.blogspot.com regularly)

Quick note

Hello, I've loaded three stories and photos of the days we flew to and from London-Rome. I'm having some techno phobia problems with blog and the photo loading program so it's a bit mixed up. Be warned there is a lot of reading here, about 20 pages in all. I blame Gi for the delay, he's a slow editor! He gets upset about me mixing past and present tense verbs in the same sentence...

Both well. Need to tell you about my damaged hand, Gi's work, and our actual week in London.

Love to all
Jenny

First Timer

13 June 2006, Naples

Last night for the first time, I watched an entire game of soccer. Not just any game, but Italy’s first match in the ‘Mondiali’. Or the 2006 World Cup, Germany as it’s known elsewhere.

I’ve been thinking about it and have decided that I can’t spend the whole of the next month avoiding the World Cup, so I might as well try to enjoy it. After last nights exposure I can’t promise that I will understand why it’s so important to spend 90 minutes plus half time break, plus the before and after commentary, watching for what amounts to about only thirty seconds of unadulterated excitement when a goal or two is scored. But I’ll try.

Our urban cave is tucked in with other similar dwellings housing locals and immigrants from Eastern Europe. We have one close (as in vicinity, not relationship) neighbour, Maria, who is Polish. She shares her telephone conversations and heated discussions with all of us, her shrill voice piercing and echoing around the building. We think Maria lives in her cave with her husband but they also seem to have different people coming and going all the time. I suspect she is a base for newly arrived immigrants who are in the process of finding their own place.

Why am I digressing? In Italy, the only matches that are shown on free to air TV (Rai Uno, like the ABC in Australia) are those involving Italy. Of course the sports news will have highlights of other prominent matches, but if you want to see a game where Italy is not playing you need to watch it on Sky. Gi has surmised that Maria and friends have pooled their funds to subscribe to Sky TV.

The Mondiali actually started on the 9th June, which was Friday, and the day of Poland’s first match. I don’t know the score but from the sounds of the screaming and cheering that came out of Maria’s flat I’d guess that Poland beat Ecuador. Two days later I could hear Maria and friends following another game, and from the World Cup schedule I have pinned to the calendar I guess they were supporting Serbia and Montenegro, a distant cousin in Eastern Europe. I can just imagine them all crammed into the tiny one-room apartment, sitting on plastic chairs and Maria’s bed covered in a crocheted rug, glued to the television in the corner, smoking and drinking. Every match of interest will be an excuse for a party.

We don’t have a television, let alone Sky, so to watch Italy’s first match we decided to join his mother and sister for dinner at their place. Driving over to Rosaria’s I was astonished that the traffic seemed to be even crazier and the driving more erratic than usual. Everyone was in a hurry to get to their nominated box to watch the game. Accordingly, each driver seemed to have tunnel vision, failing to look, give way or stop. The shops had all closed early, with only a few bars and restaurants still open, signs out the front promoting the match would be televised inside. As we sat stuck in traffic I watched one maître d' bounce out of a restaurant, throwing a red, white and green wig over his hair, a strange contrast to his prim waiter’s uniform. He hopped around with excitement, chanting a football song with the barman from next door. Looking around with a grin, he suddenly whipped the wig off his head, shoving it into the pocket of his burgundy apron.

The streets were festooned with Italian flags and banners, vendors set up on corners selling football paraphernalia. Every boulevard, street and alleyway in Naples has a national flag hanging from balconies, windows, overhead lines and car antennas. I can only guess that as the Italian team progress further towards the finals the fans will drape the city in even more red, white and green.

As we approached Rosa’s place the streets were deadly calm, almost empty, as people settled in to private homes, bars or stopped to gather around a publicly displayed TV screen in preparation for the match. On the way home we passed a bar with five Carabinieri (Italian military police force) vehicles parked out the front. Then there were five police cars at the bar on the next corner. Even the criminals had apparently stopped to watch the game.

The match was being held in Hannover, Germany. As the teams ran out onto the playing field, the neighbourhood around us erupted with the blare of gas propelled horns and fireworks. If you’re a sports fan you probably know about these mini trumpets already. They look innocent enough but a push of a button and the air is filled with a resounding honk, like a lonely goose during mating season. It’s a most unpleasant sound, designed and best reserved for the football arena. But the Neapolitan fans seem convinced that it helps the team in Germany, and that they might just hear it resonate across the Alps. I’m mentally preparing myself for the coming month of insistent racket.

Italy was to play Ghana. The Ghanaian team trotted out, their black skin accentuating their white uniforms. Most of them had their hair shaved or closely cropped, their heads round and glistening. Italy appeared on the field, a river of deep blue trickling on to the blanket of green. In contrast to Ghana, most of the Italian team have shoulder length hair, slicked back with gel, promoting the smooth, greasy Italian image of bad mafia movies. The captain however, breaks the rules, the image of his shaved head and beaming face caused Gigi to jump up off the couch. It’s Fabio Cannavaro, a local boy from Naples, and a childhood friend for Gi.

The game gets underway, the players warmed up and the crowd jumb up and down in the bleachers. A player wearing a shirt emblazoned with the name ‘Toni’ had a few attempts at scoring a goal. His face reflected his emotions as the mistakes and bad luck kept the score 0:0. Gi’s mother, Rosaria, went from cursing his blunders to consoling his misfortune as another ball soared over the nets. The cameras kept flashing to the coach, standing on the sidelines, stern and concerned, throwing his hands in the air at every injustice. Ironically though, the player we saw the most of was Kingson, the Ghanaian goalkeeper, who seemed to be working the hardest out of both teams, thanks to our busy friend Toni.

Suddenly, the Italian player Pirlo found himself in front of the goal posts, a mess of players before him. Kicking the ball in a straight line directly at the goal, it scooted by every Ghanaian player and ploughed into the nets, like the parting of the Red Sea. My companions yelped with excitement as the small screen flashed to faces in the crowd, painted red, white and green, grinning with pride. Ghanaian fans were grimacing with dismay, some of their initial hope waning. On the field Pirlo raced around like a man possessed, his team members chasing him in an effort to congratulate him. Outside the horns were blaring, people cheering, as the whole of Italy had stopped to watch their team take the first step on the road to World Championship status.

The whistle for halftime blew. I’d been watching attentively for 45 minutes, but it didn’t seem that long. The television rolled out the advertisements and I knew I was in Italy from the content: Nutella, Alfa Romeo, a sexy ad for a mobile Delonghi air conditioning unit like air condition was a new invention, mineral water, Bacardi spirits and mobile phones.

During the match I’d been taking note of the colours. The referee wore a horrible fluorescent yellow (or is it green) shirt. It just meant we noticed more when he was looking in the wrong direction and failed to award a foul. Around the perimeter the telephoto journalists were decked out in forest green vests. A plethora of security guards stood at regular intervals circling the field, facing the crowd like wooden toy soldiers. Don’t they hate missing all the action happening behind them? The camera operators (cameramen seems politically incorrect) were pretty in their pink vests.

The second half had begun and I wondered about some of the skills involved in soccer (football, sorry). Certainly the ball skills and kicking require obvious dexterity, and the running a high level of fitness, but how do they head the ball without seeing stars? Especially, when it’s come off the foot of someone half way down the field, and falls from the sky like a black and white meteorite before bouncing off a sweaty forehead.

Thirty-eight minutes into the forty-five minute half (yes, I had started watching the clock count down by now) Italy scored a second goal. Player Iaquinta is buried under a pile of blue as the team celebrated on top of him. Scoring a goal at this international level did look easy though when you managed to outrun your opponents, pushed aside a defender and side stepped the goalkeeper. With a clear path, Iaqunita almost paused before he gently guided the ball between the posts. His defender, Kuffour, was on the ground, his head between his knees in disbelief. The camera came in tight to capture his backside up in the air, his grass stained white shorts and black muscular legs completing the picture.

The rest of the game seemed like a mix between an anticlimax and a tease. I was secretly hoping that Ghana would score a goal, in support of the statistic demonstrating that they had 53% ball possession. The clock ticked 45 minutes and a man on the side line held up a sign showing the game would go to three minutes of extra time. What for, haven’t we seen enough? At least it will keep the trumpets and fireworks quiet momentarily, I thought. Eventually the referee put us out of our misery and blew the whistle ending the game. It was like the whole city had been holding its breath and suddenly exhaled, screams, trumpets, fireworks filling the air in celebration. The teams stripped off, a girls favourite scene on the soccer (sorry, football) field, exchanging shirts, hugging and slapping hands. The Italian coach looked pleased, the first game behind them, the 2:0 result a favourable one.

The last image on our small screen before someone resumed control of the remote was of Gi’s childhood friend Fabio, bare-chested and physically beautiful, with his arm around the captain of the Ghanaian team. Both men were grinning, a picture of sportsmanship and international goodwill. Perhaps I only needed to watch one game to work out what all the fuss is about.

PS The Australia v Japan was also on last night, but I can only watch one TV at a time. I’m pleased to advise those of you living in non-urban caves that we won 3-1. Aussie, Aussie, Aussies. Oy, oy, oy! Let’s not think about the next game vs. Brazil.

Your friendly bag lady: Jenny. 

Sunset: a moment of magic in a night of hell. 

Patchwork on the way home. 

Ryan Air, subtitles please. 

The lovely Jon Jackson. 

Coffee with Peter Turner. 

Home Coming

Written 6-11 June 2006 WARNING this story is about ten pages long. You either need a long lunch break, a bottomless cup of coffee, or a print out to take home or read on the train. Oh, and yes, I've written about the day we went to London and the day we left London but not about anything in between. I spend about 3-4 hours writing each day but can't keep up with life. Enjoy!

Home coming 31 May - 1 June 2006

Before climbing out of bed we knew it was going to be a long day. Long turned out to be an understatement.

The last day of our whirlwind week in London started out well. We broke the morning fast with Garo before farewelling his gracious parents who offered to host us again anytime. Gi told Joseph, Garo’s father, that we’d be back in six months time to stay for a couple of years. I know he was only half joking. Their home and hospitality were both gracious and generous. Accompanying Garo and his siblings Jacob and Arpi to the family hairdressing salon business we said another round of goodbyes before dragging our luggage on the underground train to meet our friend Peter at Oxford Circus.

Peter arrived promptly buttoned up in a warm jacket, wearing shades and looking significantly more grown up than my fond neighbourly memories of him as a teenager. Over expensive cappuccinos served in oversized cups we caught up on the comings and going of Peter’s life including his recent promotion, love interest and horrendous flatmate. Gi popped out briefly and returned with another long lost friend, Jon Jackson, who is still working at TopMan, a menswear fashion store, some twelve years after they met there. Jon looks ten years younger than his 40 something years with coffee colouring and youthful dreadlocks. However, after a round of kisses and photos he skipped back to work.

Following a stroll through Soho and an organic lunch the three of us tubed down to Victoria station chatting about family and the possibility of catching up again. In order to ensure we avoided any traffic delays and checked in early we caught the next coach to Stansted Airport, while Peter headed off to take an overland train home. With a driver who thought he was accumulating bonus points for braking I escaped to my usual on-the-move-and-I’m-not-driving snooze zone to overcome what is usually called motion sickness, but in central London’s 9km/hour traffic, and with this driver, should be referred to as ‘stop, yay start, ohhh stop again’ sickness.

Gi gently elbowed me awake as we pulled into the airport car park; gently patting down my newly cut hair where it was sleep ruffled. Inside we did all those lovely things you can do at English airports but shouldn’t take for granted in other countries like find a post box and post last minute postcards, enjoy the clean lavatory facilities for free and study the readily available information booklets. After deciding against spending British sterling we didn’t have on luxuries like books, music and lingerie we checked in and headed for the queues leading travellers to the hidden side of the dividing wall. Expecting to go through passport control we were instead confronted with a crowd of people organised according to English custom. The queues slowly moving through each narrow doorway in the plain beige wall became even long queues snaking around in a zigzag fashion in accordance with the barriers. Pairs of these twisting processions of bored individuals joined to become single file as we off loaded hand luggage and emptied pockets for security screening. As I passed through the metal detector I expected bells and whistles to go off as they always do when I wear boots through Brisbane Airport security. The silence surprised me. Why is it that I always have to strip off, removing my boots and belt at the Brisbane Airport security screening, walking through in stockinged feet, holding my pants up, but at a major airport in London, a city not unknown for terrorist activity, I just stroll through like I’m going into the supermarket? Behind me, as though reading my mind, padded my sock-wearing husband, his cowboy boots coolly passing along the X-ray conveyor belt like they owned the joint.

Having been fully searched at the Rome airport before our flight to London I was again expecting the same procedure with my laptop buried at the bottom of my small backpack. Again, I was surprised as I surreptitiously collected my belongings and prepared to leave. Gi however had his small backpack sent off along an isolated conveyor belt, obviously the equivalent of the ‘naughty seat’ for flyers. Pulling on his boots and stuffing coins and keys back into his pockets he went to join the uniformed lady who was in the process of waving his bag around looking for its owner. With the utmost courtesy and professionalism she asked if she could search the bag, and proceeded to unzip pockets and remove the contents. Gi rolls his clothes for packing to make the most of the available space and reduce the wrinkle factor. Ms Security Inspector was making good progress until he apologised for the ‘dirties’ and I commented that “dirty laundry must be an occupational hazard”. Pulling up sharply she confessed that normally she asks people if the clothes are clean or dirty, and wears gloves when inspecting dirty clothes, but Gi’s clothes looked clean they way he’d packed them so she had made an assumption. Needless to say the rest of the clothes didn’t get searched thoroughly. The bag had been sidelined because of a laptop battery that Gi had inadvertently left at the bottom of his bag. After testing it and the bag’s contents for bomb residue Ms Security Inspector politely offered to repack the bag, and looked genuinely relieved when Gigi refused.

We never did pass through passport control, and I’m still working out how the British authorities are going to know that I’ve left for another part of the EU.

Gate 41 drew us in and after spending my last £1.09 on three chocolate bars we settled in to wait for boarding. Ryan Air doesn’t allocate seats, which I’m told is to encourage passengers to board quickly and help the airline maintain its low prices and good ‘on time’ reputation. With families and the infirm boarding first we then boarded according to check in order, obviously another incentive for passengers to check in early rather than at the last minute (which still means forty minutes before departure time when the check in counters close). Gi and I were quickly on the plane, joining the smaller queue at the rear doors, stowing our luggage and unabashedly securing three seats between the two of us. Who said we don’t know how to adapt in foreign environments? Unfortunately the Ryan Air ‘leave on time’ policy doesn’t account for Italian passengers who certainly don’t see the point in rushing to be squeezed into restrictive seats with no possibility of decent food, drink or cigarettes for at least three hours. Slowly they filtered onboard, removing coats, blocking the aisle, probably dreaming about having a good coffee, a real coffee, back home.

The flight itself was almost full, and not particularly inspiring. We finally took off just after 7pm and, as we flew over London and then south towards the continent, I looked back out of the window to photograph the extended sunset, reflecting gold off the river. We had the pleasure of being served by two young stewards who seemed intent on filling the air with as much nonsensical banter as possible. I doubt that I’ve ever encountered flight attendants that were less professional and less interested in their responsibilities than these two. Ryan Air planes also seem to be hosted by young Irish women who mumble and speak too quickly into the microphone, as though embarrassed at the sound of their voice over the plane’s speaker system. Thankfully, the safety demonstrations are accompanied by the usual hand gestures and Safety Card referral (which is pasted to the head rest of the seat in front of me to ensure I pay attention to it). But her updates on the local time, weather conditions, food trolley, duty free shopping and transport options at the arrival airport remain a complete mystery. It was like she was speaking a completely different language with the odd word of English thrown in as a teaser. If we fly with Ryan Air again, and again I feel lost in translation I’m going to have to write in suggesting they use subtitles.

Arriving late into Rome Ciampino airport (oops, there go the Ryan Air statistics!) we shuffled off the plane to jump on the waiting airport shuttle bus. Passengers are no longer permitted to walk off a plane across the tarmac for safety and security reasons, but I was flabbergasted when the shuttle bus circled the Boeing 737 plane to pull up only ten metres from the nose, spilling us out at a glass sliding door.

Passport control syphoned the crowd through quickly with most of the passengers holding EU documentation, to which the Passport Officers barely gave a cursory glance. A flash of my Australian passport must have caused a heart flutter though as the robot behind the window grabbed it, reviewed my visa and my face and then thumped an arrival stamp onto the very last page of my almost new passport. It was now well after 10pm local time and as we moved through Customs it was obvious that the only option was the unstaffed ‘Green’ section, with the ‘Red’ area boarded up in murky shadow; clearly closed for the night.

Knowing that the last train from Rome’s central station, Stazione Termini, had already departed for Naples at 9.30pm our only hope of getting home that night was to try and find a late night coach. Purposefully striding passed the taxi drivers and passengers lingering outside the sliding doors, filling the atmosphere and their needy lungs with plumes of smoke, we located the next transfer bus. With the clock ticking and Gi’s sense of urgency increasing we waited another twenty minutes before it was the scheduled departure time. I’d just slinked down to the back of the bus to slip out of a skirt into some more appropriate street battle wear, jeans, and was resettling when the friendly ticket seller remembered his early conversation with Gi and suggested we try and find a coach at the next stop, Roma Tiburtina. It was starting to rain, my hand was badly hurting from a recent accident and my reluctance was overwhelming but before I knew it Gi was off the bus heading for the station.

For the next twenty minutes we dashed around reading the boards overhead trying to determine if there were any trains departing from this side of the city that headed anywhere near Naples. Mindful of the fact that the last inner city metro for the night left at 11.30pm we then raced around trying to locate the bus terminal. Eventually receiving directions that it was off to the side, well out of sight, Gi had us both slipping along the tiled footpath in the rain. The bus terminal was even seedier than the aligned train station, and inside the ticket booth a young woman provided the heartbreaking news that there were no coaches to Naples, ever! It was ironically heartbreaking because the idea of spending several hours on a coach on the wet freeway to Naples was incredibly unappealing. Ironically, if I’d known what was to follow, I would have hijacked a coach and driven it myself.

Dejected we skidded back along the slippery walkway towards the train station, down the stairs, hoping that we hadn’t already missed the last metro back into the centre of Rome. Force-feeding coins into the ticket machines I was perplexed when they kept appearing in the change catcher below. Giving up, Gi asked the nearby attendant what time the next train was due and what platform we needed. The woman, kitted out in her navy blue railway uniform, pointed with disinterest to the platform directly behind her glass booth, indicating it was due any minute. Taking his cue, Gi grabbed me and we boldly walked through the ticket barriers, ticketless once again. I’ve now come to accept that in Italy when it’s too hard to buy a ticket (machines broken, booths closed) you just don’t, and have faith that at the other end if tickets are being inspected that enough people are passing through for you to be able slip through, or better still that the gates will be open. This was the case when we arrived ten minutes later at Stazione Termini.

Following the signs up from the underground level I watched with pity as an Asian man ran flying onto the platform as the last metro train for the night pulled away; without him. Climbing the stairs, several other wanna-be-passengers dashed by us, unaware that they were already too late. I wondered how they were going to get to their midnight destinations.

With it still raining outside and the brightly lit station beckoning we wandered through the concourse, quietly observing the last of the retail outlets close up for the night. A double check of the departure board confirmed that the next train to Naples would leave some six hours later at 5:49am. We both knew the best thing to do was find a quiet, safe, dry place to spend the next few hours. The waiting room sign above our heads seemed like a heavenly signal. It was not anyone’s idea of comfortable but it had rows of plastic seats, a separate room with a TV screen and a radio blaring, and an area of desks obviously set up for business travellers and laptop use. The office chairs at these desks were now largely occupied by people slumped over asleep. Other people were sprawled out sleeping across the rows of seats, and in the corner a woman was discreetly trying to quieten a crying baby by breastfeeding it under a burgundy velvet cloak. Her pink dress and matching sparkly summer shoes were a stark contrast to her filthy, hardened feet and her husband’s more formal attire. Claiming a row for us I settled in to try and sleep, blocking out the crying, snoring and loud radio with my earphones and music. Gi, ever vigilant, and extremely disappointed that we had failed to find a solution to our six-hour transit problem, sat bolt upright beside me.

No sooner had I closed my eyes and wriggled around to find a small degree of comfort when Gi was shaking me. The arrival of a station official brought the unwelcome news that the waiting room closed at midnight and we all had to leave. Why you would close a waiting room was a mystery, but a mystery that would soon be unveiled. Gathering our bags, we begrudgingly walked out, the lady and her baby still wrapped in the velvet cloak, and an old lady shuffling along behind us.

Strolling around the station we realised that the only other seating was on the platforms. To avoid spending the night sitting on the tiled haemorrhoid-inducing floor we took up position along platform 15, sheltered from the rain, but still feeling the bite of the cold wind. With the storm intensifying outside, flashes of lightening illuminated the silhouettes of the slumbering trains, thunder rumbling above the ancient city. We pulled out the Neapolitan cards to play, the game of matching, mathematics and memory helping to pass the time. A mini cleaning truck droned along the platform sweeping and sucking up discarded cigarette buts, plastic coffee cups and fast food wrappers. The warm, dusty air it blew into our faces was gritty and unpleasant.

At 1am a garbled announcement overhead declared that the station would be closing from 1:30 – 4:30am. Looking around I wondered why TrenItalia bothered closing for three hours when there were obviously passengers waiting for the first early morning trains. It was unexpected that one of the central stations in a continent well-known for its railway service and links would close at all. Our decision to wait at the station instead of spending precious Euro on accommodation for a few hours suddenly felt like a very bad idea. Humping packs onto shoulders we wandered outside to consider our options. In Naples you can always find an all night bar or pizzeria open, a warm and dry spot to hang out. With only a couple of external signs lit up around the station we eventually found a café with enticing orange seats. Sculling an espresso coffee Gi joined me at a table, only to be told we had to pay another exorbitant service fee if we wanted to sit down. Ah, the joys of a city set up to empty tourists’ pockets.

At least now the mystery of the midnight closure of the waiting room was solved.

Reluctantly we walked back towards the station, the streets slick with rain and rubbish from the day’s trading. Crossing the tram lines, the last of the glass doors were being secured for the ‘night’ by security guards, and even McDonalds had finished serving its burgers and fries. The rain limited our options but we settled in front of the station, leaning against the glass windows in an alcove across from the bus terminal. With a tired sigh I realised that the only difference between me and the homeless bag lady in the next alcove was that she was sitting on large sheets of cardboard, warm and buffered against the concrete, under a layer of old blankets and newspapers; undoubtedly more comfortable, and more accustomed to these conditions, than me.

Gi remained standing, on full security alert, tense that we had to wait out here for three hours, in an unfamiliar place, amongst people he couldn’t fully gauge. He looked like he was casually people-watching but I knew he was carefully scrutinising everyone around. A homeless guy, his heavy beard blurring his face, paced up and down the length of the station, his scuffed brown leather shoes failing to make an indent on the concrete as he followed the same path up and back. A delinquent on a low-riding bicycle cruised around, a large German shepherd trotting along behind. Every now and then the dog barked ferociously and I jumped each time, hoping that it’s part of the chasing game and nothing more.

Four suspicious looking men spotted us and two of them casually peeled away to walk passed us at closer range. They looked about our age, one sporting a distinctive blue jacket and the other white tracksuit pants. As they strolled by they slowed to study our luggage, eyeing each piece and our appearance with apparent intent. Returning to become a group of four they edged closer towards us, Gi now asking me to calmly, but quickly get ready to move. On the inside I’m anxious, wanting to throw my head back and rage at the world for not having a late night train to Naples, closing us out of the relative sanctity of the station, and for mothers failing to direct their children away from a life of petty crime and violence. On the outside, I’m standing up, adjusting my jumper, jacket and scarf and walking with Gi, bags on shoulders, across the road to join the crowd waiting for late night buses. It’s nothing more than a message really, letting them know that we’re aware of their intentions, hoping that there is some safety in numbers. They nonchalantly followed us, milling amongst the crowd. Gi’s antenna was going crazy, assessing everyone nearby, and my heart rate had increased as I considered the prospect of being robbed again. More than that though, I’m fully aware of how far Gi will go to protect me, and our valuables, the majority of which are strapped to his back. In twelve years I’ve never seen him physically defend himself as he has an uncanny ability to talk his way out of dilemmas (even at gun point on occasion) but I have no doubt he’d put up a good fight, even against these four. Standing under the narrow bus shelter, the misty rain slicing in, late night revellers chatting as they wait to go home I could only hope it wouldn’t come to that.

Bus 55N splashed into the terminal and the crooked foursome walked right up to us, arrogantly circling us before boarding the bus. They continued to watch us from inside as the bus filled up, and it’s only as the engines rumbled and it moved towards the intersection that I started to breathe again. To my horror, the bus stopped short of the intersection and the crunching noises indicated the driver was having problems engaging the gears. Gi’s stress levels rose again as we watched the criminal cohort disembarks with the other passengers.

An angel above answered my prayers and another 55N pulled into the terminal at that moment. Like a flock of penguins the passengers trot over and piled in, the fickle four getting caught up in the wave. We both exhaled as this second bus chugged away, taking its dangerous cargo with it. We waited at the bus stop, watching the crowd slowly dissipate out as three more buses pulled in, loaded up and drove off into the night. As a sliver of relaxation creeps in, two more dodgy guys arrive, cruise around and then disappear into the darkness.

We moved back to the glass frontage towards the other end to find a group of English backpackers camped out. We plonked ourselves down beside them, hoping to blend in with the larger group, more comfortable in the illuminated doorway. I watched as they drank beer, rolled out sleeping backs and snuggled up, sharing cigarettes.

A homeless guy, dressed in what looked like the cast offs from a Scandinavian backpacker, managed to pry the glass sliding doors open and squeezed through. Having found a baggage trolley earlier that we’d loaded our bags onto, we positioned it against the wall and I sat on it. Gi’s legs started to fade, so following the homeless guy he snuck inside the train station to grab a second baggage trolley. Moments later he was being ejected, as the security guards kicked him out, ignoring his protests.

Soon after, a character of Middle Eastern origin sauntered up to the English tourists and gestured for a cigarette. With shaking heads, and ‘No, sorry’ exclamations they politely responded to his request. The fact that a couple of them were smoking had not escaped him, and in this part of the world it’s generally accepted that, if asked, you’ll give someone a cigarette. The only way around it is to say you’ve just smoked the last one, or are saving the last one for later. Their point blank refusal was a clashing of cultures. The tall, dark, wiry man demonstrated his fury at the rejection by ranting and raving in heavily accented Italian, ending the performance by spitting dramatically and forcefully in the direction of the group. Spitting is not an uncommon practice on the streets of Italy, as elsewhere in the world, but spitting at someone is considered incredibly insulting. Ironically the English backpackers failed to understand his saliva attack, or adopted the English approach of civilly ignoring any unpleasantness in the certainty that eventually it will go away. Their indifference only seemed to fuel his rage.

Gi, ever the bridge between cultures, understood both sides of the unfolding drama but reacted strongly to the spitting incident in accordance with Neapolitan street law. Chastising the man for his rough behaviour resulted in a battle of words and puffed chests, with a distance of some twenty strides between them. The English backpackers, those that were awake, watched the exchange with bewilderment, completely unaware that Gigi was defending them. The argument slowly fizzed out to a volley of warnings and reproaches, with both of them shouting ‘Okay, it’s finished, be quiet now”, “Shut up, there’s nothing more to say”, and so on. Watching grown men reduced to a match of whoever-says-the-last-word-wins in another language is a spectacle to behold. Especially at 3 o’clock in the morning, locked outside of a train station, intermittent rain drizzling and with nowhere to go.

As the quiet of central Rome void of traffic and pedestrian chaos settled on us, we watched as a little man with dark skin and a bizarre red hat trotted towards us pushing a baggage trolley. After discovering that the sliding doors were not going to open he asked what time the station opened. 4.30am was still an eternity away. Parking the trolley between us and the English tourists sprawled out across the pavement, he jiggled as he moved, surveying the area. Dressed in yellow shorts and the red hat shaped like an inverted, somewhat flaccid, ice-cream cone he certainly stood out. On his trolley was a big round Tom drum and a lone Congo drum balanced behind it, both encased in zip up bags.

He and Gi started chatting idly, revealing that he was from Brazil and part of a touring band. After hearing that we have lived in London, Australia, Thailand and Italy he wholeheartedly recommended that we visit Brazil. He continued to bounce around skittishly, at one point unloading the drums, leaning them against the wall. Unexpectedly, with barely a gesture for Gi to keep an eye on the drums, he disappeared, steering the trolley into the darkness. Some time later he returned, this time the trolley was loaded with two more Congo drums and a guitar. As I was wondering where the rest of the band were, three men strolled across the bus terminal. All four men had distinctly different skin tone, one coffee coloured, another the colour of dark chocolate. A mixture of dreadlocks, full lips, bright sneakers and open smiles mesmerised me as I watched them discuss their plans before two of them saunter off in the direction from which they’d come.

Mr Red Hat was left with the guitar player, and their discussion soon escalated into an argument. Leaping about, his voice shrill and adamant, we seemed oblivious to the attention, as his mate repeatedly tried to calm him down. Mr Guitar seemed unhappy with the plans and the idea of travelling by train, but Mr Red Hat insisted it was only for the short term, and really not a big deal. Or at least that’s how I interpreted the excited Portuguese dialect that was echoing around us. Mr Guitar started to walk away, aware that they would not resolve the issue. Suddenly, Mr Red Hat made a decision; obviously a decision made rashly and in the heat of an argument is not always the wisest choice. Turning to Gi he asked him to look out for his stuff saying he would return by 4:30am when the station opened. Gi just nodded, unsure what else to say. Storming off, Mr Red Hat ran after his mate who was now halfway across the bus terminal.

We stood there, looking at the percussion pile topped with the guitar and a shoulder bag that suspiciously looked like it would contain personal belongings, money and ID. Gi began to look uncomfortable, explaining that he felt suspicious about what had just happened. Foreigners arriving with large objects, arguing and unceremoniously leaving them in the responsibility of a complete stranger at such an odd hour gave him reason to be nervous. Moving, we positioned ourselves some twenty metres away, where Gi could still see the drums but not necessarily be involved.
His main thought was that it could be a bomb, left outside the train station, waiting for it to get busier; a potential act of terrorism. I’m not sure that being only twenty metres away meant that we would be unharmed should it explode, but at least it was safer than sitting next to it. The other possibility was that the drums were crammed full of drugs, and that the police, having watched the argument and Mr Red Hat talk to Gi, would sweep in and arrest him having assumed he was an associate taking possession.

Ironically we only saw one police vehicle all night, as the station opened up again, and the inherent dangers of standing around in such an unsafe area were over.

While we were on bomb alert, two girls wandered towards us, carrying a map and looking dishevelled and lost. Gi gave them directions in English and they wandered off again, somewhat nonchalantly, despite the warnings from Gi about being alert. As if to emphasis the point, three drunken English lads walked up to the station door, assuming they’d be able to go inside and crash for the night. Mumbling loudly that they slept for eight hours at the station in Slovenia they gave up and wandered off.

The circus side show continued as a grungy man vigorously smoking a cigarette came over and stood right beside Gi. Finishing his cigarette in a plume of smoke he threw the burning butt under the trolley I was sitting on and then strolled off. It was one of the strangest, premeditated deeds but in a place of homelessness and insanity it was just one more thing to ignore. Much like the tall man, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, his shoulders hunched over as though his height was a burden. He floated around, muttering to himself, incoherent and very much alone. Every few seconds he would toss his head, throwing his chin over his right shoulder, a tick he was unable to control.

A row of buses sat idle, the rain puddles started to dry up, still glistening from the yellow street lights. Taxis came and went. A street cleaning truck trundled through beeping and creaking. To one side an ancient wall stood majestically, a ruin amongst the grey concrete. A cream building towered behind it, the window trims painted mustard. The smell of urine and dust that usually lingered around the station had been washed away by the rain and street cleaners. Inside the station a team of workers had been busy erecting huge advertising banners for Fanta and Nike. We waited outside, willing the time to pass.

Gi quietly narrated the comings and goings to me, like he was watching a bizarre soap opera. He regularly reinforced the point that he didn’t understand much of the strange behaviour going on around us. Hands in his pocket, he quietly watched, like a bored security guard on duty in an art gallery, expecting a robbery.

The sleepiness and heavy headedness had passed, it was almost 4am and my eyes felt disconnected from my brain, like they were over exposed. Surprisingly I felt refreshed, like I’d slept. I knew it is only temporary.

It was time for the station to open up; people started standing in front of the doors, shuffling their feet, looking at watches. I watched as the English backpackers roused themselves and slowly packed up. They were unaware of the man in a leather jacket, standing in the shadows right behind them, watching everything. He was casing them out, waiting for an opportunity to grab an unattended piece of luggage. Motioning to Gigi we continued to watch as the group slowly folded up sleeping bags, riffled through packs and laughed at someone’s joke. Ten steps and I was standing in the middle of them, quietly talking in English, making them aware of their ‘friend’ and imploring them to be more vigilant. One girl dressed in a blue linen skirt and white singlet looked at me like I was her mother waking her up. Her boyfriend towered over me, not more than twenty years old, his goatee and beanie only highlighting his pale skin and youth. I suggested that he needed to look a little less innocent and a little meaner, tougher, and that they all needed to be aware of what was going on around them to avoid being robbed, or worse.

The doors opened and we all streamed inside. The next hour ticked by as we stood on the platform chatting to the English group who were also travelling to Naples on the 5:49am train. They’d just finished their university studies and were on a nine day tour of Italy in celebration. One lad was a media studies graduate, interested in journalism, and with the good looks to support his ambition, he drilled us about Australia, living in Italy and work. His girlfriend had just completed Criminology, but disappointed with the course content she didn’t see herself pursuing a career in Criminology.

The train journey was uneventful until Gi asked a gentleman nearby to close the window. He did so, reluctantly, only to open it again five minutes later, the early morning chill filling the carriage. In response to Gi’s second request, he gestured towards the two African women sitting across the aisle, complaining about the smell and their bare feet. He was just exaggerating, we certainly didn’t agree. Shocked at his rudeness and arrogance we watched as a young woman who had earlier been drilling for a university exam, stood up and stormed out loudly voicing that she wasn’t going to sit near a racist. I’d overheard the African women conversing in Italian but they didn’t react, as we too got up and left the carriage. Mr Racist’s female companion shrilly exclaiming “What happened, why are they leaving?” as though his remarks were perfectly reasonable.

The train was thirty minutes late getting into Naples, so at 9am we found ourselves arriving at Piazza Garibaldi central station in the middle of peak hour. Striding down towards the underground metro, ready for the short journey to the next stop at Piazza Cavour, right in front of our place, we were confronted with a huge crowd. It was obviously going to be a while before the swarm of people cleared, so we headed back towards the daylight in search of a bus. The bus journey took about 40 minutes, compared to the three minute metro ride, but we eventually made it to our front door, with our belongings. The desire to eat and shower were quickly subdued with the realisation that we’d left the fridge empty and the hot water system turned off for the week. However, the bed was undeniably available and calling our names.

It was a week before we fully recovered from our trip home from London. And while it’s a journey I never wish to repeat it’s undoubtedly an interesting way to meet ‘new’ people, and see a famous city in a different light. I still have two letters of complaint to write though: one to the central station authorities about the lack of wisdom in closing the station for three hours, and the other to Ryan Air about the need for on board subtitles.

Flying over Rome. 

What's under a gladiator's skirt? 

Jenny the tourist: Rome's Basilica di San Giovanni 

The glory inside the Basilica. 

Gi chats with a friend - Basilica di San Giovanni 

Rome's most famous monument 

Roman Day Tripper

Written 12 June 2006

24 May 2006 Roman Day Tripper

Our flight to London was scheduled to leave from Rome’s Ciampino airport at 21:05. We caught a mid morning train from Naples, planning to spend the day sightseeing. First, we needed to work out how to get to Ciampino airport, having previously only flown from the main airport, Leonardo da Vinci (commonly known as Fiumicino). My trusty Lonely Planet guide detailed that the public transport journey to Ciampino was a bit of a nightmare, but several firms, such as Ryan Air and Easy Jet, now chartered buses. The buses departed from the street adjacent to the Stazione Termini (central train station in Rome), and tickets cost €6, cheaper than the price quoted in Lonely Planet, and certainly not a wallet breaker if it meant getting there on time and stress free.

Having done our transport-to-Ciampino homework we wandered off down Via Cavour. Arriving at Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore, we circled the grand basilica, disappointed that it was closed. The square was surprisingly empty with only a few people perched around the base of an Egyptian obelisk, eating lunch. The pigeons outnumbered the people, not an uncommon situation in parts of Europe. A light sprinkle of rain began to fall as we veered off down Via Merulana.

Rome is a city where you would never be able to visit everything. Reputably containing some 900 churches there are also the countless museums, galleries, catacombs, gardens, historical villas, piazzas and monuments. Having done the major sights on a few occasions (mind you, it would take weeks alone to see the restricted public access areas at Vatican City) we wanted to see something a little off the usual tourist trail. It’s certainly not hard to do that in Rome.

The tree lined boulevard Via Merulana led us to Piazza San Giovanni in Laterano. The Basilica was the first Christian basilica constructed in Rome, during the 4th century. I was interested to go inside, knowing that it was Rome’s cathedral, and the pope’s seat as Bishop of Rome. Not being of Catholic upbringing, and generally ignorant of Catholicism’s history and hierarchy, I hadn’t realized that the Pope would have responsibilities outside of Vatican City. Though I guess he has to be Bishop of somewhere.

Lonely Planet tells me that the Basilica di San Giovanni has “been destroyed by fire twice and rebuilt several times”. I can never take in all of the historical dates, influential names and architectural features, but before stepping inside I was impressed with the beauty. Walking up the marble stairs, through the impressive iron gates, the porch is like no verandah you’ll find in Australia. Looking up, the curved ceilings are alive with frescoes depicting religious scenes of anxious cardinals, purposeful angels and beseeching disciples all wearing great sweeping robes, the colours muted and pastel from years of sun exposure. It’s like looking at an extraordinary art collection, which in fact it is.

Gi paused to study a mounted statue, perhaps made of bronze and dark with age. The statue depicts a man, confidently thrusting what looks like a symbol of power towards the sky. He’s dressed somewhat like Eric Bana’s character in the movie ‘Troy’, the leather skirt exposing his strong knees, abdominals revealed by the fall of his heavy cloak secured around his broad shoulders. It could be Brad Pitt as Achilles, except this statue has curly hair and a goatee. The bronze figure was striking an impressive pose, like he was royalty and supremely aware of his responsibilities. It was set in front of an ornately carved white wall, locked behind more black wrought iron gates. Gi stood there for a long while, taking in the detail, and I captured him on film, thinking that in his black jeans and white shirt the photo would almost be monochrome naturally.

Entering the basilica was like being thrown down Alice’s rabbit hole and finding yourself in a land of gold and glitter. It was cool inside, a welcome respite from the early warmth of spring. We spent the next hour wandering around, each step leading to another awesome object of beauty. The Gothic canopy over the papal altar contained relics, including the heads of Saints Peter and Paul. Of course other parts of St Peter are buried under St Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City. Like most saints, there are bits and pieces of his remains all over the city, and spread throughout the Catholic Church across the globe. Poor buggers! The apse was inlaid with the most incredible mosaics, and even though they were copies of the originals I was struck by their magnificence.

I spent some time sitting in a baptistery, across from a group of nuns who had come in to sing hymns and pray. Their black habits contrasted starkly with the enormous white columns and ornate gold altar. There were six of them, two of Asian background, two African, and I couldn’t decide on the ethnic background of the other two. Of course Rome, as the centre of the Catholic Church, draws priests and nuns from around the world, and to pass a day in Rome without crossing paths with a sister or father/brother from outside of Italy is to be in bed asleep. I listened as the nuns sang and prayed in Latin, their hesitant foreign accents reminding me that I wasn’t the only one who had to concentrate with the language.

Gi and I had both recently read Dan Brown’s ‘Da Vinci Code’ and he was now more obsessed with symbols than ever. Walking around he spied countless signs and symbols, all of which had a myriad of meanings and historical significance. I stopped to study some art work and, as always, the longer I stood there the more I saw. It was a dizzying and impossible experience trying to take it all in, looking up at the domed ceilings high above, looking down at the mosaics and floor detailing, looking sideways at the carving, statues, marble work, paintings. The gold gilding, pink and grey of the marble, vivid reds and blues of the mosaics all made for a visual kaleidoscope.

We walked back out into the bright sunshine. I’ve found Italy is often about unexpected discoveries, the external facade not giving a hint of the splendor within. This basilica was one such discovery. Circling it we rested on a seat across from the basilica’s other entrance, even more majestic with bronze doors and immense statues. As we paused there, I watched a group of nuns dressed in white, their leather sandals, hair pins and rosary beads the only belongings they appeared to carry. They were being led down the road, striding out at a quick pace, as an orange bus drove by. They seemed to be oblivious to the traffic, as a passing truck belched out grey exhaust fumes. My attention was then taken by two gypsy women talking on the other side of the grassy square. Eventually one of them walked by, her grimy hand out begging for coins. The gypsies seemed to be increasing in number in Italy, their tell tale head scarves, darker skin and multi layered clothing making them relatively easy to spot.

Looking at the map, we debated about how to spend the next two hours before heading out to the airport. The Colosseum was just down the road. It is one of those famous grand structures that I could see every day and wonder at. I was excited as we walked down a side street and I spied it in the distance. In its day it could seat 80,000 spectators. It loomed up before us, my imagination running wild at the knowledge that it was the site of bloody gladiatorial combat, wild animal shows, mock sea battles and the gang raping of women. None of which I would want to witness, but having been at a Robbie Williams concert at the Sydney Cricket Ground with 50,000 fans I could only imagine the electricity and thrill for a Roman audience at such an event (and yes, of course it’s appropriate for me to compare Robbie to a gladiatorial spectactle).

Before wandering around the Colosseum we went in search of a coffee. Right in front of Rome’s best known monument we walked by a restaurant, its patrons dining on the footpath, but dismissed it. I expected finding a decent, reasonably priced, coffee in this part of Rome to be almost impossible due to the tourist trade. Gi was pulled up by a young man who enquired if he was a tattoo artist, having spied the tattoos on his lower right arm. A flurry of words later and we were inside. The young man was a waiter, standing on the street trying to entice hapless tourists in with the tourist menu and a friendly smile. Gi, putting on his best Neapolitan accent and ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ face asked him, “Where can we get a good coffee around here?”
“Right here, but wait, I’ll get so-and-so to make it. He makes the best coffee”

So-and-so turned out to be an even younger man, who we followed inside and they exchanged tattoo banter while he played barista. Our coffees arrived with a flourish and the bill only came to €1.40 for both. I was surprised, but held my tongue, having observed listed menu prices during our morning stroll for espressos at €1.40 each, and if you wanted to sit down €2.60. We had been charged the ‘local’ price and the coffee was excellent. It’s unfortunate, but Rome is a city that largely revolves around its tourist appeal and the businesses take advantage of that fact. Everything seemed to be twice what we would ordinarily pay in Naples, pizza, cold drinks, postcards etc. We promised ourselves to stock up at the supermarket in Naples before our next day trip to Rome.

Back out in the chaos that encircles the Colosseum we meandered around, marveling at the three levels of arches, majestic against the blue sky. It was a truly cosmopolitan moment in Rome. We watched an Indian family, the women in brightly coloured saris attending to their children, American retirees kitted out in shorts and sun visors, and European visitors posing for photographs. I could sit and people watch all day, but Gi is a slightly more jaded tourist and was keen to return to catch the bus.

Walking away from the amphitheatre we found ourselves back on Via Cavour. The bus ride to the airport was uneventful, pushing through the afternoon peak hour traffic until we emerged on wide tree-lined roads to the south of the city centre. Nurseries and landscaping businesses caught my eye before a villa, centuries old, and more ruins that looked like they’d been scattered by an itinerant giant appeared beside the highway.

The Ciampino airport itself was no playground, and had surprisingly few facilities for its growing numbers of international passengers. Again we cursed ourselves for not being better prepared, forking out valuable Euro for ordinary sandwiches and water. We passed the time before boarding chatting to a Canadian couple, recently retired, who had just finished a quick visit to Rome. Unlike their American counterparts they had only positive things to say about the food, the sights, the shopping and their experience. They were returning to London before connecting the following day for a flight home.

Boarding was an experience. We hadn’t previously flown with Ryan Air, an Irish airline that has enjoyed expansion across the continent. They don’t allocate seats when you check in, on the assumption that it will encourage people to check in earlier and board faster. It seems to work. However in Italy it gets mixed up with the cultural lack of queuing, and the queue jumping turns to pushing and complaining. Standing in the middle of a growing crowd of people at our nominated gate I overheard people whinging about their delayed 16:30 flight. Many of them were English and naturally they were upset. After a fabulous trip to Italy it seemed that a delayed flight completely ruined the holiday for many of them. The clock showed 20:35 and while I understood they’d been stuck here for six hours since check in time at 14:30 I didn’t see the point in being upset about it. Planes get delayed; it’s a reality of flying. I’d rather they delay the plane for two days as they did on one occasion when I was traveling to Bangkok and got stuck in Cairns while the airline flew in new brakes, instead of falling into the sea or crashing.

However, as though to rub salt into the ‘delayed due to operational reasons’ wound (what does that mean, can you be delayed due to ‘non operational reasons’?) the screen above flashed advising that our flight was boarding from the next gate. The crowd surged to the right and the scrambling for first place began. The passengers on the delayed flight went from furious to absolutely livid as yet another flight bound for London began to board. As we waited to be processed and board the shuttle bus, Gi entertained an American lady dressed in purple with his quirky sense of humour and misplaced chivalry. The shuttle bus quickly filled up, the older slower passengers occupying seats, while the young and fleet footed remained standing ready for the next race. As it pulled up beside the plane, parked on the tarmac like an empty taxi in New York, people were already scrambling towards the doors. The gas pistons hissed as the doors opened and passengers spewed out, some actually running, intent on securing their favoured seat onboard. In accordance with Gi’s preference, we headed for the backside of the plane and settled in.

Flying out of Rome at night is much like flying out of any large city. A collage of lights, white, yellow, orange and red, highlights the life that’s going on below. I always wonder if anyone looks up at the roar of our engine’s plane, and wonders back up at us, ‘Who are they, and where are they flying to tonight?’

My friend Tom picked us up at the airport sometime around midnight. It was raining in London and as we relaxed into the leather seats of his heated car we talked. Tom and I worked together at BNL, Banca Nazionale del Lavoro, an Italian bank based in London, conducting international money transfers. That was in 1994. He hadn’t changed much. Perhaps just a touch greyer but it suited him. We met his new girlfriend, Helen, at her flat. And to say she was welcoming, hospitable and gracious would be an understatement. They live in north London, within walking distance of the old Arsenal football stadium, the red paint peeling on the entrance gate. The new impressive stadium, alive with modern features and lighting, is being constructed nearby at a cost of £15 million, if I’m not mistaken.

It had been an enjoyable day in Rome, we always relish a chance to play tourist. Arriving in London was a shock, with the rain, significant drop in temperature (from 31° C down to 9° C) and prediction for more of the same. However, it was also like coming home. We were eager to catch up with other friends, and dip into the distinctly organized British culture and London vibe once more. The week ahead beckoned.