Memories

I saw some hydrangaes this week.

I love these plants, they remind me of my maternal grandparents.

Heaven and Hell

I’m teaching quite a bit now. The school have offered me an opportunity to teach off site six hours, five days a week. With the summer quickly approaching, I can’t afford not to do it as I expect things to be quiet for the last half of July, and the school is closed for August. So, it looks like I’ll be commuting back and forth, and squeezing most of the writing and fun into the weekends. I hope that the classes will be interesting and the students entertaining.

In the meantime, here is a photo of a T-shirt kindly provided by one of my students, Francesco.

There really is no such thing as a European. It is such a diverse continent. The T-shirt neatly sums up some of the stereotypes.

Nero at the Amphiteatre

On Sunday afternoon, my lovely friend Francesca invited me to join a scout group on a tour of a Roman/Greek theatre. It was originally an amphitheatre seated an audience of 5000. The theatre was partly demolished and built over in order for new housing to be established. It was customary that old buildings be destroyed, which is in direct contrast to our current thinking that old buildings, structures and ruins are to be restored and preserved.

The famous emperor Nero enjoyed performing in this amphitheatre as an actor in religious dramas. Our guide informed that he paid the audience to attend. His artistic endeavours were considered scandalous by the aristocracy and his army.

Nero was said to be responsible for the burning of two thirds of Rome in 64 AD, although modern scholars continue to debate this. It was true however that in order to gain power he murdered many of his political enemies and ordered the execution of his mother and wife. In 68 AD, the Roman senate declared him an enemy of the state and he committed suicide.

We entered the building, into what was a private apartment. A bed was pushed back into the kitchen and this revealed a door in the floor that opened up. A staircase led down into the amphitheatre underneath the house. Only part of the original amphitheatre is accessible as much of it has been filled in or is blocked off by the foundations of adjoining buildings.

Nevertheless, it was fascinating to stand where Neapolitans stood some 2000 years ago, enduring what was surely yet another horrendous performance by the fifth emperor of Rome.

Even more fascinating was listening to the eager boy scouts ask questions about the theatre and its history. Our guide eventually told one boy not to believe everything that he sees on television and the movies. It seemed that most of his knowledge was gleaned from the screen, making him a historical expert, in accordance with the ways of all ten-year-old boys.

I’m sure he would have had something to share with Nero too had the opportunity arisen.

Ah Napoli!

Here's an insight into why the locals put beauty ahead of just about everything else.

Aussie Friends vs WOG Friends

This was sent to me by an Aussie friend who happens to have WOG (read Italian, Greek, Mediterranean) heritage. It is a pretty good example of how different the two cultures are...and it's pretty funny, especially for someone like me caught in a timewarp somewhere in the middle of both.

AUSSIE FRIENDS: Move out when they're 18 with the full support of their parents.

WOG FRIENDS: Move out when they're 28, having saved for that nice house and are a week away from getting married...unless there's room for the newlyweds at home.

AUSSIE FRIENDS: When their mum visits them she brings a nice bunt cake and you sip coffee and chat.

WOG FRIENDS: When their mum visits them she brings 3 days worth of food and begins to immediately tidy up, dust, do the laundry or rearrange the furniture.

AUSSIE FRIENDS: Their dads always call before they come over to visit them and it's usually only on special occasions.

WOG FRIENDS: Are not at all fazed when their dads come over, unannounced, on a Saturday morning at 8:00am and start pruning the trees with a chainsaw or renovating the garage. AUSSIE FRIENDS: You can leave your kids with them and you always worry if everything is going to be ok plus you have to feed them after you pick them up.

WOG FRIENDS: No problem, leave the kids there and if they get out of line the WOG friend can set them straight...plus they get fed.

AUSSIE FRIENDS: Always pay retail and look in the yellow pages when they need something done.

WOG FRIENDS: Just call their dad or uncle and ask for another dad's or uncle's phone number to get it done...cash deal, U know what I mean.

AUSSIE FRIENDS: Will come over for cake and coffee and expect cake and coffee, no more. WOG FRIENDS: Will come over for cake and coffee and expect an antipasto, a few bottles of wine, a pasta dish, a choice of two meats, salad, bread, potatoes, a nice dessert cake, fruit, coffee and a few after dinner drinks...

AUSSIE FRIENDS: Think that being a wog is a great thing.

WOG FRIENDS: KNOW that being a wog is a great thing.

AUSSIE FRIENDS: Never ask for food

WOG FRIENDS: Are the reason you have no food.

AUSSIE FRIENDS: Call your parents Mr. and Mrs.

WOG FRIENDS: Call your parents mum and dad.

AUSSIE FRIENDS: know a few things about you.

WOG FRIENDS: Could write a book with direct quotes from you.

AUSSIE FRIENDS: Are for a while.

WOG FRIENDS: Are for life.

AUSSIE FRIENDS: Will ignore this.

WOG FRIENDS: Will share this with other wog friends.

Competitive City

Everything is a competition in this city. From the moment you leave the house, you are engaged in combat. It is, most often, a very serious business. Edging in front of others, enduring the sharp elbows of diminutive older women or the stilettos of their younger counterparts is all part of the battlefield you confront. Negotiating Naples is largely about assertiveness, portraying a ‘don’t mess with me face’ and adopting an air of self-importance.

Feebleness will get you nowhere. It is essential that you assume a posture that reflects an attitude of ‘I’m entitled to be here, most certainly more so than you’. It pays to be brazenly forceful. Those who are retiring and obliging will find themselves pushed to the side, waiting longer, paying more and struggling for attention and service. That is not to say that Neapolitans are rude, it’s just that there is a different set of etiquette.

The concept of queuing is yet to catch on in Naples. They certainly understand the idea of waiting one in front of the other according to the order of arrival. It is practiced to some degree in government offices, post offices and banks. Elsewhere however, it is a case of pushing in front of others, boldly and shamelessly. Everyone does it. It is an accepted norm. Anyone who fails in this affectation is quickly determined to be a foreigner or suffering from an affliction (perhaps shyness or introversion) which in itself sets them apart from the average Neapolitan.

There is no use rolling your eyes, huffing and puffing or mumbling under your breath. These will all be duly ignored, and place you even more firmly in the ‘must be foreign or non-Neapolitan’ category, thus encouraging the elbowing and hip shuffling to ensure you drop further towards the back.

The rules seem to be that upon entering a situation where a number of people are waiting for service, each individual weighs up how much more important they are and squeezes through the crowd to their place within the pack accordingly. This decision is based on a superficial appraisal of the customers that are already waiting. As elsewhere, the wealthier suburbs seem to have politer residents but this façade of more refined behaviour applies only in circumstances where everyone else is playing by the same rules. Once they come down town, with their manicured nails, coiffed hair, dressed in cashmere or linen, they know that to do their shopping and errands a competitive approach is required.

There is very little sense of the community first in Naples. The needs, wants and desires of the individual will, ordinarily, come well before any needs or considerations of the community - be it community as in a group of people, or the idea of an invisible cooperative spirit. In my experience, Neapolitans will very rarely put the community before themselves as individuals.

Perhaps this explains why queuing is something that they struggle with, even at the post office and banks. An extraordinary amount of conversation is conducted about who should stand where, in what order, interrupted only by the complaints at having to wait. Certainly, under the non-queuing system some of the ‘waiters’ would have already asserted their way to the service counter and had their query dealt with.

This me-first attitude reflects a lack of humility and unwavering arrogance that is uniquely Neapolitan. Ironically, the city functions (albeit slowly and haltingly at times) because everyone plays by the same set of rules. Respecting the community comes third to individualism and the family. This explains why it’s okay to double and triple park, drop litter and deface public property. It is okay to conduct conversations that block the flow of pedestrian traffic and scream from the courtyard to someone five floors up at any hour. It’s okay to ignore traffic laws, drive the wrong way along one-way streets and window shop along the footpath on a scooter. It’s expected that you’ll try to avoid taxes, sidestep government charges and ride for free on public transportation. No one will comment when you take your dog for a walk, off the leash, and fail to scoop its poop.

There is this idea of ‘furbo’. It literally translates to cunning, smart, clever. It is a cultural concept that may not be entirely understood until you’ve seen how things work beneath the surface. Italians, but Neapolitans in particular, take pride in employing ‘furbo’. The laws and regulations in place are so cumbersome that wherever possible people find a way around them. There are some rules that are blatantly broken, but often it’s a matter of sidestepping them with a certain delicacy and a delight at having outwitted the system. Besides, the thinking is ‘why should I obey the law when no one else does’? To do so just proves that you’re sap, a sucker, doing, waiting and paying when you don’t need to. The police are either uninterested or powerless to enforce the laws. What’s the point when the judges are going to dismiss the charges or take a bribe anyway?

Here is a recent example of ‘furbo’. The laws requiring motorcyclists to wear helmets have been in place for years. I estimate that about 50% of those riding motorbikes and scooters in Naples adhere to this law, significantly less than in the northern provinces. The police issued a spate of fines to riders caught without helmets. Some of them went to their doctors, complaining of migraines and depression. The doctors agreed that it is contrary to the health of the patient to have their heads enclosed in a small space when suffering from such conditions. The doctor duly wrote a medical report instructing that their patient be excused from wearing a helmet. This report was presented to the judge who agreed to waive the fine based on the doctor’s diagnosis. Instead of saying that people who can’t wear a helmet due to migraine or depression should not be riding a motorbike, the law has been ignored. This is classic ‘furbo’ at its simplest.

The other thing that happens is that if enough people break a particular law, or find a way around it, instead of punishing them, the law is amended or an amnesty issued. Neapolitans don’t fear the law. Because there just aren’t the same consequences applied. They know that if they wait long enough things will come around to their benefit. It might take thirty years but it will happen. They don’t have the same practice of community self-policing either, whereby if you drop some litter someone on the street will pull you up. If you cross the road away from the pedestrian crossing cars will beep at your selfishness, or a driver who fails to stop at the pedestrian crossing will feel guilty.

This is why, when taken out of their natural environment Neapolitans struggle to understand that laws, rules and social etiquette are in place for everyone to follow. And that it is agreed that following them makes everything work smoother, faster and in a more pleasant manner.

The problem is that Neapolitans come to miss the process of ‘furbo’. They like thinking up ways around the problems, the obstacles, the people, things and bureaucratic processes that hold them up. It takes some time for them to realise the benefit of obeying the speed limit, or paying that speeding fine on time. It takes a while before they see that dropping litter just metres from a rubbish bin doesn’t achieve anything (although in Naples it does create jobs, and with 30% unemployment that is hard to argue with). It doesn’t take long for them to understand that parking illegally may result in your car being towed away, as the inconvenience and expense of recovering your vehicle is not an ideal way to have a good day. They take longer to appreciate why people obey laws that are in place to protect them (like wearing helmets, stopping at traffic lights and not stepping in front of a bus) when they have managed to ignore the same rules and stay alive thus far.

‘Furbo’ is like a war, the individual against the state, the legislature, the police and the judiciary.

Everything is a competition in Naples. Let me take you through a typical day. I leave the house, and straight away have to compete with the market stalls that are illegally set up along our street. They have been plying their wares here much longer than I’ve been a local resident, so I weave my way through them only to compete to cross the road. Scooters fly along in both directions, delivery vans block the way, and cars with haughty horns drive along at a helter skelter pace. Judging the traffic, distance and speed, I walk across the road, cursing myself if I have to break my stride to pause while someone on wheels with more arrogance and bravado than me wins that round. At the newsagent, I slide into place to buy a bus ticket that I won’t use, but will have with me just in case the ticket inspectors show up. Across the road at the bus stop I wait for the bus, surveying those that are also waiting, weighing up how pushy I’ll have to be to get on the bus if it arrives already full of people. With two of the three bus doors used for boarding the bus, I may decide to wait for exiting passengers to get off before using the exit door to enter. I’m not so Neapolitan in my thinking yet that I can push my way onto the bus before others get off…too much time in London on the underground I suspect where it is clearly etiquette that you wait for those alighting before boarding.

Once on the bus it’s a competition for position. A seat near the exit door is prime position. You are expected to exit through the central door, and generally people will start jostling their way towards this door one or two stops ahead of time. This results in a crush of people standing in the middle of the bus, all asking those in front ‘are you getting off?’ in order to clearly indicate that they should have a priority spot. The bus pulls up at the stop and it can get very messy as the competition heats up. Fat loud teenagers, little wrinkly people with walking sticks, talk African guys with enormous plastic bags of stock, distrustful Chinese people with trolleys full of stock and short-tempered mothers with prams (that they fail to fold up to save space although this is the rule) loaded with babes and groceries compete to get off before the doors swing close. All the while people are trying to get on the bus through the same doors, knowing that if they use the other doors they may not manoeuvre to the right getting-off position in time for their stop, which maybe only 100 metres down the road.

I fall out of the bus and walk another twenty minutes to school. I walk along the footpath and compete with cars and motorbikes parked on the footpath. I step onto the road and compete with buses, trucks and more mothers with prams for space and right of way. Back on the footpath, I step into the gutter to avoid tables displaying cakes, biscuits and juices from the grocery store, and a card table with six men sitting playing cards as four others standing watching the game.

As I cross the piazza I compete with boys playing soccer, and prepubescent teenagers racing around on scooters, throwing wheelies as girls hold on tight their hair streaming behind. The tram sounds its dismal horn, delayed by Smart cars blocking the tram tracks. The Smart cars compete with each other. It’s important to know which tin can of a car has the most accessories, plays the worst music the loudest, as the drivers cruise around sussing out what other Smart car drivers are wearing, attitude exuding from every shiny panel.

Entering the business district, I compete with scooters parked in front of the pedestrian access, sometimes having to step up over the chains rigged to keep vehicles out. Inside the building I assess whether two of the four lifts are still out of order, the other people in suits and tight fitting low cut jeans waiting for the elevators and how pushy I’ll need to be to get up to the 13th floor quickly. Inside the school, I compete with the other teachers for the use of the internet. And I wrestle with the photocopier that too often fails to work, or takes forever to meet my photocopying needs in the time I have available. It is a competition to get resources, textbooks, white board markers and assistance. It is a struggle to be paid on a timely basis, and eventually you realise it’s an impossibility so asking for an advance is unavoidable. Getting the advance when you need it, for the amount you want, is another test.

In the classroom, I compete with the students for their attention, application and interest. I battle to stop them from speaking Italian, and occasionally clash with their sense of timing as they demand a coffee break or that the class finish ten minutes earlier than scheduled.

Back home I compete with a throng of homemakers at the bakery scrambling for bread freshly out of the ovens. In the supermarket, I compete to be served at the delicatessen counter, and squeeze by the woman with hips wider than mine as she decides what type of toilet paper to buy. It is a challenge at the checkout, especially when some local keenly aware of their right to ‘furbo’ has placed a basket of groceries in the queue, only to disappear to finish their shopping. Once the basket takes priority in the queue, with the owner still missing, we all wait, wait, wait, until either the owner arrives in a flurry of noted non-apology or the checkout operator dismisses the attempt at ‘furbo’ and serves the real people lined up behind the basket.

The girls on the street compete to have the fakest of orange tans, the heaviest make up and the tightest stretch T-shirts with some crass logo in glittery English. They also compete to see who can wear the most uncomfortable shoes, and I mentally give out first prizes left, right and centre. The guys vie with their haircuts and sparkling ear studs. Moreover, it’s a stand off to see who can wear the baggiest jeans, exposing the most underwear - of the white jock variety, not the groovy boxer short kind.

At home I decide to hang the washing out on the clothes rack on the balcony, taking advantage of the spring sunshine, only to bring it in later and realise the pigeons have outwitted me. I wash it again and hang it inside. I sweep the floors, only to see that more dust has floated in from the street and settled once again just hours later. I try to keep up with our consumption of coffee, sugar, pasta, bread and cherry tomatoes, but it’s a lost battle.

Everything is a competition in Naples. Everything is tied up with the idea of ‘furbo’.
You might ask though why do they all stay if everything is a race? A fight? A battle? If it’s all so difficult, why continue this way?

I think it’s a mindset. Neapolitans don’t consider their way of life a competition. They consider it a game, a challenge, a test. And if they can’t find a way to win, they simply change the rules, or ignore the problem, or turn to something guaranteed to leave them with that winning feeling like soccer, shopping, eating or talking.

Why wouldn’t you when the biggest competition is something that you have no chance of winning against should it decide to re-enter the game. Neapolitans know it, they embrace it, and they love it. Neapolitans live under the shadow of a fierce competitor, the Vesuvio volcano. Should it decide to play ball again no amount of ‘furbo’ will work.

Curious Thing

It’s a curious thing living on the wrong side of the world. Wrong, as in, far from loved one – family and friends, those that one feels one should be on hand to love up close, offer support, share laughter and picnics and stacking the dishwasher. Physical distance manages to translate into something more than emotional distance and lost time, although to varying degrees depending on the strength and flexibility of the relationship’s rubber band.

You can never quite recover the lost opportunities. Although perhaps it shouldn’t so much be about the losing, as in gaining from conducting each relationship on a different plane. No longer able to meet for long, lazy coffee catch ups in the sunshine of a Sunday afternoon; no longer able to test the limits around the outdoor table as the barbeque sizzles in the background. Out of touch with growth spurts and increasing vocabulary; out of touch with the gathering clouds of a doomed relationship or the illumination of a new love. Not on hand for hospital visits, weddings or unforeseen work crises. Too far away for routine phone calls from mum at 6pm, as work shoes are kicked off, post opened and dinner preparations begin.

Instead it’s the era of emails and instant messaging chats when the clocks are aligned. I always believe that people communicate differently when they have to write it down. For some it allows a higher degree of openness, exposing secrets and vulnerabilities that perhaps would not have been verbally revealed. For others it’s a barrier, the effort of accessing the computer, typing it out, editing what’s been said so as to not offend, the opportunity to over think…it all gets a little clinical and impersonal by the time it’s read.

I just don’t know what to do about the diverging forces within me. The desire to live away from Australia, travel, stretch the comfort zone to the point where it threatens to snap, and the little voice, that constant drip of guilt that tells me I should be home, closer to nieces and nephews who are changing with each new sunrise. Closer to sisters that struggle with their own problems, some of them shared, many of them not. The gossip of friends, the giggles, the tears flowing as their lives, intermittently and dramatically explode just to remind us that we are all not really okay. That constant drip, drip, drip of guilt has left a water smudge on my heart, and I know it will always be there. There is no escaping that someone somewhere is going to wish we were nearby be it to clink glasses to toast the newlyweds, or discuss the pros and cons of medical treatments, or use the dregs of the teapot to water the pot plants.

It’s a strange thing leaving so much that you love in your wake. Why can’t I settle in one place, and decide to stay, for good? Why do others not question their decision to buy that house, in that suburb, and know that they will raise their kids there, sleep in the same bedroom for the next twenty years? Will I still feel impelled to be away when I’m sixty? What is it that I’m searching for, so far from all that is comfortable, secure, and straightforward? Can it just be the challenge, the danger and the complications that draw me away?

I don’t know.

Gardening Glitch

Brisbane is struggling, like much of Australia, with drought. The city is on level four water restrictions. It’s illegal to water your garden. Short showers are the order of the day. Residents are limited in their personal water usage and will be fined if they exceed it. There is no washing of cars or hosing of anything. Grey water has become a valuable commodity. My sister failed to save the water from her washing machine one day and lost it crying at the wastage.

The price of fruit and vegetable is set to increase across Australia. Gardens are dying. Every day my mother prays for rain, sending me email reports about the continuing lack of precipitation.

She recently conducted an inspection of our rental property. I was mostly interested in the condition of the garden. I am concerned that with water restrictions and tenants who may not be interested in gardening that our garden may also be struggling.

To the contrary, my mother reports that the lemon tree is flourishing. The first flowers appeared just as we were leaving last year and now it is fully loaded with fruit. It would make any southern Italian proud.

The flame tree, a Christmas gift from Gigi, is tall and leafy. I only wish I could see it in flower in the summer, the red spindly blooms dancing and dripping with the breeze.

My garden in Naples consists of three pot plants, one of which has dropped all of its foliage over the last three days as the local courtyard pigeons have taken to using it as a nesting place. That sad little, now possibly dead, plant just can’t match the herb garden, the rainforest patch and the colours of the lilac Geisha Girl.

It’s ironic that in a place where water is a rare commodity I have a garden. However, here on the other side of the world, where water is wasted and freely available I don’t.

I miss the garden. I don’t miss the drought.

Police Darkness

Written 6 February 2007

I awake to darkness. Not because it’s dark outside, but because with the external security shutters, windows and internal shutters closed the morning light is entirely prevented from permeating our bedroom.

Gigi showers in preparation for the start of his Tuesday, a Qi Gong class at 9am followed by Tui Na appointments, while I prepare coffee and put away last night’s clean dishes. Returning to the bedroom I strain to budge the old fashioned latch before flinging open the internal shutter doors. The doors are heavy, standing at about 3 metres tall, the white paint flaking at the edges.

Peering through the cloudy glass windows, badly in need of a cleaning, but it’s a job that requires a ladder, a plentiful supply of newspaper and window cleaner; I’m surprised to see that Via Vergini is unusually quiet for 8.30am on a Tuesday morning.

This little side street is ordinarily a hive of activity, with market stalls, a constant line of cars manoeuvring around those that are illegally, if only slightly inconveniently, parked while scooters zip down the one way street the wrong way, or take to the pedestrian area, weaving around shoppers carrying white plastic bags with fresh bread, balls of mozzarella or mandarins with stalks and glossy leaves still attached.

This morning is a different story though. The absence of street stalls, and triple parked vehicles is explained away by the presence of the ‘Polizia Municipale’. The Municipal Police have set themselves up along Via Vergini. From our balcony, I spy eight of their little Fiat cars, navy stripes and blue lights on the roof. The police themselves are standing around in small groups of two or three. Occasionally they flag down motorists with their red and white lollipop signs. They’ve turned what is normally a humming, bubbling market street into a road side vehicle inspection zone.

They seem to target older cars, although I watch with interest as the police stop a red scooter, the rider intently talking on his mobile phone. As he pulls over to the side of the road, he indicates to the two police officers that he’ll be just a moment while he finishes his phone conversation. They wait patiently, slowly pulling out their clipboards, preparing to write him a fine. As he hangs up, I can see from his gesturing that he wants to know why they’ve picked on him. Their unheard response is met with fierce nodding, as he lifts the seat of the scooter and produces “i documenti”.

Anyone riding or driving a vehicle in Italy is required to carry the registration and insurance documents at all times. I understand that this is to primarily establish that the vehicle isn’t stolen, and that it is both registered and insured in accordance with the current legislation. Ironically, many drivers in Naples can’t afford to insure their cars for theft or fire. I guess if your car is only worth €2000 and it costs €1000 to insure it each year you wouldn’t bother either. Logically, I assume that if your car is stolen, and you don’t have insurance, many people simply don’t bother reporting the theft to the police. After all, what’s the point of sitting around in a police station for a day, dealing with the paperwork and their apathy, when you know nothing will come of it, if you don’t need the police report for an insurance claim? Really, what’s the point?

As noon approaches only a couple of police cars linger. The police themselves appear to have disappeared into the bar for another coffee break. A couple of street vendors have set up shop towards the far end of the cobble stoned street, but otherwise it is eerily absent of trading. Two aged and fading vans are parked in front of our building, their owners standing at the rear doors, surveying the progress of the morning’s blitz. They are obviously waiting for the police to move on, so they can get on with the business of the day, setting up their stalls, unloading their goods, and selling the baskets, saucepans, clothes, haberdashery, cleaning products, toys and shoes to the women that are wandering around popping into the regular delicatessen, butchers and bakery in the meantime.

I wonder how much the police raid has cost these illegal street vendors. They would mostly be operating on the black market, evading taxes, failing to hand out receipts in accordance with Italian fiscal law. But the loss of several hours of trading must hurt someone’s pocket somewhere. I wonder how much of the street market is controlled by the Camorra, the local organised crime network. I wonder how many of the motorists fined today will pay their fines. Moreover, I wonder how many of them will simply destroy the fine, lose it, ignore it or call a friend who works for the relevant government department to have the fine waived.

Buses & Trucks

I started writing this 9 January 2007. You might remember that January was a bad month for us. We moved out of the urban cave on 6th January and spent the whole month staying with friends, sleeping on floors and looking for a new place to live…

The school started up again this week. Our temporary homelessness meant that I had to take a bus to get to work. Not knowing how long it would take to tackle the traffic and the freeway I crawled out of bed at 7am. The other impacting factor was that as guests in the apartment (and considering that our hostess herself is still overseas) we are trying to be as invisible as possible, which means not interrupting the regular routine of the household. This is particularly important in the mornings when people are preparing to go to work and using the one and only bathroom. After sneaking in for a quick shower, I scurried back to the bedroom along the cold tiled floor to find Gigi still in bed, snuggled up under the duvet, pretending that the alarm hadn’t gone off.

I caught the C30 bus at 8:10am from just nearby the apartment block and it did a twenty-minute loop of the surrounding suburb picking up other commuters before easing through the traffic to hit the ring road that floats above the city on concrete pillars.

Whenever we drive on the freeway or ring road, I try not to think about the fact that we are way up above the mess of residences, businesses and schools. I have on a couple of occasions voiced my surprise that we don’t hear more reports about cars and motorbikes driving straight off these sky high freeways into the buildings and houses below considering the risks some of the local drivers take.

Gigi, with his reignited sense of Neapolitan superstition, told me I had now jinxed them all. He calls me a blackbird, as it’s my habit to ask ‘Why doesn’t this happen more?’ or ‘Wouldn’t you think that such and such would happen?’

Naturally if you wait long enough disaster will strike. A truck crashed through the concrete barriers, driving off the freeway, into an apartment block underneath. Upon hearing the news, my husband proclaimed the accident was my fault.

I told him it was bound to happen, the way everyone drives in this city.

As my morning commute bus drove over the city towards the central business district I tried to ignore the fact that the orange capsule of death I was in could just as easily slip off the ribbon of grey and end up in someone’s kitchen, interrupting their morning coffee ritual.

I arrived at school just before 9am, with time to print out some lesson materials and prepare myself for my first class at 9:15am. It felt strange to be teaching again after a two week break. Similarly, I started my big class at 2:15pm with some trepidation, only to find that most of the students arrived some forty minutes late.

Forty minutes late? Yes, it seems extraordinary but of course, this is Naples and there is always a good reason.
The building where the school operates is part of the Centro Direzionale zone built during the later part of the 1980’s. The school occupies most of the 13th floor. There are four elevators. Two of the elevators have been out of service for some time. Today a third elevator went on strike, leaving fifteen floors to be serviced by one elevator that was, at best temperamental. The lifts are supposed to transport about six people at a time. To add to the inconvenience, the lift was refusing to move if it registered more than two people inside.

That’s countless trips up and down, as the lobby filled with people, all running late but pleased to have a legitimate excuse. Not that Neapolitans need an excuse for running late. The traffic, the undisputable need for a coffee/lunch, an unavoidable conversation, a public transport strike, and imaginary work commitments…trucks flying off the freeway into your kitchen. It’s a city of a thousand excuses.

37th Birthday

It happened last month. Most of you forgot. That’s okay, though. I’ve been out of the country for more than a year now and I guess the memories are starting to fade. Besides, I don’t remember anyone else’s birthday, so why should you remember mine?

The day itself inconveniently fell on a Monday. The Tuesday was a public holiday. The greater majority of Italians were taking the Monday off, in an effort to repair what they call a bridge weekend (long weekend), except this ‘bridge’ was broken by the working Monday.

I am always torn between wanting to celebrate quietly and privately, and wanting to be amongst lots of friends, food and debauchery. This year, for a number of reasons, Gigi, Dana and I went to our local pizza restaurant for an early birthday dinner on the Saturday night. This place does great pizzas and we regularly enjoy their take away service. For my birthday, I wanted to have a nice dinner in a local restaurant, possibly somewhere that we could go again with visitors.

It started badly. We had a reservation for 9pm. We arrived just after 9pm, in accordance with Neapolitan custom, only to be told that they’d forgotten about our reservation and there would be a twenty-minute wait for a table. Great! There is nothing I like better than standing outside a restaurant waiting for people to hurry up, eat, drink, pay and leave. Gigi scurried off to buy some phone recharge, and Dana received a phone call, wandering away to talk in private. Of course, it moments later that the headwaiter bellowed ‘MIRTO’ and I slinked in alone, to sit at the table as the tablecloth was changed with a flourish and fresh cutlery and napkins thrown down with edgy panache.

We decided to order pasta. To my surprise, the waiter refused to take the order for three different types of pasta. His reckoning was that three different pans for different pastas were not possible. It was too much for the kitchen to handle. We needed to limit our selection to two choices. Gigi translated (although we understood) and half-heartedly tried to convince one of us to change our order. I say half-heartedly because he himself thought it was a ridiculous situation, and eventually he just insisted that the waiter take our order consisting of three different pasta dishes.

It was at this point that Gi’s mood started to turn sour. Of course having worked in restaurants, he knew exactly what it meant to have three pans on the stove at the same time. He was disappointed and frustrated at the service, and the food was yet to arrive. Our antipasto dishes were good; mine a simple marinated octopus salad, and Dana mozzarella with proscuitto ham. There was, needless to say, no rocket science involved in the preparation or serving of these dishes.

As we waited for our mains, a doorbell continually buzzed just above our heads. It was the restaurants internal system to let waiters know that the kitchen had food ready for serving. It was a truly irritating sound. The noise level steadily rose, and we watched with amazement as a small girl sitting nearby worked her way through a plate of octopus, then a whole pizza, followed by pasta and ice cream. To give you some context, I often struggle to finish a pizza.

Our pasta arrived, and Gi’s eyeballs rolled back in his head as he picked at the gnocchi with his fork, revealing the shredded bits of beef. The pasta sauce he had ordered is a traditional recipe from nearby Sorrento that usually doesn’t have meat in it. Tonight, it did. Dana had ordered pasta with tomato, a very simple yet tasty dish typical of Neapolitan kitchens. She kindly swapped with Gigi to accommodate his veganism, despite her preference not to eat gnocchi.

Unfortunately, Gigi and I knew after a couple of bites of pasta that we could cook better ourselves at home. However, you take this risk when you eat out in Naples.

In an effort to save the meal with a final fling at dessert, I took up Gigi’s recommendation to have some of the pear cake on the daily menu, while Dana ordered the stock standby tiramisu. I don’t really do the sweets here in Naples, they are just too sweet, but decided that Gi knew what I do and don’t like so his recommendation was safe. The cake arrived, coated with an inch of icing sugar. After blowing it away, sending a cloud of it onto the shoulders of nearby diners, I plunged my spoon in to find layers of sponge, cream and no sign of a pear. Two mouthfuls and I was done. Just not my thing, but it amounted to strike three.

It was all up a bit of a disaster. The food was average. The service was below average. The atmosphere was less than average. The only bonus was that I paid for dinner using some of the birthday money my parents had generously sent.

The other big purchases were a sleeping bag and a pair of trekking shoes.

With classes cancelled for the Monday, we had arranged to go hiking along the Amalfi Coast with friends. Sunday afternoon text messages flew back and forth that the weather forecast was for rain and it wasn’t suitable for trekking. The overnight hike was called off.

My actual birthday passed in a downpour of anti climax. The rain washed away any idea of celebrating. The highlights included:
· Gigi gave me the gift that I’d requested…an ironing board.
· The previous Friday I’d received a package from my sister Kim including DVD’s, books and a magazine
· On the Sunday Dana and I joined the riff raff and soaked up some of the spring sunshine on the rocks along the bay
· Gigi, Dana and I visited the famous National Archaeological Museum of Naples to see an Antique Amber exhibition, the Egyptian collection and the Pompeii artefacts.
· The best part of the day though was talking to each of my parents and sisters at length, catching up on their news, hearing about all the little things that we are missing.

Birthday 37 was all up a bit disappointing. We will still do the Amalfi Coast trek. We will find a local restaurant that’s up to scratch. I already love the ironing board. However, I was a bit disturbed by sister Kim’s question “So, what are you doing for your 40th?”. My what, my 40th? God, who knows, I responded. Why? “Because I’m celebrating mine in Paris,” she informed me. Imagine knowing what you’ll be doing in September 2011.

However, her conversation did spark in my head that I am now definitely closer to forty. There is no denying it, no hiding from it.

I do know that I won’t be in Naples. For while this city is starting to make its mark, infiltrating, getting into a corner of my heart and psyche, I know that some of the most important guests at my 40th birthday party will not welcome the idea of celebrating in Naples. Besides, there are thousands of other possibilities to consider. Perhaps Bangkok?

Hey Handsome

This is an example of the posters that get plastered onto the walls of historical buildings to promote up and coming (read try hard) performers. This is supported by a number of local television channels showcasing amateur singers and dancers. It is truly cringe worthy viewing, and uniquely Italian.

Dana and I love this poster as it really captures the 'required look'. The haircut, the bling in his ear, the chain around his neck and the attempt at a sexy, broody look. Oh, and the fake tan.

It's great. And, yes, the area where we live is crawling with look-a-likes. As Marilyn Manson sings...'the beautiful people'.

Actually, I'm kidding. This is in fact Dana's Neapolitan boyfriend. She has left him behind and he's suitably heartbroken, stands out the front of our apartment building crying and lamenting her departure. Come back Dana. Nino misses you terribly!

Do you ever...

Do you ever feel like this? Small but highly noticeable? Cruising along a windy road as faster vehicles fly by, cutting corners and putting everyone's lives at risk?

Do you ever feel like you are the only one who can see the road signs? Like your the only one who understands that the white lines painted on the road are more than a suggestion?

Where are you driving? Or are you just driving because that's what cars are supposed to do?

Goodbyes

What is it about goodbyes that make them so difficult? What is it that makes some people go out of their way to avoid them?

How does leaving without saying goodbye change anything? Is it just about avoiding the tears, the emotions, and the awkwardness? Alternatively, is it about avoiding something more fundamental, something more personal, deeper and more confronting?

Goodbyes are often a unique opportunity to say the things you never do, express the feelings. Bundled up with the hugs and kisses are words of love, friendship, thanks and best wishes.

Perhaps we are afraid of the rawness of these moments. Or our ability to reflect our own sentiments. An overwhelming wave of being inarticulate can choke things up, effectively hijacking what should be a shared moment of poignancy.

Does anybody like goodbyes?

How do you know if it’s a real goodbye, forever, or just a ‘see you later’ type farewell? Would that certain knowledge change your goodbye routine?

Do you feel bad if you leave without saying goodbye in person? What is it that makes us feel bad? Is it guilt? Is it because people feel they deserve a goodbye? Are entitled to it, indeed? On the other hand, are you able to detach and walk away without looking back?

Do you make a point of saying goodbye? Or do you prefer to leave knowing that no one is irreplaceable and that with time you’ll no longer be missed? Your footprints will disappear as the waves wash over the sand.

Do goodbyes ever get easier?

It is my experience that they don’t get easier. In fact, as I get older they get harder, but are something to be treasured (although I understand not everyone agrees Dana).

Sophia's promise

Only for Naples would one of the world's most beautiful, most famous actresses make this declaration. She is after all a local.

Sophia Loren to strip if Napoli promoted
Wednesday May 16 18:16 AEST
A striptease by 72-year-old actress Sophia Loren could be one of the more outrageous ways that Napoli fans will celebrate if the team are promoted to the Italian top flight this season.

Loren, a movie sex siren from the 1950s and 1960s, is a big fan of the Naples club who have fallen on hard times since winning their first Italian championship 20 years ago.

"I hope that Napoli win these last few games. You watch if we go up I will do a striptease," she told Gazzetta dello Sport in an interview. "The fans have a total passion, the city deserves promotion."

Napoli are third in Serie B, Italy's second division, and have five games left to force their way into the top two or face a promotion playoff.

Dana's farewell

Dana is moving to Miami, where she has successfully secured a Fellowship at a Miami high needs highschool. Here are some photos from the little drinks gathering held on Saturday night.

Dana showing Jody how to shake her thang.

Musa and Rachel. / Dashingly handsome Andrew.

Jessica and Seb...

Fulvio's visit

Fulvio was in Naples last week after a three year abscence. I could write a book about Fulvio, how wonderful he is, how inspirational he is, how amazingly together he is (certainly for a Neapolitan) and how intelligent and balanced he is ... but I won't.

Adelaide at Work

April was rather quiet on the work front. In addition to two long weekends and a public holiday on 25th April (for Liberation Day, not ANZAC Day) the school has been experiencing a slump in enrolments. That meant that before allocating any hours to me they have been trying to keep the teachers on full time contracts fully employed. In fact a number of the teachers haven’t been working their guaranteed minimum of 80 hours a month (although they still get paid for them), and to my surprise I heard a couple of complaints about wanting more work, wanting to be busier because they were getting bored. Never mind living in a foreign city with plenty to see, do and explore! Give us more work!

So, at the end of April I submitted a timesheet for a ridiculous ten hours. The whole point of taking on a part time teaching position was to ensure that each month I earned enough to cover the rent. April’s pay cheque was clearly short.

In light of the approaching summer, when we both expect to be earning virtually nothing for about six weeks as the whole country shuts down, and the impending departure of flatmate Dana, I decided to approach the school to go full time. It seemed like a good idea, and they were happy to know my availability had changed, as it meant not having to hire any new teachers this late in the school year.

However, having made that decision I didn’t realise that the school was just about to start a number of new classes for the Provincial Government. These were meant to commence in February but in accordance with the working of all-things-Neapolitan they are now starting in May. A delay of only four months is not considered unreasonable. I now find myself working Tuesday and Thursday from 8.30am, finishing at 8.30pm, with a break in the afternoon. Luckily Monday and Wednesdays are (for now) much easier with only one lesson at INAIL, an insurance company.

Thus the merry go round of classes continues. I try to keep up with what I’m supposed to be teaching to whom. The other challenge of course is remembering all the names and new faces.

There is one woman in my Provincia class called Adelaide. The first time I read out the names from the register she didn’t respond to her name. For a very good reason, I might add. I instinctively pronounce ‘Adelaide’ just as we say the name of the city of churches in South Australia, i.e. heavy on the ‘aide’ as only an Aussie accent can. I have tried on several occasions to pronounce Adelaide in ‘Italian’ but there are just too many vowels in there and they trip me up leaving me face first in the pavement. (Did I just write ‘pavement’? Shit I meant ‘sidewalk’, oh no I meant ‘footpath’…that’s better. Bloody US English is getting inside my head.) I have, perhaps to her horror, taken to calling her Adelaide as I would in Australia. Perhaps she thinks it’s better than butchering her name every time I ask her to respond to a question.

The upshot of the new routine is that I’m at school Tuesdays and Thursdays with time to complete lesson plans, use the internet and best of all upload blogs. Keep reading.

Spring dreaming

It’s really warm. Last week we were shaking our fists in frustration at the intermittent rain, overcast sky and generally disagreeable weather. Jackets, umbrellas and sensible shoes were a necessity, the rain falling haphazardly like a moody teenager caught between wanting to lull around on the bed and joining friends at a party.

This week the sky is bursting with blueness. The morning sky radiates bright and proud before the grey rises as the day’s traffic builds, pumping fumes into the atmosphere. Cumulus clouds contain the soupy mix, drawing a line between the tepid smog and azure heavens above.

As I was strolling from school towards the INAIL offices, I found myself thinking about buying some floaty little spring numbers, perhaps in pastel shades. Alternatively, maybe some crisp linen (knowing that in the ever-pressing heat of summer any initial crispness will have collapsed by mid morning). It’s time to trade in the black of winter. I also need to branch out from the leather boots and sneakers that have served me so admirably over the colder seasons. I’m thinking about some little strappy sandals, perhaps in white…knowing already that I’ll regret it when my feet get filthy and my new almost-not-there shoes turn dull beige from the dusty streets.

However, this is Italy, where appearances are important and style is not something to be ignored or overlooked. Consequently, sacrifices must be made.

I don’t think I’m quite ready for a white pants suit though. Perhaps I should just outwit the city and buy something in beige to begin with.

The other problem (now, now Jenny, is it a problem or just something that you are unaccustomed to dealing with?) is that my hair is now, officially, the longest it has ever been. Yep, I mean ever! Only two haircuts in the last sixteen months (thanks Garo) is going to contribute to the discomfort, as the temperature rises. I guess I’m also going to have to buy some of those awful, fiddly hair things that tie it up, pin it back and generally stop it hanging down over your face and in your mouth.

Damn it, I should have just stuck to shaving it off.

Of course, the dream of floating pastel sundresses, white summer sandals and flowing locks tied back with matching ribbons is just that. A dream. The reality will surely be something completely different…I’m thinking something in black, maybe?

Caserta revisited

The final day of Birgitte and Kejl's trip we went out to Caserta to see the Palace and grounds. It was my second visit and just as enjoyable as the first. Here are some photos.