Room for Rent

No it's not. We've just rented our spare room to a new teacher Marc. He's from Manchester, 34 and seems pretty nice. He enjoys a drop of red wine, but at least his accent isn't too scary.

Gi has completed the inlingua training and starts teaching English this week coming. He bought three business shirts (to cover the tattoos at the schools request). The massage work is also picking up now.

We have more honeymooning visitors arriving on Monday, Jennifer and Glenn. The constant stream of visitors must be why I haven't suffered from homesickness...and if I had to choose I'd choose visitors any day.

I'm secretly praying for cooler weather. I'm sick of the heat, and can't wait to get back into boots, jumpers and coats.

My Dad just turned 65. He told me on the phone today that he's going to get a nose job soon (to fix a long term sinus problem). He also mentioned something about new teeth and a penile upgrade, but he rejected my idea of a toupe. I won't recognise him at the airport.

I'm still working on the Denmark - Germany tale.

Coming Soon

Here's a sneak preview of some photos from my August trip to Copenhagen and Germany. I plan to work on the story over the weekend, once I catch up on some sleep after a big first week back to work.

Jenny, Henrik and Penny, Copenhagen.

Who's the cutest?

Penny & Jenny, Danish beach.

J & Penny after cocktails!

Tom with his best beer friend. Birgitte and Henrik.

Esther puckers up for the camera...again!

Who's a pretty boy then??
Tom & J, friends since '94!

Jenny (37) and Hugo (17) clubbing.

Oh, to be twenty years younger.

Tom & Esther in Muenster

Amalfi Trek

My name is Jenny. I’m a 37-year-old woman, who should know better. The pain is excruciating. I am suffering. I lay in bed, the ache creeps up from my ankles. I turn over in bed and my lower body screams in protest. Sitting down requires careful consideration. Standing up requires steady support. Stairs elicit panic and pause, each step jarring my thighs, calves and knees.

Wednesday 22nd August Gigi and I rose at 6.30am. Following the obligatory breakfast stop for croissants and an invigorating espresso we took the Circumvesuviana (literally the train that circles around the Vesuvio volcano) to Castellammare di Stabia, a seaside town south of Naples that is now home to industry. We ran to catch the 8.50am cable car (Funivia) that would take us to the top of Monte Faito. Surprised at the cost of the ticket at Euro 4.65 Gi had complained to the ticket seller, only to be told that for an 8 minute ride it was good value.

He may consider it good value. I considered it an expensive way to scare myself half to death. Some years ago, I stopped riding rollercoaster rides. No longer exciting or exhilarating such rides are now just periods of my life when I am completely overwhelmed with fright, eyes closed to the reality of the distance between me and the ground, my mind calculating the consequences of something going wrong. As I get older my fear of heights has, ironically, only heightened. An 8-minute cable car ride from sea level to a height of 1150 metres over yellow and red apartment buildings, treetops, gullies and sheer rock faces as the mountain gained stature suddenly seemed a very bad idea. I tried to relax and take in the view of Naples and the bay fanning out behind us, only to have Gigi joke about rocking the enclosed booth. The thick cables, gentle sway and occasional rumble only served to reinforce my anxiety.

At the top of Monte Faito we immediately noticed the drop in temperature, and the haziness that often settles over the coast with the warmer weather. After consulting a friend’s map of the walking tracks, we first set out along route 36. Scrambling over rocks and wild rose bushes, we followed a path that led to the tip of a ridge. Ending suddenly with a large cross I observed that the two benches overlooking the valley were securely concreted down against the buffeting breeze. Disappointed at the dead end, we were simultaneously delighted to take in the 270º panorama, the peaks of the isle of Capri just visible through the haze, the great sweep of the volcano to the right and a hint of the Amalfi Coast to the left.

After some debate, we followed the road down from the summit, eliminating the long windy trek by cutting through the forest before finding the next path. The plan for the day was to hike from Monte Faito down to Positano. We were carrying a tent, food and water in case we needed to camp overnight. This path took us down towards the town of Moiano, zigzagging back on itself. Stepping over rocks, careful to retain my balance I was conscious of wanting to watch where I was stepping, while also wanting to enjoy being immersed in woods. Gi stopped repeatedly to pick, crush and smell local herbs, wild lavender, fennel smelling of sharp aniseed and blackberries. The ancient path was rudimentary, marked with the passage of time and many feet, and red and white checked strips of plastic tied intermittently to trees. I paused at the sound of sheep bells, bleating and a weary sounding shepherd issuing pointed instructions to his flock. Down below I could make out the flanks of the sheep, as they slowly made their way through the scrub, the shepherd banging his cane on an abandoned piece of metal, all of them seemingly oblivious to the steep incline.

The steep, stony path ended and we turned onto a paved road before winding down concrete steps passed the musty cemetery into the centre of Moiano. The pastry shop was irresistible, calling Gigi inside its heady sweetness. He emerged smiling, claiming the pastries were even better than in Naples.

We followed the main road out of the village. It was then a sharp climb upwards, but at least it was a relief from the constant pressure of coming down. Pausing at a bus shelter Gi pulled out the map and decided to take an unmarked road to the right. To my horror, this road was even steeper, but a woman at the first house confirmed that it lead directly to Positano. The information came with the proviso ‘senza strada’ though (without road). I only hoped there would be a track to follow. We strode past vegetable crops, apple trees, cornfields and farmhouses before the road ended and the view opened up in front. With a lively breeze as company, we unpacked lunch and refuelled.

Gi located a well-established path and so we began the two-hour descent towards Positano. I have driven along the Amalfi Coast road numerous times but it was incredible to see it from above. From the beach the famous peak of Positano is drenched in colour, but from above it is surprisingly predominantly white. Sitting on the beach it looks impossible to walk to the top of the mountain and without the zigzagging path I wouldn’t have considered attempting it. Halfway down my right knee began to wobble. My leg muscles were feeling mildly strained but I wasn’t sure that my knee was going to make it. We would reach a flatter stretch of path and I would send up a silent prayer, only to then spot the next lot of steps. A series of caves opened up on the right and to our left Gigi photographed an enormous hole in a nearby ridge.

With Gi bouncing along in front, I steadily made my way down. Eventually we hit paved road. We had already decided to go all the way down to the beach for a swim. I had however failed to remember the steps that bypass the winding road once you arrive in Positano. By this stage I was walking like my grandmother, one step at a time, holding on to the rail, trying to ignore Gigi’s teasing. I honestly didn’t think I was going to make it, my right knee had completely stopped working, and the tremors were throwing me off balance. Just as I thought about admitting defeat, we reached the central piazza and I knew it was just a matter of negotiating through the shopping tourists before we hit the sand.

A swim has never been more deserved. The waters instantaneously washed away the sweat and heat, and buoying me up gave me relief from the pressure of almost seven hours of downhill trekking. We had decided to take the ‘Metro del Mare’ (a summer time ferry) back to Naples. Gigi went off to buy the tickets. I was stretched out relaxing when he returned with the news that the ‘metro’ had been cancelled due to inclement weather (Where? It was perfect on the beach). We had to dress quickly and head off to catch the next bus, which would allow us to connect onto a train back to Naples. God almighty, I thought, I just can’t do it.

Gigi was already off, heading away from the beach. My knee was marginally better but still I was wishing for a wheelchair or an escalator. Instead we walked, at a trot, back up the hill, screaming inside with frustration at having to trawl along behind hot, lethargic tourists wandering along the shopping strip. Then, just as I thought my lungs would burst, we bumped into a friend of Gigi’s. With the clock already ticking, I couldn’t believe that we stood there for ten minutes exchanging pleasantries, explaining why we were all in Positano and promising to catch up soon. The bus was due at 5.40pm and with just minutes to spare we arrived at the intersection, already crowded with other passengers waiting on both sides of the road for buses.

Having made it to the bus stop in time, there were two remaining problems: water and tickets. My body was screaming for water (we’d consumed the three litres we were carrying) and it was with a thankful sigh that I spotted the clean running water fountain at the bus stop. Gigi then gallantly offered to go off in search of tickets having been told that the newsagent back down near the beach was the only place that sold them! He finally came back, as I nervously waited for the now obviously late bus, reporting that he’d been to three different shops. One didn’t sell bus tickets, the other had run out of tickets (in mid summer, peak tourist season…how, I ask you, how?) and the other shop was closed. ‘Va be’ (that’s fine), he told me, we’d just tell the inspector he’d been to three places and they could go and…you can imagine the rest. Having read that the ticket inspectors are particularly active and harsh on the Amalfi Coast strip I wasn’t happy to be riding ticketless, but my legs and my resolve were not up to the challenge.

The minutes ticked by, and the waiting crowd continued to grow. Old women in summer dresses, their wrinkled necks and chests evidence of years of harsh tanning, stood in the middle of the road looking out for the bus. Cars driven by tourists, couples cruising on motorbikes and delivery trucks would come around the corner and suddenly find the lane blocked by these raisin grannies. I guess they thought that keeping a look out for the missing bus would make it arrive faster. I’m yet to understand this particular behaviour of southern Italians. It is, at the least, entertaining to watch the intersection back up with traffic because of their indifference.

A coach arrived, with a big sign ‘Napoli’ on the front. This was not the Sorrento bus we were expecting. After checking with the driver, we boarded, as it would take us directly to the central station in Naples. The coach was already full, and it was strictly standing room only as we crammed into the aisle. A fracas at the back broke out. Some ‘lady’ was asking everyone to move down to make room for her group to get on. Unfortunately, her tone and attitude did little to help her cause on a hot Sunday afternoon. I watched as those around me raised eyebrows, waved their hands and dropped snide comments.

The coach took two hours to make the slow, windy journey along the coast road. By the time we got home it was past 8pm. I dropped ten cents into the lift to carry me to the first floor to avoid the steps and then fell into the shower.

The trek was fantastic. The physical effort was completely draining, yet rewarding at the same time. I struggled to walk for the next three days. Steps and gutters were particularly difficult challenges.

Gi summed it all up a few days later when he said ‘you know, it’s strange to look at that mountain and realise we climbed down it’. It makes you realise that mountains are just a series of steps, be it up or down, and that with a little effort most of them are surmountable. Just like other obstacles in life.

The Amalfi Coast is full of hiking trails, and I’m now planning to do the most famous trek ‘Sentiero degli dei’ (Path of the Gods). Who’s coming?

Date with Berlusconi

12 July 2007

I noticed the posters about ten days ago. Silvio Berlusconi was coming to Naples. As the date drew closer, it seemed as though the city was awash with the distinct blue bills adorning every flat surface, crumbling walls, abandoned buildings and most appropriately rubbish bins. Having caught my attention I decided that I should satisfy my curiosity and go along.

I’ve never attended a political rally before, not that the circus surrounding Silvio Berlusconi could ever be considered simply a political rally. I mentioned my interest in attending to a few Italian friends and students. Their reactions were both strong and surprising, and sometimes dismissive. It seemed shocking to some that I would waste my time on such an event. Ironically, I find it shocking that people dismiss Berlusconi so quickly when it seems to me that he’s done a surprising amount of damage to this country and its economy, usually to his personal gain.

I decided to catch the bus to Piazza Carita’ (ironically it translates to Charity Square) and then walk to Piazza del Plebiscito (People’s Square…how much can you take?). I waited half an hour for a bus, watching with interest at the traffic jammed up on the opposite side of the road while the other lanes were mostly clear. A wailing fire truck wove painfully through the traffic jam, the fire fighters nonchalantly sitting in the cabin looking out on fools in their cars who failed to consider an emergency services vehicle of much significance. Although, when it’s their house burning down they’ll surely be complaining loudly about the fire trucks slow response time. My guess was that buses coming in our direction were held up behind an accident or a protest (industrial rubbish bins occasionally are moved onto the road and set alight). The fire truck was probably on its way to the scene.

I arrived half an hour after the advertised starting time, half-afraid that I’d missed the main event. At 7.30pm in July it’s still beautifully bright, the harshness of the sun has faded, the evening air perfect. The piazza was, as always, stunning, although its beauty was marred by the staging, scaffolding and eyesore of a media and production booth. The piazza was awash with people, waving ‘Forza Italia’ flags and clutching propaganda leaflets and booklets. Ambulances were dotted around the piazza on standby. The adjacent piazza and streets were occupied by Carabinieri police and security guards. Most of them looked disinterested, holding their weapons lazily, huddling in small groups chatting.

‘Forza Italia’ (taken from a football chant, literally ‘Go Italy’) is the name of the right-wing political party founded by Berlusconi in 1993. Many critics believe that Berlusconi entered the political arena to protect his television and ever burgeoning business interests. Over the years he’s been charged with and convicted of a number of crimes including corruption, bribes and /tax evasion. The onerously slow Italian judicial system, legal technicalities, Berlusconi inspired legislation amendments and politically friendly judges have seen him effectively disentangle himself from his legal problems, and to this date he hasn’t served any jail time.

I don’t know about you, but it all clearly adds up to Berlusconi being one of Italy’s most successful, public and famous criminals. Who would want to miss seeing such a man in the flesh?

A blonde woman appeared on the huge stage, and the crowd cheered with anticipation. However, it would be another 1 ½ hours before the man himself appeared. Four singers took the stage one after another, with a constant purge of music that must have been intended to hype up the energy and excitement. Classics such as ‘I Will Survive’ and ‘Come Fly with Me’ echoed around the piazza, making me cringe. These were then followed by Neapolitan classics, each song carefully chosen for its subversive message.

I decided to join the well-wishers crammed in along the barricades for the motorcade that would deliver Silvio to the stage. Everyone around me was genuinely excited to be there, up on tip toes craning their necks for the first glimpse of him. Countless nobodies strutted up the centre, ID tags swinging, intermittently stopping to greet someone on the crowd who recognised them. One woman in a floaty, sparkly black dress, with full war paint and fake coiffed blonde hair, obviously aimed for an elegant appearance only to have it destroyed by a broken red strappy shoe that she was carrying as she limped along the cobblestones.

Just before 9pm, the security guards suddenly took their places and the motley marching band buttoned their jackets and lifted their instruments. Three perfectly polished luxury cars sped through the barricades, the centre one pulling up right in front of where I was standing. Silvio and his wife exited the vehicle to the screams of the women standing near by. No sooner had we glimpsed his beaming smile then he was swamped by bodyguards and staff.

Moments later, he appeared on stage behind the lectern, with his perfect smile, deep tan, surgically enhanced face and medically assisted head of black hair flashing up on the immense screen nearby. For a man of 71 years he looks extraordinary. It’s amazing what you can buy with enough money. Youthful looks and expensive suits are certainly within Mr Berlusconi’s budget.

With the piazza now full, the crowd greeted him like a long lost uncle. Flags, signs, banners and balloons helped represent their emotions with colour and movement. All the major television networks and newspapers were capturing the event and I watched it the following day on the small screen.

Obviously pleased with the welcome, Silvio spent the next hour preaching and spouting rhetoric. He buttered up the locals by praising their excellent coffee, wonderful music and beautiful women. Much of his speech criticised his major political opponent, current Prime Minister Prodi, and the communist extreme left party. In standard format, he asked the crowd a number of questions emphasising the problems that had been delivered by Signor Prodi and they obediently responded with hearty ‘No’s’. His list of promises elicited the obvious ‘Yes’ chants.

Most interestingly though was his summary of the state of Naples and the province of Campania. Neapolitans and Campanians are suffering from a number of emergencies. There is a rubbish crisis, a crisis in the health system, a traffic crisis, a crime crisis and a humanitarian crisis. That pretty much sums it up. There was no direct mention of the legal system, the Camorra (the local organised crime network), unemployment, the education system or the differences between the state of the north and the south in terms of investment, wealth, public infrastructure, corruption, the aging population and the lack of economy growth. Nor were there any solutions forthcoming.

Dusk had fallen. The bright stage lights emphasized the blue banners and Silvio’s tan. The rhetoric finally ran out and then the formal presentations began. A long line of ‘Forza Italia’ candidates dawdled onto the stage, some looking dazed and uncomfortable and others like they’d been born on stage. Women in the crowd around me continued to call out "Che bello Silvio" (how handsome, Silvio). Groups of men cheered and yelled with excitement. I stood amongst the chaos, energy and worshipping wondering who these people were. And where were the people who disagreed with Berlusconi’s politics and activities?

They were at home having dinner. I elbowed my way out of the mob and began walking home with the intention to do just that.

Boom

My world of friends and family is awash with babies.

It seems that the great majority of my international circle of friends has embarked on the baby-making journey once they have reached their early to mid thirties. I’ve never felt terribly maternal or indeed comfortable with babies. However, my new friend Henrik, 10-month-old son of Birgitte and Kejl in Copenhagen, has changed that. He’s the calmest baby I’ve ever known (the fact that his parents, and their culture, are calm probably has something to do with that). Henrik is one of those magical children who eats, sleeps, plays and laughs, crying only when it’s definitely time for a feed or a change.

I received news only today that another girlfriend in London has quietly been pregnant and gave birth to a baby boy last week. Gigi’s best mate from Naples is now living near Oxford and his fiancé is due just before Christmas. Another friend is talking about her ticking clock. It’s all around me, maybe not literally but certainly figuratively.

Window addict

Hello, my name's Jenny and I think I'm addicted to photographing windows. You be the judge!

Venice revisited

Tuesday 4th September Gigi and I were flying back to Naples with his mother. The wedding was over. The damage was done. It was time to go home. We were scheduled to fly from Venice at 8pm. We caught the 7.30 am train out of Udine (couldn’t get out of there fast enough) and arrived in Venice by 10am. We spent the day wandering around Venice, visiting the canals, bridges and piazzas, while Gi’s mother brought some glass souvenirs and we bought some masks. During one coffee and smoke break Rosa worked out, and then complained, that we’d been walking around for more than five hours. Her legs were completely finished. After collecting our left luggage we walked to get the bus to the airport, Rosa limping along slowly behind me while Gigi strode out in front carrying his mother’s luggage as well as his own. I felt like the rose between two thorns, having more patience and perhaps a little more compassion than Gigi. I think he expected her to say ‘you guys go off and look around on your own, while I sit here in the sun with access to coffee and cigarettes for a couple of hours’. She never did. Luckily we decided to get an early bus to the airport as the traffic was a nightmare. We checked in with plenty of time, went through security and then Gi’s mother decided she needed a cigarette. I’d already told them both there’d be no smoking on the other side, but no one ever believes me when I give advice or directions in Italy. Having discovered that there was indeed no smokers corner in an international airport she then had to go back out through security to have a fag out the front of the airport.

Of course, our flight was then delayed, due to weather problems in Naples. We watched with disbelief as they pushed the time out to 8.45pm, and even after 8.45 went by on the clock and 9.15 approached the board failed to show any updates. The 50 or so passengers stood in a ratty line at the gate for more than 40 minutes despite no call for boarding. I sat down watching them all, listening to my ipod. We finally arrived in Naples, after flying through some rain and bumpy clouds at about 11pm. Irene, unimpressed at having had to wait and having missed her dinner time, picked us up at the airport.

Venice was lovely, full of tourists of course but still a great place to poke around and photograph. The Bienniale Film festival was on so the news was full of famous film stars in Venice but it cost a bomb to attend any of the exhibitions and public transport is also really expensive in Venice so we just spent the day on foot. I had dreams of accidently bumping into Brad and Angelina, or at least George Clooney but it wasn't to be. Still I had a nice day despite my travelling companions, and take the attitude that I might as well enjoy it because it just might be the last time I get to visit such a unique city.