11 July 2006
I feel like I’ve lived a lifetime of Neapolitan experiences already today, and it’s only midday.
At my suggestion Gi approached the owner of the health centre, Dora, and had their internet upgraded to a better unlimited service. We have found it impossible to get internet connection to our urban cave without being prepared to invest in installing a phone line and dealing with god knows what telecommunication company bureaucracy. There doesn’t seem to be the focus and customer service that we are accustomed to as residential clients in Australia. However, if you are a business customer it’s a different story. Dora agreed to the upgrade and Gi arranged it over the phone. They advised it could take up to ten days (!!) but it was ready the following morning. So, we are kicking in about half of the monthly cost, on the condition that we can use it for my work and incidental personal use. We were just spending too much at the local internet place and always on the clock.
Of course now we have to establish when is a good time for me to be there without interrupting the business. They generally don’t open until about 10 a.m. so this morning we went in at 9 a.m. At that time I’ll also be able to chat with friends in Australia. Gi is starting to practice Chi Gung of a morning, at about 7am so I’m hoping I can sneak in at that time and have a few hours to myself researching and emailing.
I called my sister Kim this morning. For those of you that haven’t been reading the local community papers she has built a child care centre at Victoria Point. They opened for business on 3 July. My youngest sister is the general manager. They are both former teachers, and owning a child care centre has been Kim’s dream for years. It’s a bit strange that mum, dad and myself are all away at such a momentous occasion, especially as both girls have been working incredibly long hours, and looking after their children. In fact, as I was talking to her what I really wanted to say was that I’d be on the first plane home to help. Unfortunately my bank balance isn’t in accordance with such an impulsive idea. Not to mention my husband. Kim actually lives in Melbourne, with her husband Noel and their two sons. Josh is turning three in August (can that be right, my diary says he was born in 2003 but he seems at least four in my head) and Lachlan was born in February this year. Noel has recently started consulting and that has kept him in Melbourne, although he was in Perth last week. Their household is usually all systems go but I must say the current status of activity is unprecedented, even for Kim.
I can’t wait to get home to see the centre. She has yet to put photos on the website www.firstlearnings.com.au. But if you know anyone in the Redlands / Victoria Point area who is looking for quality child care with a difference, they are ready for you.
After the phone call, which ate up the remainder of the funds on my YHA phone card (a brilliant gift from friends which can be topped up by internet if you have been searching for that perfect gift idea), I jumped on a bus. As usual it was crowded. Standing in the aisle, hanging on to the bar above my head (the joys of being taller than the city average), I endured at least ten minutes of mild sexual harassment. A skinny, craggy faced middle aged man (I can’t use the word ‘gentleman’, it just doesn’t apply) decided to enjoy his morning bus ride by repeatedly rubbing his crotch up against my buttocks or my thigh. Every time the bus stopped and people off loaded I moved, attempting to escape his charms. Just as I started to relax and tune into my daily episode of ‘Naples Street Soap Opera’ the bumping and grinding would start again, and there he was right behind me again. A few death stares seem to have no effect, in fact I think they may have encouraged him. I was trying to work out how to ‘unintentionally’ hurt him, thinking my elbows are sharper now than ever before. Unfortunately my elbows were not in a position to connect with his crutch, and he had no bulky stomach for me to dig into with the motion of the bus. I wasn’t wearing shoes that would deliver the message either (maybe that’s why so many of the women here were incredibly impractical stilettos and three stories high platforms). The only thing I could think of was to grab his rubbing equipment and twist but even writing it now makes me feel queasy. He probably would have thought it was a definite come on besides.
I floated out of the bus, still dwelling on the problem for next time. Gi will no doubt give me advice about what to say to him, but frankly sometimes that only makes it worse as my accent certainly gives me away as foreign (so does your face, Jenny) and I really don’t want him to think a conversation is on the cards.
Walking around the bus, only metres away I was stunned to see two bus drivers start to beat each other up. This is the third time I’ve seen two men on the street hitting each other, whacking each other in the face and head, pushing and yelling. The pair was immediately pulled apart by a dozen men in blue shirts, fellow bus drivers, but the cursing and threatening continued.
Taking a straight line along the pedestrian path that cuts through the bus area towards the central station, I managed to avoid the plethora of unscrupulous and risky men (again ‘gentlemen’ is not appropriate) that gather in that area. Gi truly hates the central station zone, and will avoid coming whenever possible. The last thing he said to me this morning was ‘be careful’. He never uses expressions like that, unless I’m going to Piazza Garibaldi. I was on a mission though. On the opposite side of the piazza, turning left onto the road Corso Giuseppe Garibaldi (across from MacDonald which is the only way I can get my sense of direction in that piazza), is a shop selling Asian food. We need tofu, and soy sauce. As I waited to pay for my items, having also grabbed some coconut milk, instant noodles and fresh bean sprouts I watched as the diminutive, slightly surly Chinese lady served a tall, burly African man. He was buying taro. After weighing the vegetables she pointed at the screen indicating how much he needed to pay. He stood there. She then told him it would by Euro 2.10. He repeated "€2.10?" Their accents were as bad as mine. Ignoring him she indicated for me to move forward and began tallying up my shopping, as he dug around in his deep pockets and finally produced two coins, repeating "€2.10" as he tossed them onto the counter. As she told me the total, he told her, didn’t ask her, to ‘Put them in a bag’. After bagging my shopping and taking my money, she then slowly turned, found a bag and placed his taro inside.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen such disparate cultures reluctantly engaging in a commercial transaction before. There was no friendliness, hardly any words spoken, and no indication that either of them was interested in repeating the process, ever.
Crossing the road, I entered the station and was verbally harassed, and then followed, by some guy who either wanted to go to the beach ‘mare’ or was telling me I wasn’t too bad ‘male’. My second mission of the morning was to visit the various newsagent outlets inside the station to assess what international newspapers and magazines they sell. I’m starting to research possible publications to approach with article ideas, and the first step is to get my hands on the real thing if possible. The best range I’ve seen in Naples was at the airport, which is not far from the centre where we live, but requires two different buses. As I left the station, having purchased an Italian magazine, but better informed about the variety and cost available of English language publications, I was whistled at, hissed at, spoken to, and physically assessed countless times. Of course variations of this behaviour happen elsewhere in the world, but here in Naples they seem to have a special flair for it. There are two things in particular that I find the most disturbing.
One is the old man, usually much shorter than me, his head (and therefore his watery, squinting eyes) coming level with my bust, who will unashamedly stop mid stride and gawk, as though his invitation to touch and taste will be delivered momentarily. The old guys really get an eyeful, no holds barred, no subtlety, no quick flick of the eyes to your breasts and then back up to your face. This is a buy a ticket, let-me-show-you-to-your-seat, ‘would you like a coffee, or perhaps something to nibble on?’ type ogling. It feels invasive and intimidating. They are not embarrassed to be caught out, in fact to look them in the eyes sometimes results in them pursing their lips, a hand to the stubbly chin, deciding what will happen if they ‘reach out and touch someone’. Elbows are undeniably valuable tools for such occasions.
The other is the man, of any particular age, who walks past, in any direction, and makes an ‘oohh’ noise at you (like ‘oohh’ in the word sue). Sometimes it’s more of an ‘O!’ sound (like ‘O’ in the word ‘ho’ according to Santa, or the American slang for whore which somehow seems more apt). Now oohh’s and O’s of themselves aren’t too bad, but it’s the surprise factor that gets me. They sneak into your ear, and with both parties on the move it is not always possible to determine who the aggressor is without stopping. They also have a practice of following you; more of the oohh’s or O’s echoing behind you, like a little persistence is going to get them a date.
The final local experience for the morning was back on the bus. In fact every time I get on a bus it happens. I don’t know if it’s the heat, or the crowds or the time of year with everyone overdue for a holiday. Inevitably there is an argument on the bus. Perhaps it’s a space issue. Maybe it’s something else. Any age, gender or social standing, it just needs two people, and then a third, fourth and fifth who try to intervene by either talking sense or out yelling everyone else. These arguments flare up, faces redden, hands wave around, spittle goes flying. It’s like being in the middle of an episode of ‘Days of our Lives’ when Hope’s evil twin decides to confront Marlene with Beau watching, interjecting inanely.
I have to tell you, I’m getting much better at handling all of this. I cross the road every day now without any hint of getting run over. I catch the buses without getting robbed. I watch and listen to the fighting with interest like everyone else, staying a safe distance away nonetheless. I routinely ignore the sexual harassment and innuendo, most of it sliding straight off (sometimes a trace of it sticks and I resent having to be the subject of what amounts to predatory behaviour). I go from place to place with a sense of purpose, instead of wandering around like a lost tourist.
Best of all though, I return home everyday having been inspired to write.
At my suggestion Gi approached the owner of the health centre, Dora, and had their internet upgraded to a better unlimited service. We have found it impossible to get internet connection to our urban cave without being prepared to invest in installing a phone line and dealing with god knows what telecommunication company bureaucracy. There doesn’t seem to be the focus and customer service that we are accustomed to as residential clients in Australia. However, if you are a business customer it’s a different story. Dora agreed to the upgrade and Gi arranged it over the phone. They advised it could take up to ten days (!!) but it was ready the following morning. So, we are kicking in about half of the monthly cost, on the condition that we can use it for my work and incidental personal use. We were just spending too much at the local internet place and always on the clock.
Of course now we have to establish when is a good time for me to be there without interrupting the business. They generally don’t open until about 10 a.m. so this morning we went in at 9 a.m. At that time I’ll also be able to chat with friends in Australia. Gi is starting to practice Chi Gung of a morning, at about 7am so I’m hoping I can sneak in at that time and have a few hours to myself researching and emailing.
I called my sister Kim this morning. For those of you that haven’t been reading the local community papers she has built a child care centre at Victoria Point. They opened for business on 3 July. My youngest sister is the general manager. They are both former teachers, and owning a child care centre has been Kim’s dream for years. It’s a bit strange that mum, dad and myself are all away at such a momentous occasion, especially as both girls have been working incredibly long hours, and looking after their children. In fact, as I was talking to her what I really wanted to say was that I’d be on the first plane home to help. Unfortunately my bank balance isn’t in accordance with such an impulsive idea. Not to mention my husband. Kim actually lives in Melbourne, with her husband Noel and their two sons. Josh is turning three in August (can that be right, my diary says he was born in 2003 but he seems at least four in my head) and Lachlan was born in February this year. Noel has recently started consulting and that has kept him in Melbourne, although he was in Perth last week. Their household is usually all systems go but I must say the current status of activity is unprecedented, even for Kim.
I can’t wait to get home to see the centre. She has yet to put photos on the website www.firstlearnings.com.au. But if you know anyone in the Redlands / Victoria Point area who is looking for quality child care with a difference, they are ready for you.
After the phone call, which ate up the remainder of the funds on my YHA phone card (a brilliant gift from friends which can be topped up by internet if you have been searching for that perfect gift idea), I jumped on a bus. As usual it was crowded. Standing in the aisle, hanging on to the bar above my head (the joys of being taller than the city average), I endured at least ten minutes of mild sexual harassment. A skinny, craggy faced middle aged man (I can’t use the word ‘gentleman’, it just doesn’t apply) decided to enjoy his morning bus ride by repeatedly rubbing his crotch up against my buttocks or my thigh. Every time the bus stopped and people off loaded I moved, attempting to escape his charms. Just as I started to relax and tune into my daily episode of ‘Naples Street Soap Opera’ the bumping and grinding would start again, and there he was right behind me again. A few death stares seem to have no effect, in fact I think they may have encouraged him. I was trying to work out how to ‘unintentionally’ hurt him, thinking my elbows are sharper now than ever before. Unfortunately my elbows were not in a position to connect with his crutch, and he had no bulky stomach for me to dig into with the motion of the bus. I wasn’t wearing shoes that would deliver the message either (maybe that’s why so many of the women here were incredibly impractical stilettos and three stories high platforms). The only thing I could think of was to grab his rubbing equipment and twist but even writing it now makes me feel queasy. He probably would have thought it was a definite come on besides.
I floated out of the bus, still dwelling on the problem for next time. Gi will no doubt give me advice about what to say to him, but frankly sometimes that only makes it worse as my accent certainly gives me away as foreign (so does your face, Jenny) and I really don’t want him to think a conversation is on the cards.
Walking around the bus, only metres away I was stunned to see two bus drivers start to beat each other up. This is the third time I’ve seen two men on the street hitting each other, whacking each other in the face and head, pushing and yelling. The pair was immediately pulled apart by a dozen men in blue shirts, fellow bus drivers, but the cursing and threatening continued.
Taking a straight line along the pedestrian path that cuts through the bus area towards the central station, I managed to avoid the plethora of unscrupulous and risky men (again ‘gentlemen’ is not appropriate) that gather in that area. Gi truly hates the central station zone, and will avoid coming whenever possible. The last thing he said to me this morning was ‘be careful’. He never uses expressions like that, unless I’m going to Piazza Garibaldi. I was on a mission though. On the opposite side of the piazza, turning left onto the road Corso Giuseppe Garibaldi (across from MacDonald which is the only way I can get my sense of direction in that piazza), is a shop selling Asian food. We need tofu, and soy sauce. As I waited to pay for my items, having also grabbed some coconut milk, instant noodles and fresh bean sprouts I watched as the diminutive, slightly surly Chinese lady served a tall, burly African man. He was buying taro. After weighing the vegetables she pointed at the screen indicating how much he needed to pay. He stood there. She then told him it would by Euro 2.10. He repeated "€2.10?" Their accents were as bad as mine. Ignoring him she indicated for me to move forward and began tallying up my shopping, as he dug around in his deep pockets and finally produced two coins, repeating "€2.10" as he tossed them onto the counter. As she told me the total, he told her, didn’t ask her, to ‘Put them in a bag’. After bagging my shopping and taking my money, she then slowly turned, found a bag and placed his taro inside.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen such disparate cultures reluctantly engaging in a commercial transaction before. There was no friendliness, hardly any words spoken, and no indication that either of them was interested in repeating the process, ever.
Crossing the road, I entered the station and was verbally harassed, and then followed, by some guy who either wanted to go to the beach ‘mare’ or was telling me I wasn’t too bad ‘male’. My second mission of the morning was to visit the various newsagent outlets inside the station to assess what international newspapers and magazines they sell. I’m starting to research possible publications to approach with article ideas, and the first step is to get my hands on the real thing if possible. The best range I’ve seen in Naples was at the airport, which is not far from the centre where we live, but requires two different buses. As I left the station, having purchased an Italian magazine, but better informed about the variety and cost available of English language publications, I was whistled at, hissed at, spoken to, and physically assessed countless times. Of course variations of this behaviour happen elsewhere in the world, but here in Naples they seem to have a special flair for it. There are two things in particular that I find the most disturbing.
One is the old man, usually much shorter than me, his head (and therefore his watery, squinting eyes) coming level with my bust, who will unashamedly stop mid stride and gawk, as though his invitation to touch and taste will be delivered momentarily. The old guys really get an eyeful, no holds barred, no subtlety, no quick flick of the eyes to your breasts and then back up to your face. This is a buy a ticket, let-me-show-you-to-your-seat, ‘would you like a coffee, or perhaps something to nibble on?’ type ogling. It feels invasive and intimidating. They are not embarrassed to be caught out, in fact to look them in the eyes sometimes results in them pursing their lips, a hand to the stubbly chin, deciding what will happen if they ‘reach out and touch someone’. Elbows are undeniably valuable tools for such occasions.
The other is the man, of any particular age, who walks past, in any direction, and makes an ‘oohh’ noise at you (like ‘oohh’ in the word sue). Sometimes it’s more of an ‘O!’ sound (like ‘O’ in the word ‘ho’ according to Santa, or the American slang for whore which somehow seems more apt). Now oohh’s and O’s of themselves aren’t too bad, but it’s the surprise factor that gets me. They sneak into your ear, and with both parties on the move it is not always possible to determine who the aggressor is without stopping. They also have a practice of following you; more of the oohh’s or O’s echoing behind you, like a little persistence is going to get them a date.
The final local experience for the morning was back on the bus. In fact every time I get on a bus it happens. I don’t know if it’s the heat, or the crowds or the time of year with everyone overdue for a holiday. Inevitably there is an argument on the bus. Perhaps it’s a space issue. Maybe it’s something else. Any age, gender or social standing, it just needs two people, and then a third, fourth and fifth who try to intervene by either talking sense or out yelling everyone else. These arguments flare up, faces redden, hands wave around, spittle goes flying. It’s like being in the middle of an episode of ‘Days of our Lives’ when Hope’s evil twin decides to confront Marlene with Beau watching, interjecting inanely.
I have to tell you, I’m getting much better at handling all of this. I cross the road every day now without any hint of getting run over. I catch the buses without getting robbed. I watch and listen to the fighting with interest like everyone else, staying a safe distance away nonetheless. I routinely ignore the sexual harassment and innuendo, most of it sliding straight off (sometimes a trace of it sticks and I resent having to be the subject of what amounts to predatory behaviour). I go from place to place with a sense of purpose, instead of wandering around like a lost tourist.
Best of all though, I return home everyday having been inspired to write.
PS: after mentioning the crotch rubber on the bus to a friend she advised that in Naples the mothers give their daughters a needle to carry with them on the bus. A quick jab is all it takes to keep the offending party away apparently. I will let you know if it works for me.
1 comment:
What the?? the YHA card is gone and I haven't even spoken to you??!!
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