6 November 2006 Misery
I’m sick. Not completely miserable but pretty close.
The weather has changed. We had a couple of cold days two weeks ago that sent many of the city’s inhabitants off to the chemist and taking time off work as the sudden drop in temperature resulted in increases in sickness levels. At the time I thought they all had weak constitutions or were looking for attention. Especially in view of the fact that a couple of days later we were once again enjoying the unseasonably mild weather of autumn in October.
I went to work on Tuesday and having entered the business district, the skyscrapers standing tall and reflective, I was blown sideways. The wind buffeted me left, and then right, billowing my jacket, restyling my hair. As I blew towards the school I caught sight of my image reflected in the glass buildings, and was surprised to see the struggle of fighting the wind registered on my face.
After another week of mild, sunny weather I’d been lulled into a false sense of Indian summer.
The following day was a public holiday. We’d planned a day trip to Sorrento with teacher friends Dana and Jody. The day opened with an overcast sky and an occasional drizzle that we optimistically hoped would appease. The train deposited us at Sorrento, and the rain deposited itself on us. We wandered through the inner shopping lanes, normally gorgeous with sunlight and the primary colours of lemons, and hanging chillies and pastels of scarves and local ceramics but today subdued with the miserable weather. Eventually aborting the plan to explore the town we followed some local directions to the Borgo Marinaro, the local fishing village. Dragging damp shoes and newly purchased umbrellas we escaped the downpour by holing up in a trattoria for a late lunch.
The menu echoed the fishing village setting and our generous antipasto platters included octopus, grilled sardines, marinated salmon and succulent green olives. Gigi however was drawn by the promise of gnocchi (potato based hand made lumps of pasta) made by Mama (‘mother’) and was suitably satiated by the steaming dish that arrived almost instantly. Three large women meandered around the small trattoria, moving from the dining section to the unseen secrets of the kitchen. I assumed they were grandma, mother and daughter all three being of similar stature and apparent weariness. The most elderly woman set herself up at the corner table to prepare vegetables while she loudly chatted with another diner, a man in a dull grey uniform with yellow shoulder boards.
We had thought to wait for the rain to ease, but as lunch progressed it only worsened. The rain was accompanied by lightning, flashing across the bay waters as a low rumble of thunder boomed miles out to sea. The sky darkened and the water fell with determination, flooding the narrow esplanade. The small dinghies, mostly hand painted blue and white, tied up to the concrete pillars furiously bobbed up and down; their larger sisters, the fishing trawlers, charmingly rode the stormy waters further out.
With espresso cups emptied and the bill paid we gathered ourselves, coats and umbrellas to brave the torrents. The local bus was due in five minutes from outside the tobacco shop and in accordance with the waiter’s directions we splashed a hundred metres down the street. Rounding the corner it was suddenly apparent that the bus wouldn’t be stopping anywhere down this alleyway. Turning around to splash back to where we’d come from we noticed the large unmistakable ‘T’ sign, the tobacconists. Sheltering in front of a closed shop, watching the raindrops individually hitting the pools of water swilling around our sodden shoes, it was a relief to hear the hiss of the bus brakes as it crawled down the narrow road. After it reversed in an unimaginably tight space we boarded, dripping and disheartened at the depressing weather.
Some two hours later we arrived home. Wet and cold with the hem of my jeans having soaked up at least a bucket of rainwater we changed into dry clothes but by then I fear the damage had been done.
At school on Thursday a few students commented on my appearance, the first suggestion of a cold having set in overnight. Saturday I spruced up again for a staff meeting and luncheon but after an afternoon of wining, dining and conversation I arrived home quite exhausted.
The misery is not improving really. A night of feverish flushes has been followed by a developing cough. No amount of Italian over-the-counter cold and flu medication (how I miss the full strength stuff we can get at home), sleep, soup and sedentary days seems to be helping. My brief adventures outside to hang out washing suggests to me that it is just getting colder out in the real world. Winter has certainly arrived. It’s some five weeks late but it’s definitely here. Gi has twice casually dropped into our recent conversations that locals are predicting the possibility of snow. I only hope they mean for the top of the volcano (as happened last winter, after no snowfall for some thirty years) and not in the historical centre of Naples.
I’m sick, and it’s no doubt attributed to the change of weather, getting cold and drowned in Sorrento and possibly thanks to someone’s floating germs on public transport. I’m sorry to have judged my fellow residents as weak attention seekers. Although I certainly know that now I’m sick, coughing up chunks of phlegm with a dripping nose and reluctance to leave the house, I feel weak and would love some attention.
I’m sick. Not completely miserable but pretty close.
The weather has changed. We had a couple of cold days two weeks ago that sent many of the city’s inhabitants off to the chemist and taking time off work as the sudden drop in temperature resulted in increases in sickness levels. At the time I thought they all had weak constitutions or were looking for attention. Especially in view of the fact that a couple of days later we were once again enjoying the unseasonably mild weather of autumn in October.
I went to work on Tuesday and having entered the business district, the skyscrapers standing tall and reflective, I was blown sideways. The wind buffeted me left, and then right, billowing my jacket, restyling my hair. As I blew towards the school I caught sight of my image reflected in the glass buildings, and was surprised to see the struggle of fighting the wind registered on my face.
After another week of mild, sunny weather I’d been lulled into a false sense of Indian summer.
The following day was a public holiday. We’d planned a day trip to Sorrento with teacher friends Dana and Jody. The day opened with an overcast sky and an occasional drizzle that we optimistically hoped would appease. The train deposited us at Sorrento, and the rain deposited itself on us. We wandered through the inner shopping lanes, normally gorgeous with sunlight and the primary colours of lemons, and hanging chillies and pastels of scarves and local ceramics but today subdued with the miserable weather. Eventually aborting the plan to explore the town we followed some local directions to the Borgo Marinaro, the local fishing village. Dragging damp shoes and newly purchased umbrellas we escaped the downpour by holing up in a trattoria for a late lunch.
The menu echoed the fishing village setting and our generous antipasto platters included octopus, grilled sardines, marinated salmon and succulent green olives. Gigi however was drawn by the promise of gnocchi (potato based hand made lumps of pasta) made by Mama (‘mother’) and was suitably satiated by the steaming dish that arrived almost instantly. Three large women meandered around the small trattoria, moving from the dining section to the unseen secrets of the kitchen. I assumed they were grandma, mother and daughter all three being of similar stature and apparent weariness. The most elderly woman set herself up at the corner table to prepare vegetables while she loudly chatted with another diner, a man in a dull grey uniform with yellow shoulder boards.
We had thought to wait for the rain to ease, but as lunch progressed it only worsened. The rain was accompanied by lightning, flashing across the bay waters as a low rumble of thunder boomed miles out to sea. The sky darkened and the water fell with determination, flooding the narrow esplanade. The small dinghies, mostly hand painted blue and white, tied up to the concrete pillars furiously bobbed up and down; their larger sisters, the fishing trawlers, charmingly rode the stormy waters further out.
With espresso cups emptied and the bill paid we gathered ourselves, coats and umbrellas to brave the torrents. The local bus was due in five minutes from outside the tobacco shop and in accordance with the waiter’s directions we splashed a hundred metres down the street. Rounding the corner it was suddenly apparent that the bus wouldn’t be stopping anywhere down this alleyway. Turning around to splash back to where we’d come from we noticed the large unmistakable ‘T’ sign, the tobacconists. Sheltering in front of a closed shop, watching the raindrops individually hitting the pools of water swilling around our sodden shoes, it was a relief to hear the hiss of the bus brakes as it crawled down the narrow road. After it reversed in an unimaginably tight space we boarded, dripping and disheartened at the depressing weather.
Some two hours later we arrived home. Wet and cold with the hem of my jeans having soaked up at least a bucket of rainwater we changed into dry clothes but by then I fear the damage had been done.
At school on Thursday a few students commented on my appearance, the first suggestion of a cold having set in overnight. Saturday I spruced up again for a staff meeting and luncheon but after an afternoon of wining, dining and conversation I arrived home quite exhausted.
The misery is not improving really. A night of feverish flushes has been followed by a developing cough. No amount of Italian over-the-counter cold and flu medication (how I miss the full strength stuff we can get at home), sleep, soup and sedentary days seems to be helping. My brief adventures outside to hang out washing suggests to me that it is just getting colder out in the real world. Winter has certainly arrived. It’s some five weeks late but it’s definitely here. Gi has twice casually dropped into our recent conversations that locals are predicting the possibility of snow. I only hope they mean for the top of the volcano (as happened last winter, after no snowfall for some thirty years) and not in the historical centre of Naples.
I’m sick, and it’s no doubt attributed to the change of weather, getting cold and drowned in Sorrento and possibly thanks to someone’s floating germs on public transport. I’m sorry to have judged my fellow residents as weak attention seekers. Although I certainly know that now I’m sick, coughing up chunks of phlegm with a dripping nose and reluctance to leave the house, I feel weak and would love some attention.
2 comments:
Poor baby, feel better soon. It's no picnic here either. There's a big green storm rolling and no one will come and pick me up from work.
Hey Jen,
this one seems to be missing some words....almost like some got cut off. Either that or you are sicker than you thought!
Love
Kim
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