By the time I arrived in Camerino it was pitch black. the bus had wound its way up a hill and I knew I was high up, but I had no idea where. I met the principal's husband and he took me straight to his wife. They were a very Italian couple - lovely and incredibly hospitable, but you only needed to look at them once to tell where they came from.
The principal was an incredibly tall woman. She was quite formidable. Still she was lovely and escorted me directly to my house. I confess I'd signed up to the course and not really given much of a thought to accommodation; I'd been looking forward to the trips and classes, but it had never occured to me that I wouldn't be spending all my time at the school - most of it, granted, but certainly not all of it.
So the principal took me to my apartment: that too was typically Italian. It had an old wooden door into the building and then I was living one floor up. The principal told me I'd be sharing with three other girls who were all great. Considering this was only my second time in Italy on my own and for the second time I was staying with more people I didn't know, I was grateful that this time, my co-habitants got a glowing review. That said it wouldn't be a very good marketing ploy for the principal to turn round and say, actually the girls seem quite horrible.
Still, I was excited to meet them, and settle in to my new apartment.
The principal showed me to my room. It was down a corridor, past the kitchen on the left and the bathroom on the right. There were two bedrooms, one to the left and one right at the end of the corridor. Mine was straight ahead. We knocked on the door and were admitted by a short-ish girl with brown hair and big brown eyes.
'Hi' she said.
'Hi' I said.
So far so good.
The principal left us to get on.
You'll be pleased to know that the conversation went on and developed and we did get on. For those of you that read my posts avidly, you'll remember that I chose a Pride and Prejudice theme for my last group of friends. This time I think I will choose something a little less high-brow: Desperate Housewives should just about do it.
So I shall call my roommate Gaby. I don't intend for this to be a cheap racist comparison, but Gaby (my roommate) was Portuguese. She was full of a music project she'd just completed in London and the beau that she'd just met. It transpired she was very musical - very into musical theatre - needless to say she had quite a pair of jazz hands on her. But I wasn't in a position to make sweeping judgements after meeting her for five minutes, and if my previous stay in Italy had taught me anything about first impressions, it was to wait before jumping to conclusions.
If I was going to share a room with her for a month it was important that we got on. This was also true for our neighbours in the apartment. I shall delve into some Desperate Housewives history for their pseudonyms: Catherine and Anna (Gaby's niece). These little epithets will all become clear as my story progresses.
I met them that night as well. One was French, the other Belgian. They too seemed nice. Anna, the Belgian girl, seemed quite eccentric but I couldn't exactly talk now.
I went to sleep that night after a mammoth day. After meeting my housemates, the travel trauma had been forgotten as an unpleasant dream. I looked forward, with some apprehension, but forward nonetheless to getting down to business the following day which was to see placement tests and ontroductory classes, but more importantly, it would begin in a cafe where I would meet the rest of my desperate gang.
Showing posts with label train travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label train travel. Show all posts
Wednesday, 8 February 2012
Friday, 3 February 2012
Last Night She Said, 'Oh Baby I Feel So Down'
My friend and I reached Baiardo that evening after my interesting travelling experience. There was just one other person staying there, a guy who was a swimmer by day and an English tutor by night. I shall call him Tom Daly, though he wasn't nearly as irritating.
We raided the food store and got a pan of water on to boil. I say we, I mean we burnt ourselves a lot of times trying to light the gas hob with a lighter and then asked Tom to do it for us. The water took about an hour to boil - plenty of time to catch up. It also gave us time to properly examine our surroundings.
When I'd been there with everyone else it hadn't been appropriate to delve into the nooks and crannies, and I'm glad I only spent one night knowing that there were creatures like this one (left) lurking in the shadows. It was also fun to discover the picture of the funny old man that was on one of the walls. I took a picture of him because he was obviously important to someone...
But what was by far the most bizarre aspect of the house was the staircase. As you can see there is little rhyme or reason to the size of the separate steps so much so that they were probably built before someone invented boring things like rulers and spirit levels. You certainly wouldn't want to fall down those stairs, or catch your toe on the way up... Anyway we ate our fill, whatever our fill was from what we had managed to raid from the food store and we shared even more of our stories as well as reflecting a little on the experience.
It was then that I really regretted my decision to go back to Brescia. Not only had I missed out on banter like finding big curly worms and pictures of funny old men, but I'd also missed out on Cinque Terre, one of the most beautiful places in Italy.
My teaching experience would end the following day and sadly, I ended up leaving with a bittersweet taste in my mouth. So as I went to sleep that night (after chatting with Tom until all hours) I couldn't help feeling that I could have done it better.
We raided the food store and got a pan of water on to boil. I say we, I mean we burnt ourselves a lot of times trying to light the gas hob with a lighter and then asked Tom to do it for us. The water took about an hour to boil - plenty of time to catch up. It also gave us time to properly examine our surroundings.
When I'd been there with everyone else it hadn't been appropriate to delve into the nooks and crannies, and I'm glad I only spent one night knowing that there were creatures like this one (left) lurking in the shadows. It was also fun to discover the picture of the funny old man that was on one of the walls. I took a picture of him because he was obviously important to someone...
But what was by far the most bizarre aspect of the house was the staircase. As you can see there is little rhyme or reason to the size of the separate steps so much so that they were probably built before someone invented boring things like rulers and spirit levels. You certainly wouldn't want to fall down those stairs, or catch your toe on the way up... Anyway we ate our fill, whatever our fill was from what we had managed to raid from the food store and we shared even more of our stories as well as reflecting a little on the experience.It was then that I really regretted my decision to go back to Brescia. Not only had I missed out on banter like finding big curly worms and pictures of funny old men, but I'd also missed out on Cinque Terre, one of the most beautiful places in Italy.
My teaching experience would end the following day and sadly, I ended up leaving with a bittersweet taste in my mouth. So as I went to sleep that night (after chatting with Tom until all hours) I couldn't help feeling that I could have done it better.
Thursday, 2 February 2012
Nudity in Public Places
I left my family in Brescia for the second time on the Monday morning (and this time remembered to stamp my ticket). I had to spend most of the day on Italy's collection of slow trains and I wasn't looking forward to it. I had much to ponder and several changes to make.
I went to Milan (again - who's counting - I make it four times) and despite a person waking me up whilst taking a nap at Milano Centrale, everything was going swimmingly until we got to Genova. I'd been the same route the previous week and I knew I had to change at one of the stations in Genova. The first time I'd gone all the way to the terminus and hopped on my other train no problems. What I hadn't realised was that train had been delayed. This train was not. And I missed it.
Bother.
Well get the next one - you may be saying. It wasn't as easy as that. I had to get to Sanremo for a certain time so that I could get the bus up to Baiardo. Even this wasn't as simple as it sounds. I was meeting one of my friends from Sanremo and we were going up to Baiardo together. Though I would have been ok spending the night in Sanremo, my friend had to go back to Baiardo to collect her stuff as we were both flying out the following afternoon.
Things were about to get tricky.
I hurtled through the station to ask someone when the next train would be, the nice lady at the ticket office told me I should have got off on the stop before. I explained that I knew this and that telling me what I should have done is little use as it's not going to help me get the last bus to Baiardo. (I didn't actually say that, but I would have done if I'd had more time.)
Anyway, she gave me an alternative route via some other place on a train that, for anyone's money, looked more like a bus. I changed in another place I'd never heard of and then again in another place with a population of about four before I was on the train to Sanremo. I was clock-watching avidly - counting down the stops: 'We're not gonna make it!' 'Yes we are!' 'No we're not!' That was a very entertaining conversation I had with myself for about two hours.
I saw the second to last stop and started to get ready. It took ages to get to the next stop and then we went in what was by then a very familiar tunnel - for some reason we'd skipped the previous stop and gone straight to Sanremo. Good job I was paying attention.
I ran down the walkway.
This took some time.
I arrived at the waiting area to greet my friend and we legged it to the bus stop. Ten minutes later we were on the bus to Baiardo and I was glad I had an hour on the bus to calm down.
Now at this juncture I want to share something about the bus to Baiardo. When it's not full of tutors and others affiliated to the company, it's speckled with locals. I don't know what it is about these locals, but several of them seemed a couple of basil leaves short of a ragu.
I was busy catching up with my friend and telling her all about the time that during hide and seek one morning at camp, we'd gone and lost three children at which point it had ceased to be a fun game. Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the locals take their top off.
'It's ok,' I thought, 'it is hot in here.'
I carried on and told my friend about the morning we tried Olly, Olly Octopus on tarmac and in about four rounds we ended up with six injured children. This local caught my eye again.
'Hang on,' I thought, 'he's wearing a bra!'
It transpired this local was a woman. Awkward. Still. No matter and I went on to tell my friend about how my kids had written me a thank you message on my blackboard and had spelt it 'thank yuo'.
'OH MY GOODNESS! THE WOMAN HAS TAKEN HER BRA OFF!'
She was literally changing completely on the bus. I mean what kind of situation means that you have to change the majority of your clothes on a public bus!?
Needless to say that when we got to Baiardo I'd had my fill of Italian public transport...
I went to Milan (again - who's counting - I make it four times) and despite a person waking me up whilst taking a nap at Milano Centrale, everything was going swimmingly until we got to Genova. I'd been the same route the previous week and I knew I had to change at one of the stations in Genova. The first time I'd gone all the way to the terminus and hopped on my other train no problems. What I hadn't realised was that train had been delayed. This train was not. And I missed it.
Bother.
Well get the next one - you may be saying. It wasn't as easy as that. I had to get to Sanremo for a certain time so that I could get the bus up to Baiardo. Even this wasn't as simple as it sounds. I was meeting one of my friends from Sanremo and we were going up to Baiardo together. Though I would have been ok spending the night in Sanremo, my friend had to go back to Baiardo to collect her stuff as we were both flying out the following afternoon.
Things were about to get tricky.
I hurtled through the station to ask someone when the next train would be, the nice lady at the ticket office told me I should have got off on the stop before. I explained that I knew this and that telling me what I should have done is little use as it's not going to help me get the last bus to Baiardo. (I didn't actually say that, but I would have done if I'd had more time.)
Anyway, she gave me an alternative route via some other place on a train that, for anyone's money, looked more like a bus. I changed in another place I'd never heard of and then again in another place with a population of about four before I was on the train to Sanremo. I was clock-watching avidly - counting down the stops: 'We're not gonna make it!' 'Yes we are!' 'No we're not!' That was a very entertaining conversation I had with myself for about two hours.
I saw the second to last stop and started to get ready. It took ages to get to the next stop and then we went in what was by then a very familiar tunnel - for some reason we'd skipped the previous stop and gone straight to Sanremo. Good job I was paying attention.
I ran down the walkway.
This took some time.
I arrived at the waiting area to greet my friend and we legged it to the bus stop. Ten minutes later we were on the bus to Baiardo and I was glad I had an hour on the bus to calm down.
Now at this juncture I want to share something about the bus to Baiardo. When it's not full of tutors and others affiliated to the company, it's speckled with locals. I don't know what it is about these locals, but several of them seemed a couple of basil leaves short of a ragu.
I was busy catching up with my friend and telling her all about the time that during hide and seek one morning at camp, we'd gone and lost three children at which point it had ceased to be a fun game. Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the locals take their top off.
'It's ok,' I thought, 'it is hot in here.'
I carried on and told my friend about the morning we tried Olly, Olly Octopus on tarmac and in about four rounds we ended up with six injured children. This local caught my eye again.
'Hang on,' I thought, 'he's wearing a bra!'
It transpired this local was a woman. Awkward. Still. No matter and I went on to tell my friend about how my kids had written me a thank you message on my blackboard and had spelt it 'thank yuo'.
'OH MY GOODNESS! THE WOMAN HAS TAKEN HER BRA OFF!'
She was literally changing completely on the bus. I mean what kind of situation means that you have to change the majority of your clothes on a public bus!?
Needless to say that when we got to Baiardo I'd had my fill of Italian public transport...
Tuesday, 31 January 2012
We Beat On...
The title from this post comes from the closing lines of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby: 'So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past'. A long way of saying 'keep calm and carry on'.
The Great Gatsby is one of my favourite books. I love how tragically glamorous everything is: Gatsby and Daisy are perfectly formed characters crumbling to pieces in front of the stunning backdrop of the lake. I can't help but get swept along all the way to its terrible conclusion and when I get to the end I can't help but starting again.
But on my camping adventure I wasn't reading F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, I was reading Joseph Conrad's The Secret Agent at the side of a lake in an unknown location, slowly melting due to the intense heat. I wasn't enjoying myself.
We'd left the previous day for our surprise camping adventure. It had taken an age to get to wherever we had got to (I still don't know - if you recognise the pictures, answers on a postcard at the usual address) and because it was so last minute we hadn't pre-booked. We tried all the campsites in the area and drew a massive blank - they were chocca-blocca with Dutch people.
The problem wasn't as grave as you might think (though I would have preferred it to have been so we could have turned round to go back to Brescia); we were in our own home! All we needed to do was park up and everything would be just dandy.
We found a car park and did just that. Now I don't know if you've ever spent a night (or even two) in a box with four other people but I can tell you it's not much fun at all. So the next morning we'd gone lakeside to sunbathe and chillax. We can now pick up from where I left it earlier...
I wasn't having much fun at all. I would read a bit then look out at the view: something about it haunted me.
I don't know what it was about that view in particular, but I was struck by that same feeling I had when I read The Great Gatsby. In my head the lake where Gatsby lives is pretty much identical to this so I suppose it's no surprise that I ended up linking the two together.
That might not be all. The 1% of my subconscious that regretted my decision was growing by the minute and I was hit with the inevitability that Gatsby and Daisy were subjected to. I realised I'd made a mistake and I should have gone to Cinque Terre with Kitty and the others. Don't get me wrong. I love my family and I was really touched by their kindness, but this wasn't what I really wanted.
The location may have been stunning, but I couldn't relax. I was starting to miss Kitty and the others and realised that I'd made the wrong decision. It was at that point I resolved never to take the easy way out again on my year abroad.
On the way back to Brescia I was a little desperate. Everyone was a little tired and short-tempered due to the lack of sleep and a proper house. I closed my eyes and thought of the song Whatever by Oasis. I love this song and much like The Great Gatsby it struck a familiar chord with me at the time: 'I'm free to do whatever I, whatever I choose and I'll sing the blues if I want'. In that moment the song appeared on the radio of the campervan. My family didn't register and so I sat there enjoying it and coming to terms with my poor decision.
That evening I showered and got myself ready to leave the next morning. By then I was ready to leave. I hadn't been before, but at least I could go without regretting it, which may have counterbalanced the regret of not going to Cinque Terre.
The Great Gatsby is one of my favourite books. I love how tragically glamorous everything is: Gatsby and Daisy are perfectly formed characters crumbling to pieces in front of the stunning backdrop of the lake. I can't help but get swept along all the way to its terrible conclusion and when I get to the end I can't help but starting again.
But on my camping adventure I wasn't reading F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, I was reading Joseph Conrad's The Secret Agent at the side of a lake in an unknown location, slowly melting due to the intense heat. I wasn't enjoying myself.
We'd left the previous day for our surprise camping adventure. It had taken an age to get to wherever we had got to (I still don't know - if you recognise the pictures, answers on a postcard at the usual address) and because it was so last minute we hadn't pre-booked. We tried all the campsites in the area and drew a massive blank - they were chocca-blocca with Dutch people.
The problem wasn't as grave as you might think (though I would have preferred it to have been so we could have turned round to go back to Brescia); we were in our own home! All we needed to do was park up and everything would be just dandy.
We found a car park and did just that. Now I don't know if you've ever spent a night (or even two) in a box with four other people but I can tell you it's not much fun at all. So the next morning we'd gone lakeside to sunbathe and chillax. We can now pick up from where I left it earlier...
I wasn't having much fun at all. I would read a bit then look out at the view: something about it haunted me.
On the way back to Brescia I was a little desperate. Everyone was a little tired and short-tempered due to the lack of sleep and a proper house. I closed my eyes and thought of the song Whatever by Oasis. I love this song and much like The Great Gatsby it struck a familiar chord with me at the time: 'I'm free to do whatever I, whatever I choose and I'll sing the blues if I want'. In that moment the song appeared on the radio of the campervan. My family didn't register and so I sat there enjoying it and coming to terms with my poor decision.
That evening I showered and got myself ready to leave the next morning. By then I was ready to leave. I hadn't been before, but at least I could go without regretting it, which may have counterbalanced the regret of not going to Cinque Terre.
Monday, 30 January 2012
Surprise! Surprise!
The night after the restaurant debacle had been interesting. Kitty had a bit of, let's say digestive discomfort and she was up a few times in the night. She admitted it was probably psychological, but she was still up four or five times to try and rid herself of the rank profiteroles.
The following morning we headed en masse down to the station. We went back through the impossibly long tunnel and split into two parties: to Monaco and Cinque Terre, to Brescia. When I say we split into two parties, everyone went the other way and I was the only one heading back towards the east.
I boarded my train and waved to my friends as we accelerated out of the station. It was a proper goodbye because I never saw them again. We kept in touch sporadically on the internet, but if you spend a month with someone and it's another month before you next speak to them, that's like your whole acquantaince all over again. It's not long before you realise that all you ever got to see was a snapshot of their lives.
I had a lot of time to ponder this on the train over to Brescia. I had to change at Milan - yep there again - and was in Brescia by early afternoon. I was in minor discomfort due to my interesting sunburn, so I arrived in 30 degree heat wearing my jumper so my backpack didn't chafe. I was roasting.
My host dad collected me from the train station and I had my first ride on a scooter. To date it's still my only ride on a scooter. Apart from nearly flipping off the back due to the incredible weight of my backpack, I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. He took me to my host mum's work as she only had half an hour left on her shift. Then he went back to work.
It was so nice to see my family again. They are such wonderful people and I was glad I could spend more time with them. When I texted to ask them if I could come back, they said they had a surprise for me. I was intrigued to find out what this might be. I didn't have long to wait.
We were going for a weekend away in the campervan.
At this point I should just interject and say I don't really do camping. I like home comforts - running water, television, somewhere I can plug my laptop, and a proper toilet. Camping doesn't afford you these luxuries. Still I was going to be open-minded about my pending experience. I was touched that my fam were going over and above to give me the best time possible.
We were to go in a campervan that they'd borrowed off a friend as a kind of trial to see if they should buy one. We were also going to a different region of lakes. It was going to be epic.
So as I snuggled down in bed that night I was excited to be back and happy with my decision. Nearly. There was 1% of me that regretted the decision I'd made and wished I was in Cinque Terre. I ignored it and went to sleep.
The following morning we headed en masse down to the station. We went back through the impossibly long tunnel and split into two parties: to Monaco and Cinque Terre, to Brescia. When I say we split into two parties, everyone went the other way and I was the only one heading back towards the east.
I boarded my train and waved to my friends as we accelerated out of the station. It was a proper goodbye because I never saw them again. We kept in touch sporadically on the internet, but if you spend a month with someone and it's another month before you next speak to them, that's like your whole acquantaince all over again. It's not long before you realise that all you ever got to see was a snapshot of their lives.
I had a lot of time to ponder this on the train over to Brescia. I had to change at Milan - yep there again - and was in Brescia by early afternoon. I was in minor discomfort due to my interesting sunburn, so I arrived in 30 degree heat wearing my jumper so my backpack didn't chafe. I was roasting.
My host dad collected me from the train station and I had my first ride on a scooter. To date it's still my only ride on a scooter. Apart from nearly flipping off the back due to the incredible weight of my backpack, I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. He took me to my host mum's work as she only had half an hour left on her shift. Then he went back to work.
It was so nice to see my family again. They are such wonderful people and I was glad I could spend more time with them. When I texted to ask them if I could come back, they said they had a surprise for me. I was intrigued to find out what this might be. I didn't have long to wait.
We were going for a weekend away in the campervan.
At this point I should just interject and say I don't really do camping. I like home comforts - running water, television, somewhere I can plug my laptop, and a proper toilet. Camping doesn't afford you these luxuries. Still I was going to be open-minded about my pending experience. I was touched that my fam were going over and above to give me the best time possible.
We were to go in a campervan that they'd borrowed off a friend as a kind of trial to see if they should buy one. We were also going to a different region of lakes. It was going to be epic.
So as I snuggled down in bed that night I was excited to be back and happy with my decision. Nearly. There was 1% of me that regretted the decision I'd made and wished I was in Cinque Terre. I ignored it and went to sleep.
Saturday, 28 January 2012
Jimmy'll Fix It
So Thursday morning was to see a massive exodus from Baiardo and indeed Sanremo. Kitty and the other Canadians were off to Cinque Terre, my Sanremo roommate was off to Monaco with her new friends, and some people were even headed for home.
As it was to be our final night altogether we decided to have dinner together. At this point I feel it is appropriate to tell you a little something about Jimmy...
If you have ever been to Baiardo, you will have met or heard of Jimmy: he is a part of Baiardo folklore. He is not Italian. I don't think he can even speak Italian. He is a handy-man. From London. With very few teeth. Now Jimmy is a great person - he fixes stuff and so we had no reason to believe that he wouldn't fix our dinner plans.
'Now Jimmy' we said. 'We all want to have dinner together. Can you fix it for us?'
'Sure' says Jimmy.
'We have two very simple demands: cheap, and no set-menu.'
'No problem.'
Jim was going to fix it.
So that evening we met Jimmy and he walked us down to the restaurant. It looked a bit ropey, to be fair. We sat down and I got used to my surroundings.
'Yep,' I say to myself, 'that is a stuffed squirrel behind me, just above a large hunk of cured meat. Nice.'
Our first course was brought to us.
Hang on.
Our first course was brought to us? But we didn't want a set menu. Oh well. It was probably the cheapest option. Jimmy knows what he's doing.
The first course was pasta in a sauce - vegetables and the like. It wasn't the best I'd ever eaten, but it was passable. Oh well, it's only the first course. We were soon brought the second course - bolognese. Lovely. I take a mouthful. Not so lovely. There is a hum that goes round the table - don't eat the meat.
So far, not so good.
We were brought the meat dish next. We were understandably a little tentative at this moment in time. We passed it round - 'Oh, rabbit, my favourite.' Now I did have rabbit with the Brescian banquet my host family treated me to and it was ok. This was not. It was incredibly dry. I put a dollop of vegetables on my plate to moisten it a little. I have never eaten something so repulsive. I kept eating them as I couldn't work out how it was possible for a courgette to taste that bad.
By this point we were on a downhill spiral. Then dessert came. We realised that we'd been looking at dessert all evening. Next to the cured ham and the squirrel was a tray of profiteroles. No, not refridgerated, and yes, covered in a selection of neighbourhood flies - the very same flies that we watched crawling over stray cats and dogs outside.
Boke.
We ate as much as we could stomach so we wouldn't go hungry and then asked Jimmy if we could settle up. Jimmy has a word with the restaurant owner and walks over to us apologetically.
'That'll be 15Eur. Each.'
Silence fell in the restaurant and then the murmurings began: 'I can't pay that'; '15Eur! He must be joking!' and so on. I was sitting at the end of the table with Kitty and the other Canadians. We made eye-contact and decided against saying anything. The murmurings became louder and the tension began to augment. This was not going to end well.
Kitty made an executive decision.
'Let's pay.'
We looked at her.
'We ate their food, so let's pay for it. It's so disrespectful to refuse - what kind of impression are we giving!?'
I agreed with her and could tell things were about to get nasty. We collated 60Eur between us, handed it to Jimmy and left.
I believe at that point the poo hit the fan.
Thankfully we were long gone at that point, walking back to our house with a smashing view to boot.
We watched this stunning sight and hung around for the other diners to return. It transpired that most people had left within a few minutes of us, putting down any pile of cash - 5Eur, 10Eur, 0Eur... The other tutors couldn't understand why we had paid up - Kitty played the disrespectful line; I said that although we hadn't got what we wanted, we'd paid for an experience we certainly wouldn't forget - when Jimmy didn't fix it.
As it was to be our final night altogether we decided to have dinner together. At this point I feel it is appropriate to tell you a little something about Jimmy...
If you have ever been to Baiardo, you will have met or heard of Jimmy: he is a part of Baiardo folklore. He is not Italian. I don't think he can even speak Italian. He is a handy-man. From London. With very few teeth. Now Jimmy is a great person - he fixes stuff and so we had no reason to believe that he wouldn't fix our dinner plans.
'Now Jimmy' we said. 'We all want to have dinner together. Can you fix it for us?'
'Sure' says Jimmy.
'We have two very simple demands: cheap, and no set-menu.'
'No problem.'
Jim was going to fix it.
So that evening we met Jimmy and he walked us down to the restaurant. It looked a bit ropey, to be fair. We sat down and I got used to my surroundings.
'Yep,' I say to myself, 'that is a stuffed squirrel behind me, just above a large hunk of cured meat. Nice.'
Our first course was brought to us.
Hang on.
Our first course was brought to us? But we didn't want a set menu. Oh well. It was probably the cheapest option. Jimmy knows what he's doing.
The first course was pasta in a sauce - vegetables and the like. It wasn't the best I'd ever eaten, but it was passable. Oh well, it's only the first course. We were soon brought the second course - bolognese. Lovely. I take a mouthful. Not so lovely. There is a hum that goes round the table - don't eat the meat.
So far, not so good.
We were brought the meat dish next. We were understandably a little tentative at this moment in time. We passed it round - 'Oh, rabbit, my favourite.' Now I did have rabbit with the Brescian banquet my host family treated me to and it was ok. This was not. It was incredibly dry. I put a dollop of vegetables on my plate to moisten it a little. I have never eaten something so repulsive. I kept eating them as I couldn't work out how it was possible for a courgette to taste that bad.
By this point we were on a downhill spiral. Then dessert came. We realised that we'd been looking at dessert all evening. Next to the cured ham and the squirrel was a tray of profiteroles. No, not refridgerated, and yes, covered in a selection of neighbourhood flies - the very same flies that we watched crawling over stray cats and dogs outside.
Boke.
We ate as much as we could stomach so we wouldn't go hungry and then asked Jimmy if we could settle up. Jimmy has a word with the restaurant owner and walks over to us apologetically.
'That'll be 15Eur. Each.'
Silence fell in the restaurant and then the murmurings began: 'I can't pay that'; '15Eur! He must be joking!' and so on. I was sitting at the end of the table with Kitty and the other Canadians. We made eye-contact and decided against saying anything. The murmurings became louder and the tension began to augment. This was not going to end well.
Kitty made an executive decision.
'Let's pay.'
We looked at her.
'We ate their food, so let's pay for it. It's so disrespectful to refuse - what kind of impression are we giving!?'
I agreed with her and could tell things were about to get nasty. We collated 60Eur between us, handed it to Jimmy and left.
I believe at that point the poo hit the fan.
Thankfully we were long gone at that point, walking back to our house with a smashing view to boot.
Friday, 27 January 2012
No Regrets...
There are only a few buses a day to and from Baiardo. It is potentially the only place in the world where you are completely relaxed one minute as you have breakfast looking out over a beautiful view and then suddenly there is sheer panic as you might miss the only bus down to Sanremo.
Because of this, I was treated to an early get up the following morning as it only really takes one day to do Baiardo. Even the prospect of getting further with Joseph Conrad's The Secret Agent couldn't tempt me to stay and sunbathe any longer.
Kitty and I therefore took the bus down to Sanremo to spend the day doing fun things. Shopping was a high priority.
At this point I am going to tell you about my biggest regret of that whole trip.
Kitty, from Canada, had been spending the extra weekend I spent with my host family with a couple from her native land. So much had they got on, that they decided to go to Cinque Terre together on Thursday morning. Cinque Terre is a beautiful stretch of coastal land, spanning 5 (cinque) villages (terre - sort of). I had been invited on this trip. Kitty had organised accommodation and trains and all I had to do was say yes.
I said no.
I don't know why I said no. Now I would say yes, yes, yes - try holding me back. But back then - when I was only at the start of my adventure, something crept inside me that told me to go for the safer option.
The safer option was by far and away the most complex. It was not staying in Baiardo. Most of the tutor population was leaving for one reason or another and I didn't want to be rattling round on my own. One of my Sanremo friends was coming at the weekend, but I was facing Thursday and Friday on my own.
So I took the easy option. I texted my host mum and asked her if I could come back. She couldn't have been happier. She was thrilled that I wanted to return and sample some more of her hospitality: to be honest, I felt instantly relieved.
I think Kitty was a bit bummed at this. Not at me personally, but because she would be spending a couple of days with just that - a couple. But I think it was the thought of travelling back to Baiardo alone that made me nervous about it, so instead I decided to go back to Brescia - travelling alone.
The depths of my intellect astound me, they really do...
So that day in Sanremo, as well as buying some harem pants - the first of many - we also bought our train tickets and that was that. My decision had been made, and do you know what, I still haven't managed to make it to Cinque Terre...
Because of this, I was treated to an early get up the following morning as it only really takes one day to do Baiardo. Even the prospect of getting further with Joseph Conrad's The Secret Agent couldn't tempt me to stay and sunbathe any longer.
Kitty and I therefore took the bus down to Sanremo to spend the day doing fun things. Shopping was a high priority.
At this point I am going to tell you about my biggest regret of that whole trip.
Kitty, from Canada, had been spending the extra weekend I spent with my host family with a couple from her native land. So much had they got on, that they decided to go to Cinque Terre together on Thursday morning. Cinque Terre is a beautiful stretch of coastal land, spanning 5 (cinque) villages (terre - sort of). I had been invited on this trip. Kitty had organised accommodation and trains and all I had to do was say yes.
I said no.
I don't know why I said no. Now I would say yes, yes, yes - try holding me back. But back then - when I was only at the start of my adventure, something crept inside me that told me to go for the safer option.
The safer option was by far and away the most complex. It was not staying in Baiardo. Most of the tutor population was leaving for one reason or another and I didn't want to be rattling round on my own. One of my Sanremo friends was coming at the weekend, but I was facing Thursday and Friday on my own.
So I took the easy option. I texted my host mum and asked her if I could come back. She couldn't have been happier. She was thrilled that I wanted to return and sample some more of her hospitality: to be honest, I felt instantly relieved.
I think Kitty was a bit bummed at this. Not at me personally, but because she would be spending a couple of days with just that - a couple. But I think it was the thought of travelling back to Baiardo alone that made me nervous about it, so instead I decided to go back to Brescia - travelling alone.
The depths of my intellect astound me, they really do...
So that day in Sanremo, as well as buying some harem pants - the first of many - we also bought our train tickets and that was that. My decision had been made, and do you know what, I still haven't managed to make it to Cinque Terre...
Thursday, 19 January 2012
They're Trying to Make Me Go To Rehab and I Say 'Yes, Yes, Yes...'
The Monday brought a really emotional goodbye at the train station in Brescia. There were tears and vows to come back as soon as I could manage. In all the kerfuffle I forgot to stamp my train ticket. Now for those of you that don't know, the yellow boxes scattered all over Italian train stations are so you can validate your ticket for the journey you're taking - if not you could use your ticket again and again and that tends to be... frowned upon, let's say... They come down really heavily on people that do this - to the tune of 50Eur.
I remembered just as I was pulling out of the station.
Oh.
When the guard came along the train I was ready to pay. It was my mistake and I should have known better. I hand him my ticket. He speaks to me in French. I speak to him in French - though what I need right now isn't a chance to brush up on things I learnt at A level, but I ran with it. He realises I'm not French and tries again in English. I tell him I'm very sorry. He smiles apologetically and validates it for me. 'Don't do it again' he says. I could have kissed him.
The rest of the [very long] journey passed without incident. I arrived in Sanremo that afternoon and met up with Kitty outside Grom - the world's BEST ice cream parlour. (This won't be the first time we'll hear about Grom.)
I also ran into my old Sanremo roommate outside another ice cream parlour and we all traipsed to the bus station to get up to Baiardo. You can see Sanremo from Baiardo, but it takes an hour to get there because, let's be honest, you're scaling a mountain.
We got there early evening and it was beyond belief. It clings to the top of a hill and to your left is Italy, to your right is France. It is quite simply wonderful. Cars are a joke there, so there is no roar of Alfas or Fiats, the population is getting on a bit and so the pace of life is slow. I don't know why rockstars and filmstars don't go there for rehab, because it would be the perfect place.
I remembered just as I was pulling out of the station.
Oh.
When the guard came along the train I was ready to pay. It was my mistake and I should have known better. I hand him my ticket. He speaks to me in French. I speak to him in French - though what I need right now isn't a chance to brush up on things I learnt at A level, but I ran with it. He realises I'm not French and tries again in English. I tell him I'm very sorry. He smiles apologetically and validates it for me. 'Don't do it again' he says. I could have kissed him.
The rest of the [very long] journey passed without incident. I arrived in Sanremo that afternoon and met up with Kitty outside Grom - the world's BEST ice cream parlour. (This won't be the first time we'll hear about Grom.)
I also ran into my old Sanremo roommate outside another ice cream parlour and we all traipsed to the bus station to get up to Baiardo. You can see Sanremo from Baiardo, but it takes an hour to get there because, let's be honest, you're scaling a mountain.
We got there early evening and it was beyond belief. It clings to the top of a hill and to your left is Italy, to your right is France. It is quite simply wonderful. Cars are a joke there, so there is no roar of Alfas or Fiats, the population is getting on a bit and so the pace of life is slow. I don't know why rockstars and filmstars don't go there for rehab, because it would be the perfect place.
Wednesday, 18 January 2012
Killing Two Birds With One Healthy Dollop of Polenta
About lunchtime on the Saturday, we headed off for my special weekend in the mountains. The whole of my family was coming as well as my host dad's sister and brother-in-law and several of their friends. We were going to be a merry party indeed.
The house belonged to the brother-in-law and it was very traditional as well as very beautiful. It was nestled in a valley inamongst the furry hills of Val Trompia (funny, I know) and beyond. In a way it was one of life's great missed opportunities as if it had been built just a little higher the views would have been really incredible; anyway it wasn't. So we move on.
There was loads of nature and other miscellaneous pretty things to look at and at last I could get down to some proper relaxation. I don't regret a second of my time in Concesio, but after two weeks of camp after having never taught before, this was just what the doctor ordered.
The family welcomed me in, gave me a room and as it was Italy we probably sent out for pizza for dinner - really good pizza too. Come on, all pizza in Italy is good...
(At this point I'm going to interject with another anecdote. One evening I went with my fam to visit my host mum's brother. He lives in a beautiful plain just beyond Val Trompia in a wine region. We went so I could sample some pizza the like of which "I would have never experienced before". Apparently it had a thicker base - Italian pizzas are known for being crispy thin, whereas American pizzas are the thicker ones. Anyway, this revolutionary new pizza, it transpired, was an American pizza. That said I didn't have the heart to tell them it was the kind of pizza we buy in the supermarkets...)
So, back to the mountain house... It was chilly that night - July it may have been, but in the mountains, there's always a bit of a nip in the air at night. Keeping the food-y theme, I woke up the following morning to the smell of something really good cooking. That morning my host mum and the antagonistic pregnant sister (I don't blame her, it must have been 35 degrees) had got up at 7am to prepare a traditional Brescian Sunday banquet. I love my food - I'll try anything once, and fortunately, that mantra came into its own...
The centrepiece of this magnificent banquet was uccellini - baby birds. Yum. They'd been cooked all day and instead of eating them warts an' all, you ate them bones an' all, oh, and the beaks. As I was the guest of honour, I got three to myself. Goody. There was a heathly dollop of polenta and a very rich creamy sauce. I helped myself to a selection of vegetables and then eyed the uccellini again.
'You used to be a sparrow. In fact you still look like one.' I said to myself...
There was no way I could refuse to eat them and it would have been grossly offensive to their strict ideas of hospitality. So I ate them. All. (Except the beaks. That was too far.)
You know what... they tasted good. They tasted even better with the polenta, and they were delicious with the rich creamy sauce. I'm converted. Completely. I take pot shots at sparrows in my garden in the hopes I can re-create it. Jokes. But I'd definitely have them again.
So after a shaky start to dinner, I had a wonderful afternoon: amazing food and I was taught to play an unusual Brescian card game. I tried really hard to make the most of it all, as the following day, I was moving on.
There was loads of nature and other miscellaneous pretty things to look at and at last I could get down to some proper relaxation. I don't regret a second of my time in Concesio, but after two weeks of camp after having never taught before, this was just what the doctor ordered.
The family welcomed me in, gave me a room and as it was Italy we probably sent out for pizza for dinner - really good pizza too. Come on, all pizza in Italy is good...
(At this point I'm going to interject with another anecdote. One evening I went with my fam to visit my host mum's brother. He lives in a beautiful plain just beyond Val Trompia in a wine region. We went so I could sample some pizza the like of which "I would have never experienced before". Apparently it had a thicker base - Italian pizzas are known for being crispy thin, whereas American pizzas are the thicker ones. Anyway, this revolutionary new pizza, it transpired, was an American pizza. That said I didn't have the heart to tell them it was the kind of pizza we buy in the supermarkets...)
'You used to be a sparrow. In fact you still look like one.' I said to myself...
There was no way I could refuse to eat them and it would have been grossly offensive to their strict ideas of hospitality. So I ate them. All. (Except the beaks. That was too far.)
You know what... they tasted good. They tasted even better with the polenta, and they were delicious with the rich creamy sauce. I'm converted. Completely. I take pot shots at sparrows in my garden in the hopes I can re-create it. Jokes. But I'd definitely have them again.
So after a shaky start to dinner, I had a wonderful afternoon: amazing food and I was taught to play an unusual Brescian card game. I tried really hard to make the most of it all, as the following day, I was moving on.
Monday, 16 January 2012
All Good Things Come to an End
All in all my first camp was a bit of a nightmare. I had a class containing a child who spent the majority of his time on the desk and not sitting quietly on his chair; my final show was based on a highly complex story my kids had told about the Loch Ness Monster - to this day I'm not entirely sure where they got it from; things had got a little strained between Wickham and Lydia and the rest of us; and I still had very little idea what I was doing.
I knew that I probably wouldn't choose to do the programme again - just because it was highly stressful and only made palatable by my amazing family. I didn't want to risk having a bad camp and an equally bad family. So with this in mind, I made my peace with teaching and I taught my last class, resigned to the fact that it would be just that - my last class.
(For those that enjoy irony, you might want to read about what happens one year on...)
Therefore, with the Loch Ness Monster play still ringing in my ears, I left the school and went home with my family. Some of the other tutors were moving onto new camps the following morning, Kitty, Lydia and myself were finished (in more ways than one). We'd only signed up to a 2-week teaching contract after orientation, but we could stay in a little village (part-owned by the man who pulled the strings at the company) for another week if we wanted a little holiday.
Kitty and Lydia decided that this is where they were headed. As the fortnight had gone on, I actually got really close to Kitty, even though my first impression was that we weren't really that compatible. I too wanted to go with them, but I also wanted to spend some more time with my amazing family.
In the interests of killing two birds with one stone - watch out for the birds in the next post - I thought that if I ask for another weekend with my family, I can train over to Sanremo on the Monday and then meet up with Kitty and head on up to this mythical mountain-top village with her. That way I didn't need to lug my stuff over with everyone else and I could say a proper goodbye to my fam.
I put it to them. They were thrilled that I wanted to stay a bit longer. I, as you may remember, am more than happy to just relax. My family operated using a different philosophy and so decided that my last weekend with them should be special. (I wanted to stress to them that it had all been special - the Garda road trip, the out-of-body experience of watching X:Men Origins: Wolverine at the castle in Brescia, embarrassing myself on two wheels in front of a bella vista...) Anyway they wanted to make my last weekend extra special.
We were going into the mountains...
I knew that I probably wouldn't choose to do the programme again - just because it was highly stressful and only made palatable by my amazing family. I didn't want to risk having a bad camp and an equally bad family. So with this in mind, I made my peace with teaching and I taught my last class, resigned to the fact that it would be just that - my last class.
(For those that enjoy irony, you might want to read about what happens one year on...)
Therefore, with the Loch Ness Monster play still ringing in my ears, I left the school and went home with my family. Some of the other tutors were moving onto new camps the following morning, Kitty, Lydia and myself were finished (in more ways than one). We'd only signed up to a 2-week teaching contract after orientation, but we could stay in a little village (part-owned by the man who pulled the strings at the company) for another week if we wanted a little holiday.
Kitty and Lydia decided that this is where they were headed. As the fortnight had gone on, I actually got really close to Kitty, even though my first impression was that we weren't really that compatible. I too wanted to go with them, but I also wanted to spend some more time with my amazing family.
In the interests of killing two birds with one stone - watch out for the birds in the next post - I thought that if I ask for another weekend with my family, I can train over to Sanremo on the Monday and then meet up with Kitty and head on up to this mythical mountain-top village with her. That way I didn't need to lug my stuff over with everyone else and I could say a proper goodbye to my fam.
I put it to them. They were thrilled that I wanted to stay a bit longer. I, as you may remember, am more than happy to just relax. My family operated using a different philosophy and so decided that my last weekend with them should be special. (I wanted to stress to them that it had all been special - the Garda road trip, the out-of-body experience of watching X:Men Origins: Wolverine at the castle in Brescia, embarrassing myself on two wheels in front of a bella vista...) Anyway they wanted to make my last weekend extra special.
We were going into the mountains...
Thursday, 12 January 2012
Never Work with Children or Animals
Camp always gives the most entertaining tales and reaffirms in head of the teacher that it is never a good idea to work with children, let alone animals. There are a couple of stories from my first camp that I don't think I will ever forget...
Mr Darcy's Gift
At the end of the fist week we said goodbye to some of the kids. Seaside holidays and mountain treks meant that for even the most conscientious of students couldn't stay the full two weeks. Now the Italian hospitality is a funny beast. In the same way that some Italian Mammas will be mortally offended if you offer to help with the washing up, some families believe that helping their child in any way deserves a little thank you.
Gifts can come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. I've had hospitality as a gift - staying a few extra days with a family; I've been sent with care packages on long train journeys; I've been given coffee, hair products, books and even a dictionary of Italian etymology. None of these compared with the oddity of the gift that Mr Darcy was given.
The mother handed the package over first thing that morning: it was long and tubular. We pestered him enough that he decided to open it at lunchtime - and just in time too! Mr Darcy had been given extra-long spaghetti. Useful.
Tourist guides I can understand, even coffee and a commemorative notepad - all these things can be used in the moment, and packed neatly into a suitcase. A pack of 1m long spaghetti does not fit into this category. We were all travelling light, but Mr Darcy, on his journey out of Brescia had an extra addition to the sleeping bag holder at the top of his rucksack. Needless to say the other occupants of the train carriage weren't too impressed with the generosity of the child's mother...
Mr Darcy's Gift
At the end of the fist week we said goodbye to some of the kids. Seaside holidays and mountain treks meant that for even the most conscientious of students couldn't stay the full two weeks. Now the Italian hospitality is a funny beast. In the same way that some Italian Mammas will be mortally offended if you offer to help with the washing up, some families believe that helping their child in any way deserves a little thank you.
Gifts can come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. I've had hospitality as a gift - staying a few extra days with a family; I've been sent with care packages on long train journeys; I've been given coffee, hair products, books and even a dictionary of Italian etymology. None of these compared with the oddity of the gift that Mr Darcy was given.
The mother handed the package over first thing that morning: it was long and tubular. We pestered him enough that he decided to open it at lunchtime - and just in time too! Mr Darcy had been given extra-long spaghetti. Useful.
Tourist guides I can understand, even coffee and a commemorative notepad - all these things can be used in the moment, and packed neatly into a suitcase. A pack of 1m long spaghetti does not fit into this category. We were all travelling light, but Mr Darcy, on his journey out of Brescia had an extra addition to the sleeping bag holder at the top of his rucksack. Needless to say the other occupants of the train carriage weren't too impressed with the generosity of the child's mother...
Monday, 26 September 2011
Heading East
On the Friday of orientation we were put in groups and told where we'd be going. Despite the churning rumour mill, everyone got a place, including Jack and Jill... I was off with two girls that in honour of Pride and Prejudice we shall call Kitty and Lydia. I had spent very little time with them during the week and I had a feeling that Kitty was going to take it very seriously and Lydia, well, wasn't. I was half right (more on that later).
Although we were by ourselves in a compartment on the 9am train east from Sanremo, we'd left as a mass exodus of tutors so every now and then a familiar face would stop by. A short while later Lydia scarpered to watch Shrek 2 with 'her friends'.
Lydia was a funny one. She was stick thin, like properly stick thin, like skeletal, like a bit gross. She was born in Malta, but was really English, and studied in Birmingham. Along this confused family tree were some Italian grandparents, giving her a reasonable grasp of the language. Despite this, when an elderly couple entered the carriage, wanting to sit in their rightful seats - one of which Lydia was occupying (or, to be precise, a third of which Lydia was occupying) - I've never seen so much huffing: you'd have thought it was a steam train...
I actually thought the couple were very polite about it all considering the Italians can get flared up so easily, but Lydia, who seemed incapable of working out the seating plan stuck to the wall exploded (or imploded as she didn't actually go on and make a scene). Not much longer into the journey she had answered the call of Shrek.
Now I love a petulant teenage display of insolence as much as the next person, but I could see that we probably weren't going to be the best of friends forever and ever. I was just glad she ran off so she could moan at someone else.
Kitty, however, was much harder to read; we did the polite conversations, the awkward silences, nothing that will really help you to get to know someone. She didn't seem to fit into the stereotype I'd given her and in true Pride and Prejudice style, I realised that my first impression may have been wrong.
The only time I'd really spoken to her had been in a group activity earlier in the week when she'd shouted down one of my ideas in favour of one of hers, which turned out to be a bit rubbish. But after my reassessment on the train, I decided I would get to know her a little better after placing her into a Stereotype-Tupperware and putting on the air-tight seal. I suppose I considered her a little incompetant; both Lydia and I spoke Italian and seemed to be a little more Europe-savvy than Kitty (who was from Canada).
We changed trains in Milan - my first trip through Milan station (please make a note, it will not be the last), and, with a reduced number of tutors, started heading towards Brescia.
Although we were by ourselves in a compartment on the 9am train east from Sanremo, we'd left as a mass exodus of tutors so every now and then a familiar face would stop by. A short while later Lydia scarpered to watch Shrek 2 with 'her friends'.
Lydia was a funny one. She was stick thin, like properly stick thin, like skeletal, like a bit gross. She was born in Malta, but was really English, and studied in Birmingham. Along this confused family tree were some Italian grandparents, giving her a reasonable grasp of the language. Despite this, when an elderly couple entered the carriage, wanting to sit in their rightful seats - one of which Lydia was occupying (or, to be precise, a third of which Lydia was occupying) - I've never seen so much huffing: you'd have thought it was a steam train...
I actually thought the couple were very polite about it all considering the Italians can get flared up so easily, but Lydia, who seemed incapable of working out the seating plan stuck to the wall exploded (or imploded as she didn't actually go on and make a scene). Not much longer into the journey she had answered the call of Shrek.
Now I love a petulant teenage display of insolence as much as the next person, but I could see that we probably weren't going to be the best of friends forever and ever. I was just glad she ran off so she could moan at someone else.
Kitty, however, was much harder to read; we did the polite conversations, the awkward silences, nothing that will really help you to get to know someone. She didn't seem to fit into the stereotype I'd given her and in true Pride and Prejudice style, I realised that my first impression may have been wrong.
The only time I'd really spoken to her had been in a group activity earlier in the week when she'd shouted down one of my ideas in favour of one of hers, which turned out to be a bit rubbish. But after my reassessment on the train, I decided I would get to know her a little better after placing her into a Stereotype-Tupperware and putting on the air-tight seal. I suppose I considered her a little incompetant; both Lydia and I spoke Italian and seemed to be a little more Europe-savvy than Kitty (who was from Canada).
We changed trains in Milan - my first trip through Milan station (please make a note, it will not be the last), and, with a reduced number of tutors, started heading towards Brescia.
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