Italy and Albania via Hong Kong -quirky stuff

HONKY TONK AND NEW YORK

I’d landed on another planet. The local Chinese were all wearing full face masks, they were turning into aliens. In visiting my brother and his wife there, I like most other ex-pats ignored the face mask wearing. It was just too hot and uncomfortable. I knew my multi-vitamin tablets would be adequate protection. And so I survived.

He talked for two hours continuously. Furiously. Without water. I didn’t understand a word. He was from Sicily.

President Bush had just announced the go ahead to bomb Iran. New York was to become the most likely terrorist attack centre again. But I was on a mission. I’d never seen New York and I was flying into JFK.

The police swarmed like bees. Armed bees, armed to the nines with large loaded weapons. How will they stop a bomb-blast I thought, shoot bullets at it? I remember the steam billowing out of the roads, just like on Hill Street Blues. I remember the huge hole that was 9/11. Next door attached to temporary fencing sat the painted tiles of school kids who lost there families that day. It was pass over day and a Jewish man with pamphlets asked me if I was Jewish. I said ‘sometimes’. He told me the story about pass over. And now I know it’s not a rugby maneuver. I remember starring down from the empire state building in to the furnace of life that is New York. A sweating, steaming, bulging city. An animal.

I stayed out of the city in Princeton. Driving past, I saw where Einstein lived. Although he wasn’t home the brilliant and beautiful mind of still walked these streets to the University each day.

I took a train to Washington to meet a friend. I saw the most complex dog trial course ever but then realized we were at Arlington Cemetery. The cemetery for America’s war casualties. They had still not worked out who in fact the Unknown Soldier was.

Back in New York I sampled the culture by going to a top comedy club. There was a two drink minimum limit. I’m not a drinker. I took a couple of gin and tonics. I’m riding in a yellow car to midtown, 42^nd and 12^th actually. I tip the driver and walk into ‘Don’t Tell Mama.’ A famous singer-songwriter bar. It’s a two drink minimum. I take a couple more G and T’s. Little did I know they serve triples and little did I know that you don’t feel the effect of spirits for a while. And Then WHAM. It’s 3am, I’ve been enjoying my night listening to these fantastic, talented, under-paid, dime-a-dozen New York talents when I suddenly find myself completely smashed. How did this happen, Oh no. I rub my styly and expensive glasses to make sure this is really happening. They don’t help me. I lurch off my tall stool and head for the toilets. I lock myself in and my head is reeling. I vomit everywhere. But I’m a cool customer. I steal myself and sit on the loo. I shut my eyes and try to ride the storm. My head is whooshing round on a violent roller-coaster. I manage to stay on the seat somehow. I screw my eyes tight shut to lessen the spin. I chuck again. I’m not sure where. Round and round I go, it’s the violent ferris-wheel that you can’t get off. How did this happen I try to ask myself again. I got spiked, that’s it, this is America, the fuckers, someone spiked my drinks. After half and hour the ferris wheel slowly comes to some kind of stop. I get off. I’m still staggering. Some bastards vomited all around me. I step back into the bar. I breathe but I can’t see anything. Shit, where are my glasses. I’m as blind as Mr. Magoo. I retrace my steps back to the bathroom. I scour the place with my blind blurry eyes. I get help, but no one can find them. My mind whirrs back to a long lost memory. An experience that happened a long time ago. I remember now. I flushed them down the toilet. Brilliant, just brilliant.

I’m on 42^nd at 330am in a drunk New York. Is that blur of murky red a taxi? I clamber in and remember my Hotel address somehow. I put the U.S. notes up to my eyes to give the driver the right change. It’s been a long night.

My only back up glasses are sunglasses. So it’s daytime and I’m on the plane to Rome via London with my cool sunnies. You can do this in America. I guess that’s what you do in Italy anyway; you buy some cool Italian eye-wear.

ROMING

I hit Rome, I think, ‘what the fuck am I doing?’ I had a dream and now I’m in Italy. Okay, so I have two non-blood distant Italian relations I’ve never met. I’m dialing Nunzio’s number, ‘Boungiorno, dimme.’ ‘Boungiorno, I reply. Mmm, what else can I say in Italian? Not much. I have a go in Italian but it’s a stalemate. My Italian is shit, and his English is worse. Non-comprehendo. Somehow after ten minutes we establish a pick up point for the next evening. I’m to meet Giuseppina the other cousin. How will I know it’s her? Will I just be taken out by some mafia group and end up as pizza topping? Don’t be ridiculous.

‘Oh, cogina Gene’ (oh cousin Gene) she says and gives me a mama’s squeeze. Vieni, Vieni (come, come) she urges me and we make our way out to the fiat which is part of most families life. Driving like a woman possessed she navigates thru the Roman car maze where the rules are no rules.

They live fairly centrally and like most people live in an apartment. It’s the 8^th and top floor. It’s just bedrooms but is worth million Australian dollars. It’s an expensive city. I’m greeted by the two young sons of 13 and 16 years old. They both try to kiss me, twice! It’s they way they greet and it did surprise me boys, girls, young and old all greet this way. I’d not had to kiss a pimply teenage boy before. Can’t say it will catch on.

We begin a normal five course meal that leaves me feeling like a snake that’s just eaten a wilder beast. And then I’m one of the family. Nunzio arrives and we all kiss again. Nunzio looks like a big Danny Devito. He drives three cars and has three cell phones that ring continuously. He seems to know everyone in Italy. But between his phone conversations we managed to converse a little in our broken languages.

It’s nearly Easter and the cousins invite me to go on holiday with them to the city of birth, Ercolano which is very close to Naples and is the also known as Scavi. It has a buried (and excavated) town that is a major tourist attraction and is similar to Pompeii. Their family house is 100 metres from Scavi.

I’m to stay in the lounge of the mother and sister of Giuseppina. They both live together and speak not a word of English, and speak in a heavy incomprehensible dialect. They are both almost 90 years old.

Really the only thing I could understand was at dinner. They constantly said ‘manga, manga’ to me. This means eat, eat. I was so full again, yet they were trying to suffocate me with more food. I think there sons had left home years ago, and Italian women love to love and feed their families. I was getting ‘food projection’ for the last twenty years.

The mad nonnas were pazzo, crazy. They would shout and argue with each other and were like naughty children often. They shared the same bed. They were they loudest rudest eaters ever. They snort, scoff, spit, make clicking sucking, clacking noises as they rotate chicken bones in their mouths. I was often been covered in sprays of their cibo or food. It’s another generation and a cultural thing. They also followed me round like the mafia. They often burst into my room (and pulled up a chair and just watched me), burst into the toilet, listened in when I was on the phone… I’m not sure what they were on. They would tell the experienced cleaner here what to do and argue ferociously over apparently nothing and then they just carry on as normal. I think the loudest or fastest talker is the winner in this combats.

They were also fervently religious. Praying over all the food they are about to get noisy with. They would listen to a really off-tune crackling and hissing radio station that has religious ceremonies and chant along with it, constantly crossing their fingers across their chests and doing Hail Mary’s. Maybe they were getting more fervent as they are close to heaven, or hell?

The next day we went on some kind of picnic with a big group of their friends. These new and younger people loved me even more, and kept wanting to hold my hand. I couldn’t understand a thing for a while and thought them very odd. After a while I worked it out. They ended up being a bunch of handicapped Italians that this family sometimes took on outings. Maybe they had thought that I was handicapped too and would fit in well with this group- crazy stuff. My name became jeannnnne.

STUDY IN UMBRIA

Back in the relative sanity of Rome, I decide it’s time to begin to explore more of Italy. Now, where was that place I dreamt of? In looking at a map the closest place seemed to be Perugia. This is a very old city that is famous for it’s teaching of Italian to foreigners. The Universita di Stranieri (University for Strangers) was where I enrolled for two months.

The students here were from Slovenia, Mexico, Iceland, Americans (lots of loud ones), Libya, Israel, Japan, Spain, Germany, Mexico, Australia and China. The range of languages flying around at the breaks was astounding. Strangely, many of them spoke little or poor English. So, eventually our main language became a bad version of Italian.

Isa was a marble or marmesa trader from Libya, Africa. Isa was obsessed with the white

American woman and chased them round relentlessly despite his studies. As I spoke English, Isa saw me as his bridge to his television view and dream of easy, sex loving American’s. In Italian he would say to me ‘Gene, tell them I’m a millionaire.’ He stayed on for several months in Italy trying to seduce anything resembling a woman. However, his aggressive and blatant maneuvers were too much for the woman and he eventually went home to his marble world and his five children.

There were several priests in Perugia who are learning the lingua or language as their parishioners in their native countries were often Italian. Some of these priests had to study in Italy for 6 years.

I lived with a very relaxed young Italian lawyer. He was very smooth. Carlo would set off to work at 9.30 am after his strong espresso and biscotti. He would amble back home at 12 for a long lunch and big pasta. He was often accompanied by a range of dashing woman and would disappear into his room with them before eating his favourite number 5 spaghetti.

My flat was normal for Italy which means tiny. Two small rooms and a tiny kitchen which combined as a lounge. It was 2 by 3 meters in size. The toilet ceiling was so low that I had to crook my neck to pee. One of the flat mates was 2 meters alto or tall, so I don’t know

how he managed it.

When you take a flat here, it’s totally unfurnished. That includes no sink,

or kitchen. Strange really.

Coffee is so big in Italy that we only had espresso cups and no tea-cups, yeah not one. So I made about 6 cups of mini-tea in the coffee cup to get my fill. Or I could make one big cup in the pewter gravy jug. Although I used to scold my lips drinking from this. You bad lips you…

As I learnt the basics of the language it became easier to get around, to book tickets, to buy and order food, and to converse. However, it seems there is a threshold you get to with the language. That’s when you can describe your basic life situation, family, friends, country, what you are doing etc. So, after a while you end up repeating this crap to all the different people you meet. You feel child like and that you only have about seven things to say. Then, you hit a point where you don’t want to say this even one more time. Then you have a silent period for a while. You pretend that you are mute and start to just do a few gestures. After being mute for a short period you realize it’s no good and it’s time to learn more language. You have to progress to survive and get the most out of accessing a culture through the language.

WORDS

The mastery of words is at times difficult living in Italy with ostrica meaning oyster, ananis means banana, and avvocato is not something you can eat, it means lawyer. A mele is not a fight but is in fact an apple. Genitori is not what you think, it means parents. ‘These are my genitori, Bob and Mary.’ Zia means aunty, which means I have a Zio Peter.

Arrabiato as in arab mean to be angry and compleanno means birthday. And they call snow white… White snow and the 7 dwarfs.

The basic lesson in Italian... Most words have the same root. Eg. Dorm-ire means sleep, but to change the meaning of the word you change the ending. For example, it’s something like this... I was sleeping is dormovo, you sleep is dormi, we slept is dormiano. Dormant is something else again.

Just to confuse you the Italian vowels are the same as that spoken in Maori in New Zealand. So the ‘e’ is pronounced ‘a’ usually. The ‘i’ is pronounced ‘e’. The ‘u’ is like ‘oo’ in book. I went to a festival in Gubbio recently (pronounce the ‘u’ like ‘oo’ as if the ‘u’ chases the ‘b’ in ‘Gubbio.’ These giant and heavy candles weighing one tonne are raised on floats that are raced around the city all day. Three teams compete and it’s not important who wins. It takes about 14 men to carry the float. The amazing costumes are brightly coloured and tailored in medieval design. The men were often in brightly colored stockings. The festival celebrates all the different working heritages of the people. For example, you may have come from a merchant or trading family. Or you may have come from a tradesmen background.

I also got to see a brutal soccer game which was part of a Florentine festival recently. It was extremely physical and more like a battle. Lots of blood was spilt and it was between different regions within a city. History and tradition run deep.

I’ve noticed a lot of women with scars across their lower necks. I wondered if there is a lot of attempted throat cutting mafia attacks. However, I found out that thyroid and other cancers are common in this region known as Umbria due to the lack of iodine. We are the only landlocked region here of 20 regions throughout Italy. Apparently the over-exposure to iodine near sea-based cities also causes an unusual amount of cancer problems. Television was made up of badly made and acted soaps which are great to learn Italian from but horrendous to watch. The other channels either show football constantly or game shows that show scantily clad women every 30 seconds. The cameraman shooting from her feet up her dress, pausing at the breasts and having a brief shot of her face. A very subtle attempt at clever film making.

The Teletubbies and the Simpson’s here are dubbed in Italian. It sounds ridiculous and is hard to take seriously (because I normally take these shows very seriously). Moretti, the local beer is fantastic, particularly with a genuine thin skinned pizza. Recently some daring Italian thief’s robbed the factory of 300,000 litres of beer. It was pumped into trucks and stolen in the middle of the night. There is a gelato store here where the owner serves with complete style, flair and passion. Completely lost in the moment of serving his gelato customers he dances across the floor, tossing a scoop here, a scoop there, twirling around, throwing the gelato ice-cream high and catching it without looking. Artistry in whatever we do. Magico. Everyone smokes here, it’s ridiculous. You feel like you are always in a fire but there’s no fire engines to be seen. The weather here gets to 40 degrees. So it’s either roasting or there is a storm that is brilliant with lightening and incredible rolling thunder.

On a day trip to Florence I climbed the famous doumo. Whilst there standing directly beneath the bell, it inexplicably rang, it tolled with such a gong that I nearly died! It must have incited a few heart attacks over the years.

JULIO (JULY)

It was dieciasette Lulio (17^th of July), summer, and it was 35 degrees. This is a scorching dry heat. I was being baked alive. It is so hot most people go on holiday around this period. A good time to read. I remember reading a fantastic book called the ‘Life of Pi’, an unlikely but I think true story of how a ship sunk and a boy ended up on a boat with a tiger, a hyena and a gorilla.

So the sunflower season had just passed. Worlds and fields of sunflowers everywhere in the country-side, quite a sight. I thought they only existed on postcards. They all face the same way. I think they decide at the beginning of each season which direction they will decide to face. Some fields decide to face the road and some turn their backs. I would have liked to run wild amongst them but I don’t think the sunflower farmers would be impressed.

*As you know the moda or the fashion is striking here. But I think the cops are best dressed of all. Their smart black trou with their red stripes and silvery hats. They look like actors in this get up and it’s hard to take them seriously somehow.

LONDON

I stayed with Derek an ex prolific womaniser (he is sure he has slept with over 500 woman). He is a laddish over confident British doctor and a most decadent party boy. He is 38 and about to have his first child. It’s hard to imagine him leaving his bachelor like ways. His German partner Iris was away when I arrived. Derek struggled to make a bit of toast and didn’t seem to be sure where the kitchen was. It was all buy-in takeaways and he didn’t even have any English tea which I was desperate for.

We played a game of scrabble to 4am in the morning over 2 bottles of Bordeaux wine. After I won on the last move, there was hell to be paid. He explained to me that he thought I was a simple man from New Zealand and he couldn’t believe he lost to such a man.

In London I was visiting the London mosque which happened to have a service on. So I found myself amongst 2000 people. All of a sudden they are all down on their knees kissing the ground and bowing. I couldn’t just stand there with my camera ogling, so I had to pretend I was one of them. It was like a short form giant yoga class.

BACK IN ITALY

I was getting fruit one day and the shop-keeper screams – ‘non tocare la frutta’... that is ‘don’t touch the fruit.’ And it’s often the case; you can’t touch the fruit, its quite bizarre and a slow way to buy fruit. As I selected some pane (bread), I heard him yelling to another customer, ‘non tocare la frutta...’

Perhaps the most famous festival highlight is the il Palio, the mad horserace around Siena’s gorgeous piazza. The day starts at day at 9am if you want to secure a good spot to see the race. You stand in the hot square for 5 hours to watch a 90 second race. They ride bareback and you can push other riders off. The preliminary race has men racing with swords at full gallop pointing their swords in a mad ritual. Some riders take the bend to fast and crash into the barriers at incredible speeds. Some riders have died in the past. The pomp and parade and ceremony are unmissable. Dazzling displays of beautiful garments and outfits. Bright colours from the 17 different contratas (suburbs) that will compete. There is a lot of pride at stake. A race dating over a 1000 years where many contratas hate each other. The rivalry is fierce. The start is without barriers and so there were 8 false starts before they get away. The horses jostle and rear up. The ear piercing gun goes and they’re off, it’s furious, the horses’ career into each other and around the bends. Someone falls and the bareback horse keeps running. This horse can still potentially win. But Silvro wins it this year and the pride of this contrata bursts forth. The people jump on to the track and swamp the jockey and horse. They also pay $900,000 Australian for winning the race. They pay this to the City, they don’t receive it. Strange I know. I believe it’s because the winning contrata will receive a lot of prestige and associated business for winning. The after party goes all night and a few fights break out between the contratas.

That night I was having dinner with 8 people. One woman refused to pay and eat the overpriced bread and dip, we hadn’t even received our meals. We left the restaurant and were followed and harassed by the owners. They pulled in their mafia-like heavies. There was no way but to pay the entire bill without having eaten a bite. A brush with the mafia style settling of disputes showed me to just accept it if you fancy keeping your knee-caps intact.

I also once had a meal with a Japanese architect who lives in Rome. He told me the most unlikely story. His brother went to the U.S. to be a sushi chef at the age of 20. Guess what he becomes...? In a very short time he becomes a professional golfer after never having played before. He began playing while in the U.S. He has such natural talent that he was coached by a top professional within several months of beginning. He then went on to be a good professional and he now runs the David Leadman golf clinic in Japan. Maybe it was the Zen of his sushi making that gave him good mind control on the course.

WEATHER

It was the penultimate day of September and the coin had flipped on the tempetura -suddenly. In late August it was roasting here. But 3 weeks later it feels almost like winter. They skipped a season here somehow.

But I'm not complaining, it was a welcome change and feels like New Zealand weather somehow.

YOU WENT TO WHERE?

My Mother visited me for 11 days during September. We headed to the mecca called Albania (to visit New Zealand friends Meg and Tom who live there). We travelled on the lovely overnighter from Bari to Durres. Nine hours in a steel creeking dodgey ship with tiny compartments and very gross food. Our room was next to the engine room of the ship. I had a close shave with a very suspect character while taking a pee in the small hours. Around 2am I’m peeing of the back of this huge ship and suddenly this animal like creature that is a man leaps down the stairwell and charges me, I pivot just in time and he makes a split second decision not to attack me or throw me overboard. He was huge and desperate looking. I think he was either trying to rob me or try and get my passport and know doubt throw me over the 50 metre drop in the process. You’d never be seen again in the middle of this sea and in the middle of the night. It was a real wake up call to being in a very foreign and desperate country.

I had a communist green hat that I had worn for a joke and I got it from a party in Hong Kong. It took on a very different meaning when I wore it in Albania. Meg was a complete stirrer and she wore my green and red starred communist hat which commanded the most intense stares from locals. Like ‘is she mad, serious, or what?’ Maybe it will provoke new communist uprisings and a return to the old system.

The Albanians are a swarthy and round faced nation who've clearly had a difficult history. A very physical working nation who endure fiercely cold winters. They have only been out of communist rule for about 12 years.

There has been a great deal of change. Only 8 years ago there were only 200 cars in the capital city Tirana. Now there are thousands. Ironically one in five is a Mercedes. Yet the average local wage is 3000USD per year...They are largely stolen from Germany and driven over. So these beautiful Mercedes are often driven over enormous potholed roads and used to cart animals and suchlike around the capital.

The Albanian immigration seervice was impressive. (2 guys smoking and sitting on small chairs and nonchanently gaze at your passport and decide 10 euro sounds about right to get through). I didn’t want to point out the ‘no smoking’ signs to them. This made me think about muslin women wearing gerkers and only showing their eyes. How do they recognise them at customs? 'sorry, those arent your eyes, whose are they…' and how bout Chinese going through, they look so similar… and how about michael jackson, he must have about 15 progressive photos in his/her passport. Anyway, this is a good Ali G skit.

We ventured with a local friend called Agrone up a mountain (in his mercedes of course). He had never been up this mountain and it turned out to be a very dangerous and dodgey trip. It was very steep with no barriers, just you and the sky basically. At the top we found some bizarre mosk where Mother Teresa (who was Albanian) often visited. I can see why she left Albania, India would seem a much nicer option. At one point we skidded badly on the way down and came close to going over the edge.

Back to Albania. It transpires that 2 days after we left, Meg heard shootings from her balcony. Downstairs, 2 people had been shot dead in cars. One was the driver of the chief prosecutor. She also tells me that in the south, red rain (not purple) is common, the metal factories have no filters. I also remembered back in Albania I had tried to buy some trousers. I went into this shop and there’s one shop assistant. It’s a man and he’s dressed strangely. He's actually a policeman in his uniform. He finds a pair and gives them to me to try on. They must be xxl and 3 times too big, and ugly. I'm just a bit stunned and leave fairly quickly. Weird. You know those seeing eye dogs. Well I saw a seeing eye man with his blind dog in Albania.

HELL TO HEAVEN

Coming back to Italy we went to Iskia, a beautiful and remarkable Island near Capri which is near Naples. Very lush, stunning beaches and a famous European garden set up by William Walton (a composer) and his wife. They both loved music and gardens, so while he composed, she built up these amazing gardens.

3 weeks before all this my brother Craig and and his wife Sue arrived from Hong Kong where they live. We met in in Venice, of course getting lost at our first meeting point. The clock tower in St Marks square (which is not really a clock tower). Anyway we had our normal share of silly moments. In Padova Craig got man-handled by a policeman who was trying to push him onto the train. I was busy getting tickets and Craig was trying to hold the train up for me, a close shave.

Susan who has never cut hair, gave me a cut in the Cinque Terra, which means 5 beaches. We were on a balcony overlooking one of these beautiful beaches. A German woman on an adjoining balcony was so shocked at Susan’s progress that she intervened. Susan ended up pasting my hair onto my chest and as a moustach then making hitler jokes…the German woman laughed along with us in our madness. My hair has since grown back into a pom-pom like shape.

My brother Craig did his usual holiday injury. This time in over zealously rushing for a burger at Mcdonalds he jammed his fingers in the door.

One night in the Cinque Terra I was asleep and I was awoken with rain pouring down on me. I thought I was dreaming but then realised I had put my bed on the balcony earlier in the night.

After seeing Lucca, Siena, Assisi and Rome together we parted company as they headed for home. It was sad to see them go but I decided at this point to try to live and find work in Italy.

GET A JOB

I rang the New Zealand trade commissioner in Milan and he said there were very few New Zealand companines here, that your Italian had to be very good and he had nothing going, it didn’t look very promising at all. He said he’d call me if anything came up. I ever thought we would speak again.

SICILIA

I continued my adventures by catching a plane to Palermo, Sicily. Palermo the main city is a bustling but interesting place. The market people shout their lungs out to compete with each other, 'bella frutta bella frutta'… it was hilarious.

I had visited a famous mosque when coming back on a bus I made friends with a beautiful Italian woman. We decided to visit the bizarre Catacombs together. These are very old bodies that are strung up in an underground like large crypt. The bodies were usually fully clothed. The faces of the bodies were often in anguished poses suggesting a frightening end to their lives. The last expression remained on their face. There were children and virgin bodies as well. It was very strange and macarbe. I couldn’t resist filming some of it despite the strictly no filming signs.

I then went by train across the top of Sicily to Mezzino. From here I caught a ferry to the Aolian islands which lie North of Sicily. The most famous and far away island is Stromboli- the most active volcano in the world. We walked up it at night and it thundered out big rocks and splashed lava into the sea. It would do this every 15 or 20 minutes. As the rocks hurtled down the slopes of the mountain it sounded like horses galloping through the night. On that walk up the steep volcano there was this woman dressed only in a bikini and jandals, very glam. She was a clothes designer (from New York )for a lot of top rock artists like Aerosmith and Lenny Kravitz. Apparently they were the only clothes she bought for the whole vacation. The island is very sleepy and the people live in a another time zone, perhaps as they lived there 100’s of years ago.

I met an English guy here who was a shocking cook. I asked him if he liked aubergenes. He said 'thats that big black thing, right? Mmm, he was on to it. I also discovered the recipe for gnocchi starts like this. Take 1kg of old potatoes… not new ones ok...So gnocchi is good if you like old potatoes.

After a few days on the rumbling Stromboli I went to the Aeolian island of Salina. This is where they filmed the classic film 'il postino'. In English that's not 'the ill postman', but 'the postman'. It’s about Pablo Neruda the great Spanish poet who was exiled there for being a communist. It seems that this is/was the fate of many uprisers. To be socially and physically ostracized was common. The fascist rulers just 'imprisoned' and oppressed these people in one form or another. This was also the case for Carlo Levi, the great Italian writer. He wrote a great book about this called 'Christ stopped at Eboli'. He was sent to this discusting and totally remote village called Grassano in the south of Italy. It’ hard to believe these mentalities and ways of governance existed. More so that they exist today in different and more violent forms. Anyway, back to the postman. He lived on this cliff over the sea called Polina. I swam there with this German couple in really rough seas. Whilst deep in the water the German guy tells me that they once used to throw all the butchers offal etc into the sea here and it was infested with sharks! But thankfully he assures me it was many years ago. In the years of the postman. This postman didn’t have to be concerned with biting dogs but rather biting sharks!

After walking much of the island, seeing the markets, swimming on other wild and remote beaches I decided it was time to head back to Rome. As the boat pulled away from these odd and beautiful islands my phone rang in the deep south of Italy. It was a call from the very north of Italy. It was the trade commissioner, Charlie.

He told me that the very next day after we had spoken, a local company had rung him. They asked him if they new any Kiwis in Italy that had a marketing, advertising or public relations background, that was me! So a short time later I took the train up to Milan for an interview. Piero spoke in an upper class English accent which he had acquired from his nanny. We got on well and he said he would need someone in a month. So I was to come for a second interview next month. It an exciting public relations and advertising company but first I needed to improve my Italian to get the job.

I had an Italian friend I could stay with in the meantime who lived in Padova near Venice. Here I lived amongst Giotto’s paintings, a twenty minute train ride into Venice, and Marina.

DON’T SAY THE ‘V’

So, I was in Padova (pronounced Padua). Most good kiwis like to say in their broad accents ‘oh, yes, I’ve been to PadoVa. It makes me cringe.

I was staying with an Italian woman. Marina is an English teacher. She was really nice but not really my type and, she had a big tush. She had exotic photos of herself plastered around the walls. I think she was a movie star in her own mind.

She seemed to keep making sexual overtures but I wasn’t sure. I kept my distance regardless. The rent wasn’t that overdue! Then I found some kama sutra potions placed next to the bed, ul oh. I kept subtely avoiding the innuendos. This didn’t stop her. One day she started prancing around the house completely naked, pretending to have fortotten to put any clothes on. Then she suggested that I chase her around. It was getting harder to avoid. I kept watching the T.V. As if, she’d just said ‘do you wanna cup of tea’. ‘Ah, no thanks.’ It was her brother’s birthday and she was leaving the next day for England. I was safe, I was safely tucked up in bed, I had made it.

Well not quite. I’m lying there when I feel someone straddle me and the bed. Marina’s got her favourite lingerie on. ‘Bounanotte’, she says. This doesn’t mean ‘do you want a naughty?’ It means ‘good evening or good night.’ Well I guess this is it. I’m pinned down, theres no getting out of this one. Time to play ball, time to pay the rent. Well, I’ve never heard anything like it, I had to stop in mid-action and check there wasn’t some primal animal in the bed with me. It frightened me. Next minute the crazy old woman from below is bashing on her ceiling, our floor and shouting ‘puttana, puttana’. This means whore. I found out later that the crazy Mrs Sossi had lost her husband at age 21 and hated men, woman and sex ever since. This had no effect on the primal one. I was glad to wake up alive the next morning. A bit battered and bruised, but alive. And Marina had left for England. Whew.

I later learnt that Mrs. Sossi would often throw rocks on to the stairwell frequently. Bashing on the door here with rocks was a weekly event and ceiling bashing was common too. She even threw rocks out the window at Marina once. She had a heart attack of sorts one night and an ambulance and police came and took her away. She said I was talking to loud. She’s back now and has been doing this for 20 years here and has driven out 13 different sets of neighbors. I would be the 14^th to leave shortly.

Marina had introduced me to several of her friends. One was a kiwi woman who seemed quite simple but was in fact about to go back to New Zealand to do post PHD studies in chemisty. She had this giant Russian phyisist boyfriend called Miriam. He said funny things in English like, 'sometimes I drink to much and da next day I am always hanging over..' I had arranged to meet a friends, friend (does that mean they are also my friend?) at Blockbuster video store by the station. Now that’s not a smart meeting place really. There were plenty of people in the store. People glanced at you as they do when you’re probably a foreigner. 'Are you Matteo'? I ask. They look back as if to say, mmm strange question in a video store. Especially when you’re asking a woman if she’s this man. Luckily I told him I'd bring my bike into the store, so he'd recognise me. So we finally met. Marina’s friend Matteo was a bit nervy because places near stations in cities are often dodgy places. He'd been offered drugs twice already by some Albanians. He stuck with the popcorn. We went across the road for a coffee. Italians always order the little cup of espresso. It seems like such a bad value drink. Such a little cup compared to my big decaf cappuccino (I'm really styling it as an Italian).

CHIACCHIERA (CHATTING)

Chiacchiera is the main national pastime and boy could Matteo chat. Matteo looks like Pat Rafter but speaks Italian and is a bright physics student. We're there for him to practice English and for me to practice Italian. By the end of the two and a half hour session I've only learnt one word 'fanculo' which means fuck off. After 2 hours of chatting a 50 year old man starts peeing on the outside of the cafe wall. He then enters the cafe and the owner and the man start shouting at each other. A lot of fanculo's going down. Very odd. Maybe he got a bad espresso. Matteo's had lots of stories on Italian life and it was just easier to talk in English. He told me Buddhism is making a presence in Italy now but I just can't imagine it. An Italian sitting still meditating? Their arms would be going everywhere, they'd be adjusting their sunglasses and hair every 20 seconds.

They would probably talking on their cellphones too. It’s a special kind of meditation. I once saw a man having a normal conversation in a phone box. After a while he starts gesticulating a bit. Then some more, and some more, he's now hitting the glass a bit. He's now run out of room to move and opens the door so he can throw his arm out wildly to express his obviously necessary emotions. He nearly swipes a passerby with his arm. I think in future

Telecom will have to make much bigger phone boxes here. There would be too much broken glass. Talking of boxes, I think the postal service should offer a new service called 'petpost'. It’s where when you’re going on holiday or you’ve had enough of your pet. You just wrap them up (so they can still breathe) and deposit them into a big bin next to the red ones. You can just pour your goldfish in there etc. I guess there would be a few squabbles with birds, cats and

dogs. But hey what a great service. You would just have to buy a special stamp to frank the different animals. Maybe you could then order pets from a catalogue too. They could just post them to you. I think I’m on to something. A local game of soccer in Italy is huge. It is religion and receives a minimum of 1 hour of post match analysis. 'His socks came down in the 34th minute and his mothers best friend Simona was there at the game.' whereas the world

basketball match between Italy and Germany received just one line. 'We lost'. Matteo also told me that men are so 'gallismo'. I call it 'bella culture'. This means rooster or cock like with women'. Oh bella donna, oh che bella they say at least 10 times a day to any random woman they might see. Accordingly, women are quite stand offish with men in general. And groups of guys tend to hang out together as do groups of women. There also seems to be a Peter Pan complex here. They never seem to grow up. Few of the men like to grow up because mum still does their washing and often they live at home well into their 30's. And if they don’t they live within 100 meters and come for tea most nights. So I guess there not bad reasons not to grow up. However, this means there’s a lot of sex that takes place in cars and parks. You see a lot of rocking cars and it’s nothing to do with the Richter scale. Matteo thought ravens were racist because they don't play or even mix with seagulls. It’s that black and white. It’s an interesting point. It’s like similar people, they hang out

together. They speak the same language. Italians study the Italian language for 13 years. And then there are all the different dialects. (So that’s why it took me so long to grasp it). In the north of Italy there is a place called Alto Adige (which means, above the river). Here they speak

a cross between German and Italian. It is impossible for a normal Italian to understand this language which is called Ladino. For example, in pure Italian, vigili del fuoco which means firefighter is called studafeck in Alto Adige.

Matteo know a lot about mythic gods. One was called Loki. This means the god of thieves AND homicides. What a title.

My English name is Gene Elder. Here in Italy I would be Geno Piu Vecchio or Geno Piu Antico. They mean the same but vecchio (old) has a really negative connotation and antico is positive.

Then I asked Matteo a fatal question (just when I was starting to fade). ‘So what are you studying.’ Well off he went. It was string theory and quantum physics. He got so excited and told me there was even a very small chance that a tennis ball can penetrate and pass through wood if it does so at the right frequency. I guess he’s still studying the theory bit.

It was time to go home for Cena (dinner).

LA VIVA

One day I was in a book shop for a few minutes, when the owner and his daughter said to me, come for a drink. They closed the store and bought me an Italian champange, (pertrova I think it was called), and coffee next door. After thowing the drinks back he went back to the store, 1 minute later, leaving me with his daughter and winking at me. Only in Italy. Over 20,000 people die every year in maccina incidenti (car accidents) in Italy. So, I tried to donate blood. It was not so simple. First I had to fill in the questions in Italian. Like, had a had aids, had I been in a car crash, had I been to mad cow England recently etc. Half of them I couldn’t really understand but I just ticked the no box. All good I thought. However, the Dotteresa (female doctor) then assured me it would be impossible. She told me to come back in a year when my Italian would be perfect. She seemed to have a myriad of excuses why I couldn't give blood. I gave her my best Italian line 'sanguay e sanguay' (blood is blood), it might save someone’s life. It seemed to phase her. She finally agreed to take my blood. It transpired that she was afraid it would be too hard to explain the results to me. I assured her we could do it. So she decides I'm okay after all and offers me morning tea and cake. We read the paper together. She helps me interpret the world cup rugby stories. Only in Italy. Some movies here just don’t work in Italian. They sound ridiculous. I saw E.T recently. 'E.T. telephonata a casa' is just not the same. (E.T. phone home). We recently went to Chiogga. It's called and looks like a little Venice. Although it has a wild windswept sea part of it. They say the Fisherman of Chioggi talk strangely. Like in real high, kind of shrill voices. And they do. The reason being that most of the people there are fisherman and they often shout to each other from their respective windswept boats. So they have developed this weird voice. It’s kind of a fish whistle. Maybe they attract he fish this way or they communicate with the fish in some fashion. Maybe they are the fish whisperers.

Some of the woman here are really very beautiful. There is this striking bella donna who works/owns the fish shop next door to where I was living. Somehow it’s so weird watching this glamorous woman rip the back of flounders with her sharp knife. Another donna, (most of them are called donna for some reason) was immaculate after here obvious plastic touch ups. However, they had overcooked her bottom lip and pumped in too much gel. She had this giant bottom lip that threatened to fall on the ground. I asked her if it made it easier to brush her teeth. It was so big I kept looking at it. It looked like a piece of fruit. The Italians love their churches and the accompanying bells. There are so many churches that bells are ringing constantly. Particularly as they don't seem to keep Swiss time. There seems to be one at 11.17, 12.34, 1.46 etc. As well as the bells on the hour, the half hour and the quarter hour. Its like, 'don't forget God , he is watching you, behave yourself, or else,

maybe'. The dogs here often howl like spooked ghosts at the bells. One day we had lunch with a typically Roman woman. Paula has 45 years and is an organic house architecto. She is very intense and speaks constantly in huge passages. One of her favourite subjects is the art of sesso (sex) and her g punto. She gave us Fragoli uva. This is strawberry grapes. They were incredible. It’s a flavor of 1000 years ago. Sumptuous stuff. Good Italian Fascism. On January 1, 2004 it will be compulsory for all cars to carry 4 bright green vests. This is because there are numerous deaths on roads when people stop to get out, or break down. I believe the president Bellesconi’s owns the vest company. A gorgeous friend, Silvia had me to her house to watch the world cup of rugby and she cooked me lunch. She asked me how much a liked. I said just normal. But how many grams she said. I have no idea. Well, 100 grams is normal she says. She actually weighs the uncooked pasta to the gm. We had 200 grams between us! By the way, it's not quite enough, go for 125. It’s strange, but a lot of Italians shut all there windows up, a lot of houses are really dark. I can’t stand this. Apparently it protects the wood inside which is expensive to replace. Apparently the woman love to be complimented here. So, in my best Italina I once said 'hai un bellisomo occhio'. A strange look ensued. It means you have one beautiful eye. Mmm best to know your plurals. In the park recently I saw the strangest thing. It fascinated me; I followed it for a bit, looking really closely. I had never seen such a thing and it really surprised me somehow. It some how shocked me. I never expected to see this in Italy and had actually never even thought of it. It was a mouse. Isn’t that strange, or maybe it’s me that’s strange. All right, it was probably time to get a job. There was a general wage strike here recently, the whole nation striked or is that stroke? Everything was closed except, Chinese shops. The driving here is spectacular. Most Italians believe in their mind’s eye that when they get behind the wheel that they are in the gram prix. A car finally hit me on the bike, just got the back wheel thankfully.

MILAN

So it was time to head back to Milan for my second interview. We were to converse in Italian. I hadn’t practiced very hard. We jabbered away for twenty minutes. Then Piero asked if I could start today, like right now. ‘Certo, perce no’ (sure, why not) and our union began.

Our fist client was Philip Morris, how appropriate I thought for Italy. The biggest cigarette company in the world. Smokin!

I had a lovely co-worker called Gisella. Gisella loved to practice her bad English on me. When making me coffee se would say, ‘do you sugar?’ I would reply, ‘no, I don’t sugar thanks.’

SICILIAN WINE AND A LITTLE ON BARTOLO

He talked for two hours continuously. Furiously. Without water. I didn’t understand a word. He was from Sicily.

At one point realising I’m not Italian, he touches my arm and says,“too fast”? “No, no” I respond.

He was marketing Italian Wine. We were 5. He had come to our offices.We were to promote the wine. The occasional words we did lip in, he disagreed with. “No, no” he said before continuing. A very sure man. Sure of himself but nothing else.

Giuseppe Bianchini’s right hand woman had beautiful eyes, like a rabbits. She also managed only the odd word but did manage to help him take samples out from his bag, and look beautiful. In fact they kept producing bottles from this small bag. No less than 7 bottles arrived on the table. I think they are the reward for listening to him.

The rabbit woman takes notes. I’m guessing she’s writing things like, ‘I wish I was a tree’. It won’t be anything to do with the meeting. We sample a red and white there and then.

One of our staff starts picking his teeth. And then his nose, very proudly. Not side on or anything, front on. (actually this really happened on a tram recently).

I remember earlier that day there was an urgent mail out and they needed a hand. Gisella could not physically talk and stuff envelopes at the same time. She’s Italian. She must move her hands to the rhythm of her lips. I end up folding the whole lot. Thanks for your help.

While stuffing the envelopes I look up and notice over 200 toilet rolls. Very strange I think. Apparently they are for the whole building. Sounds a likely story. I learn that in Belgium (and the rest of the world) that toilet paper is used at very different rates during the year. More in winter because people eat more to keep warm? No, it’s more in summer because of all

the summer fruits that are eaten…

The afternoon tea arrives, Italian pastries with bright fruits. Giuseppe has still not stopped. Suddenly Gianni fumbles and his boysenberry torte. It spreads across his white linen shirt. Immediately Giuseppe launches across the table and sloshes equal amounts of red and white wine on shirt. “No problemo, no problemo” he is shouting. Gianni is not so sure. But his shirt

looks like an Italian pizzeria table cloth.

Apparently Italians are so concerned about their appearance and clothing that they all carry a small bag of flour or talcum powder with them in case of oil spillage from their pizza onto their smart clothes. They then smear it on at the smallest emergency.

I start feeling tired. It’s because my Neapolitan flatmate who I’m sharing a room with till I find something more permanent, is crazy. He often goes to bed late, (while I’m trying to sleep in the other bed) goes to sleep for a bit, snores like a truck then gets up at about midnight and cooks some more pasta up. Sometimes I take a drink of water by my bed. And as I begin to sip it, what does he do then? He whistles. So random. He talks to me in a loud and difficult Naples

dialect. It’s hard to understand. He is grasso or very fat and loves to wander round in his undies. It’s not a pretty sight. So finally he gets in his bed and snores away again. I creep out onto the hall and sleep on the couch next to the kitchen. He then gets up again about 2am sometimes and makes his own detailed notes and scribblings of NBA Basketball results. So I

creep back into the room to try to sleep. He returns at 330am and does the truck thing again. So, I head back to the couch. At 7am he lumbers past towards the bathroom. He looks kind of like a serial killer to me at that hour. He leaves the door open and proceeds to rip farts whilst he fire hoses into the toilet. It’s really gross. I can’t stand it, I must leave!

Bartolo has also got this weight loss machine. It’s like a silver briefcase. One of those bullshit pulsing machines. It’s worth a lot. He’s paranoid it will be stolen. We are on the 4th floor of a very secure apartment block but he locks and bolts the door always. Even when all 4 of us are inside….

NEWMONIA

It was January and I was a crazy New Zealander working in a wintery Milan. So I'd been feeling like death for 10 days. The doctor had just given me a dose of antibiotics and sent me away. He didn’t even check my raging temperature. I knew something was very wrong that night when in bed I had six layers of thick clothing on and I was still shivering. The following day when I violently vomited twice into a rubbish bin in front of a tram load of shocked Italians I had a feeling something wasn't right. The next day at work, I was getting some air standing next to a pharmacy. There was a stunning Italian woman next to me. I felt nothing. I knew I wasn’t well. Then I went down, just kind of collapsed. The pharmacist who reeked of alcohol called an ambulance. I'm strapped in waiting to go and the ambulance just sits there for 10 minutes. What is going on? Turns out they waited for my boss to arrive to help in translations at the hospital. They took all sorts of deep intimate photos, well, X-rays. While I waited for the results I sat next to an Egyptian man who was doubled over. He had eaten too much spicey sausage and was in a bad way. Eventually they told me I have to stay in hospital for at least a week. I had bi-lateral bronchial pneumonia (in both lungs). For a moment it made me burst into tears. It seemed such a bad prospect. It was all rather surreal. My boss left and suddenly I was sitting in a hospital room with 5 others. I had bed number 19. The room-mates were all over 60 and generally closer to 90. Everyone was speaking a foreign language.

My doctor with pigeon English was phased and intimidated somehow by my questions and told me 'don't worry I am an expert'. I think the English was fazing him. The dinner was smashed potato and old meat. Mmm great.

I had a temperature of 40 and the room seemed to be cooking. I was being roasted alive the first night. No-one spoke English. The next morning the nurse prepared herself to speak her best English. 'Ok, so you pu, put you, put your shit in here' as she motioned to a jar. He expected me to somehow do this without a spatula. They then constantly jabbed me for blood and took samples of everything. They were actually very thorough.

They rigged up a huge I.V. bag for me and poured fluids down my veins for the first few days. I got good with the I.V. stand. Wheeling it round me like a dance partner. The first morning I was awoken and attacked by the credit man asking how I would pay. I told him I had travel insurance. He again called the next day and shouted in Italian if I had the details yet. It was 500 euro a day. What a jerk. I was really sick. It seems there is no grace when it comes to farting in hospitals. There was a constant symphony going on with responses of 'oh salutey' if a particularly impressive sound was emitted. The guy next to me was 91, called Geno and he was a famous dancer for Italy at the scala or opera house. He had the most beautiful smile, he just loved you and the world. Or maybe he just had dementia. Actually he did have have most his marbles. He often mumbled, ‘Ho fredo’(I am cold) and I would drape a blanket around his shoulders.

The guy opposite me looked normal but he kept physically trying to steal my dinners. I had to restrain him. He also loved in the middle of the night to open his draw and rustle manically with his sweeties and their wrappers.

Beno in the other corner was always getting in trouble, the nurses constantly berated him in their loud Italian voices. His wife visited daily but often stormed out after heated words. Beno was 61 but looked 81. The fourth corner held a guy who had had a stroke and his mouth looked like an upside down L. When he left he was replaced by an old guy with some dementia. He would shout in the night, 'Carlo, Carlo, Carlo'. And then Mum, mum, mum. He wouldn’t stop even when I told him it’s the middle of the night and his mother wasn’t there. So to stop him I resorted to imitating his 'Mummy, mummy, mummy'. He retorted instantly with 'fanculo' or fuck you.

The fifth man was 91 and had a big oxygen mask on so he could breath. His eyes watered and he looked like some crazy axolotl somehow. He didn’t have many breaths left. This didn’t stop the doctors putting this blipping machine on him. It was a really loud blip and often did a little musical dance of blips.

All 6 patients kept to themselves for my first 3 days. Strangers in one room. But then I began to talk a little with them. By the end of my time there I knew a lot about most of them.

After 4 days they said they were switching me to oral I.V. I thought this meant they would just put the drip in my mouth somehow. Hospitals stink literally. The old guys often made the foulest messes and then they wouldn’t open the window. They would rather marinate in their stench than get a little cool for a minute. I couldn’t stomach it. I pressed for it and sometimes had to stand at the window to stop them closing it. I had to use physical intimidation to get clean air.

There was old mafia like guy with dementia in the next room who said to me ‘if you need anything come and see me’. Sure thing boss. Three days later I needed a spare chair for the telephone. As I took it from his room he grabbed it off me and whined like a three year old kid. “It’s out chair he winced’.

William had bought me McDonalds; I was hanging out for some non-hospital food. I could see the bag in his hand as he waited for the doors to open for visitor hours. My mouth was almost watering. The nurse suddenly said ‘come with me’ or vieni, vieni. I had to have all my organs scanned, BEFORE lunch. Brilliant timing, cold McDonalds. The scanner guy squirts my tummy with gel and then takes all these scans. The screen looked like I was having a baby. ‘Finito’ he said and then just left me there. I had a cold, sticky stomach. It was like I’d just had a baby and then everyone just left. He was so clinical.

My visitors all told me it was nearly impossible to find the place as the hospital has virtually nil signage.

On day 6 I was again accosted by the finance people. I donned a big coat of my friend and we went down about a kilometer of old windy tunnels to the credit office. My 2 friends where helping with translations. When they found out I didn’t have my policy with me I had to go some other very random office deep in the bowels of the underground part of the hospital. These staff were a freaky bunch resembling humans in a small way. They held there hands over there mouths in horror trying not to catch my pneumonia whilst firing questions at me in Italian. I told them I’d send them the details. As it happened I found out my policy had expired 7 days earlier!

One day it snowed which was beautiful. It is one of the sights of life. The snow covered the scratchy park outside our window.

I enjoyed the papagiallo. The piss jar. Giallo means yellow. It meant you didn’t have to go to the cold toilet in the middle of the night. Maybe I'll get one for the house when I get back home. They finally changed my doctor. One that could speak okay English. His name was Dr Elbow.

For breakfast we we’re woken at 8am with, ‘caffe, latte..’ And that was it, just a coffee (of your choice) for breakfast. At 12pm you got a piece of fruit, some sloppy stewed apple and some kind of pasta. Dinner was more substantial but you had an either/or choice. Once I had to choose between fish and cheese, I couldn’t have both. I couldn’t just have cheese which I was craving. So, as the server came in the room for a question I dashed out of bed and swooped a giant piece of cheese and hid it in my hospital gown until the coast was clear and I could eat it. Luckily I had a few nice friends that bought phone cards, McDonalds, pizza, books and music that kept me sane for my 9 days there. I read 650 pgs of Jonathon Franzens best seller, The Corrections, a very good read. In trying to communicate my phone number in the hospital I realized too late that Italy is the only country in the world where you have to include the city code of 0 when you dial Italy internationally. Only in Italy.

After stressing about the insurance costs I was told by an Italian friend that there was a reciprocal agreement between New Zealand and Italy for these emergencies and so there was no cost to me. It seemed the hospital didn’t seem to know this. Know one seemed to know the truth.

On day 6 I met the gaze of the blonde nurse. It raised my temperature again but at least I knew I was getting better. And so pneumonia feels like you've been hit by a sledgehammer and you have a big rock on your lungs. I have to wait for two weeks before I fly back to see family in Melbourne for a week and then sunny New Zealand. God I can't wait for some sun. The beautiful fashion capital of Milan can also be a very cold, often nature less and polluted city, and the air is dreadful. I think this is partly how I got sick.

As I left my hospital room for the last time, a finance woman said, ‘but how are you paying?’ I told her it was under control. Today I left the hospital, I hadn’t been outside for 9 days. It's good to be home, I'm loading up with DVD’s, books and good food for the week as I can't leave the house for 6 days.

Ah, my own bed. I went to sleep and dreamt of my return to New Zealand and the luxury of speaking English.