So, I’m over at Pam’s place today. No fish this time, but there is a train journey, spilt coffee and nervous tics. Oh, and hai! While you’re over there why don’t you check out the other fab guest posters she’s got writing there this month?
Torno subito …
Image by Maurosag on Flickr (creative commons)
All men are equal before fish – Herbert Hoover
I spent yesterday afternoon on the rocks. Literally. There’s a small, pebbly, black-sanded beach near me where I like to go on a sunny weekend afternoon. Four harpoon fishermen snorkelled about just offshore, while fish nibbled on the algae covering the rocks at the edge of the beach. Every time the waves came in and went out again I could see their little tails flipped up into the air, wiggling and jiggling like those red plastic fortune tellers that you used to get as a child. The ones that you put on the palm of your hand which then curled up or barrelled over and told you your character or how you were feeling that day or whatever. Due to having naturally cold hands they usually used to tell me that I was near to death. The real fish, however, told me that I was content on the beach, watching the sun sinking lower in the sky as they fed. As some wise man no doubt once said: some days, all you need is fish.
Image by Michael M Way on Flickr
I should have known things weren’t going to go smoothly when I arrived at Heathrow on 23 December and it took two hours for our luggage to be unloaded from the plane. I’d had qualms about checking bags in with Alitalia (just google ‘Alitalia luggage’ and you should find plenty of reasons why), but in the event couldn’t get round it because of the Christmas presents I’d bought. What’s the worst that could happen, though …?
To be fair, I don’t think the blame can be laid entirely at Alitalia’s door on this occasion. When we arrive in the baggage hall at T4 (no, not Terminator; Terminal), Heathrow is in pre-Christmas chaos. Abandoned luggage is piled high at every turn and there is no sign of ours appearing. I’m all set to leave my suitcase and get it delivered to me another day, but the Italians are made of sterner stuff and are busy creating merry hell at the Alitalia desk.
While the Italians are bellowing, I have a quiet word with one of the ground staff about what is going on. I discover that if planes don’t have to turn straight round and fly somewhere else (as ours doesn’t) they are considered low priority. They are therefore unlikely to be unloaded until the following day, when the new baggage staff come on duty. Luckily for me, however, Italians can all shout and gesticulate for – well – Italy. They aren’t going anywhere until they’ve had a good old row about it. At one point, it even looks as if it’s about to turn into a fight. Thrilling!
The staff at the desk make frantic phone calls. A member of the airport police arrives to defuse the situation. He puffs his chest out and moves people back six inches. Using his best Very Important Voice, he makes an announcement: “Your luggage will be in the hall in 15 minutes!” Somebody – it *might* have been me, but I couldn’t *possibly* confirm – shouts, “Is that a promise?!” There are titters from the other English-speakers. He rises above it and ignores the heckling, merely gesturing in the direction of the conveyor belt. Sceptically we look and see that, far from there being a 15 minute wait, luggage is arriving now. Hooray! We stampede towards our bags and out into the freezing cold sleet of a late-December night in London. Home at last.
Fast-forward three weeks, and I’m on my way back from England to Italy. Due to some serious shopping, there’s no way I can travel carry-on only, so once again I reluctantly check my luggage in. Being a good girl, I’ve followed airline guidelines and put my laptop and handbag into my hand luggage, which is regulation size. I’ve also packed a couple of pairs of shoes and most of my new books in there, so it’s h.e.a.v.y.
When I first flew out to Italy, the guy at check-in weighed my bags, lost his eyebrows into his hairline at how heavy they were, but let me take them on board anyway. However the po-faced woman at the desk this time isn’t having any of it. I therefore transfer the shoes and books into my checked bag. She reweighs my hand luggage. It’s still far too heavy. With barely-concealed disdain she looks at the contents of my little suitcase. Waving an imperious finger she tells me that I’ll have to carry my handbag and laptop separately. Christ. If I’d known that was allowed I’d have done it anyway. It’s a brand new Mac and I need no excuse to cradle it to my bosom.
What this means, of course, is that pretty much everything is now in my checked bag. On an Alitalia flight. Which goes to Rome. Rome being the airport where Alitalia luggage goes to die. All I have with me now are electronics, money, and a nagging feeling that this is all going to end very badly.
Clutching my laptop and hauling my now rather lighter carry-on bag I head for Security, anticipating all sorts of faffery. In this, I am not disappointed. There is, of course, the usual plastic bag farce. I’m prepared for this, and have already extricated my make-up bag from the tangle of cables in my suitcase. However, unlike when I first flew to Italy from Terminal 2, when the nice lady at Security had a good old chat with my mum and me while she decanted all my make-up into the plastic bag for me, the chap at Terminal 4 just shoves a bag in my direction and points me to the side while I sort myself out. I spend the next ten minutes juggling laptop, handbag and suitcase while giving him death stares.
Given Gordon’s blustering about the immediate installation of X-ray scanners, I’d half expected to see them here. However, it seems it’s still just the standard metal detectors. We have to remove our shoes and every single layer of outer clothing, though, so the queue is moving tooth-grindingly slowly. I’m sweltering, having dressed in about 100 layers when I’d left home in the snow that morning. Every time I think about taking my coat off and shoving it in my bag, though, the queue moves forward and I’m left desperately trying to rezip and pick up everything that I’ve just dropped while kicking my suitcase along in front of me. I give it up as a bad job, and continue to sweat.
When I reach the front of the queue I remove my shoes, remembering just too late that I’m wearing stupid, garish socks. Damn. I shuffle through the metal detector. It beeps. A serious-looking woman beckons me over and asks what I think might have caused it. I assume it’s my belt, so remove it. She suggests that it could have been my necklace, which I’d forgotten about. I shrug and smile. She glares at me. Oops. She gestures that I should assume the position, and pats me down almost indecently thoroughly. Thank goodness she’s wearing gloves, as the sweat patches under my arms are, by this stage, less patches and more rivers. The Italians would be scandalised. Not finding anything obviously bomb-like, she scowls and fetches the mobile metal detector, which she proceeds to run over me. Sure enough, my necklace sets it off, as do the rivets on my jeans. She runs it down my right hand side. It beeps. There is a moment of confusion. Then I realise what has caused it and burst into laughter. ”It’s my bra! It’s the underwire in my bra!” She gives me a death stare to beat all death stares. I can’t stop laughing, though. I continue giggling helplessly as she pats me down yet more thoroughly. Security lady is, like Queen Victoria, unamused. I, however, chortle all the way to the boarding gate.
Note: This was originally a pair of posts published in January 2010. I’ve got better at packing since then, but security staff are still just as grumpy.
Images:
Ro_buk [but I'm not there]
Matt Hintsa
Waves crash and a faint thrumming passes through the soles of my shoes. Black basalt rocks split grey-green water, revealing its bright opaque turquoise heart. A second later, and it is frothy white, erupting over the top of the front line of volcanic rock, spilling and foaming through any available space.
People pass. Snippets of conversation: ‘… then you sauté the mussels …’ ‘… ma, tesoro …!’ ‘ … don’t want to live in Milan because …’ A mother and daughter walk past, mother hugging daughter’s shoulders while the girl hunches under the weight. La mamma is all in white with honeyed blonde hair, as glamorous as can be. Her daughter is lumpen and awkward, long dark hair draped around her shoulders, wearing the teenage uniform of too-tight skinny jeans and hoodie, teamed with oversized trainers. Mamma is grilling daughter on her lovelife. ‘…you don’t want to see him any more?’ ‘No, I don’t!’ Mamma sighs.
A Fiat Panda draws up behind, playing a loud, bland remix of an eighties song. ‘It takes a strong man, baby, but I’m showing you the door.’ Heavy bassline obscures the melody and it takes a moment or two to work out why the lyrics are so familiar. A rap cuts in. The boys in the car don’t get out, but sit, windows open and music blaring, until a phone rings. The music is snapped off and replaced by their plan for later. ‘Are you at home, yeah? We’ll be there in 10 minutes.’ The phone is flung onto the dashboard and the stereo returned to its former levels as the boys lean back in their seats and roll cigarettes.
Fishermen congregate on the seawall, rooting through brightly-coloured cold boxes in search of bait. Or maybe lunch. Seagulls float overhead, making the most of the sea breeze and keeping a beady eye on the food situation below.
The Fiat’s door slams, shaking the car. The driver comes round to the seaward side of the car and lights his carefully-rolled cigarette, cupping it in the palm of his hand. The tang of marijuana fills the air as he passes it back through the passenger window to his friend.
An old man wheels his battered bike along the sea wall at a snail’s pace, stopping every few yards. As he passes the various fishermen he peers into their cold boxes, checking out their catch or lack of it. One circuit done, he parks the bike with care and potters over to the nearest fisherman. After a short, animated conversation, Old Man picks up a seat pad and bumbles back to his bike before laboriously settling himself down next to it to regard the waves.
A family of three park up. The daughter, aged about four, totters out of the car. She is already bundled to the max against the weather, but Mum adds a scarf for good measure. Daughter staggers to the railing and gazes, transfixed, at the waves. Her parents have a hard job persuading her to leave the view and follow them. ‘Come on, let’s go down the steps!’ Daughter follows reluctantly, still gazing seawards. They make their way along the beach to a large rock which has been painted to look like a giant ladybird. Dad carries Daughter along the uneven, stony beach, pointing out different sights as they pass. Mum trails behind, splitting her attention between her mobile phone conversation and her camera.
A middle-aged woman settles herself on a bench, her bright yellow scarf wound firmly around her neck. Pulling up her hood, she fishes a book out of her bag and wriggles into a more comfortable position. Her face creases with concentration as she reads. An ill-timed page turn coincides with a large gust of wind, and she wails briefly as she loses not only her page, but almost the entire book. Clutching the book hard and regaining her composure she turns away, curving her body to shelter the book from any further breezy attacks.
Another family comes onto the beach. The children, a girl and a boy, are older than ladybird girl. The girl runs on ahead and clambers onto the biggest rocks. Her little brother follows, but can’t keep up. Her red jacket starts to disappear into the distance and he calls for her to wait. She throws a glance over her shoulder as if considering the wisdom of this, and seems to decide that it will be more fun with than without him. She scrambles back to fetch him.
A black cat slinks out from behind a rock and begins a fastidious grooming procedure. In the distance the little boy calls to his sister, startling the cat and leaving it suspended mid-lick, one foot in the air and tongue hanging out. Realising that it’s been seen, it glares balefully at the nearest human before stalking to a more sheltered position. Never underestimate the ire of an embarrassed cat.
Big sister has abandoned both red jacket and little brother, and sits kicking her heels on top of the ladybird, holding court for her adoring parents. Li’l bro, meanwhile, is still struggling happily over rocks too big for him to climb without resorting to hands and knees. Crawling, and in dirty jeans, he’s in his element.
The smell of fried fish wafts from an open door. There is a passing glimpse of a chef preparing the evening meal, blue and white chequered trousers pulled up high over large paunch. A pudgy hand, belying its appearance, reaches deftly into a large tray of dark fish and flips one out onto the table. Quick as a flash a knife appears in the other hand and slivers into the fish’s flesh.
The door closes.
Images by Haikeu and Kate Bailward
The ticket has finally been issued. Amid much ciao grazie-ing I’m off to wait for the ferry, or ‘nave’ as it’s known around these parts. At Villa you can catch three different types of ferry. The slowest, but also the most exciting for geeks like me, is the ferry which takes the train. Sicily doesn’t have its own train network, so is dependent on Italy for its rolling stock. However, Sicily is an island and trains aren’t well-known for their flotational powers. So, how to get the trains across? Well, fit up a RORO ferry with rails in its bowels and Roberto’s your proverbial zio. If I’m not in a hurry I love to watch this process. As the boat approaches the shore, its bows start to wind up into the air, like a slow-motion animatronic shark preparing to wolf down its prey. By the time it’s reached the docks there is a huge gaping maw where once there was white sea-splashed metal. Slowly the ferry eases into the shore and the tracks are painstakingly lined up. There is much standing about and waving of arms at this point of the process. This boat ain’t going nowhere for a good half hour. Finally, the train chunters its way slowly along the tracks and into the darkened bowels of the boat. Usually, it’s then backed up at least twice and repacked. I’ve never quite worked out why this is. It’s on rails. How far wrong can it go?
The second type of ferry is, again, a slow boat, but this time only for motor vehicles and passengers. This one is usually the best bet for a regular service. However, you do miss out on the Ferrovie floor show. Dem’s da breaks. The final ferry is the Metromare. This is a fast, passenger-only service. It’s staffed by attractive girls in uniforms similar to those of British Airways in the 80s, with jaunty pillbox hats and rakish neckscarves. As I approach the docks, one of these girls approaches me. She’s a consummate saleswoman, trying her best to lure customers away from the nave and onto (if you believe the spiel) her far superior boat. It’s so much faster! And look how shiny and new it is! Are you French? I can explain in French if you like? Oh, you’re English! Oh, well, I can speak English, too … I smile and tell her in Italian that I already have a ticket for the other boat. With a sigh and a little moue of displeasure that tells me she spends all day hearing this, she turns away in search of a more willing victim.
While the Metromare girl was distracting me, a passenger nave has pulled away from the closest dock. No matter. There are still three other docks, reached by an overhead gallery. Maybe I’ll even get to do some trainspotting. Whee! I start to climb the stairs to see if there are any other boats further across. A man calls to me: There aren’t any! Wait here! The next is at 10.35. Obediently, I sit to wait. More people arrive. The girl from Metromare bustles about trying to coax people to go with her company, but it’s €2.50 and the nave tickets are only €2.20. Also, the Metromare tickets are non-refundable. I sit tight. Half an hour later a nave arrives at dock 3, but there’s a big hoo-hah – apparently it won’t be leaving any time soon because it has to wait for the train which, it being August, is running late. 7 hours late, to be precise. The Metromare girl is beside herself. You can come with us! We leave at 11.15. Just go to the ticket office and get a ticket. Go on!
I return to the newsagent. Grandpa is confused – What the cabbage? This is a very endearing Italian phrase. Rather than say che cazzo? (‘what the fuck?), they say che cavolo – literally translated as ‘what the cabbage?’ Why on earth do you want a Metromare ticket when you’ve already got a perfectly good ferry ticket? I sold it to you myself, not 10 minutes ago! I explain the sitch. He is aghast. But no! Look! There’s a boat arriving just there! He points to dock 1 where there is, indeed, a ferry pulling into shore. It will go before the Metromare, for sure! I start to tell him about the delayed trains, but he gives me a look over the top of his glasses. Was it the girl that told you there wasn’t a boat? I look sheepish. Hmmm, it was, wasn’t it? I confess that yes, it was. He pulls the skin under his right eye down with his forefinger and raises an eyebrow at me. The Metromare girl, in his opinion, is pulling a fast one. He sends me back. It’ll be fine. Just get on that boat there. You’ll see …
I’m hot and I’m tired of waiting around. More than anything, I’m fed up of lugging my bags from pillar to post, and I just want to get across this bloody bit of water. Feeling daring and rebellious, I decide to go against his wisdom. More fool me. On returning to the docks with my newly purchased (from another shop) Metromare ticket I find a very disgruntled woman, who has done exactly the same as I have. Turns out that the boat in dock 1 *is* going. The Metromare girl has done her work well. She didn’t exactly lie – the ferry that’s waiting for the train is going to be delayed for most of the day – but she neglected to point out that the passenger ferries would still be running. Grandpa was right, dammit. I ponder a moment. The nave ticket can be used another day, whereas the Metromare one is only valid for this particular crossing. However, I love this journey. It would be a shame to do it at speed and miss out on the wind in my hair. Decision made: I’m taking the slow boat to Sicily.
I go to get my ticket ripped by the lugubrious, Top Gun-esque captain, who is waiting in a little booth on the dock. His moustache is straight out of CHiPs and his uniform gleams white in the Calabrian sun. He tears the ticket but puts out a hand to stop me from walking further, anxiety in his eyes. Following his gaze, I realise the problem. As this is a southern Italian ferry, passengers walk onto the boat via the same entrance as the lorries and there’s currently a long stream of them driving aboard. I don’t fancy my chances against these behemoths, so I’m happy to stand aside and talk a while. Unlike most Italians, he’s not a garrulous man, but he’s still full of quiet curiosity. Have you arrived on the train? Uh huh. Are you on holiday? Oh, I see. Where are you going? Oh, Siracusa. Yes, it’s beautiful. And Taormina? Oh, how lovely. He nods slowly and a small smile escapes from beneath his walrus moustache. You should go to the Aeolian Islands as well. Take the boat from Messina. Trust me.
A Port Authority man comes over, and the captain hands over my ticket stub. The signora’s ticket. Concern creases his brow. I ripped it already. The new man grins. Great! The captain breathes a sigh of relief. No, I don’t need to see the rest – go on board! Oh, best wait for the lorries, though! He scoots back to his duties as truck marshaller and I take the opportunity of the break in traffic to lug my bags aboard. I head to my usual place at the front, squinting in the breezy sunshine, and smile.
Sicily, here I come.
The distance from Calabria to Sicily is so small that you can see one from the other. The Messina Straits are, at their narrowest point, less than 2 miles wide. Unfortunately, to cross them you must jump over various fiendish hurdles. From my small Calabrian town to the port of Villa San Giovanni, where one can catch the ferry to Messina, is less than 30 minutes by coach. However, the coaches only run once an hour, stop for lunch in the middle of the day and – potentially most disastrously – run along the A3. Anything can happen between here and there.
Today the coach runs smoothly and we pull into the drop-off area outside the train station (which is, conveniently, slap bang next to the ferry port) right on time. I’m feeling nervous. By the Law of Italian Travel, something has to go wrong somewhere along the way. There are three stages to the journey from Calabria to Catania. The coach is part one. The next bit is the ferry across the Messina Straits. This is my favourite part of the journey. Were it up to me, I’d happily spend my days getting the boat back and forth across this choppy little stretch of water, feeling the wind in my face, tasting salt on my lips, and dreaming of Greek legends. An early childhood by the sea has left its mark on me for life.
Before I can get on the boat, however, I need to buy a ferry ticket. These are bought from a newsagent’s on the train station platform, and cost €2.20. When I paid for the coach earlier, I realised that I wouldn’t have enough money to pay for the ferry as well. No matter – there’s a cash machine across the road from the bus stop in Villa. I lug my bags across and insert my card. The machine chunters a little, then spits my card back at me, telling me that there is no cash in the machine. I swear softly, and haul my bags back across the road to the newsagents, to ask if they’ll take a card. The young man behind the desk smiles sadly and shakes his head. There’s a cash machine over the road, though … I explain that it’s not working. His face falls and then brightens again. Don’t worry! There’s one in the next square, too! Go straight on, then it’s on the left. You can’t miss it. At this point I become aware of his grandfather nodding behind him. He’s not convinced that his grandson’s directions were clear enough. He jumps in to the rescue, guiding me by the elbow to the shop entrance, where he points the direction I need to go. It’s just there, look. Can you see the big banner? Yes? OK, go along that street and you’ll see the bank on the left. Good luck! He waves me off with a smile as I heft my bags back onto my shoulders and start walking.
5 minutes later, as I arrive at the bank, I’m sweating like a pig and cursing my decision to do away with my wheeled suitcase in favour of a cheap rucksack. Thankfully this cash machine has money in it. I reshoulder my rucksack, which is getting heavier by the second, and trudge back to where I started.
On my return to the newsagent’s Grandpa greets me like an old friend. A ticket for the ferry, was it? Just one way? Certainly! What’s that? You want to top up your phone as well? But of course! What’s the number? He pulls his glasses to the end of his nose and smiles at me expectantly, stubby finger poised in readiness over the top-up keypad. In some shops the keypad is passed over for you to type the number yourself. In others you dictate the number to the shopkeeper. It would appear that this is one of the second. This is always a fraught time for me. Firstly, I have to remember my number. Secondly, I have to remember how to say it in Italian. Today, there’s the added interest of Grandpa’s deafness. I start to dictate the number and he stops me mid-flow. What’s that? Did you say five-SIX-three? My number is therefore bellowed for the edification of every customer. For good measure, Grandpa then repeats it at full volume to check that he’s typed it in correctly. You know, just in case any passers-by hadn’t heard.
As my phone beeps to let me know that the top-up has been successfully received, he points at it triumphantly. There you go. All done! What’s that? What, you want a ticket for the ferry as well …?
… to be continued …
Image by Express Monorail
I’m staying in a hostel in Siracusa. It’s a couple of days before Ferragosto and the place is packed with people from all different countries: France, Germany, South Africa, England and Italy – and that’s just in my dorm. I’m humbled by the language skills on display here. In the main the travellers are in their late teens or early 20s, and most of them speak English nigh-on fluently. Interestingly enough, though, Italian not so much. When I speak Italian to the desk clerk he’s both surprised and gratified to hear somebody speaking his language. As an English speaker I could choose to go pretty much anywhere in the world and not bother to learn any new languages at all. For the record, this is not something that either pleases or excites me. In fact, the reason I’m in Siracusa is that I’m on my way to Taormina to enrol on an Italian language course for three weeks. Take that, crappy language skills!
Walking past a cafe I see a tall, elderly man in conversation with a short young woman. As I pass I hear her call to people inside, come si dice ‘la mattina’? Ridiculously enough, I’m the most qualified person to answer, so I leap in. Morning. A big grin crosses the girl’s face and the man turns to me in relief. It turns out that the girl – tattoed, über-cool, beautiful and friendly – is the cafe owner. The man, meanwhile, flustered and out of his depth with only a few words of Italian at his disposal, none of which include times of the day, is Australian. The cafe owner is trying to explain to him when the cafe is open for food. Tomorrow evening, apparently. What time? calls out the Australian man’s wife. I ask the cafe owner and receive the answer, translating it for the Australian couple, who potter off happily.
In a glow of self-satisfaction, I head inside the cafe to order a drink. Fish juice, please! The cafe owner smiles and raises an eyebrow. Do you mean peach? We both collapse in giggles. Karma’s a bitch, but just occasionally she has a wicked sense of humour.
Embarrassingly enough, this isn’t the first time I’ve made this mistake. To a native English speaker, there is little difference visually between the words pesce (fish) and pesca (peach). To an Italian, however, the different vowels at the end of the word change the preceding ‘c’ from soft to hard. Pesce = pe-shay while pesca = pe-ska. The meaning, of course, changes even more. One day I’ll get my come-uppance and be served a glass of fish juice. Maybe then I’ll remember which is which. The trouble is that every time I stop to think about which word I need, the difference escapes me and I blurt out the wrong one. Moral of the story? Ask for apricot instead.
Images by ruurma and immagina on Flickr
(This post was written a while ago, but I forgot to publish it at the time. Sorry about that. I’m catching up slowly.)
All I’m aware of is a look of gape-mouthed horror on Liv’s face. However, apparently she just had her bikini bottoms pulled down to her knees by a particularly large wave. Thankfully she managed to catch hold of them and hoist them back up before anyone saw anything. (We think …)
In an attempt to save our modesty while we keep cool, we do as the Italians do and sit at the breaker line on the shore while we chat. This turns out to be not such a great idea, either. The water is too rough today and it’s kicking the pebbles into a frenzy. Every time a wave breaks over us we end up with more and more stones piled in our bikini bottoms. On the plus side, our arses are being beautifully exfoliated, but (a big minus), as soon as we stand up we look like we’ve done large, lumpy poos in our knickers. We dive, red-faced, into the waves, holding bikinis up with one hand and fishing stones out with the other. Oh, the glamour.
For the rest of the day it’s playing it safe with sunbathing and people-watching. A mum and her toddler son walk across the beach in front of me. Or, rather, he barrels towards the waves while she ambles behind, rapt in a phone conversation. Mum is more aware than she appears, however. Just as her offspring is about to launch himself with gay abandon into waves taller than he is, she kicks off her Crocs, phone still clamped to her ear, and swoops to the edge of the water. With one arm she scoops him up out of harm’s way, while both roundly chastising him for running away and continuing her phone conversation. She grins down at him wriggling at her side as she marches back to their umbrella, not noticing the fact that she’s going through the middle of a volleyball game. The four teenage boys playing eye her with indulgence, and one shouts, ‘wait!’ It’s not clear whether the warning is for his friends or the oblivious woman about to be hit in the face with a ball, but either way it averts disaster. The ball game stops for a moment, and Mama beams and ducks her head in acknowledgment while not changing her course in the slightest.
Five minutes later her son is armbanded and she has abandoned her phone in favour of the waves. Her fuschia-pink Crocs also lie forgotten, just above the tideline, where she kicked them off in her earlier rescue effort. She, meanwhile, is waist-deep in the water, with her son perched on her hip. Both their faces are split with grins a mile wide. The Lido owner’s kids, next to them, dive through the bottom of the waves crashing over their tiny heads. They are burnt black from being on the beach all day, every day, and they emerge sleek as seals from the far side of each breaker, crowing with excitement.
I’m disturbed from my people-watching by the feeling that I, in turn, am being watched. There’s a small boy standing by my feet, eyeing the bag of crisps that Liv bought earlier and which lie, half-eaten, between us. Having caught my eye, he grins and points at them. His mum, meanwhile, is sitting five feet away, gazing in curiosity at the brazen scene unfolding. I ask him in broken Italian whether mamma will approve of him eating crisps. Mamma shrugs and gives me a sheepish smile. I laugh and offer him the bag, from which he takes one and toddles back to his towel, apparently satisfied. 30 seconds later, however, he’s back again. This time he’s braver and comes up next to me before staring pointedly. On the third go round he sits down and just dives straight into the bag. He’s probably doing us a favour by stopping us from eating them. If the sea is going to continue stealing our bikinis, at least our bottoms will be trim when we flash them to the world.
Image by Calwhiz on Flickr
There’s a meme doing the rounds at the moment, thanks to Tripbase – you may well have seen versions of it on other blogs. In a nutshell, bloggers are nominated to talk about 7 of their posts, and then to nominate 5 other bloggers to do the same. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed reading other people’s archive posts, so when the lovely Koan Girl at A Totally Impractical Guide to Shanghai nominated me to take part, I started rifling through my archives, and here follow the results. I hope you enjoy them.
1. My most beautiful post
A lot of other people have answered this question with posts containing amazing photography and images. Me, I’m no great shakes as a photographer. I enjoy it, but words are more my thing. Beauty is therefore not so much in the eye as the *mind* of the beholder here. A picture paints a thousand words, they say. Well, that probably explains why I write long posts. I’ve chosen this one for the images that it conjures of a moment of peace and happiness. Much though humans might try to wreck the landscape around them, nature always seems to win out in the end.
Country Roads, Take Me Home
2. My most popular post
There are two contenders for this title. First, the post that has garnered the most hits. It’s an observational post about a day on the beach and was featured in Michelle at Bleeding Espresso’s Gita Italiana last year, at which point my viewing stats went crazy. Thanks, Michelle!
When I Was Two, I Was Nearly New
The second post is the one that has gained the most comments. This, again, is thanks to a little help from other people; this time, Lara and Terence at Gran Tourismo. Last year they were running monthly competitions, themed differently for each month, and I entered this post into one of them, to explain just some of the many reasons why I’ve fallen in love with train travel here in Italy.
Daydream in Blue
3. My most controversial post
I’m not usually one for stirring up controversy. This blog is far more observational than confrontational, so this was a difficult category to fill. However, I finally went for one in which I have a bit of a bitch about how rubbish the food is in Paris. I then go and ruin my stance by waxing lyrical about a fabulous bistro that I found there. Ha.
Bon Appétit
4. My most helpful post
Again, this was a difficult category to fill. This is a personal blog, and I don’t generally write in order to be helpful. However, I did remember this one about speed dating, which does offer advice of a sort. Not the kind of advice that you should take all that seriously, granted, but I DO THESE THINGS SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO, OKAY?!
5. A post whose success surprised me
This post was written at a time when I was feeling quite bitter about life and love here in Calabria and was rather different from my usual way of writing. The vignette style and the content seemed to hit a nerve with a few people, however, and I got lots of comments both on the blog and on my Facebook page.
Love in the South of Calabria
6. A post that didn’t get the attention it deserved
This is a double whammy. I visited Florence over Easter in 2010 and wrote a pair of posts about the experience which didn’t seem to get much interest, which disappointed me, given how much there is crammed into them. I talk about architecture and monuments and train travel and food and and and – oh, just read them, OK? G’wan – you know you want to …
Night Train to Florence
Cake and Steak
7. The post that I am most proud of
This is a very recent one, and was one that I wrote consciously trying to take myself out of the equation. Observation is what I love to do, but far too often when I then write about it I find that it’s become all about ME ME ME. This post, on the other hand, is all about others and I love it for that.
Pet Sounds
So now to the nominations. I’m pretty sure none of you have done this already, but if you have then I apologise – it’s getting hard to keep track of who has and who hasn’t.
Torre at The Fearful Adventurer
Jaxies at I Am a Feeder
Roxanne at Stories of Conflict and Love
Carrie at Some Birds are Like That
Angela at Chasing the Unexpected
Photo credits:
Kate Bailward
Athena_Vina on Flickr
Tiemen Rapati on Flickr
Malingering on Flickr
Where did it go?! Emma is on her feet, clutching her bottle of Nastro and looking up at the air conditioning unit. Carly looks about. I think it went – AARRRRGGGGHHH! It seems that she has just discovered where the cockroach disappeared to: under the table. And then out again over her sandalled foot.
Ohmygodthere’sanotherone! Everyone scrambles out of their chairs and into the road where they can easily see any large, scuttling bugs approaching. Giuseppe comes over. What’s going on? Carly replies with one word: scarafaggi. That’s it: the bar staff are all up on their feet, brandishing brooms and hustling us out of the way.
There’s one! Get it! Giuseppe is straight in for the kill, stamping on the bug before it can escape down the heating grille. A grin splits his face in two. Man kill bug! Rrraaaahh! I’m surprised by how easily he squashed it. I thought cockroaches were supposed to be able to survive the apocalypse, and yet one stamp from an Italian cafe owner’s loafer and the bug’s toast. Interesting. Emma pipes up. But – if you kill one, don’t more appear to get their revenge, or something …? Giuseppe doesn’t understand the English words, but he gets her meaning. The grin fades a little. It’s OK, girls, we’ve got it all under control. You just – er – sit over there for a little while …
Later that night. Another bar. Sitting outside, enjoying the last of our drinks. As so often happens, we’re the last ones standing. Or lounging on bar chairs, as the case may be. A man approaches and starts talking to us. He seems to want us to move. He tells us they want to clean the square. We tell him we’re going in five minutes. He looks anxious. But we’re about to clean this area. Do you understand? We nod and smile. I’m not sure why he’s getting so agitated. Usually we just clear away the tables as we leave. He repeats again with more urgency. This time, however, he adds the magic word: scarafaggi. As if of one accord, everyone’s brows clear and we leap to our feet. They’re not just cleaning: they’re SPRAYING POISON. We race inside the bar as the truck starts up and watch through the plate glass window as the square is coated in a fine, white mist. The apocalypse has arrived so far as the cockroaches are concerned. We, however, thanks to the man in the square, live to drink another day.
Image by Xtream_i on Flickr
