Shoes and coffee ... bellissimo!

Greetings from Lucca!

It's a very cold, very small and very beautiful city - my favourite kind! - And every afternoon after school, my little sister has to walk me home so I don't get lost. I now have a vast collection of maps in different sizes and fonts, and each one is as useless as the next.


Yep. It's the maps. Shut up and deal with it :)


Lucca is, as I said, quite the stunning citta. Each morning I brave the sub zero temperatures for a stroll around the perimiter of the city atop the ancient wall - a very Lucchese thing to do, I might add, though I don't wear lycra. And never, ever will!! I've had a brilliant few days of dinner parties, gelati-runs, coffee overdoses and speck; a food and wine related adventure this has been! I'm finding this trip a lot more relaxed than the last one, for various reasons, and even my experience of learning Italian is more enjoyable this time around - I've now got the accent and I'm not afriad to use it! And I no longer feel like someone's throwing bricks at my head in the guise of la lingua di Italiano.

Ok. I do. But they are softer bricks!

Four days into my Italian term, I am still pretty much crap but so far have managed to fool everybody from the shopkeeper at Desigual to the mechanic at the servo; first conversation about putting chains on tyres and conducting an auto service may not have been a complete success but at least no one got hurt.

Yet.

I also got to talk shop with a Jehovah's witness - this was pretty funny actually. I don't think either of us actually took the other seriously, and I nearly peed my own pants when I professed to being a committed Catholic.


The real tragedy of this trip is that I've already run out of my allotted spending money for clothes - in spite of my generousness towards self!!! I guess my pocket wasn't generous enough :( So, now I have just one question:


Santa Claus is real, right?


It is a serious question. I have only purchased one pair of boots when I wanted two; Motivi could deck out my winter wardrobe for the next two years if I let them, and I bought two gorgeous jumpers from Desigual and they were't even brand Desigual!! FAIL! I know I don't need any new clothes, but that's just in Australia,; in Italia, I am a massive bag lady! True story.
Besides, need has never been an argument, but I do need to shop as much as I can before December 31st for my beautiful, shapely, well made in Italia gorgeous costumes. This is when my new year's resolution to be moderate kicks in.


I haven't yet set my parameters for moderate. The dictionary on my phone - which is moderate - says less extreme. If you're a moderate centre-right, however, you are still a fuckwit. I need hard and fast rules. For example, does it just mean one less pair of shoes?

(And a little elf in the cobbler's workshop just died; another elf put a nail through his head) Mia culpa.


so, one less caffe latte?


Being moderate is going to suck!

Pizza, Gelato and Roma Gypsies!

I am not generally a huge fan of Rome, but my two days wondering the streets were actually quite pleasant. Having seen everything before, I had little wish to spend my time in queues, so I spent my time on foot - only queuing to stick my hand in the della bocca della verita (that creepy lions mouth from only You with Robert Downey Junior. And Roman Holiday. With Gregory Peck.)

Should have wished for something else in the Trevi Fountain!!!

But there was more magic afoot.

Yesterday I made my way back to Florence - so excited as I saw the Duomo looming over me around the first bend, I am surprised I didnt pee my pants with pure and unadulterated glee! And I thought Florence was a postcard before - at Christmas, it is amazing! The lights, the Christmas trees, the carols. My snowglobe metaphor is more apt than ever. And though there is no snow, it is bloody FREEZING!!!

I was greeted almost immediately by old friends; I was almost excited that the scary gypsy in the purple coat was the first to hit me up for money - I am not pretending; it was her! She now has a purple skirt too, so I am proud of her for matching. Not so impressed that she swore at me when I wouldnt give her money, but the gypsies sure were out in force in Piazza Giovanni and I am a firm believer in fairness for all - and I cannot give money to all! There really do seem to be an explosion in the population in Firenze, and I wonder if it will soon be like it was ten years ago when tourists were literally set upon. My sister and I had to run down an alley this morning when we were ambushed by 5 of them. I know the language I am using is not very nice, but that is what it felt like. But if they are the only distasteful aspects of my wonderful days in my snowglobe city, then I can handle it!

Now, off to spend some euro at my favouite stores, eat pizza in my favourite restaurant - and a quick trip to Vivoli for the worlds best gelati! Tomorrow I start school! It has already been a fun day of practicing with my sister - we have fairly fluent conversations, I think - there is hope for me yet!

A domani!

Roma via China = starbucks and catfood.

This first part was written about thirty hours ago, as I waited in China.

Arrived in Beijing. 9 hour overlay and facebook appears to be blocked. And blogger. I would swear at them now, but maybe there is a tracking device in this computer and I will be killed. The security staff at Beijing ariport do NOT look happy to be alive.


Joking.

Sort of. Scariest moment ever when they scanned my hand luggage - then ran it through again. And then again. Thought I might lose my maltesers, and that would have been truly sad. China Air made an announcment just before breakfast that, due to freight restrictions, they didn't have enough meals. I kid you not. They kindly requested that people who didn't intend to eat it resist taking one. As breakfast was fish curry, I found it quite easy to resist, actually.

I'm putting it out there - China Air sucks. And I'm not just being a negative nancy; it was freezing and they wouldn't give me blanket because they didn't have any of those spare either. I felt like I was flying in the cold war. Maybe a big fuck you to captialism? I can't work out how else they'd survive being so tight. But I'm having fun laughing at all the contradictions.

For example, we arrived at five am. Before we got off the plane we were adivsed to put our coats on as it's minus 6 degrees. I disobeyed; I'm not going outside am I?

OH MY GOD! THEY MEANT INSIDE!

I really love the juxtoposition existing between walking around freezing my arse off because they won't turn the heaters on, and this is also literally the biggest duty free shopping precinct outside of Dubai I have ever seen. (So yes, am having fun!!!) This is not the China we learned about at school!!! ha ha. I was also quite looking forward to getting a Chinese meal, but all they have open so far (it is early) is a Starbucks and a Pizza Hut!!! American!!!!! I had a starbucks. Sad face.

It only got worse when I got on the plane again. For the first leg, I was greeted to empty coke can and rubbish on my seat - there is something disconcerting about a dirty plane. I will admit, when it comes to my desk I am a filthy pig, but I am not looking after a one hundred million dollar aircraft, either. I do not know why, but when you see rubbish in the aisle, it does cross your mind that this plane is more likely to crash. It really does.
 
Sadly, my first thought upon arriving in Rome was not YAY i AM IN ROME it was, dear God I have to fly Air China again on the way home.
 
I just hope they dont serve cat food again. That was a really low moment in my life actually!
 
However, when in Rome! I am in Rome!!! I realised fairly early that I had left my memory stick at home, and even after traversing the streets for over three hours I am yet to find one - but it has been a great morning just walking. And eating gelati. And pretending I am Italian. Have realised once again the pitfalls of speaking it and the consequences of not understanding what people say back. Nodding my head and smilng thoughfully, throwing in afew bene and then just running seem to be working well. I have just about perfected the accent on my grazie and have eaten so much nutella gelati I may well be sick today. Totes!
 
My first port of call was the Trevi Fountain - just to throw in ten cents to ensure I am here next Christmas too! Since then, I have found the shopping district and I have admired the shopping district but I have so far restrained myself. I know, right! Another miracle on 34th street has occurred. (Most amazing Dolce and Gabbana shoes EVER however, and I will rue the day I did not at least ask if they would remortgage my house in exchange.)
 
Now. I am three and a half hours walk from my hotel ... I wonder where that means I actually am. And also, where is the question mark on this computer ...

Midnight in Cordoba

Thought it was time to write a serious story ...



New years eve in Cordoba is freezing. Quiet. Grey.

It’s festive – the Spaniards dress the holiday season better than anyone – but there’s a drabness. As though a spell has been cast to make this last siesta of the year persist, forever. Oranges nestle together in the trees lining every street, still vibrantly orange, and facades of pale pink, stucco and yellow stand majestically on the empty streets. But dreary permeates through the forlorn solitude. It is going to rain, and not so much as a coffee shop seems to be open.

“You can eat a donut,” the terse senora in the process of cleaning out the bins of an Americanized franchise gesticulates wildly at the closed sign on the door. “If you eat quickly. We are closing.”

Christine doesn’t want to eat quickly. Christine doesn’t really want a fucking donut, actually, thanks very much. She wants for it to not be New Years Eve again, and definitely to not be in Cordoba. She gives a special gesticulation of her own and walks back out into the eerie yellow dusk. The narrow labyrinth of alleyways back to her hotel are oppressive, without people to guide her – that crazy fucking gypsy in the purple coat on one corner, an illegal immigrant selling stolen lottery tickets at the next, and the familiar thrum of buoyancy and appetite to a quiet harmony of chinking cutlery and glassware. Without all this to guide her, Christine is lost.

Ending up in the main square for the third time, she decides just to stay there. What is the point in going back anyway, she surmises? What can she possibly find to amuse her there, but the thoughts inside her own head?

Last new years had gone something like this:

Step one: Take a giant bottle of bourbon.

Step two: swindle 2 tabs of rather powerful anti-psychotic medication from a clearly psychotic homeless person – in exchange for said bourbon.

Step three: Down the hatch – in the safety of her own place, obviously – before remorse could set in. And pleasant dreams. No dreams, actually. A rather dangerous way to ensure sleep before midnight – or at all, which was actually the point – but a year ago Christine hadn’t much cared for waking up any way. The awful irony of wanting to sleep for the rest of her life, and not being able to sleep for an hour.

Her predilection towards scamming homeless people, taking dangerous un-prescribed narcotics and insomnia has long passed, but it is probably best to avoid a cramped hotel room so tiny she’d nearly broken her toe swinging out of bed this morning. With a big toe now a psychedelic hue of mottled purples after its encounter with the wall three millimeters from her bed, going back does seem a little pointless. In truth, it feels like the room is crushing her, consuming her; in the new year, all that would be left would be an oversized white pullover and the discarded remains of an unpalatable bruised toe.

Best to stay out in the open.

Best to stay sober.

Best not to contemplate being alone on New Years Eve. In Cordoba.

Best to drink.

One or two bars are open. There’s no-one in them, but bored and fat baristas-cum- wine-waiters stand under the eves of verandahs hoping for customers at the end of siesta. Christine chooses a seat outside, in the cold, but where she can watch for people and not feel quite so isolated. It’s funny how Madrid had more people than she could bear: the hordes of tourists that swamped the old city. There, it was the people who consumed her; they were like oblivious gangs, an anarchic mass marching wall to wall in the cobbled and festive streets. Feeling like prey, she often ran rather than face them. Now there is no one to face and she feels lonely.

Christine orders a sangria and doesn’t touch it beyond the first sip. The red syrup is almost gelatinous and the peaches floating in its depths look putrefied. She knows it’s not the Spanish way, it’s just her morbid brain; but once she’s had the thought she can’t get it out of her head. Like a lot of thoughts that hack their way through her psyche.

He’s cheating on me. He hates me. He’s going to leave me.

The fact that these actually turned out to be true didn’t seem to lessen his rage when they spilled out. He accused her of conjuring the situation into being, like an evil incantation. When, in actual fact, he was fucking his hairdresser. And the mail-person. His therapist called it a sex addiction - he was probably fucking her too; his primary impulse was convenience. A dig at her, she’d wondered as she was hauling boxes of her broken life into her station wagon, or was that just her brain in overdrive too?

Christine ponders the absurdity that she still cares that he was angry. Still cares at all. And yet, here she is pretending to be happy. Watching - right in front of her - the decomposition of her drink, the decomposition of her year, the world going by without her in it. Not to mention the screen of her mobile phone, which could light up her new years with apologies and promises that will actually be kept.

Anything is possible. And yet nothing is possible. Not if that’s what she’s waiting for.

People are starting to turn out now. The fat barista-cum-barman glances at her malevolently, daring her to keep sitting there in the midst of waiting customers who might actually drink something. It’s time to be turned out into the synthetic glow of a siesta woken by fairy lights. The twilight of another year.

To be continued … (ha ha. Just to lazy to finish it, actually – I always sucked at the short stuff)

And a shot note - I have never been to Cordoba, so I apologise for any denigration of what I am sure is a beautiful city. And many thanks to the scary lady in the purple coat who is real - she just lives in Florence!

Things I love about summer

#1: I haven’t had one in a while. And by that, I do mean longer than you guys; I wasn't here for the last one. To have sun on my shoulders feels like a novelty that I acknowledge will wear off. When I’m sweating like a crack-whore in a few weeks time (post freezing my arse off in Italy) due to a 48 degree heatwave, I might come back and change this.

By the by, I do like being able to say crack-whore again! It may be crude, some may find it distasteful, but sometimes the exactness of the simile outweighs the crudeness!

#2: How wonderful it is when you only have black underwear clean and you desperately need skin-colour. Which you left wet in the washing machine - in the summer you can always hang them on the indicator stick of your car to dry in the morning sun.

Disclaimer: I am NOT saying I have actually done this.

I’m not saying I haven’t, either!

#3: Summer means I feel less guilty about not taking my vitamin D supplements. I’m supposed to take two every night, because Italy stole my D-factor, but I’ll be honest with you (be flattered; I lied to my GP) it was six months before I even opened the bottle.

Suddenly the strange ease with which my toe fractured itself – because I hardly did anything to fracture it – is starting to become clearer.

Also, handy tip: don’t lie to your GP. The blood tests will come back to bite you.

#4: Summer dresses! Enough said. So pretty!!!

#5: Summer holidays. Oh dear goodness, I have 2 days left. 2 days! To be honest, I can’t believe the end of the year got here so quickly. I think – not too much, actually – about what I was doing a year ago and it seems like ten years has past. But three terms since my holiday have sped along with tremendous speed; I'm surprised I've kept up!. And now here we are again! Too excited for words!

I’m really looking forward to this Christmas, regardless of its setting in the Left Bank of Paris.. Can’t stop singing; can’t stop smiling. Life is much better. Amen.

#5: Having purple fingers because you’re eating so many blackberries for dinner.

Actually, this is irritating. I don't like dirty hands. Does anyone; is it normal, or is my situation particularly pedantic? Let me lay it all out for you:  I don’t like makeup underneath my fingernails, red dust in the grooves of my fingerprints (to the extent that I'm never going back to Central Australia again - the two week holiday that was still embedded in my skin two weeks after), pen ink on my fingers - occupational hazard when you're both a writer, a shopper, and have more receipts in your handbag than anything else (WHERE IS THE F*** PEN?!!!) and, it turns out, blackberry stained fingers. Dirt is so grotty. I mean, apart from by its very definition. And purple grotty is even worse.

I’m surprised I’m not addicted to those little bottles of hand sanitiser!

And before you ask, no - I do not wish to use a spoon. That is not the way one eats summer berries – which is straight out of the carton. I mean, even the carton is superfluous and shameful - if this were Wordsworthian England I would be eating them straight off the vine! But I’m not that lucky to be the romantic child-figure romping through meadows of honey suckle and vine.And there are no blackberry bushes in my area.

Or black faced sheet. Sad face.

Flashback to second year Lit. Good times, Wordsworth!

So, what do you like about summer?

Weekend madness

I'm supposed to be a serious writer now, but I had a jam packed weekend so I thought I would blog it. In pictures. Because I am a serious artist too! Pfft.

(But at the same time, Clemency Jones and her fairy floss are going very well, thank you. It's a rhyming picture story - without the pictures. For now. And in honour of old professors I plan to do some actual travel writing next week, not just whinging about my continuing inept-ness at Italian.)

But you can bet there will be that too!!

Oh my GOD!!! I'm going to be in Italy NEXT. WEEK!

This weekend was a festive scrum from start to finish! (And some of the things on the dinner menu were pretty scrum too!) It started Friday night with coffee and ended at dawn, only to start up again for a St Kilda slogging that – in theory – ended in a run along the beach another few hours later. (The theory part is important!)

I’m still very tired.

But this post isn’t particularly about writing what I did - that would be mundane (though my activities and festivities were in no way mundane).

Here is my weekend in pictures. Some of it :-)

A night on the town!

Tumbleweeds preempt the eerie lack of people in St. Kilda ...

Attempting the 5k fun run at St Kilda

 After the attempt - relief on the grassy knoll.

Good times! I was going to draw myself in a coffin next, but I managed to pull myself through it.

Actually, I'm full of shit - I barely exerted myself at all because my PANTS STARTED FALLING DOWN IN THE FUN RUN!!!!

Happy weekend snap shots!