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November 2016

The awkward unknown of adapting to a Sicilian household

Sicilian Almonds

[Attempt two]

It took a full day of travelling to cross Sicily: a falling apart car, three trains, and then a yellow van.

I’m still a fan of the Italian trains. One of the three was a tiny train up through the hills across Sicily. It was beautiful. The scenery reminded me of the North of England for reasons I cannot explain. Maybe I was just thinking too much about home. In another train, I stared out of the window, as we followed the stunning Mediterranean coastline. No train arrived on time, but all of them had enough room that I could keep my suitcase close by. I panic about leaving my suitcase out of sight.

Then there was the yellow van. By the time I was strapped in the van seat, my suitcase safely tucked in the back beneath some large sheets of wood, I was tired.

We took a detour to the house of Maria’s mother. Maria, a Sicilian craftsman, is my current host.

I exchanged pleasantries in a British fashion with her mother, a wonderful Italian nonna (grandmother) who insisted on giving me a pomegranate.

“My mother,” Maria explained.

An enormous pomegranate filled the fruit bowl and I admired it as was pointed out. You could have played football with it. Maria’s mother and I discussed the wonder of the night’s sky. Her father turned up fully dressed, with the addition of a dressing-gown, holding a pair of binoculars.

Leonardo, Maria’s partner, and I got ready to go; Maria’s mother disappeared to find me a plastic bag for my own small pomegranate. Maria shook her head despairing affectionately.

“The house of my mother – perfect, mine no.”

This not so perfect house – which I’d describe as lively – is where I’m living for a little while. Lively is an understatement.

On growing up and Leonard Cohen

Are you sitting down?

As I type this post, I am listening to Leonard Cohen. A fascination with his voice and lyrics began a few weeks back. It began when I read some article about him, about the strange swirl of loneliness, adoration and longing he plays his life in, and it got me wondering about his music.

Those who know me well might know how his music can anger me. Indeed, the closest I’ve ever felt to hatred is in reaction to Cohen’s voice. Sometimes his music feels like a physical attack. It vexes me with the instruments bouncing around against a backdrop of darkness. To me it’s both awkwardly disconnected and at the same time, hauntingly reminiscent of the disparity between what we so often feel and what we pretend to be. As a result, when I hear his voice, I fight to have him muted. I don’t want to feel that.

So what surprises me the most in listening to these miserable tunes now, is the distance I hear them though. I’m unexpectedly calm. There’s no sinking feeling tugging me into Hades realm. I’m not desperate in my craving; my claws aren’t out. It seems that Leonard Cohen doesn’t control me anymore.

This represents some greater movement in how I think. Fundamentally, I often assume big, overwhelming emotions drive me, they tug, as if tied to a ring though my nose. But this hypothesis is crumbling. Last autumn perhaps I was the harnessed donkey endlessly turning the mill stone long after the grain has run through, worn out and unimaginative. Then came spring, dictated by hot red anger like I’d never touched before. My relationships seemed tainted with disappointment. The disappointment evolved. The summer was more arrogant and self-possessed. Inevitably things keep changing – now I’m looking back with a smile.

Frequently, I wonder where I’m going. The freedom I craved, I won. To destroy a boggart, you merely laugh at him. Perhaps I’ve learnt to laugh at myself. And at Leonard Cohen too. It leaves a wondrous relief. Freedom.

Frecciarossa: Bologna to Naples by train

statue modena

The Frecciarossa line of the TrenItalia railway leaves Bologna Centrale towards Napoli Centrale underground. The highspeed line runs deep under the city.

I’m lucky today.* My generous host arrived home from saving the environment just in time to give me a lift to Modena train station. He insisted on carrying my suitcase down the many flights of stairs. I didn’t make a fuss, but I was grateful. He remarked on the weight of my belongings, and I pointed out that whilst it was heavy, it couldn’t be much over twenty kilograms as yes, it did now contain my boots, but it had managed to fly RyanAir only a few days previously. Apart from a few food supplies, I hadn’t picked anything up.

Mentally I begin working out what I’m going to strip from my case next time around. It seems silly to carry more than I can lift.**

I am also concerned someone might walk off with my suitcase. I am going to Naples, and Naples does have a reputation. Sadly, my luggage has neither legs nor teeth and can’t defend itself or undertake an epic adventure to reclaim me should we become separated. However, I’m not as worried as I was a short time ago before I clambered aboard this train.

The seats face each other in sets of four. Each row across has letters to mark the seats, like an aeroplane and unlike an English train. Between the seats there is luggage space. If I were strong enough, or if wasn’t hauling around a bag almost a third of my own body weight, then there’s also space above my head on a deep rack. The ladies opposite have managed to get their huge suitcase up there.

This strikes me as much better than the English system. English trains dedicate a tiny amount of room for luggage. Usually taking my case by train involves me having to accept the help of a stranger to get it up on one of two racks at the end of the coach. Out of view. Right by the exit.

Not all Italian trains are so fresh or so easy. The crankier local regionale trains fit luggage (and people) in any gap. I kept mine between my knees.

This train however is so shiny it has a computer screen, hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the carriage. It advertises buses, some sort of free (Italian) film service and occasionally shows a map. Kindly, it reminds me to be vigilant about watching my bags. I’m on high alert; security notices bombard me from every direction. Witnessing two young men being arrested in the posh, ‘highspeed’ waiting area of the station rather illustrated the point.

We finally break out into sunlight, twenty-five minutes after setting off from Bologna. The computer screen flicks between the weather, the connections available at the next station (including the platforms at which they can be found) and ‘livecam’. At hundreds of kilometers per hour, we zoom along railway track bathed in autumnal sunshine. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. By the time we reach Naples it will be dark.

DeepThough will be waiting for me. It’s time for another adventure.

[Happy 2nd November.]

*And every other day.

**I can of course lift my case, huffing, puffing, one inch off the ground scraping the steps kind of way. Jumping down the three steep steps off the Italian trains involves a prayer.