Vienna: That chap Figaro, and a wedding.

figaro, vienna

Vienna, August 2014

Midget is besotted. There are violins, cellos, all that orchestral stuff that I don’t know the names of, a chorus and opera singers. I like the opera singers. I’m not sure why, but I have the feeling that it’s the depth of human emotion you see, and hear, in opera. I remember watching opera for the first time in Verona, on cushions on the stone seats of the Roman Amphitheatre. I remember the homeless people outside, and the Mother warning me, a young teenager, to watch myself.

If I had to pick a sound that was the opposite of depression, I’d pick that night in Verona.

Midget of course likes the instruments, particularly the violins I think, but they make her nostalgic because she can play good music. Nostalgia being tinted with sadness because playing good music requires regular practices, and regular practice isn’t quite so sweet. She knew the music, whereas I followed the antics on the stage with no idea when one thing ended and another began. Midget had played some of the music we were listening to – Figaro – and the familiar sounds call to her.

We came tonight because I saw that look in her eyes when she walked past the man selling tickets. The look of longing. And she would have said nothing. She would have walked past.

Not surprisingly, I don’t want her to have nothing. I want her to delight in the familiar sounds, in this great hall with marble busts of composers she thinks I should know. Her eyes should sparkle. When she hears these sounds, they mean something special to her. I want her fingers to move subconsciously as she lives in both this time and a past time where it was her making the music sing.

She thinks I’m crazy, buying concert tickets here and there, not knowing who this Figaro chap is and why his music is special.

She says it’s not Figaro’s music, and she rolls her eyes to demonstrate that I should know better. A chap called Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart wrote it. The piece is the Marriage of Figaro.

Thinking about the stranger on the plane

Palermo, lamps

The plane hits the tarmac, and the Italian lady beside me smiles. I worry for her. She’s in London now, and not so many people here speak Italian. Her English is non-existent. How’s she going to know where the way out is, or baggage reclaim? How’s she going to manage the train, or the tube? How is she going to find her hotel?

It is a stupid concern. I barely know her. I’ve spent the three-hour flight and the twenty-minute delay sleeping. I know she’s not my responsibility. And yet, as I watch her shift uncomfortably beside me, I feel a sense of concern on her behalf.

She will of course be fine. Her phone works, she has access to the Internet. She can translate as she goes, check out the train times and if in doubt loudly wave her arms at whomever is working in the ticket office. Even if success requires carefully pronouncing the place where she wants to travel five times, taking a deep breath and then resorting to writing the name down on paper to get a ticket, she’ll be fine. There will be moments of frustration when communication seems impossible. And there will be wonderful moments of relief when understanding miraculously appears. But she’s going to be fine and one day she’ll be like me, sitting on the plane home.

On a normal everyday basis, I live in this same communication whirlwind. But now I’m home.

Do you find it surprising that, for me, it feel like abroad I am fluent and here I am lost for words.

I can make a friend anywhere, but home forces me to think about how to be a good friend. Relationships involve work, more so than chatting with someone who has no expectation of seeing you again. Being invested in someone in the long run is more complex. For me it’s hard work. I’m more uncertain about my words. I care about what I say and I wish I could say something meaningful and intelligent but most of the time I find myself lost. Sometimes I really screw up.

When I travel, people ask, what and where next. I shrug, smile and explain that I’ll think about that properly in January. To them this seems perfectly reasonable. They don’t care. In January, we won’t be part of each others lives.

But at home, so much uncertainty is less of a satisfactory an answer. Here there are people in my life who are rather more invested in my future. Love, blood and history matters. I’m interacting not with some delightful stranger, but friends and family who I deeply love. It terrifies me.

I wonder who the Italian lady has waiting back home for her.

Sometimes it’s not so fun

palermo christmas lights

By the time I boarded the flight home I was exhausted. The final two weeks had been some of the hardest weeks of this year, and at times this year has been tough.

First though, before I can explain why they were so tough, I have to explain some things about me. I’m incredible lucky. I’ve grown up witnessing a beautiful loving relationship in my parents. There is tolerance and patience in my home. Nobody has ever shouted at me. If anyone is going to slam doors, it’s only going to be me. My family will tease me for it later on, as they should.

I moved into a house with an Italian couple. They’d married later in life. Each had two grown children who lived in the city. This is Sicily, and whilst there are beautiful oranges and cachi, there is no money growing on the trees.

Procrastination

I arrived on the Tuesday evening. The first argument appeared to be about which way to drive. This wasn’t a case of back seat driving, because the van had no back seats. It was a case of arm waving in the driver’s face, followed by short silent huffs. I think the second argument was about how much to spend on petrol, and whether this station was of an acceptable price. The petrol light was on.

The couple spoke little English. Leonardo knew more, but only really started speaking it towards the end of my stay. Maria had learnt the names of the vegetables.

We collected the designs for some wooden stars that would be dressed with Christmas lights and displayed in the centre of Palermo. You can see them in the picture above. We were supposed to also collect the designs for a bunch of letters that would be hung in the streets, but the printer was having a technical glitch so this didn’t happen.

This was Tuesday. The deadline for the work was Friday.

On Wednesday I didn’t do much.  Maria was staying with her sister so she wasn’t there and wasn’t working. Leonardo started with the stars. I sorted the woodpile and went for a walk. However I quickly discovered that there wasn’t anywhere to walk. The valley was big and beautiful, but either side of the road was walled with tall fences. I walked along the road until it came to a dead end and then back to where it joined with the main road. There were no footpaths and the nearest village was an hour away. We had no food so we ate at the neighbour’s house.

When she came home, Maria brought the templates for the letters.

Tracing

I got up just after seven on Thursday, made myself some breakfast and got ready to work. Maria wasn’t ready to start on the letters until ten. Before we could start, her and Leonardo had to argue about the process. I sat down at the table and started tracing the letter templates onto tracing paper. Maria sat opposite. I tried to have a conversation, but she spent almost the entire time on her phone arguing with people in loud Italian. I wished there was some music or something. There wasn’t.

Leonardo and I carried the wood into the living room to start tracing on the letters. He came back twenty minutes later and yelled at Maria about how we were doing it wrong. There was a lot of arm waving. Maria yelled louder. I continued to draw letters.

There were 120 letters to draw and on Thursday we’d done about half. I was by this point a little uneasy. After all the deadline I’d been told was most definitely Friday.

Sanding and Painting

We began sanding on Friday afternoon, but there was no hope of finishing. Arguing took up too much time.

After a loud phone call the deadline was extended to Sunday evening. By this point most of the letters still hadn’t been cut out, and only the first of the three stars had been begun. I was given a bucket of paint and a box of letters. Maria decided she was going to do wash some clothes. That weekend she washed four loads, stuffing her 12kg machine full every time. She wanted to do some cleaning too. Leonardo took the van and went out somewhere.

I plugged my earphones in and began painting. Three hours later Maria finally sat down to join me. She decides we’ve used the wrong paint. What we need is paint with more glue in it. She adds glue and says we’ll just have to repaint all the letters I’ve already done.

Leonardo comes in and they have an argument about the paint. I go and wait outside in the sunshine for things to quieten down. It’s concluded that the second paint was no good either. I’m given a hairdryer but no explanation about what I’m supposed to be doing. We have to leave the paint for the moment.

Saturday afternoon I sand more letters. Sunday comes and I sand the stars wondering where they’re going to get more paint. Leonardo continues cutting more letters out.

Monday morning. Leonardo shouts and he sounds angry. Maria doesn’t listen, she’s cleaning. She raises her voice sharply. The volume comes in waves. There is a stop. The saw begins again. It whirs for a while and then stops because you can’t saw, shout and gesture. A door swings shut in spectacular style.

I plugged in my earphones and messaged a close friend. Having him to talk to is a life saver. By evening my phone is dying.

Visitors

In the afternoon, a young Italian couple arrived to help. In the evening, Leonardo refuses to sit at the table with us all to eat his meal.

Tuesday morning and an eerie silence reigns. Leonardo invited the neighbour over for coffee in the workshop. Maria tells them both that there is no coffee. They’re petty and angry and the angrier they get the less interested they are in speaking English. Maria sits on the floor and cries.

A girl from Finland turns up. She’s sharing my bedroom with me. Unsurprisingly, I crave space. I want to curl up and hide, but I talk non-stop, trying to make the fact that nobody is being nice to each other more bearable. I’m fully aware that I’m acting like a ray of sunshine and I can’t keep it up. I proceed to get more and more animated.

Delivery

On Wednesday afternoon Maria puts her make-up and she and Leonardo drive into Palermo to deliver the three stars. It’s quiet in the house. I talk to the Finnish girl who doesn’t know what to do with herself. A phone call comes – we must make polenta for dinner. I’ve never made polenta before. I add more wood to the stove and put the water on to boil while I take a shower. Polenta takes 45 minutes of stirring. I’m sweating, exhausted and my cheerful bubble is showing signs of cracking.

They arrive. Loudly. Leonardo sits down in the armchair and tells Maria that he doesn’t eat polenta. Dinner is ready, but it takes some time before we finally have dinner. I glare at the wall. Silently furious. I’ve finally cracked.

Day two in a Sicilian household: “Caterina!”

Sicilian goat-dog

“Caterina!”

I appear and am instructed to an armchair, in front of the armchair is the stove. My Sicilian host, Leonardo, is wearing a fleece hat that reminds me of my school PE teacher whom we nicknamed Dopey after the seventh dwarf. He used to tuck his hat behind his ears in the cold English months of school hockey.

Leonardo pointed to the stove and explains, in gestures and a word or two of English, that the stove is the central heating and will warm my room; it’s also the heat for the kettle so I can have a cup of tea (I wonder how exactly as we have no teabags); since I need it to stay warm, when the wood burns through I’ll need to reload the stove; and I should relax with the company of my computer in the armchair.

We have a common language, but it doesn’t involve words. It exists through the mutual understanding that comes from having similar cultures. It’s easy to notice the differences when you travel, but such communication happens through the similarities. It’s action and hand waving, and what you might call common sense. It works surprisingly well when you stick to the concrete. The abstract less so.

His partner, Maria, is away, returning tonight. In the meantime, we’re having our meals at Francesco’s house, our neighbour.  He runs a home for stray and abandoned dogs with the help of a volunteer who’s staying there. Dinner time company is therefore two Sicilian men, smoking, drinking wine and talking with their arms; a grounded nomadic Swiss woman, Greta; and little English me.

During dinner I learn that Francesco has a philosophy of resorting to Nutella mid-afternoon to fill the empty hole in his soul that’s caused by the absence of love. Greta says Nutella is bad for our bodies and bad for the environment and sugar isn’t going to solve lovesickness. She does the cooking and believes in eating with kindness. She also is fluent in at least four languages including Italian and English.

“Basta!”

Enough. The kitchen is also home to supposedly two dogs – the house dogs – but frequently four because, like me, they don’t understand the rules.

Sicilian style language learning

learn english italian
A random sculpture found hanging out on the balcony. Sicily, 2016


First, find something you don’t know how to say. Gesture wildly, play charades, describe the word or phrase in high speed Italian (or Sicilian). Ignore my confusion.

Halfway through an elaborate sentence, pause. See that I’m trying to say something that might be useful. You’re sure it’s wrong, so keep gesturing until I say a word you prefer the sound of. There are many English words. You can pick and choose vocabulary. You avoid ugly words and choose emotionally. Maybe you don’t know why you like it, but that’s okay.

It’s probably wrong. Take both words. I’ll use them as pairs, defining one against the other ‘audacity’ fights ‘courage’, ‘to learn’ takes on ‘to find’. Somehow, I’ll convince you that ugly words are worthwhile too.

Sing a song. ‘Find’ is similar to ‘discover’ but you think it’s uglier, and Columbus discovered America, and at school Leonardo learnt about Columbus – on the 12 October he set off from somewhere in Spain. Don’t worry if you’re now lost. Comprehension is a bonus. Dance. If there isn’t enough space in the room, it doesn’t matter. Sing in any language. ‘We are the champions’ followed by ‘My bonny lies over the ocean’, if you like.

Discover, or find out, that this verb, to learn, is not regular. I fumble and speak in staccato. I gesture with the whole length of my arms. My gestures have become wild.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Who sounds Italian now? Slam the table.

I will watch as you argue in Italian, without breathing. Raise your voice until it’s indiscernible from shouting.

And keep shouting.

Then in a normal quiet voice turn to me, repeat the ugly word and clarify its meaning.

I’m starting to speak Italian.

A story of homesickness

homesick

I was reminded of this story when I noticed that the kitchen table in Modena was the twin of the one I ‘borrowed’ from my sister and temporarily used in my bedroom in Yorkshire as a desk.

Grand-mère, from France, told the story to me in her kitchen as she was cooking dinner. I am lucky that here, in Italy, I suffer from very little homesickness. Skype and instant messaging help. But there are many times where I’ve sat in a crowded room and felt the odd one out.

Once upon a time…

Once, when she was younger, she met a young African man at a party. She’d seen him before and noted how cheerful and optimistic he appeared, but this time was different. He seemed visibly upset. Grand-mère asks to how he was. Lost and homesick came the response. Everyone else seemed to belong to the environment, but to him it felt unusual. The party mood had swept everyone else up, but he’d somehow been left behind. He felt the ache of disconnection. These people had different houses to what he was used to, their clothes were different, the way they touched was different. They spoke of experiences to which he couldn’t relate.

It was a big house. So Grand-mère suggested the man take himself away for a moment. There was plenty of space to go and take a moment of privacy to deal with the torment he was feeling inside him. Maybe a little quiet would help with the acute overwhelm.

A little while later he reappeared amid the party with a broad smile. He sought Grand-mère out and she was delighted to see his face glowing, but intrigued as to what had cause his transformation?

He explained that he’d begun to explore the house, and had come across the kitchen. It was here he’d realised that despite many things being different in France, not all were. In a pot on the kitchen side he’d found home, it took the shape of a simple wooden spoon. And it was this simple wooden tool that would have been just as in place in his mother’s kitchen as it was in this alien French chateau that had brought a smile to his face.

My tiny moments of familiarity

When I heard the story for the first time, I thought it was funny. None-the-less, in my life, I’m continually amazed at how such tiny moments of familiarity can bridge the gap between this unusual environment and the one that I traditionally call home. Here near Naples, in the room in which I now sit, there’s a print in a simple white frame hanging on the wall. I have a postcard in my bedroom at home of the same picture. Behind me, on the windowsill, there’s a plant pot I know from IKEA.

Let’s hope that the next time you’re homesick, you’ll find your wooden spoon.