That time I met two bank robbers in Italy....

In Genova I stayed with a family who lived in the cities historical centre, known as the Vicoli. Their apartment was seven stories high, exaggeratedly tall and thin like a doctor Suess drawing, and was hundreds of years old. They lived on the very top floor with no elevator. So coming and going from the house was always a good hike. God forbid you walk out the front door on the ground floor and forget something important like your phone back upstairs.

The apartment leaned against several other equally old apartments which were collectively built around a lovely old square. When to-ing and fro-ing around the Vicoli we would often bump into neighbours, colourful characters who lived just across the square or around the corner. My friend would introduce me to them, have a nice chat and then tell me what he knew about them once we had walked away.

Two characters I will never forget are two eccentric gentleman with past lives I could hardly believe were real. I will call the first gent 'Frank' and his ex-comrade 'Paul.'

Frank was a humble fruit shop owner until one day he was offered a more lucrative employment: robbing banks. He left Italy and joining another two comrades successfully robbed up to 12 banks in Germany without killing or injuring anyone. However one of the trio of thieves was a dangerous unpredictable man, more so then they had predicted. This individual ended up murdering someone in a failed heist and managed to frame poor old Frank for the crime. Frank went to jail for 25 years.

'Wow...I bet he has many stories about jail too horrible to share?!' I asked my friend, but he shook his head.

'No, I asked Frank the same thing, did you hate jail Frank? He laughed and told me it had been the best time of his life.'

Eventually Frank's sentence passed, and on reentering society once again you would think he must have gone through a hard time rebuilding his life. Apparently not. Over the 12 years of robbery he had secured his fortune in safeholds around Europe. Upon leaving jail he simply collected these fortunes, married a girl, and settled down with a family in Genova.

Now at close to 70 he has mostly leisure time. He has set up his close and extended family financially and feels at peace. I saw him myself several times in Genova, jovially shuffling around with African immigrants on the backstreets of the square I didn't like walking down by myself at night.  He always had a joke on the tip of his tongue and  a permanently amused expression on his face as if perpetually listening to a joke. He struck me as a man who loves the working class, a bit of a robin Hood character, almost a rogue. And my impressions were proven to be correct...

It was my last afternoon in Genova with my adopted family. Very soon my new hosts in Lucca would be coming to collect me and take me to Tuscany with them. Realising that this may be my last chance to express my gratitude to this family for taking me in, I raced out in order to buy some thank you flowers and a cake for the family to share that night. I was wearing a reasonably, but not scandalously, short skirt when I flew down that back lane, a short cut to the flowershop my destination. Sitting there as usual on an upturned milkcrate, holding court with his many immigrant friends, Frank piped out a long provocative whistle as I flashed past, skirt swishing. His companions geed him on, chortling and offering me Italian compliments in thick north African accents. Affronted as I usually am by intrusive street comments, for a second I wanted to turn around and remind this cheeky Frank who I was, and that I was staying with his good friend and neighbour (my friend)! Not just some street lass was I! But I just shook my head, and continued my race to the flowershop, I just didn't have the time.

Frank wears socks and thongs, greying trackpants and a sweater that looks as if it was bought at a local flea market. Furthermore the building his apartment is located in sits above decaying chinese supermarkets and indian owned internet cafes, is completely stripped of paint and badly in need of repair. Basically a very unimposing dump. Apparently though, within Frank has a luxurious and comfortable little pad for he and his wife. My friend once was invited in for a cup of tea and was amazed by what Frank had managed to pull together...just after 12 years robbing banks and a 25 yr stint in jail...one can have quite an elegant nicely furnished home apparently!

After hearing this story I turned to my friend and asked 'What am I doing teaching english then!? Let's just rob a bank like Frank and be done with it!'

So Frank lived down the road from us. Just opposite us though was an equally fascinating man, Paul...who just happened to be one of the two other men Frank would rob banks with (not the mad one who framed Frank). Despite their close proximity the two men no longer speak, having had a fall out many years ago.

Paul was both a tragic and alarming figure. When he was 16, a teen working in a southern Italian bar in his hometown a terrible tragedy changed his life forever. An individual from the mafia burst into the full crowded bar and shot everyone inside...except for Paul who hid cowering behind the bar. Seeing he had missed this young boy, the Mafia attempted to take his life but during the following struggle it was Paul who managed to shoot the ganster first.

The next morning at the break of dawn, without a word to his family the 16 year old Paul bought a train ticket to Spain and fled Italy without packing a single thing. He knew if he stayed he would have ended up dead in a revenge killing sooner or later. In spain he got in contact with a french secret society specialising in reconstructing individuals identities.

They promised him that they could protect him from the Mafia for free by giving him a new name, a new past and a new future: helping him become untraceable. The only catch was...he had to work for them in return for 10 years. He accepted.

For the next ten years Paul worked as an assassin. Of course my first question was what mode of execution did he use?? My friend told me he used gun only. Paul must have thousands of stories but the best one my friend told me was the story of the Samurai sword. Apparently Paul in the depths of his apartment, owns a precious Samurai sword, hundreds of years old, worth thousand and thousands today. He was in Japan on his own mission when he came to know about a murder plot. Taking pity on this good Japanese man he informed the man of his impending death. The next day, sure enough, the attempt on the man's life was made, but the Japanese man was ready and the murderer was caught. To thank Paul for saving his life the man gave him the precious sword that had been in his possession for many years.

Paul married a Colombian woman who he met while travelling South America. Although she has returned for some time to her country he is looking after her daughter who has just had a little baby boy. Nowadays he earns his living primarily by going to various banks around Europe, taking out a loan to 'build a house' but then disappearing from the country without returning the loan. He has four different passports, with four different nationalities and identities. A legacy from his identity changing past.

 One day when I was with my Lucca family in the square we bumped into Paul who had just arrived in his car with his step-daughter and step-grandson. It was the first time I had seen this mysterious man. He emerged from the car quite hunched over in the back, clutching a walking cane and wearing a fedora and dark sunglasses. My hostess encouraged me to have a look at the little baby boy who was jut beautiful. His gorgeous skin was so smooth and dark brown, due to his colombian heritage and he had the longest eye lashes of any baby I have ever seen. Looking at this baby staring back at me inquisitively I suddenly thought how weird it was that one day he too would hear the incredible story of his step- grandfather's identity...I wonder if he would think it was as cool as I did!

'You know I think those are the two craziest stories I have ever heard...how do I know they are true?' I asked my friend once he had finished his story. My friend told me I could believe in them because he had seen for himself Paul's precious Samurai Sword.

And so because in Italy it seems anything is possible...so I chose to believe. And that was how I met two bank robbers.

Taking Care Of A Disney Princess

Everything about this little eight month old girl is like a Disney film character.

It is like she was drawn using the digital animation applied to baby characters in kids films to increase their cuteness. Her limbs are perfectly formed, plump and marshmallow soft. Still so smooth and hairless they have a glow to their surface when she is touched by the sun or light. Her arms crease in one hundred different places, her calves are short subtle and curve like a banana, her thighs are pear-shaped and can no longer fit in ones closed hand due to their circumference and volume.

Her cheeks are perfect nectarines, slightly drooping over her tiny dimpled chin due to their voluptuousness. Her eyes, a shade I can only describe as a translucent blue, are simply put enchanting. Also due to a slight eye muscle problem they tend to roll in towards each other when she focusses on something, so she appears slightly cross-eyed. To everyone who meets her this only makes those blue eyes more appealing, as this feature heightens their surreal cartoon-like quality.

When she smiles you can't help but coo over her. Her eyes wrinkle up, creased by the sudden upwards motion of her bouncing cheeks, and her gummy toothless mouth gapes open, daring you not to smile back. When we are out with her in the pram people cannot help but be drawn to her, so much so I joke about feeling famous by association. Little girls, mothers, elderly folk, even the toughest of young men, cannot stop themselves from starring at her as we go past. They nudge their companions or partners and gesture to her, saying 'awww, look at that little girl!' Sometimes they come up to us or stop us on our journey to say hello and admire her for just a few moments. They instinctively reach out to touch a bare foot or her open palm, wanting to feel for themselves her incredible supple softness. She is cuteness embodied and those who are drawn to her are always rewarded with a glorious smile. Maybe even a gleeful gurgle or a vigorous kick of the legs.

But she is also bashful, as if aware of her appeal. When she sees a new face she takes a moment to focus on their features with her weak eyes. Once the face has been identified as 'unknown' she will flash a dazzling smile, but then quickly turn her face to her mothers chest, not with fear but something alike a coy shyness. This never fails to irrevocably charm her new friends.

***

She falls asleep best when in my arms against my chest moving up and down as I take breaths to sing to her. Cole Porter, religious hymns, Operas and Ella Fitzgerald are our favourites. Once she has fallen asleep I try to transfer her to the pram, but she wakes up immediately howling with anger as if she has caught me attempting to dupe her. I pick her up again and her stubby but petite finger slips around my own index digit as she closes her eyes and falls asleep, as if to say 'don't you dare put me down in my pram. I am staying here thank you very much.' Her head is tucked perfectly under my chin, her face nestled against my collar bone. My nose gently grazes the fuzz on her minute skull, golden at the base and almost white at the ends. She is heavy but comfortably so. She not only looks healthy, but feels healthy.

On a particularly hot day I walk her out of the house and go next door to the family Chapel to find some fresh air. The chapel is the coolest place perhaps in the whole Villa. Often I have walked in to find Rockie the Labrador belly flopped on the Marble floor, tongue lolloping from his mouth desperately trying to find a breeze. My voice echoes in the cavernous space of the Church, and she is as soothed as I am, by the lulling (though far from perfect) notes issuing from my throat. We are disturbed only by a cleaning lady who has come in to replace the dead flowers on the Torrigiani family tombs with fresh ones. She is naturally in awe of the little baby sleeping so peacefully in my arms, admires her for a time and allows me to continue singing.

***

This little girl lives in a beautiful property, in a house that is more than 100 years old.  Every day she goes for a walk in the pram with her Mother and sister around the magnificent Baroque Villa that belongs to her family. One day, if all goes well, her father will become a Prince, her mother a Princess. One day the Villa may even be her's. Every day she grows up surrounded by fountains, beautiful Woods, rose filled gardens and Baroque sculptures. She takes naps in the pram shaded by lemon and grapefruit trees, guarded by a devoted huge white shepherd dog, who lies at her feet, sleeping with one eye open. She has a loving 2 year old big sister who will clamber up onto her pram to be with her, who calls her 'little one' in Italian or 'daaaaarling', who murmurs in her ear and dots her face with whispy kisses. A big sister who talks about her constantly, who never lets anyone forget her existence, her needs, her cuteness and beauty.

She has a whole cupboard draw to herself, packed with beautiful linen dresses and pant suits.Often with matching baby booties and lace socks. Floral prints, pale pinks, creamy whites, and tomato reds are her best colours.  Every day she wears something new and beautiful, not out of her mother's extravagance but because family friends have showered her in hand-me-downs and these friends have good taste.

***

When this little girls is upset it is only for three different reasons: she has a dirty nappy, she is hungry, she wants to be held. Once you have identified which of those reasons is the cause for her distress and helped her achieve what she needs she just smiles, and smiles and smiles. When she does not have a cause for want she is a forever happy baby, as if she is permanently delighted by life itself.

She is also a talkative baby. When she is happy we are treated to her cooing, gurgling, giggling and humming . We love trying to make her laugh because every giggle of her's is priceless. Her laughter sends chills up our spines and fills us with joy. To hear something so pure, innocent and sincere from a human still unaware of cynicism touches us immensely. So we raise her above our heads so she feels like she is flying, we jiggle her up and down on our knees, pull silly faces even in public and make ridiculous sounds. Nothing we do is degrading. Any form of silliness is worth even the shortest snorts of amusement.

***

She has a loving grandfather. She often sits in the crook of his arm in the evening after dinner and watches the FIFA world cup with him. She sits content and quiet, inspecting her hands for the one-hundredth time, marvelling at her own little fingers, the way she can flex and move them. Her grandfather chortles at some incident he has just seen on the screen. She is curious and tilts back so she can look at his face. She stares at him for a long time, then raises one chubby little arm to gently touch his white bead with her fingertips. He looks down and smiles at her. She looks at him for a few moments longer, returns a glowing smile, then relaxes back into the crook of his arm. She holds his finger protectively in her grasp.

 

***

 

We have just come back from dinner at a friend's house. All six of us are squeezed into the 5 seater car. My host, being a very petite man is seated to everyone's amusement on his wife's lap in the front passeger seat. The grandfather is driving, and I am seated in between the two girls in the back. We all chat during the journey about the party, what was said, what we ate. We are nearly back when I look down at the baby to my left. I struggle to hold back a snort of laughter. From her baby capsule she is starring up at me with a deeply serious interrogative look. Usually only her mother sits next to her in the car and she has noticed this change in the proceedings. I bend my head down and nuzzle her little up-turned nose to reassure her but the look persists. She seems to say 'Are you sure you have the correct qualifications for this position?'

 

***

 

Sometimes I wonder the same question too. When children are at this age sometimes you can find yourself temporarily paralysed with the gravity of their fragility. The other day I was holding her in my arms when suddenly I almost stopped breathing. I looked down at her and fear combined with tenderness into a heart-wrenching panic...all I could think was 'OMG WHAT IF I DROPPED HER. I WOULD DIE.'

 

All I know after being an au pair for the last 6 months is that all children are precious and irreplacable. Although this is the cause of much anxiety it is also exactly why I am au pairing in the first place: because children are miraculous.  







Lord Of The Poo: Coming To Terms With What Childcare Really Involves

The other day I had a beautiful moment that maybe 6 months ago I wouldn't have considered particularly beautiful.

My hostess, the two girls, her father, the three resident canines of the Villa, and of course I, were taking a stroll around the property. As we are apt to do just before closing time at five pm, when the heat is low and the park is relatively free from tourists.

Our focus was to visit the recently planted roses in the Italian gardens dedicated to my hostesses deceased mother (my favourite Rose in the garden is called 'Barbra Streisand' and it smells like heaven) and to visit the grand fountain at the back of the villa to see if we could spot the turtle. We have been trying to coax him out of his slimey weedy hiding place with all kinds of food tid-bits but he won't have none of it.Then again with the way the 2 yr old pelts the surface of the water with the pellets he probably does think he is under attack.

On the way back down through the copse my hostess found the dogs trying to get into a rubbish can, in which she found a stranger had dumped a dirty nappy. On our walk we had run into a nice looking family with a little boy the last tourists of the day. We assumed maybe it had belonged to them. She left me with the baby in her pram as she raced off to the house to dispose of it in an environmentally conscious way.

Slowly I made my way down the crumbly road surrounded by magnolias and Oak trees, humming 'Amazing Grace' to help ease the little one into sleep. Of all the songs I sing, Amazing Grace is her favourite. With the first note of tha she will crinkle up her eyes, flutter her arms like a butterfly and give me this gorgeous toothless smile. Who would have known a 6 month old to have such poignant music taste. Apparently 'Wheels on the bus' and 'Polly had a  Dolly' are too superficial for this little girl.

We are nearly at home once again, I can see the pink roses hanging over 'Nymph Hill's' wooden fence. When suddenly a man to our left strolls past obviously bent on a mission. He nods at me in a friendly way, and I think seeing me so at ease with the pram made him assume I was the babies' mother. My suspicions were confirmed when (in a broad Australian accent to my surprise) he informs me chuckling:

'We are just in the middle of a 'Poo Emergency.' And would you believe it, I left the bloody nappies in the car!'

Once I get over just how 'Aussie' he sounds I sigh as knowingly as I can and return a chortle as if to convey that I too am well aware of what it is like to be in the middle of a 'Poo Emergency' with no nappies. His stride develops into a trot and as he overtakes me I am filled with a silly sense of pride. Because what this means is that I have been welcomed into 'The Fellowship of the Poo' by a fellow member. I too am part of the world of the nappy-disposers and butt-wipers, otherwise knows as the childcare industry. Otherwise known as the period in one's life as Parent-hood. And I couldn't be more proud.

In all honesty I haven't actually had to do too many nappy changes. All three of my hostesses have liked to spare me the ordeal when they can. But here in Lucca I won't lie I find myself discussing Poo on a daily basis. With children, I have accepted, the topic is simply inevitable and inescapable. You may as well just embrace it and get into it.

The reason we are talking about Poo a lot of late is because the little 6 month old is transitioning from breast milk to homemade baby foods. Her little stomach is used to the uniform diet of her mother's milk, but now after a period of constipation as a result of the change she is producing solid poos. When she produced her first one my hostess told me over breakfast with great happiness. Clearly I have been so indoctrinated into this pooey fellowship that I too experienced genuine joy, and gave the baby a congratulatory kiss on the top of her fuzzy little head as she gurgled and smiled under the praise. It was only ten minutse later that I realised the gravity of my situation: I was talking about Poo consistency over breakfast and I hadn't even lost my appetite...I am slowly losing my 20-something-year-old-normality. Sometimes I wonder if I can ever go back to the way I was.

The only other time in my life I can remember Poo being a commonplace and socially acceptable daily topic of conversation was during the tour I was on in South America. During the trip stomach bugs were rampant. Basically every single person on that tour had diarrhea at one stage during that month and a half.

So sick of the relentless diarrhea a few of us would muse over how fantastic it would be to have constipation...for a day or two at least. The greatest anxiety experienced before the Inca Trail was not how the hell are we going to climb the Andes for three solid days of non-stop hiking, but is there going to be privacy on the hike to regularly void our bowels.

Amongst the poorliest of the tour Group (myself frequently included) we began acknowledging each other's bowel movements as a sign of solidarity. Over breakfast we would casually ask: 'So, how's the diarrhea going?' or 'So, did you throw up again last night?' When someone would announce 'Guess what, I did my first solid poo in a week this morning!' they would be met with high-fives and generally celebratory comments. Someone would mutter sadly under their breath 'Gee, if only I could do solid poos again.'

So this is what I have learned. The Poo Fellowship only silently forms during two unique situations:

1.When in daily contact with putrid dirty water full of bacteria

2. when one has kids.

...Fantastic.

***

 

Other than coming to terms with the fact Poo is a predominant theme in childcare there are other challenges one must face when working with children. Many other challenges...

 

All au pairing challenges I like to take with a grain of salt. It is also easier to deal with problems this time round in Lucca because I have the full support of the parents and because I know when my post finishes. So  I have an ability to pace myself and put things into perpsective if that makes sense. But more than that I think I experienced the worst of the au pair spectrum in Pisa. Everything since that episode has been a walk in the park. Literally...

 

The problem I am encountering is not so much a 'problem' as it is part of the job, being a witness to a Tricky but essential stage in any child's development: their getting used to the presence of another sibling and how this changes their relationship with their parents.

 

In summary my two year old companion is suffering from the pangs of jealousy. Although devoted to her little sister who she smothers in tender kisses and loving murmurs, she is clingy with her Mamma to the point of being inseparable. When I first arrived my little friend was fascinated by my company, which was beautiful but not such a surprise. All the children I have taken care of have fortunately warmed to me within a week or two. But then we had a visit from one of the two year old's playmates from Genova. The little boy stayed with his his parents at Nymph Hill with us for two days. During which the two friends fought bitterly over the possession of their respective mothers, completely unaware their competitiveness was totally unwarranted and didn't even make sense.

 

'Mia Mamma!!!' he would cry, grabbing his mother protectively.

 

'Mia Mamma!!!' my ward would reply, grabbing her own mother with equal ferocity.

 

The two would then stare each other off, daring the other to claim posession of their Mamma.

 

The competitiveness seemed harmless at first despite some tears and general misbehaving. But since the occasion my little friend has been difficult and our relationship has changed. While she is well-behaved, charming and funny when we are just one-on-one, as soon as her mother returns or her baby sister joins the dynamic she becomes tearful, deliberatly destructive and aggressive towards me.

 

Fortunately I understand the situation very well. I know my little companion is actually devoted to me. The first thing she says when she wakes up in the morning is 'Meeyanda??' Her parents reassure her I am donwnstairs, ready to greet her at breakfast. Now with her rising feelings of insecurity  she often sees me as a poor stand in for her mother....our time together is often thwarted by her need to attract her mum's attention, with more often than not frustatingly naughty behaviour. Whether it is stealing chocolate from the fridge, drawing on the walls, or not allowing me to dress or even hold her, she becomes virtually impossible to deal with until her mother drops everything and give her undivided attention.

 

But I understand that children don't have self-awareness at the toddler age of two and it is simply my new duty as au pair to be patient through these difficult daily episodes...it is just the nature of the job. Children need to go through these experiences to grow and learn about relationships.

 

***

 

That said Poo does crop up a fair bit in discussion regarding the two year old as well. At a recent party despite her parents suggestions to eat a diverse range of foods, my little companion insisted on feasting solely on her beloved salami. Slice after slice she ate until she fell into a post-salami-gorging coma. She awoke later that day with diarrhea.

 

It is nearly two weeks since said party but regardless of her sysmptoms, even if it is a bruise on her foot or a burn on her tongue, my little companion insists all her maladies are a result of the salami overdose. When asked what's wrong, she will suddenly become very sombre, look down at her hands, shake her head and mutter sadly 'Troppo Salami...troppo salami,' Too much salami indeed! Her mother and I hope that she will recover from the salami incident soon. Our worst fear is that she will go to the doctor with a serious complaint but all she will be able to do is preach about the horrors of eating too much salami in one sitting. Ah well, we can work through the jealousy issues and the salami issues one day at a time.  

We All Live In The Villa: My Downton Abbey Life

'Take a bottle of water! Oh, and a book! She will probably fall asleep soon!'

Looking down at the face of the two year old girl in the pram before me, rosy with weariness, I agree with my new, my third, and potentially my last, hostess. I grab those items before we lock up the house.

We all leave at the same time and I tell the little one to say goodbye as her mum as she drives off with the other little one who is only 8 months (her nickname is Chai) and Nonno P. They are going to Lucca to collect some sweets for the upcoming  Christening Party and to visit the tailor to fix Nonno's suit. I am going to stay here on the Villa property with the two year old and take her for a pram ride.

It is ridiculously hot, an easy thirty-five degrees and tonight it will only lower to a stuffy twenty-eight. At night I usually resist opening the windows for as long as possible but when the perspiration starts the sheets sticking to my body I fling the shutters open. Consequently the mosquitos pour in.

Despite the heat today I am full of an inner peace that only true aesthetic indulgence can inspire. I now have a chance to explore my new extraordinary surroundings and take photos as I please.

***

I am in Lucca because I have decided to Au Pair again. I made the decision for many different reasons:

1. My beautiful Genovese friend was going away for two weeks with his father

2. His mother and sister were moving to the countryside house for the summer

3. Their apartment was going to be locked up very shortly

4. I made a promise to travel Italy for a week in July with someone important to me and had no money to do it with. So the generous wage offer was a strong incentive.

5. I had a good feeling about the family as I was introduced to them by my good friend and I trust his judgement.

6. I wanted to take my life back into my hands. Being dependent on the kindness of others in Genova though wonderful was beginning to become burdensome. The more I was given the more I wondered how on earth I could repay. It was time to stand on my own two feet again, even if that meant I would make more mistakes.

***

So now I am in Lucca, and I am staying with what turns out to be yet another Noble family. We all live in the grounds of the a Villa hailed to be the most spectacular of all the 600 villas within the 10km radius of Lucca historical centre.

The members of the beautiful family I am staying with include my Host (who is the next in line to inherit the Villa) My hostess, their two little girls and my hostess's father, Nonno P.

***

'Mamma?' the little one asks from underneath the pram hood. We are making our way through the copse framing the left fountain.

'She's gone to the shops Darling, with Nonno and Chai. They will be back soon.'

She settles back into her pram and unable to resist the demanding heat any longer, falls into a silence, and then a absolute sleep. She dozes as usual almost uncomfortably, with her head awkwardly angled to the side so that her chin slouches on her shoulder. I want to move her so she is more comfortable but that might wake her up. Her white blonde hair flickers in the breeze like her mauve baby eyelids.

 I drive the pram slowly over the bumpy gravel path towards the Italian Gardens. The property is huge, a Villa built during 16th century.The house itself sits like beautiful wedding cake surrounded by various gardens, woods, olive groves, fountains and decorative pools. But I really love the Italian gardens the most. It combines 16th century architecture with the fallen splendour of Italy I love so much...moss covered stone deities, ochre toned paint gently curling off old walls in the heat, lemons left to rot on the stony ground perfuming the air, crumbling staircases and balustrades with daisies springing up between the cracks. Perfect imperfection.

I only have a disposable camera now as my digital one has finally given up the ghost. I guess the gritty sands of Peru plus my 9000 photos were too much to handle. With the pram I do a round of the perfectly manicured Italian style garden: round compartments of soil filled with evenly placed red or white flowers, surrounded by knee high hedges. They collect in a beautiful shape, green and red bubbles, designed to embrace the decorative outdoor stairs at the end of the garden.

I then visit the Citrus trees located behind the villa and smell their thick yellow and orange skins, trying to find one suitable for my Citrus loving two-year old compaion. I then stroll through the Woods at the back of the villa, glance longingly at the olive groves behind the furthest gate and finish back at my current home, which is called 'Nymph Hill.'

The house used to be a hundred or more years ago, the resident Priest's house. The building is attached to the Villa's Church, a tiny little chapel that has a surprisingly indulgent and magnaminous feel about it with its bright red walls and stone family tombs. My host's mother, grandmother and great-grandfather are among the marble plaques.

My own room upstairs is opposite the bell tower and on the other side of the loungeroom wall downstairs is the priests study. I can't help it, everytime I leave the house through the hydrangea filled garden I have to look up in admiration at the bell tower. After all these years is still timed to ring every 15 minutes and I am amazed at how used to that massive gonging sound I am already. I hardly notice it, so I often worry it has broken or something. But then I hear it and think....wow doesn't it ring so sporadically! In reality it is quite regular.

***

 

It is a few days later and my hostess, her two little girls and I are finishing off our late breakfast: foccacia from Genova, local-collected honey flavoured with Chestnuts and local-made corn-flower biscotti, a big pot of barley tea and some croissants.

 

We manage to drag the little 2 year old away from her beloved Peppa Pig episode, change the 8 month old's nappy and rub our sunscreen on. We grab the bread and scraps collected under the kitchen sink and make our way across to the other side of the Villa to feed the chickens.

 

On our way we pass by my host, the girl's father, working at the ticket box of the Villa. He greets international and local guests as we play alternately in the sunny green lawn and under the shade of the enormous magnolia trees. The little one wants to join her daddy in the box office but I sneak in and drag her away just as she reaches mischeviously for his unguarded cell phone. She also has a fascination with pebbles. She picks them up off the floor and drops them down the front of my loose silk shirt. When it lands on the ground I pretend that I have laid an egg. The little one laughs and reaches for another stone.

'Again!' she says in Italian, 'again, Meeyanda! Again!'

***

 

Finally we reach the chickens and they gather hysterically as my hostess launches the bag over the wire fence. We lounge around in the shade and nibble on the Japanese plums we picked off the nearby tree. My hostess and I suddenly jump, disturbed by a splashing sound. The little one has jumped into the dribble of the nearby stream,and is now completely muddy and wet. She smiles with delight. My hostess and I both sigh as this will be her third costume change today already. By the end of the day it will most likely be up to the usual five.

 

***

 

My hostess wants to plant two fuit trees, one to celebrate each daughter. I think that sounds like a beautiful idea.

 

'But, we will have to see if The Lizard will let me...' My hostess murmurs almost to herself.

 

'Really...you have to ask permission for that?' But she does not answer. I am only just beginning to realise just how much of an influence my host's step-mother truly has on the operations of The Villa. From the planting of the tiniest pot plant, to the hosting of a world-class conference in the Villa dining room, my host's step-mother has to approve it first.

 

The family I am staying with are one of the oldest families in Rome and they have all the complications you would imagine a Noble family would have. 400 metres from Nymph Hill my host's father and second wife live in another beautifully transformed cottage. But sometimes it feels like they live with us. With the newly installed secruity (or spy!) cameras placed in obvious locations around the Villa, their watchful and judgemental presence is heightened further. 

When My host's mother died in the early 70s he was only eleven. His father introduced a Nanny to the family to take care of his motherless children but only three months later my host discovered his Nanny in his father's bed. His father went on to marry his nanny (I will refer to this nanny as V) and have a child with her. Since the moment V entered the Villa she has done everything in her power to make sure the beautiful property will not be passed down fairly to my host, a sweet, gentle and hard-working man, but become the possession of her own son, a 20-something year old racing car enthusiast. For this reason we refer to her as 'The Lizard.'

***

 

The tales this Villa could tell...I am only starting to learn all of them. But with this backdrop of Tuscan beauty I find myself slipping further and further into a contentment I didn't think possible after my last au pairing experience in Pisa. Sometimes when told these tales of family drama and scandal by my hostess who married into this family, we simply laugh together, both new to the world of Italian noblity and it's complex archaic family culture. We laugh because we can't believe it is real: the greed, the betrayal, the seducations. But yet here it is, every day around us. So I guess, for now, this is my new Downton Abbey life.

On Reading The Godfather: Is Mario Puzio Actually a Feminist?

I was in Pisa when the craving set in again. I had just finished my last David Sedaris book and was itching for a new read.

However I am a rather fussy reader, selecting my books primarily based on a mysterious tug I feel towards a particular novel, author or theme; a spontaneous curiosity that arrives out of the blue and which can only be satisfied by hunting down this particular book and devouring it in a few days. Nothing else will do until I have that particular book that is on my mind. I am known during this period of obsession to become a rather irritating shopping companion, endlessly pouncing into any bookstores I come across promising to the friends I drag along that I will be 'Just a second, I just want a quick look!' When I cannot find what I want I am not disheartened in the normal sense. Instead the longer the delay is in finding my particular novel the more I am enamored with the idea of reading it. I enjoy this chase so thoroughly that I even set harder goals for myself, deciding I only want a second-hand copy, and I cannot settle for a certain edition with a cover I disprove of. I am pretty much a madwoman.

One night soon after the craving began the children were thankfully dozing on the couch as my hostess sat curled up watching Italian tv. The Godfather part I came on and once again I was blown away not only by Al Pacino's incredibly beautiful face but by the emotional pull of the film. The sheer curiosity factor had set in and before I knew it I had decided what my next read would be. I simply had to read The Godfather by Mario Puzio. I was in Italy and everything, it was the perfect choice!

So, as a book addict does, I planned my next day around attaining this novel. I got up early in the morning when there was still a purple glow to the garden and took the bus to the local station and then the train to Florence. I dozed on and off during the trip as my train window was slowly heated cozily by the rising Tuscan sun.

Arriving in Florence was a wonderful feeling because by this stage of my trip my unhappiness with my situation in Pisa was definitely settling in. It was the first taste of freedom I had had in quite a few weeks. I ended up getting a delicious cheese, truffle honey and truffle cream sandwich, and a piece of orange cake for breakfast (as you do when in Florence) and then strolled along the beautiful streets, the Ponte Vecchio, and ducked into any shops that took my fancy. By shops that took my fancy I mean Zara...

I finished off my day out leaving the best for last. On the way back to the station I went inside a huge bookshop and found an english copy of the Godfather. While waiting to be served at the counter something very strange happened. The nearly empty store was disturbed by the noisy entrance of an haggard elderly man, dressed in a day suit worn by men two generations ago. Despite the fact the shop assistant was already in the middle of serving someone and that I was clearly next to be served the man strode right up to the counter, dropped both his hands onto the counter with slap and declared in loud heavily Italian accented English: 'I need The Godfather by Mario Puzio but in Italian.' There was something so abrupt about his entrance and the way he delivered his demand that the customer in front of me, the shop assistant and I, all stood staring at him for a few seconds not really knowing how to handle the situation. The assistant gave him cautious directions to where he could find a copy in the store and he strode away with the same almost panicked determination. But why he spoke english when he was Italian and in an Italian bookstore I still do not know.

As he strode way I looked down at the copy in my hands and thought to myself 'It's an omen! This is the right book to be reading right now!' I felt like a cog in a very strange fate machine. Maybe this man had watched film last night as well, and had been just as moved as I. I left Florence in awe of the influence of literature and film basically combusting with excitement to begin reading.

However my actual reading of The Godfather proved less invigorating as its purchase. I had heard several times from different sources that The Godfather is one of those rare situations where the film far outshines the book. I can say now after having finished the book that this is true and that I totally agreed with Coppola's editing decisions; which story lines he chose to film and which one's he chose to leave in the pages of the book.

I agreed with Coppola almost to the extent that I wondered at times, maybe a bit harshly, what on earth Puzio was thinking when he wrote the book...or more so what his editors were thinking when they were combing through his manuscripts. To me it felt like Puzio began the book as a way of exploring Mafia warfare and customs during the 1940s, but as he did so fell in love with certain characters and could not let them go, despite damaging the coherency and flow of the main narrative.

Two characters he could not let go of were Johnny Fontane (Who makes me think of Frank Sinatra...anyone else??) and Lucy Mancini. And frankly I found their storylines irrelevant almost to the point of boring and confounding. My conclusion is that 40% of The Godfather is written well, and that percentage is  very engaging and very informative...but the other percent. that is not written well, those hearty chunks simply verge on the irritating.


First of all, the Johnny Fontane storyline:

Full of trysts, male sexual escapades, sexpot women using their bodies as a form of power, and a burnt out Hollywood star lamenting his damaged vocal chords, Fontane's storyline had no real contribution to the advancement of the main plot of the novel. The subjects of this storyline were clearly meant to be racy and scintillating, but the blatant sexism and pulp fiction sex irritated me because I couldn't find a way to justify it narrative-wise.

Furthermore with the Fontane storyline there was something off in Puzio's tone, something insincere. I could never quite grasp where Puzio sat on the omniscient author scale. I just couldn't pinpoint what he was trying to say or achieve by being so pointed and indulgent when it came to all matters involving females and sex. My first theory was that he was just getting really into trying to accurately portray 1940s sexism, to in fact make a statement about the sexism of the time by being so aggressive in his handling of it. But that didn't seen right either when I realized some of the language didn't fit in with the time he was trying to recreate...it was too....70s. If the lingo had been more 40s that would have removed the sexism and placed it in another time, as if to say 'this was how it was back then.' After all this book was published post-women's lib. Instead the vague indecisive tone only lent the story line a seedy indulgent tone that as a (progressive) female, more than anything else, I simply found irritating and unecessary to read.

To me Puzio's story was already fascinating enough without having to throw in what appeared to be a bunch of cheap thrills. It frustrated me to watch him try and 'sex-up' a novel that being about the complexities of mafia relationships and power struggles, depended so much on subtlety. Maybe this was to do with his editors who just wanted to 'spice' the story up, break the politics up with sex or something...Maybe Puzio didn't understand the potential of his novel to surpass the pulp ficiton standard and therefore he was lax about his own personal editing...he wrote a trashy novel not realising what absolute jems it contained, or its cinematic potential.



But what I found ten times more bizarre was the Lucy Mancini storyline:

 All I know was that I had just finished Part V on a gripping cliff-hanger: The Corleone's had to work out a way to bring back Michael who had run off to Siciliy after shooting Sollozzo and Captain McCluskey. I turned the page into Part VI and suddenly found myself in the middle of the incredibly bizarre chapter dedicated, and I am not even joking, solely to discussing the problems with Lucy Mancini's vagina.

Lucy Mancini is sad because her lover Sonny Corleone is dead and he was the only man able to make her orgasm. Puzio goes into great depth, explaining over 25 pages that the reason for Lucy's unhappy love life is because she in fact has a weak pelvic floor, resulting in a vagina with too much space to create the necessary friction, a genuine medical condition. Lucy goes on to have an operation to fix her pelvic floor and the chapter finishes with her being able to enjoy sex again. By the time I finished the chapter I wondered what the hell had happened to The Godfather and why the hell was I reading a book that spends 25 pages describing this female characters vagina. I got so bored and by this directionless chapter that I put the book aside for many weeks, only continuing once I had left Pisa and was well and truly into my two month stay in Genova.

And I am not joking about his going into excessive depth. For example the following reads like a one of my old highschool biology textbooks:

'The technique of any operation to strengthen the pelvic floor required the accomplishment of two objectives. The musculofibrous pelvic sling had to be shortened so that the slack was taken up. And of course the vaginal opening, the weak spot itself in the pelvic floor, had to be brought forward, brought under the pubic arch and so relieved from the line of direct pressure above. Repairing the pelvic sling was called perincorrhaphy. Suturing the vaginal wall was called colporrhaphy.'

...Ok great. But how does this in anyway relate to how they are going to bring Michael back home from Sicily?? And what about the Don, is he going to reclaim his power?? But now, here we are, talking almost in boring depth about Lucy Mancini's vagina. The only useful thing this chapter achieved was to inform the reader about the character change of 'Fredo' in Las Vegas which becomes more important only in the second book.. It is hardly likely the chapter was written for such a purpose anyway, despite it's importance, because Fredo is only referenced a handful of times, almost as a 'btw kind of memo.'

Also again I just could not tell by Puzio's tone what he was hoping to achieve with that chapter....was he simply fascinated by 1940s surgery and thought this little story might prove to be authentic in recreating the time...did his editors once again tell him to slip in a little more sex? But that doesn't explain why Puzio then goes into tedious detail about female genital surgery because that isn't exactly sexy...it is just science.

Or am I being too hard on Puzio? Is he actually a secret feminist, breaking down myths about female sexuality? Was he simply trying to be an informative prophet for his own generation of readers, to warn them about the perils of having a weak pelvic floor!? Is he a sympathiser of all unsatisfied women?? The chapter to clarify isn't vulgar, and I don't oppose to the content because it isn't exactly indulgent as Puzio clearly sympathizes with Lucy. And as I said it isn't even really that racy. But my main qualm is: So what is the point of it??

I only have one other theory and it is a really weird one, a kooky Conspiracy theory. At the beginning of the book Puzio introduces Sonny Corleone as a man who not only has a temper but has a huge penis. Jokes about his massive genitals are scattered throughout the first chapter of the book culminating in him and Lucy Mancini having a fling at Connie's wedding.

This is when the thought occurred to me. Sonny with the over-sized penis is the only man who could satisfy Lucy with the over-sized vagina. Suddenly it has become a chicken and the egg scenario. What came first in Puzio's mind as he wrote his novel. Sonny's penis or Lucy's vagina?? What character came first?? Did he create the character Sonny only to aid his exploration of 1940s female genital reconstructive surgery and unfulfilled sexuality as a result of a conservative and patriarchal society???! Because frankly Lucy gets more in-depth character study then Sonny! I cannot even believe I am writing this. Too weird. This has become a gender studies essay...is Mario Puzio a feminist?? Why is he so obsessed with the irrelevant character of Lucy and her weak pelvic floor??

So in short I can't help but wonder whether Puzio, if asked, could justify these certain passages, or whether he would now admit he was still refining his narrative style at the time of writing the book, thus it simply shows some of that trial and error process. In any case the book was an interesting experience that was for sure.

Italians and Their Wine: My Ongoing Battle with the Bottle

Italians love having a glass of wine with their meal. Not necessarily every meal, but I have found often enough to make things tricky when it comes to my inconvenient wine intolerance.

In the last two years it has become apparent to me that red or white wine, sparkling or unsparkling will be guaranteed to make my stomach swell up like a giant gooseberry and keep me throwing up all night. Furthermore for most of the next day I will not be able to look at food without tasting stale yeast in the back of my throat and dry-retching. Same goes for any type of beer or ale... and for mixing too many liquors in one evening...

Trust, just when I decide to go Italy, a country boasting a magnificent history of wine-making I work out I can't drink the stuff without imploding or exploding, or both. Nothing can top the self-loathing I felt back in January when I had to turn down a glass of berry-red wine in the Chianti region whilst enjoying a hearty lunch in a farmhouse with my travel companion.

I have no idea medically why I react so badly, but something is telling me it may be to do with an intolerance or allergy to anything involving grapes and fermented...not fun as my poor Genovese family discovered this past easter, during which I spent most of the weekend crippled by nausea cuddling a plastic bucket after a night out involving a just tiny taste of Genovese beer and white wine.

Since that weekend they are quick to jump to my aid whenever a new acquaintance offers me a dash of wine, explaining that it if I were to drink the wine terrible things may happen...

A few weekends ago however whilst in the hills of Piemonte, we were invited to join the birthday party of the daughter of a family friend. A beautiful little thing with big blue eyes and blonde curls shaped like upright twisties on her head. She had just turned one and her father drunk on happiness (both literally and figuratively) insisted on treating us to some beautiful Sicilian white wine.

When we had first arrived at the party someone had already pressed a full glass of champagne into my hand ignoring my protests assuming I was just trying to be modest or polite. I had taken a few hesitant sips of the stuff, realized it wasn't going to happen as my stomach lurched unforgivingly, and with great mortification placed the plastic cup behind a large pot plant on the buffet table.

Now the father of the little girl began refilling our already still occupied cups with the golden Sicilian wine, telling us to shut-up in good humour as we protested.

'No! This Wine is beautiful! You are going to have some, you must try! I will not take no for an answer!'

He forced a fresh cup into my hand as my friend and I exchanged an panicked/awkward look. The memory of me violently throwing up into the bright yellow bucket over easter had scarred both of us apparently. I tried to squeeze in a polite rejection:

'Oh no, really, thank you but I have already had a fair bit to dri-'

'Nonsense!!! Your glass is empty!' he insisted.

'Oh but, no I am actually a big allergic..'

'Impossible!! no one is allergic to wine!!'

'Oh but you see -'

'This wine is sweet and beautiful! Impossible to make you sick!'

'It's the fermentation it-'

'-SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Drink!' was his final reply as he poured my cup to the brim. I fell silent and stared down into my sizzling cup of wine with terror. My friend next to me tried to keep from smiling.

At one point my friend's sister arrived at the party and as I went to greet her I slipped my glass into her hand, telling her to enjoy it. It did not good though. Noticing at some point I was now standing around with no drink, our host simply gave me another full cup.

We continued chatting with this man whose happy tipsiness began to work in my favor. Gesticulating wildly and often stopping mid-sentence to hug and greet a new guest, I took these moments to slip some of my own untouched wine into the cup of my friend. Meanwhile I took pretend sips from my slowly draining cup, a useless tactic I adopted more out of guilt than anything else.

Finally my cup was empty. Thank goodness and it even looked like I had drunk it all! I didn't have to look rude or ungrateful! Or go through the awkward horror of ruining our host's enjoyment of his beautiful wine by telling him the terrible tales of my violent alcohol-induced bowel movements!

But then to my horror the grandfather of the birthday girl wandered up to us with ruddy flushed cheeks, a sly grin and a huge bottle of Champagne. Without asking he filled our cups full once more. The Nonno was well on the way to 'I-Am-Totally-Sloshed-Town' and was determined to take all his guests there with him. He then surveyed the scene for more party-goers who did not seem intoxicated enough, selected his next victims with narrowed slightly blood-shot eyes, and stumbled off with a skip in his step. A true modern day Bacchus.

This time I gave up. Remembering I had left my book somewhere I excused myself to go collect it and in one swift movement emptied my cup into the hidden grassy knoll. I returned to the others and joined the conversation seamlessly.

No one noticed anything amiss, but later when I confessed to my sister's friend how I had guiltily disposed of my wine, she simply smiled and whispered, 'I know, Miranda, I know.'

Zinka, An Incredibly Socially Awkward But Beautiful Dog: My Guardian Angel Against Homesickness

When people ask me if I am missing my family I jokingly say 'No, but I am really missing my two pet dogs.'

In some ways this is true. I miss my family but not in heart-wrenching way known to abruptly end a traveler's trip and see them on the first jet home. In some ways being away from my family has made me appreciate them more than ever and I have to stop myself from buying every little lampshade or coffee mug set I see that I think they would like.

I am filled with a desire to share with them my little pieces of beauty here in Italy, because I am so grateful they helped me get here and that they are happy for me. And in some ways with just the positives now to share with each other, I am getting along much better with all my family members than I have for a while. I can't wait to return home to share with them all I have experienced but at the same time feel no rush to do so.

As for my friends, I would be lying is I said I didn't miss them very much. Often particularly when I have had leisure time to myself to travel I have mentally imagined summoning friends to join me, wanting their opinion on something beautiful and to make me laugh. However there is something very special about my friends, each and every one of them, and despite my deep sadness and regret that I haven't and may not be present for the big/difficult/glorious moments of their lives this year, I get the feeling that to them I am doing something actually quite expected and within the confines of my character that they know. It is a beautiful thing when your friends love you but also encourage to go where your gut instinct takes you and to make the most of it, because it is a sign they know you well and that they want to see you grow.

I guess at the end of the day I am just emotionally ready for this trip. In all honesty if i had attempted the same journey I am on now a year earlier, it could have been disastrous. It is not so much a sense of direction that I have here in Italy that prevents me from feeling homesickness, but a belief in myself that I will cope through the good times and the bad.

But in regards to missing my furry four-legged friends this is a serious issue. Nothing about Italy can stop me from missing my little couch-potato Tootsie with her sensitive brown eyes and her narcissistic despot of a companion, Billy, whose plump wool coat I miss running my hands through. No Colosseum, no sparkling coastline, no glistening freshly baked apple cake, no ancient church spire peeping through a foggy valley at dawn.

I miss my monkey-sausages (a strange nickname I know, but hey, it works for me) so very very much that I have taken to patting any new dog I come across here in Italy. And thankfully people love their dogs here in Italy so I have many opportunities. Almost every second family has a dog or at least a cat. My friend here in Genova had a friend who had to move apartment because his hunting dog had fifteen puppies and they destroyed the house....

In Pisa I was thrilled to know I would not only have three children to dote upon but there would be a dog! I could pour all my longings for my two dogs onto this poor unsuspecting canine, and smother it with attention and cuddles.

***

When I first saw Zinka I was stunned by her bright orange eyes. They glowed in contrast to her black fur which shined a variety of coppers and bronzes in the sun, like a brilliant piece of marble. She barked at me furiously, but being a dog person I could instinctively tell it was a facade of dominance, I ignored the barks and went straight through the gate and offered her my hand to suss out my smell.

Her barks melted into a silly whine of happiness and she ran towards me, wiggling her backend in a submissive almost sheepish way. She always had this funny way of throwing herself to the floor when you greeted her, but keeping her back legs and tail upright, so you always ended up patting her bottom as she squirmed around on the ground like a deformed but happy worm.

***

Zinka was hilarious, at once strangely independent but in other ways desperately needy and clingy.
She loved roaming the streets by herself, leaving the house by slipping through our legs once the front gate was opened. We had to back slowly towards to gate, keeping eye contact with her or else she would fly through and we wouldn't see her for at least an hour. But I took pity on the poor thing. I could tell by her sleek, stealthy build set low to the ground and long muzzle that she was a combination of herding dogs, breeds that are always intelligent and active. She was so curious about the world outside her expansive garden that I wanted to indulge her.

I will never forget her surprise when I opened the front gate and gestured for her to go through. She stared, thinking it some kind of trap and then without warning ran through with the panicked gait of someone being pursued by something dangerous. She whirled circles around the girls and I as we walked to the park, delirious on freedom willingly bestowed.

After that point she became my companion and I hated going to the park or anywhere without her. However she had some strange habits that saw me constantly apologizing to others in awkward Italian. Zinka loved people, but was also quite shy. When walking past a new human she stopped in her tracks and stared till they had passed. Then to my horror would silently stalk them for a minimun of 20 metres sniffing at their behind.

She was also fond of sneaking up to people from behind, only to have them jump with fright when she began licking at their shoes. Knowing she had done something socially awkward she would then run in the opposite direction for ten minutes solid. I would whistle and call her name, wanting the black speck on the Tuscan horizon to return and give socializing like a normal dog another go.

She loved children though, adults scared her a bit more. One of her favorite activities was to sneak out of the house at lunchtime, so she could pass by the elementary school on the corner of the street where one of the girls attended. The little girls would pat her eagerly through the bars of the school gate as Zinka would delight in the attention. She was also adorably protective of the little 2 year old girl of the family. She let the little girl snuggle up to her, sit on her like a horse and would guard her like a precious puppy if she sensed something was amiss at the park.

*** 

One night though I was up very late. Earlier that night the power had gone off in the house and in the confusion to reach the power box outside the house Zinka had slipped through the front door into the darkness. It was now raining outside and about 2am. With a start I realized Zinka was not sleeping nearby in the lounge room, her favorite spot. I grabbed a flashlight pulled on my coat and wandered outside the house. I called her name, whistled...but heard nothing. I was worried and didn't know what to do. I hated the thought that she had been forgotten, that she was wandering the streets in the dark and rain.

I was drying off in the kitchen when suddenly the only partially shut backdoor flew open with a bang against the wall and a wet black bundle skidded across the tiles, crashing into my legs. 'Zinka!!! Where have you been darling??' She just panted, shaking the wet off her fur. But she was clearly distressed as I patted her down with paper towels and tried to warm her up. She was soaked through and obviously shaken by her experience of being accidentally locked out.

'Zinka, babe, this is what happens when you sneak out of the house like that! You silly thing.' I told her

She whined and followed me around the house like a scared child. I sighed, took pity on her and took her upstairs to my bedroom. She didn't want to be by herself that night. However this proved to be a big mistake. I got into bed turned off the lights and tried to fall asleep. Zinka parked on the rug next to my bed let out a strange needy whine, like a pig trying to play the trombone. I reached out my hand and gave her wet skull a reassuring pat. But when I stopped she made the same sound again. I patted her again, more impatient this time.....and sure enough when I retracted my arm the strange 'Weeeee-errrrr-iiiiiiii-UMPH' was made again.

'Zinka, love look here, I can't sleep when you make that ridiculous noise!' I scolded. But she was mildly hysterical and before I knew what was happening she had levered her big damp body onto my bed. I ended up taking her back downstairs to sleep by herself, she wasn't going to calm down staying in my room, the poor thing.

***

Zinka and I had some beautiful moments keeping each other company. When I dropped off the 7 year old to Catechism by bicycle Zinka pounded through fields and dirt roads behind us, her eyes matching the color of the baked straw around us. When we got to the highway she scared the living daylights out of me by choosing to cross seconds before a trailer truck roared its way past us. I moved the shaky hands from my eyes and spotted my strange, independent Zinka calmly waiting for me on the other side of the road. She then sat with us in the blossom filled courtyard of the local church before class started. She sat in the shade, sniffed daisies, had her belly scratched by the children and gave my sweaty ankles an affectionate albeit slobbery lick. It was so nice to peddle along in Pisa and to look down and see the black blur of Zinka running along with me.

I also took Zinka with me to run ordinary errands I didn't want to do by myself like getting a new sim card for my phone. This being a longer walk than normal with more traffic I put her on the lead. She appeared calm and content but being on the lead only thinly veiled her unpredictable independence. When I had to go into the shop I attached her lead to a nearby street sign, gave her a pat and left her there. While waiting in the shop to be served I took a quick look out the window to see how Zinka was going. To my embarrassment she was being socially awkward again, straining on her lead and panting with her mouth open displaying her huge teeth, trying to reach passersby on the pavement as they inched their way around her looking terrified. With her disarming orange gaze and stealthy speed she often alarmed people....oh Zinka...

***

When I decided I had to leave Pisa I seriously wondered what was going to happen to Zinka. As I spent so much time with her and was often in charge of feeding her she had come to absolutely dote on me. Simply the sight of me entering the garden had her squirming on the ground in silly happiness. She was independent but she was also the type of dog that delighted in physical attention. Once I started patting her she would have been content for me to never stop.  I have always taken the emotions of animals seriously and worried she would miss me and the attention I gave her that the other family members were more often than not too busy to provide.

When I left the house in Pisa I couldn't bring myself to look at her for fear of meeting her big orange eyes. When my two dogs in Sydney see suitcases or packing of any kind they automatically go into 'oh-shit-we-are-being-abandoned-again mode' and genuinely do their best to make us feel guilty as hell. With Zinka though, she just watched with an intelligence I found unbearable as I closed the front gate behind me. As I looked back I felt sad that Zinka had been witness to such a sad departure and that no doubt due to her sensitive nature she would experience a sadness she would not be able to describe to anyone.

Then again, I am sure she is back to stalking strangers and sneaking out of the house, her favourite pastimes. As long as she doesn't get accidentally locked out again I am sure she will continue to thrive being independent; being the lone wolf that she is she knows how to make an art of it.

How To Cope When Things Go Wrong As An Au Pair: Hard Lessons, Learned the Easy Way.

It had been a bad week in Pisa. I couldn't exactly say why, but something was wrong. Seeing the children busy with their mum I silently excused myself and backed out of the kitchen, shutting the door behind me.

I dragged myself to the deserted top floor of my hosts house and, thank god, found the bathroom free.

I leant my head against the glass window pane, took a few deep breaths and finally now I had some privacy I could confront the awful fact that for the past week I had been increasingly overcome by a feeling of numbness, a panicked, strung-out feeling.

I wrung my hands and soon enough I was crying in a way I haven't in a long time. Eventually I calmed down, agreed to stop feeling sorry for myself and resolved to answer some important questions...

..The type no au pair wants to ever have to ask:

1. Was I unhappy?

2. Why?

3. What could I do to fix this situation?

And I made sure I was brutally honest with myself. I confronted all the problems that had been building up and found I had to accept was that I simply was not a happy au pair, let alone person. Things were not going to way I planned in Pisa and now I had to find a way to fix them.

***

Pisa had started off beautifully. I had contacted the Pisa family while still in London, when desperate for a solution. My previous family in the Veneto Region had just informed me they could no longer have an au pair, for reasons they could not disclose. I was devastated but resolved to move on, try again, keep positive. 

Wanting both to resume au pairing asap and to see more of Tuscany I decided to accept this family's offer. I said I would be there within three days. There was no Skype interview, no nothing. In hindsight I regret this a great deal.

When I arrived in Pisa I was delighted to find my hostess was down-to earth, hardworking, honest and very generous. She had a no bullshit manner that I found different from my previous hostess, but reassuring in its own way. I knew we would get along well, we could be honest with each other. 

I also found her three children absolutely gorgeous. The eldest child was quite independent but charming, and the two little girls were very partial to me from the minute I walked in. 

The husband a good-humoured, genuine man was leaving soon, as he was a soldier required to work overseas for no less than 7 months at a time. He was making the most of his last few weeks with his family, but always had enough time to chat with me, help me out, and make me feel welcome.

I couldn't believe my luck. I felt happy, safe, and appreciated. I began to think more positively about the abrupt ending with the other family in veneto.

The location was also lovely. Green, tuscan fields, tall thin cyprus trees, fresh flowers, dramatic sunsets, medieval castles perched on cliffs...I thought I may have walked into a dream.

***

It was very emotional for the family when the father left. The eldest child in particular, still a boy but quickly growing up, found it hard to say goodbye to his Dad. The night before the man left my hostess gave me a big kiss on the cheek with tears in her eyes and told me how grateful she was that I was going to be here for the summer to help her. Without her husband it was very difficult, but now I was here. I felt thrilled that I was proving to be so useful, that I was needed so much. 

However the dynamic of the family changed after his departure. My hostess was obviously really very stressed. Every day she had one hundred and one things to do, always darting in and out of the house, picking the children up, dropping off things for work, grocery shopping, running errands. Sometimes I asked if there was anything I could do. Could I go to the shops for her? Pick up the kids from school? The answer was 9 times out of 10 no. I was puzzled but at this stage not too worried.

But as the weeks progressed it was the little things that bit by bit became hard to deal with. I began to feel uncomfortable but could not yet say why because the problems presented themselves in the disguise of blessings. The children thankfully loved me, but to my confused dismay/happiness it was not that they loved me too much that was the problem, but it was that they had unlimited access to me...

I was like a robotic nanny, available 7 days a week with no weekends, from midday to as late as 11pm at night. During the hours the children were alone with me I wanted to give my very best to them and we had some beautiful moments in the garden, running around, playing imaginary games, wrestling, tickling, doing arts and crafts, making daisy crowns, playing with the dog...it is tiring though to play with children for even an hour. Children seem to only have two settings: On and Off. And when they are On they are full-on and I began to wonder if there was an alternative way to be an au pair...one where I could be both fully available and the fun energetic au pair that was expected of me...

At the end of each day I was exhausted. The family went to bed very late each night, and the children would sometimes still be up and wanting my attention till as late as 10pm. Often as I tried to speak with friends on Facebook and Skype on the family computer, my sole window into the world outside the house I was staying in. Often I gave up trying to sustain an important conversation with a friend and caved into a disney youtube sing-a-long session. Another time I took to hiding in the laundry in order to make a Skype call. I was quickly discovered.

I would finally switch off the computer around 1am, having been able to get my fill of the world outside Pisa. My head would touch the pillow and like I had hit a switch I disappeared into a slumber so heavy I would not wake till as late as 12pm the next day.

When I did it was because the girls would burst into my room, jump onto my bed, run around my room, grabbing things, quarreling, bouncing on top of me still cocooned in my doona, eyes still gummed together. They would complain I slept for too long. Could I skip having a shower, it takes too long, they would ask; can we play before lunch? Can we play after lunch? Can we go to the park? Can we go to the park twice?? Why hadn't I gotten out of bed yet?? Why was I just lying there?? They would eventually pull me out of bed and a new long day would begin before I, the au pair robot, had even had time to recharge my batteries.

I never resented the children ever, I was never angry...never complained, never lost my temper. It was not their fault. They very innocently and even charmingly saw me as a very exciting new playmate, and my living with them was like an endless sleepover.

But I was becoming exhausted. With no official weekend or day off in sight, I began to slowly fall apart.  I was sleep deprived, physically exhausted and emotionally strung out. The children's once affectionate wrestling, tugging and chasing began to lose it's lustre. instead I felt smothered like one of those bunnies you see in a public petting zoo. The one that gets dunked by a voracious toddler into a bucket full of water while the child's mother is busy looking the other way.

 I had dreamed of coming to Tuscany, working during the week and traveling on the weekends to nearby locations...Siena, Lucca, San Gimignano, Volterra...but my hostess needed 'flexibility' aka, every day. So I stayed in the house with the three children to myself.

***

One day I got a call from an Italian friend I had made in Australia before I left for my travels. He was back in Italy and invited me to go with him to Genova or Cinque Terre. 

Instead of being excited at the prospect I was filled with anxiety. Every night that past week my hostess had been sombre, exhausted and had fought with the children. Despite the fact I was dying for a break I was too scared to ask her her for a weekend away...not when she so obviously needed help. It would be unfair of me, selfish I thought. 

I put off the invitation for as long as possible, desperately waiting for a chance to ask when the time was right. One night my hostess joked that when summer came around she would need me not just for afternoons but mornings too because the children would be on school holidays for three months. She joked she would be keeping me on a tight leash. I realized with horror that it might be a long time possibly months before I got the chance to go to Genova, let alone leave the house.

***

One day in Pisa I woke up with pain in my back. Prior to pisa I had  experienced kidney problems and telling my hostess about this we agreed I should go to the hospital. After spending 6 hours of waiting at the hospital it was concluded nothing was seriously wrong, probably trouble with a nerve in my back. Looking back on the incident my conclusion is the illness was a result of stress.

***

The next day my hostess had a big row with both her eldest children. She left the house for a long period of time, leaving me alone with the 7 year old girl for many hours. When my hostess returned she was too agitated to eat dinner. She hadn't been able to eat lunch either. I looked at her perched on the kitchen stool, starring numbly into her soup and saw she was rapidly losing weight. Her anxiety had rubbed off onto her children and they had been hard to handle that day, now they were bickering and neither of us had the the strength to get them to stop. I was feeling exhausted and worried. The mood in the house was grim.

***

The following day things got worse. I was alone in the house again with the children for many hours wanting to play endlessly. I wondered how it was that I was so tired but had barely done anything the last few days. That evening it struck me that I hadn't left the house except for the hospital in more than a week. When my hostess returned that afternoon she was once again agitated and frustrated due to problems at work. She became easily irritated that I had left the front door open and furthermore angry that the expensive vacuum cleaner appeared to be broken. I had been the last one to use it, so it was implied I was responsible.

When things quietened down after a sombre dinner I went upstairs hoping for some time to myself with my book. I was only a page in when they children found me, they came tumbling into my room, wanting to play. I looked at the time, it was 9:30pm.

Half an hour later, miserable and frustrated, I had shaken the children off and desperately wanted to talk to someone my own age. In Pisa so far my only company had been the children of the family, all under the age of 13. However I had no privacy to make a call as the kitchen was occupied, the lounge room was occupied and upstairs had no wifi. I was bending down to pick up the little one pulling at my skirt when I was accidentally struck in the face by the 7 year old. She and her brother were chasing each other around the house and I got stuck in the middle of the two, surrounded by flailing arms and legs. She apologized and I reassured her it was nothing. It was just a small cut and not painful but long repressed tears stung my eyes.

I sat down at the computer once again and in between disney song sessions I did managed to message a friend on Skype and he was alarmed by how depressed I was. He reminded me of why I went to Italy in the first place: to have a holiday and see the beautiful country...to enjoy myself. He told me I had to be strong and tell my hostess I was unhappy, see if we could fix this problem.

After talking to my friend I decided that all I needed to say was that:

1. I was stressed:
2.  Because I felt I was working very long hours a day and did not have any days off
3. Would it be possible to arrange for me to have at least one day off a week?

I had a long sleepless night. The next morning, full of anxiety I took a deep breath and spoke to my hostess. Unfortunately a compromise could not be reached. I was given another week to stay in the house till I found another family. I was asked to stay away from the children and not talk to them except for at mealtimes. I asked why and was told it was for 'their protection,' something I still cannot understand. The order was unnecessary anyway because the children barely spoke to me. The family had a history of au pairs leaving the house on bad terms, and now to the children I was just like all the other quitters...I was a disappointment.

Remaining in the house as this unwanted guest was unbearable so I called my friend in Genova, asked him if I could stay for a few days and arranged to leave the following morning. Once again I never got a chance to say goodbye to the children of my au pair family. The experience was in short devastating.

***

For every Au pair I guess it is different but for me all I know is that I benefit the most from separating my working life, and my free time. In my working life I am someone who enjoys spontaneity but needs structure. I like to know when I start work and when I finish as this allows me to then pace myself and give 100% to my job for all the hours in between.

In Pisa however I was essentially always working, perpetually on duty but my hostess disagreed. She didn't understand why I felt that way as I had all mornings to myself. She wanted me to feel like a family member an older sister, not an employer anyway. We didn't need 'days off' or 'working hours' in this relationship.

I tried to explain to her that I didn't know that such a sibling existed, one who was willing to be a carer seven days a week with no chance to hang out with friends, to relax, to go on holiday, to have privacy, time in their room to themselves. I also stopped myself from adding that a sibling can yell at her brothers and sisters to get out of her room...I couldn't do that to the children (and wouldn't want to) and i was pretty positive my hostess wouldn't want me to either.

Furthermore to make the most of my mornings (e.g. by going to Firenze) as she suggested meant having to get up at 6am as the train took nearly 2 hours. On top of that the fare was up to 20 euros. I couldn't justify spending that much without giving myself at least 4 or 5 hours in Firenze, not on a salary of 65 euros a week. But every night I was needed till late. I could not survive on 6 hours sleep...I wanted to save my money for a more rewarding day off, a chance to spend a whole day or two in Firenze. I was trapped in a cycle of spending money on trips that were not worth the expenditure, but not ever having the chance to travel to somewhere for a worthwhile period of time.

My hostess still did not understand. Was I upset because the girls woke me up this morning? is that what this was all about? She told me it was impossible to stop the girls from waking me up in the morning. She had asked them not to once, but they wouldn't listen to her so she had given up stopping them. I tried to explain that I wasn't angry at the girls, it would be stupid to be angry at them...I was upset because my hostess couldn't and didn't think it necessary to protect my needs for privacy and rest.

It was no good. We just could not understand each other. My hostess was sure her understanding of how au pairing works was best, because it suited her, it was what she needed. And in the end I acknowledged the fact too. It was the best way for her, but it was not the best way for me.

***

If there is another way to approach my work than I am not sure what it is. If it is to become a half-assed au pair, plonking the kids down in front of the tv all day than that is just not what I do...not when I am earning money, not when someone is doing me the great honor of keeping me in their home, feeding me, hosting me. But the flip side is that I also cannot simply work like a robot, or be expected to give up what means most to me: my freedom.

The reality of my situation in Pisa was that my hostess was a strongly independent and active woman who needed me to be an immobile carer for her family, an ever-present figure with whom to safely leave her children. In short she needed a replacement figure for her husband, a parent figure.

And I guess this is what hurt so much about the situation. She was a free-spirit who spoke often about the virtues of being independent but could not recognize my need for the same freedoms. The Pisa experience had become a matter of deciding who's freedom I cared about the most: mine or hers. And devastatingly I concluded I had to protect my own, not simply out of selfishness but because I was undeniably suffering.

What also hurt was that I had been a darn good au pair. She was amazed by my rapport with the children, thankful for my calm and can-do attitude (even when inside I was screaming NOOOO) and told me about the awful au pairs she had had before...and yet she still could not think about altering her understanding of what constituted the best au pair arrangement, come up with a weekly schedule or give me one day off. Even at risk of losing me, her most reliable and successful  au pair so far.

***

With my two au pair experiences combined I have learned some hard lessons.

1. If you are unhappy this is a truth, it is important to deal with it and you must no matter how scary it seems

2. With au pairing there are two kinds of benefits you can expect from that job: freedom or money

3. If you are really lucky, as I was with my first family, you can even find a family that can provide you with both. And when that happens, you are very lucky and happy indeed.


And I guess that is why I titled this post 'Hard Lessons Learned the Easy Way.' Telling the truth and being honest are in reality such simple actions to complete. Yet when it comes to actually opening our mouths and uttering the words 'I am not happy,' it takes so much courage, so much belief in yourself.

So I did learn hard lessons the easy way, the simple way: by telling the truth.

***

As for what I am doing now,  have been living with my amazing friend and his beautiful family in Genova for the past month and I cannot begin to describe how wonderful the experience has been.

We have been to Cinque Terre by motorbike, spent happy weekends cosily tucked behind the mountains of Genova in the little town of Bandita in the Piemonte region. We have made gnocchi from scratch, partied, learned each other's languages and given each other opportunities we didn't have before. I have made more friends in the space of a month than I have made in the last 4 months au pairing. I feel happy, I am well and loving Italy.

Time has eased the pain of what happened in Pisa but my hesitation to au pair again remains. I feel that au pairing has broken my heart twice now, in two different ways. I have so far rejected another two au pairing job offers...and am now in talks about another au pair job in Rome. Whether I will accept it I am unsure.

I partly want to accept the job in Rome not only because they are a family new to the concept of au pairing and incredibly keen to know what best suits me; they see me as a person, not as a toy or robot. I also want to go because I am desperate to give au pairing another shot. I want to know that I can do it again, and do it well. And I guess most of all I want another chance to finally have a happy ending. 

'Pertanza La Strega': The Day I Became A Real Witch

In Pisa the children loved playing in the garden which was a large green sea surrounding the house like a moat, dotted with a sea spray of white daisies. We had parks on either side of the house too. The park on the left being mainly composed of wood and bare metals was called 'Parco Brutto', the ugly park, while the park on the left composed of brightly coloured plastic noodles and pipes was called 'Parco Bello.'

One of their favorite games to play in the park was the 'Troppo game' where I would hold onto the back of the child's swing and ask 'Troppo?' (too much?) as I pulled it back, gradually higher and higher. Of course their answer was always 'No! Non Troppo!!' Then finally when I couldn't hold back anymore I would count to three and release the swing.

Many times we charged into the park through the knee length grass and daisies like the Scotts in Braveheart, the children roaring 'PLAY THE TROPPO, PLAY.' It was exhausting, but it built up my kudos with the kids faster than anything else I did.

It was during a backbreaking session of Play the Troppo that I made a language faux pas. It was still early on in my stay in Pisa and I was still coming to terms with the Italian language, something I can only liken to catching a squirming but delicious salmon. It is pretty darn hard to get a hold of but the potential of realizing it keeps you hanging on.

After nearly ten sessions of the troppo game I was ready to collapse. I told S-: 'Ok, finito troppo-play-the-tropp! I am exhausted! Tu sei troppo pertanza!' The little girl looked at me then burst into laughter.

What I had meant to say was: 'no more! you and the swing are too heavy', however the word I had meant to use was perzante, not Pertanza...which not only is gibberish in Italian, but sounds ridiculous too.

S- found it so funny she found it necessary to tell everyone, her parents, her brother, her 2 year old sister, even the dog. When she told her father, laughing with tears in her eyes, he choked back a chuckle, but insisted it wasn't such a big deal to save me some embarrassment. But when he turned back to his painting I saw him shake his head and chortle to himself.

After that point I became Pertanza La Strega: Pertanza the witch.

Playing with children can be very amusing, particularly I find with children under the age of four. They are remarkably clever but still able to lose themselves completely in the moment of the game. The girls S (7yrs) and J (2yrs) loved nothing more than being chased around their spacious garden, and sometimes would become so immersed in the game they would lose track of reality. The little one J- in particular found herself swept up into the moment emotionally often with hilarious consequences.

One play session when I, Pertanza the witch, was chasing them around the garden 'in order to eat them' (more like tickle them) I managed to grab hold of the speedy S and was treating her to a tickling session as she laughed and kicked for freedom.  While doing so I felt something tapping me sharply on the back. I turned to find the 2 year old hitting me with a little purple spade, a look of deadly determination and anger on her face. Despite her tiny stature she was actually managing to hurt me! Ooops. She was obviously taking her sister's capture a bit too seriously.

'Stop. stop, stop!' I ordered.

I paused the game, dropped my witch persona and calmly asked the two girls if they understood that we were just playing a game. We were just pretending. I wasn't really a witch and they weren't really going to be eaten by anyone...just a game!

They nodded and the game resumed. S- scrambled free but after ten minutes or so I had soon recaptured her with my outstretched arms, shaped into giant witch's claws. She shrieked but to my horror she was immediately joined by the distressed wails of her little sister. I turned around once again to find the little one pulling hard at my jumper desperately trying to pry me off her entrapped older sister, tears streaming down her bright red terrified/enraged face. She reminded me of a desperate Sam Gamgee, trying to save his beloved Frodo from Gollum.

'STOP! STOP! STOP!' I cried once more.

I paused the game and picked the little one up. I wiped her tears away and asked her again if she understood that we were just playing! There was no need to be scared or to cry! Solo Giocare! Just playing! I wasn't really going to eat her sister! Just tickle her! She nodded and smiled sheepishly.

I put her down with a little hug and the game resumed, but once again...things ended in tears. Patting her on the back to calm her down from the experience of nearly being 'eaten by Pertanza the witch' I meekly suggested we all just watch Peppa Pig for a while on TV to calm down.

It was enough Pertanza for one day for everyone.

For the little one I found she more than often took her games a bit too seriously, bless her little heart. She also enjoyed the 'Mio, Mia' game where she would point to one of her beloved items, either her Mum, her dog, her barbie and declare it hers with an assertive 'Mio!' or 'Mia!' It was always meant as a challenge, she expected me to then assume my witch persona and contradict her.

'Noooo!' I would hiss, and grab the confused family dog zinka. 'Mio!!!' The dog is MINE!' However I began to find ways to avoid this game when the poor little girl started taking things too seriously. One day when I insisted that no, the family dog was mine she promptly burst into tears.

Once again I solved the dramatic situation with some episodes of good ol' Peppa Pig.  And from then on when she would declare the dog hers, to her vast disappointment I would simply agree.

Receiving A Very Unexpected Email In London: The Consequences, The Perils And Wonders Of Being An Au Pair, New Beginnings

I was in Oxford the night I received the unexpected email from my hostess. I took the opportunity to leave London for a day and night to visit a friend at Somerville College where she studies.

That evening when my friend kindly offered me a chance to use her computer to check my email I found an rather ominous message from my hostess of the noble family:

Hello M-!
How are You? I hope You are well and enjoying Your travel.

I write You because I need to tell You some important changements that we are compelled to do in the next days. Let me know via-email if You check Your emails and have read this msg, so that I'll write You again to this e-mail address and explain all.

Thank You and take care

By this stage of my trip I was highly aware that things can get easily and harmlessly lost in translation,  particularly when it involves indirect communication such as email and someone for whom english is a second language. I have found when trying to use a language other than our own we can often find ourselves swinging either way on the vocab/grammar pedulum, easily coming across too formal or too casual. For example the subject of the message was titled: 'Changements'. So despite her grave tone I decided not to be concerned and thought I had some idea what it might be about anyway. She had mentioned to me that she and her husband would be doing some travel the following month. So for a few days here and there it was going to be just the four boys and me...oh and the beloved housemaid who never liked me very much (Please refer to blog post 'The House Maid vs.The  Au Pair: What To Do When The House Maid Clearly Wants you Dead').

I replied back with whatever came into my head first letting her know I was within reach email-wise:


Hi - !

Yes I am very well! And really enjoying London! How are you and the boys? I won't lie I am missing you all haha

oh I see, well yes please tell me what these changes may be. So please do go on!

hope you and the family are all well!
M-

I only got the opportunity to read her next message once I had arrived back in London late the following evening. I was in a really seedy internet cafe in Clapton Ponds, East London. For some reason despite the cafe being virtually empty the manager decided to lodge me in between the two sole male customers, one on youtube and the other...I didn't want to look to closely. I crammed in between them at my little desk and began to read the following:

Good morning M-! 
I'm very happy that you are enjoying your London trip a lot! 
We are having a beautiful holiday too. My husband and my children are very well too, thank You.

M-, it isn’t easy for me to write these few lines to You, but I have to do it. Something has changed for me in these days and I thought a lot about this new situation that I have to face.

Honestly, I didn’t know what to do at first. When I knew the news I was surprised, disappointed and sad, because I could never immagine it would have happened to me. But it happened. I thought a lot what to do and how to face it at the best and I have found an answer.

It’s very hard for me to write You what I’m going to tell You now, but I have to. M-, sorry if I tell You this, but we cannot guest You the next days till when we had planned (starting of April). Don’t worry: my decision doesn’t concern the way You helped me or behaved with the children! Be sure of this. My decision concerns something else that involves me, first, and then my family. I don’t have the courage to tell You what it is, because it’s too hard for me now. Maybe in the future we’ll talk about it…

- Are You able to stay in Your cousin’s house for the next days, until You find another family that guests You? (You told me that in London You stayed in Your cousin’s house)

- Did You leave some luggages in my home or did You bring everything with You? If You have left something, I can pack everything and send all to You in England. Or You prefer to come back, pack all Your things and then leave?

- M-, please, if You come back in my house, I need You to leave within Tuesday 11th of March. Please, forgive me if I seem so unpolite with You, but believe me that all it is caused by something new and absolutely unexpected, that I would have never known before, that I would have never had to face before…

When I finished the email I re-read it, then again and again, trying to work out what it meant. A thousand questions raced through my mind as I held back tears. Was someone ill? But she said they are all fine...this was not the email of someone who had just lost a family member or been diagnosed with an incurable disease. What could have happened to warrant her asking me not to return to their home? My first conclusion was maybe her reassurance was just pretense and I had done something unforgivable, something I could not fathom. I wracked my mind but came up with nothing. My hostess and I had been close, she told me many times how grateful and happy she had been with me and that the boys liked me. She also took care of me when the maid wanted to get me kicked out of the house. I was so confused. I had to get some answers, so still trying to wrap my head around what I had just read I replied:

H-, I do not know what to say.

I am very shocked and worried. Have I done anything wrong? Is this to do with me at all because if it is I would like to know...if I have done anything I promise it was never done intentionally or meant to hurt anyone...I am quite distressed, forgive me. And M- I confess I am very distressed I will not get to say goodbye to your four boys...because the truth is I love them very much. 

But also are you alright? Other than the fact you are my employer I do consider you also like a friend to me...you have been so kind to me and caring. I need to know you are ok just as any friend wants to know their friends are safe and well. I know you do not wish to share whatever has happened with me, but please let me know if I can help you! Or talk to you if you need....I am also sad I may not get the chance to say goodbye to you in person. I am sorry, I am not saying these things to make you feel guilty, I promise, I am simply expressing my fondness for the experience your family has given me and my sadness it has to end in this way.

So yes, most of my things are still in your house...I can come by your house and quickly get my things, or else I could wait until I have confirmed things with my next family, and you could send my things there. 

Desperate to hear your reply,

M-

My Cousin arrived home to her flat that night to find me looking lost and dishevelled. I told her the whole story and she was flabbergasted. We kept coming back to the same question, round and round in circles...'What happened??' Suddenly I got a notification, I had received another email. 'Oh my god, what does it say?' my cousin asked. I read eagerly:

Dear M-, 
I'm very sorry I distressed You: I really didn't want it!

Don't worry about the days You stayed with us: You have been so good with the children and You helped me a lot in our everyday life!

Thank You for offering me Your help: I did appreciate it a lot, but unfortunately You cannot do anything for me now. Instead I'm very worried about You. I hope I didn't put You too much in trouble and if there is something I can do for You, please tell me.

It would be very nice to see You again and say "goodbye", but...it can be also very stressful for You to come and go in two days and I don't want to distress You more than what I have already done.

Do You prefer to stay in London until You choose a new family? In this case I'll send You Your luggages to London or to Your new family, as You like.

At the time all the positives in that message did not seem to sink in. All I could think about was that polite as she was she clearly preferred me to not come back to the house...not even to say goodbye. My cousin and I mused over the strangeness of it all late into the night, enthusiastically coming up with all kinds of theories. Everything from abduction to court cases were thought of and weighed up on the probability scale, but it was just no good, guessing is just guessing.

'People are strange...there is no point dwelling on it, you will probably never know what happened,' my cousin advised. I agreed, but remained despondant, and I admit hurt and angry.

I ended up staying in London for another three days to give me time to change my plans, during which through good luck I was contacted again by a family in Pisa I had wanted to stay with. The girl they had been communicating with had suddenly stopped replying and now they were looking to see if I was still interested. I was, and booked a new flight and set of trains to get me there. The extra days in London breezed by as I spent them doing the things I had thought I would have to save for next time: Kew Gardens, The Tates, a stroll through Chelsea. Then suddenly as if I had teleported myself there I found myself tired, still a bit stunned, with a new family in Pisa. And after three weeks my luggage arrived at my new locale with a generous sum of money to compensate me for any inconveniences.

This all happened more than a month ago. The last few blog posts I made in relation to my previous family have been published in retrospect. I didn't want to move on without telling those stories which remain unique, happy and precious, despite the ending.

*** 

The incident was a strange one, really strange. The only thing I could take comfort in was the fact that my hostesses' decision had not been to do with some failure on my part as an au pair. Furthermore our email correspondance since has been affectionate and sincere. But it has highlighted for me some important facts about au pairing.

The au pair-employer relationship is not one forged on a legally bound contract. There are no regulations or rules other than what you and your host agree upon. This means that 

the relationship is one that is dependant on mutual trust and a shared interest in the welfare and happiness of the children involved. I guess this is exactly what made this change so painful: I trusted this family with my health, safety and happiness, and I treasured their children. Then suddenly I found myself a stranger who was no longer welcome in their home. In retrospect I have had to come to terms with the fact that maybe I trusted them more than I should have. 

The thing is when you are close to your host family, when the respect and affection is mutual, you really do feel like a family member. This family showed me amazing generosity, for example despite my protests they even payed for medical expenses of mine. They allowed me freedom, paid me very generously in relation to my working hours and treated me as a beloved but independent daughter. I had family dinner with them every night. 

But I guess what you have to remember when you are an au pair is that you may feel like you are part of the family, but you are not. At the end of the day there was no stopping my hosts from doing what they did, no head office to regulate against such a decision, and even though it may have been done for a very good reason (I lean towards believing it was) it was a sudden, alarming and painful end to a relationship I had begun to consider sacred. I thought I was family, but I was not. 

The main thing sadness that lingers with me now is that I never returned to that beautiful palace or got to hug and kiss those four beautiful cheeky boys goodbye. My playdough companions, fellow lego architects, mess makers, garden explorers. I loved them, I honestly did. I wasn't their mother or sister, but I felt a protectivness of them that would have seen me do anything for their continued safety and innocence. I asked my now ex-hostess what she told them had happened, where and why I had gone. She told them I had moved on to care for another family now. At least it wasn't exactly a lie. 

***

Yesterday here in Pisa, as I helped the little two year old of my new family pull on her jacket, something occurred to me. Before she ran off I pulled out the brand label from under the collar, and yep, it was United Colours of Benetton. It was the exact same ice-blue padded jacket my previous little one had worn in Veneto. How many times had I helped stuff his little four year old arms into that thing so he could make his hasty exit into the garden to play? And now I was doing the same for her. The jacket has now become for me a symbol of continuity. Some things have changed: a different family, relationships and personalities, chores, location, and oportunities. But as the jacket reminds me there will always be some things that remain the same, such as the joy of becoming loved and needed by beautiful children. And that which stays the same can be both comforting and bittersweet.