What to do when you read a book you just really don't like. To continue, or not to continue....
I am currently stuck in this debate because of my current read: Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert. It is a hard call to make because I think both paths have their pros and cons.
Reasons to finish the book:
1. Just because you don't enjoy it does not mean that it is 'bad' or that you cannot learn something from it, whether this is literary experience or life experience. If anything it is useful to ocasionally read a 'bad' book, because it just further helps us exemplify what characteristics make a 'good' book. An example I would use here is the Twilight series. Ok, not such great books, in fact I would go so far so to say they are quite apalling (first book is passable, all following, no, just no). However they do make fantastic reading when it comes to honing your own understanding of what constitutes effective characterisation and plot, simply because it is so obviously absent from the series. It is highlighted perfectly.
2. Conquering a hard or slow book does wonders for your reading abilities in my opinion. The discipline and committment required to get used to or perservere with a difficult writing style can be applied to other pieces of writing you have wanted to read but saw as previously too advanced. I always find the book I read after a particulary hard slog is absolutely effortless. It can also set me on a roll, giving me the momentum to read several books in quick succession.
3. Whenever the book is discussed, you can say you have read it and contribute to that conversation. Your negative opinion can be valuable and provide an interesting viewpoint.
4. You won't be haunted by the book sitting forever on your shelf, glaring at you, making you feel like some kind of failure
5. It won't be a waste of your money (if it was expensive that is).
Reasons not to finish the book:
1. Sometimes it is a matter of reading the wrong book at the right time. I personally see each book has having a 'difficulty level' and am willing to acknowledge when maybe I am not at the level to fully appreciate it yet. Everyone's 'difficulty ratings' are based on different factors. For me Moby Dick and Middlemarch will have to wait for a little while. Although brilliant, the sheer density of the language made it hard for me to get through. I will come back to them once I have levelled up.
2. Give it a second chance. So put it down and come back to it in a few books time. I remember Jo Napoli's Daughter of Venice was like this. I just could not get past the first few pages. It bored me. So I left it for a year and came back to it. Second time can be the charm. Don't give up yet, always give it a second chance.
2. Sometimes a book is just...bad and we hate reading it. As long as we can explain why the book enraged us so and learn from this, sometimes it can be ok to put a book down. I know this is going to make me super unpopular with some people, but a book I have done this with is John Green's Looking for Alaska. I just couldn't do it. That said I think John Green is a total cutie and a clever guy. I just cannot handle his prose or storylines. At all. When I put that down I felt a relief I cannot describe. Some books, we will find, are just impossible for us to connect with, even if others have been able to. Everyone and every book is different.
3. Life is short! Let's be epicurean and enjoy ourselves! Why waste time ploughing through a heavy boring text when we could be reading something wonderful! Give it up, move on! Who cares it cost you over $30 from an overpriced bookshop! Go out! Buy another one!
Back to Flaubert. Madame Bovary is proving to be a combination of many of the feelings I have described above. In short, I am not digging it. Not at all. Strangely enough the best way I can decribe my experience of reading the book is by likening it to the Sims3.
So Sims 2 was awesome. It was a hyper-reality, where things were real enough to be plausible, aka, the sims body features, their jobs etc. but also contained elements such as aliens to make things 'kooky' and engaging. To make reality more interesting. A zany reality.
Then along came Sims3. I was so excited for it but upon testing it out I was bitterly disappointed. It was so realistic...it was just boring. Why would I want to escape from ordinary life by playing a PC version of ordinary life? There was nothing engaging or relaxing about the hard slog of balancing my sims work, life and family of the sims 3....in fact things were even more complicated than in Sims 2, everything from eating to making friends, to getting a promotion required more effort to achieve and yet the achievements themselves when acquired seemed less rewarding somehow. And to my chagrin, there were no aliens or 'kooky' elements to speak of. What even was the point anymore? This was no longer a hyper-reality, it was just another reality I wanted to seek respite from. It was too close to home and lacking that crucial element that made Sims 2 so entertaining: the critical element, the sense of irony one could feel inserted into the game by its makers. They were having a laugh at real-life by emphasising many of it's silliest moments in the game itself. It was humorous, ironic and wacky. These reflections made it insightful regarding how society views marriage, cheating, having boyfriends and girlfriends, failing school.
Madame Bovary, a classic piece of literary realism, is the more along the lines of Sims 3 for me. While I think Flaubert successfully achieves his goal to be as objectively realistic as possible, the result is a bizarrely stilted and dry piece of work. I guess maybe I was thrown off by it's modesty as I won't lie, I was hoping for a Lady Chatterly's Lover kinda work. But no. For a text of literary realism is is surprisngly modest, and although candid, not at all engaging or insightful. Hardly scandalous.
Emma is a realistic character, and yes so is her husband Charles Bovary. This is not the problem, it is that Flaubert writes about them with such little perspective or personal contribution from himself regarding what HE think of the characters or even what he wants US to think of the characters. Devoid of any creative flair, they almost seem like boring neighbours next door. Why do I want to know anything about them? Why should I care that Emma is bored stiff and her husband is a mediocre bore? Flaubert does not seem to critique his characters, and I find that deeply troubling from the perspective of someone trying to enjoy his work.
In a way I do believe this is a testament to Flaubert's ability to pierce the heart of reality....maybe I just don't want reality. Or maybe at the end of the day if I want to read about reality, I want it to be a more insightful reality then the one presented in this novel, or at least more different or exotic from my own. It is not Flaubert's fault he chose rural France and a bored housewife as his novels plot foundations. Maybe some people find this really fascinating. They must or else why is the novel still read and referenced so often. Why is it stocked amongst the classics? Historically speaking the story would have been considered highly interesting, even disturbing, at the time it was published. It must havee been shocking to read something so candid, completely without artificice to smooth over the taboo or socially unnaceptable sections. I also think these foundations have the potential to be very interesting, after all I would read a story about a cactus plant named Harold if I thought it was well written. I think the problem here is the literary genre of realism, and further more Flaubert's execution of it.
Even when being he does venture into descriptive territory Flaubert falls short of creating anything vivid for me, like a beautiful scene or even an ugly scene. He always seems instead in his stripped back style to be simply listing objects present rather than engaging with them and describing them for me to visualise, for example:
'The garden, longer than wide, ran between two mud walls with esapliered apricots, to a hawthorn hedge that separated it from the field. In the middle was a slate sundial on a brick pedestal; four flower beds with eglantines surrounded symetrically the more useful kitchen garden bed.'
This is a lovely list, but what of the garden Flaubert?? Does this array of features make it pretty in your opinion? Ugly? Why should I care that this is how the garden looks? To use an analogy to summarise my argument: I do not look at a piece of art simply to validate its existence, but to draw from it some kind of meaning or to experience some kind of emotional response. Here though Flaubert's objectivism devoid of any kind of opinion or reflection is resulting in only one thing from me: boredom.
If this is his style, should I bother continuing? I obviously don't get realism in literature...I find it articulate but dry and without insight or reflection. So, continue, or not? At this stage the only reason I would want to read it is to be immersed in the experience that is literary realism, to familiarise myself with this style and then hopefully in doing so learn something valuable about the history of literature as a whole. But is it worth it? When I find it so dull?
Only time will tell. Maybe I should start Hardy's A Pair of Blue Eyes, and try again after that. Take the 'give it a second chance' course of action. After all it has worked before.
Thursday 27 February 2014
Venice Carnivale, 2014: My Down the Rabbit Hole Experience
I have wanted to go to Venice Carnivale since, gosh, forever! I think I can trace the longing back to primary school when in Italian class we looked at big glossy photos of masks, costumes and of course as part of the lesson got to make our own masks. I also remember seeing pictures of San Marco square, but it was never the full thing, just a segment of a backdrop to a particular costumed individual. I always wondered what it looked like as a whole.
So, I got my opportunity this year! Venice is only 45 minutes away from where I am living in the Veneto Region and my hostess urged me to take this opportunity. So with her blessing I did, and it was a beautiful amazing crazy and at times random experience. The best thing I found about the weekend in Venice was that it was delightfully idiosyncratic. It really didn't feel like it had been invaded and taken over by advertising, or diluted into other smaller and less interesting sub-festivals. It was purely Venetian, purely Carnivale, and the result was bizarre and stunning at the same time.
When I first arrived in Venice Saturday afternoon it was so freezing it was agony waiting for my water bus dressed only, in what I lik to call my warmer-inner-Veneto-Region-garments, a skirt and stockings. It was also grey and spitting with rain. I was worried that my time was going to be spent miserably trying to skip from one overpriced cafe to another, trying to avoid the biting cold.
But the weather the next dear cleared dramatically. It was absolutely golden. The sun was soft and bright at the same time, never stinging or harsh. It was warm, in the sense you could happily stroll around with just your jumper on, no need for a jacket unless in the shade. There was no bitter wind to speak of, just pure unadulterated beauty, natural and man-made all around from dawn to dusk.
So instead of being boring and having a step by step recount of what I did I have jotted down during my two days the funny and interesting happenings I experienced/saw/encountered. I feel they sum up the Carnivale better than anything else I could write.
VENICE CARNIVALE:
1. The grumpy man in Campo San Zaccharia, who seemed to be out and about just to scowl and hiss at all the people having fun. I noticed him because he got into a tiff with a ladies west highland white terrier, who was barking at another dog. The bent over grumpy man shook his fist at the dog and snarled at the lady, before inching his way onwards, scowling and muttering curses under his breath about the terrible state of humanity. Bless the elderly.
2. The disgruntled ladybug: there were many overtired toddlers by the end of Sunday afternoon, most in fancy dress costume. This little girl was dressed as a ladybug, she even had her nose painted black. Despite the fact her cheeks and eyes were flushed red from angry tears, she was totally adorable. But she was not happy, bawling her eyes out, only stopping when her Mum pointed out some gelato in the shop nearby. She glanced, thought for a second whether this was worthwhile her cheering up. She decided no and continued howling. I could hear the poor little thing even once I had turned several corners.
3. The two tripple-chinned sisters I saw on Saturday night in San Marco Square. They were my first sight of carnivale costume. They were decked out as Marie Antoinettes but wearing absolutely garish colour combinations: hot pink with lime green, royal purple with mustard, fluoro yellow and pumpkin orange. They sauntered along stopped occsionally by admirers/those they amused with their hideous gowns wanting to take photos.
4. The friendly drag queen dressed in black sequins, lace and layers, I think as someone from Chicago who winked and smiled at me as he strolled past with his other Flapper drag queen friends. I have never seen someone pack SO much sass into their strut as that drag queen.
5. The cheerful live band, all wearing period costume, playing upbeat funk-Jazz in the Castello area of Venice. The lead Trombonist was particulary enjoyable to watch, his face was for some reason painted bright purple. He looked like a friendly prune. Also the man dressed as a Musketeer deserves a mention for his sensational two minute long drum solo.
6. The spindly delicate waiter with John Lennnon glasses who served me lunch in the Alla Borga restaurant, Saturday afternoon. He struck me as a shy Sheldon-like individual, so it surprised me greatly when he started singing along to the music playing. He knew every word to the terrible country rock and I could never have imagined someone so mismatched in appearance to their music preference. I will never assume anything again.
7. The smoochy Italian boys in Campo San Margherita. They grabbed me out of nowhere and finding out I was from Australia decided I was going to go to a party with them. It was at San Basiliano, did I know where that was? No? Never mind! They seemed good fun at first but I lost my temper with them when one of them, absolutely drunk, kept grabbing me and going in to kiss me with breath that reeked of beer, smooshing his face against mine so hard my hat fell off and my cheek bone felt fractured. They became really handsy and turned out to be creeps. Before things got too uncomfortable I shrugged them off and disappeared into the pulsing crowd moshing to some electronica playing from the stage at the front of the square.
8. Even the animals of Venice got into the spirit. I saw a masked black labrador trotting around San Marco, posing with the costumed individuals. I also saw a mopey looking Chihuahua not so keen on his outfit. His owners had dressed him as a Gondolier, wearing a stripey shirt, straw boater and black pants. Too cute! And from the amount of photo requests he got others agreed. But he looked rather embarassed in my opinion.
9. The water-taxi driver, blasting Kylie Minogue's 'I can't get you out of my head' from his glossy chestnut coloured speed boat. Bobbing his head to the beat as he sped down the canal. Literally haven't head that song in years and it reminded me of Australia in the early 2000s and getting up early to watch video hits and Rage. Which is a weird thing to remember when one is in Venice in 2014.
10. The Renaissance army making its way down past the Doge's Palace, dressed in full 16th century military attire, feathers bobbing on their helmeted heads, calling out at the top of their lungs as they went by (something in Italian I could not understand). They were followed by a group of ladies and men dressed as Venetian 16th century nobles, all donning velvet, ermine, hairnets and jewels. The crowd parted to let the impressive spectacle through then surged forwards like a tidal wave in order to grab a photograph. I only just managed to survive the skirmish unscathed.
11. The street signs I followed for what seemed like hours, looking for San Barnarba, that led me only to another sign that seemed to be insisting San Barnarba was located off the edge of a pier. Lies Venice. All lies. Never trust a Venetian street sign.
12. The incredibly zealous and impassioned celloist of the Interpreti Veneziani Orchestra who I saw play Vivaldi's Four Seasons in the Chiesa San Vidal. His facial expressions were so amazingly involved in the music they seemed to be a performance in their own right. A little girl was sitting in the front row, and throughout the concert I saw her several times clap her hand over her mouth to stop herself from laughing at his flamboyant head tosses and ecstatic grimaces. He at times would even jump up from his seat in order to execute a particularly violent stroke of the cello with the passion he saw fit. It was hilariously amazing. She was not the only one amused. He got a special round of applause and afterwards people asked him for his autograph. I was a little bit smitten, I won't lie.
13. The friendly youths who noticed I was lost in a dark alleyway. They were drinking, actually already well past being just drunk, and merry. After looking at my map gave it back to me non-plussed. They had no idea where they were and they lived here. Typical labyrinthianVenice. They wished me luck and disappeared down another dark alleyway heckling each other.
14. The most chic elderly man I have ever seen, chilling in the sun near Peggy Guggenheim with his two equally chic fox terriers. He was wearing a magnificent grey suit with a cobalt blue shirt, had on a pair of fabulous raybans, was leaning nochalantly on a gold cane, and had beautifully groomed long white hair and beard. He looked like a badass in every sense of the word. Kind of like a Venetian Gandalf dressed in Armani if you can imagine such a thing.
15. The loud lost Americans, moving around in carefree energetic groups, asking always each other where they were going, where were they, how were they going to get there. Always lost, always chilled, always having fun, always loud, always turning heads.
16. The four friends, dressed as seductive counts and courtesans, all masked and glittering, sitting in the window booth in Florians on San Marco square, being oggled at by passersby, cramming in front of the window to take a picture.
17. The annoying receptionist of the hostel I stayed in. He smiled in a smug ironic way because he knew I knew the place was a dump, but knew that I could not get find a room anywhere else, and knew therefore I knew I had to just be polite and take what I was given. My favourite part was the 'Stay calm and love this hostel' sign in the foyer. This could only have been meant ironically, because the place simply put was a dump. 'B.Y.O. toilet paper' would have been a more apt and useful sign. There was no hot water on the first floor, the rooms were littered with broken old (not antique) chairs, the ground was fake marble turning to gravel, the bathroom had a broken washing machine obscuring the entrance, the shower had the dimensions and comfort of Ms Trunchbulls's Chokey from Matilda, and the walls were unsealed, exposed brick, displaying a tatter of aged paint from the 70s. There was no common room or kitchen, and the place was deserted. People obviously saw it as simply a functional roof over their heads and left at sunrise and returned only when their feet were about to drop off. I too took this functional road. Less is more with this hostel I decided.
18. The rowdy teenage Ventians who got on my waterbus at San Marcuola, and after donning red bowler hats, they locked themselves in the seated section of the boat and forced the elderly, the babies and mums, the couples and tourists to view an impromptu performance. They stood up the front and in a show of cringey teenage self-entitlement sang, danced and generally made fools of themselves while one friend filmed the whole thing on her iphone. Apparently teenagers are annoying everywhere in the world, even in my beloved Venice.
19. Everything, I saw, did, ate, bought, admired, photographed. Venice Carnivale was an absolute treat. I will never forget it. Ever
So, I got my opportunity this year! Venice is only 45 minutes away from where I am living in the Veneto Region and my hostess urged me to take this opportunity. So with her blessing I did, and it was a beautiful amazing crazy and at times random experience. The best thing I found about the weekend in Venice was that it was delightfully idiosyncratic. It really didn't feel like it had been invaded and taken over by advertising, or diluted into other smaller and less interesting sub-festivals. It was purely Venetian, purely Carnivale, and the result was bizarre and stunning at the same time.
When I first arrived in Venice Saturday afternoon it was so freezing it was agony waiting for my water bus dressed only, in what I lik to call my warmer-inner-Veneto-Region-garments, a skirt and stockings. It was also grey and spitting with rain. I was worried that my time was going to be spent miserably trying to skip from one overpriced cafe to another, trying to avoid the biting cold.
But the weather the next dear cleared dramatically. It was absolutely golden. The sun was soft and bright at the same time, never stinging or harsh. It was warm, in the sense you could happily stroll around with just your jumper on, no need for a jacket unless in the shade. There was no bitter wind to speak of, just pure unadulterated beauty, natural and man-made all around from dawn to dusk.
So instead of being boring and having a step by step recount of what I did I have jotted down during my two days the funny and interesting happenings I experienced/saw/encountered. I feel they sum up the Carnivale better than anything else I could write.
VENICE CARNIVALE:
1. The grumpy man in Campo San Zaccharia, who seemed to be out and about just to scowl and hiss at all the people having fun. I noticed him because he got into a tiff with a ladies west highland white terrier, who was barking at another dog. The bent over grumpy man shook his fist at the dog and snarled at the lady, before inching his way onwards, scowling and muttering curses under his breath about the terrible state of humanity. Bless the elderly.
2. The disgruntled ladybug: there were many overtired toddlers by the end of Sunday afternoon, most in fancy dress costume. This little girl was dressed as a ladybug, she even had her nose painted black. Despite the fact her cheeks and eyes were flushed red from angry tears, she was totally adorable. But she was not happy, bawling her eyes out, only stopping when her Mum pointed out some gelato in the shop nearby. She glanced, thought for a second whether this was worthwhile her cheering up. She decided no and continued howling. I could hear the poor little thing even once I had turned several corners.
3. The two tripple-chinned sisters I saw on Saturday night in San Marco Square. They were my first sight of carnivale costume. They were decked out as Marie Antoinettes but wearing absolutely garish colour combinations: hot pink with lime green, royal purple with mustard, fluoro yellow and pumpkin orange. They sauntered along stopped occsionally by admirers/those they amused with their hideous gowns wanting to take photos.
4. The friendly drag queen dressed in black sequins, lace and layers, I think as someone from Chicago who winked and smiled at me as he strolled past with his other Flapper drag queen friends. I have never seen someone pack SO much sass into their strut as that drag queen.
5. The cheerful live band, all wearing period costume, playing upbeat funk-Jazz in the Castello area of Venice. The lead Trombonist was particulary enjoyable to watch, his face was for some reason painted bright purple. He looked like a friendly prune. Also the man dressed as a Musketeer deserves a mention for his sensational two minute long drum solo.
6. The spindly delicate waiter with John Lennnon glasses who served me lunch in the Alla Borga restaurant, Saturday afternoon. He struck me as a shy Sheldon-like individual, so it surprised me greatly when he started singing along to the music playing. He knew every word to the terrible country rock and I could never have imagined someone so mismatched in appearance to their music preference. I will never assume anything again.
7. The smoochy Italian boys in Campo San Margherita. They grabbed me out of nowhere and finding out I was from Australia decided I was going to go to a party with them. It was at San Basiliano, did I know where that was? No? Never mind! They seemed good fun at first but I lost my temper with them when one of them, absolutely drunk, kept grabbing me and going in to kiss me with breath that reeked of beer, smooshing his face against mine so hard my hat fell off and my cheek bone felt fractured. They became really handsy and turned out to be creeps. Before things got too uncomfortable I shrugged them off and disappeared into the pulsing crowd moshing to some electronica playing from the stage at the front of the square.
8. Even the animals of Venice got into the spirit. I saw a masked black labrador trotting around San Marco, posing with the costumed individuals. I also saw a mopey looking Chihuahua not so keen on his outfit. His owners had dressed him as a Gondolier, wearing a stripey shirt, straw boater and black pants. Too cute! And from the amount of photo requests he got others agreed. But he looked rather embarassed in my opinion.
9. The water-taxi driver, blasting Kylie Minogue's 'I can't get you out of my head' from his glossy chestnut coloured speed boat. Bobbing his head to the beat as he sped down the canal. Literally haven't head that song in years and it reminded me of Australia in the early 2000s and getting up early to watch video hits and Rage. Which is a weird thing to remember when one is in Venice in 2014.
10. The Renaissance army making its way down past the Doge's Palace, dressed in full 16th century military attire, feathers bobbing on their helmeted heads, calling out at the top of their lungs as they went by (something in Italian I could not understand). They were followed by a group of ladies and men dressed as Venetian 16th century nobles, all donning velvet, ermine, hairnets and jewels. The crowd parted to let the impressive spectacle through then surged forwards like a tidal wave in order to grab a photograph. I only just managed to survive the skirmish unscathed.
11. The street signs I followed for what seemed like hours, looking for San Barnarba, that led me only to another sign that seemed to be insisting San Barnarba was located off the edge of a pier. Lies Venice. All lies. Never trust a Venetian street sign.
12. The incredibly zealous and impassioned celloist of the Interpreti Veneziani Orchestra who I saw play Vivaldi's Four Seasons in the Chiesa San Vidal. His facial expressions were so amazingly involved in the music they seemed to be a performance in their own right. A little girl was sitting in the front row, and throughout the concert I saw her several times clap her hand over her mouth to stop herself from laughing at his flamboyant head tosses and ecstatic grimaces. He at times would even jump up from his seat in order to execute a particularly violent stroke of the cello with the passion he saw fit. It was hilariously amazing. She was not the only one amused. He got a special round of applause and afterwards people asked him for his autograph. I was a little bit smitten, I won't lie.
13. The friendly youths who noticed I was lost in a dark alleyway. They were drinking, actually already well past being just drunk, and merry. After looking at my map gave it back to me non-plussed. They had no idea where they were and they lived here. Typical labyrinthianVenice. They wished me luck and disappeared down another dark alleyway heckling each other.
14. The most chic elderly man I have ever seen, chilling in the sun near Peggy Guggenheim with his two equally chic fox terriers. He was wearing a magnificent grey suit with a cobalt blue shirt, had on a pair of fabulous raybans, was leaning nochalantly on a gold cane, and had beautifully groomed long white hair and beard. He looked like a badass in every sense of the word. Kind of like a Venetian Gandalf dressed in Armani if you can imagine such a thing.
15. The loud lost Americans, moving around in carefree energetic groups, asking always each other where they were going, where were they, how were they going to get there. Always lost, always chilled, always having fun, always loud, always turning heads.
16. The four friends, dressed as seductive counts and courtesans, all masked and glittering, sitting in the window booth in Florians on San Marco square, being oggled at by passersby, cramming in front of the window to take a picture.
17. The annoying receptionist of the hostel I stayed in. He smiled in a smug ironic way because he knew I knew the place was a dump, but knew that I could not get find a room anywhere else, and knew therefore I knew I had to just be polite and take what I was given. My favourite part was the 'Stay calm and love this hostel' sign in the foyer. This could only have been meant ironically, because the place simply put was a dump. 'B.Y.O. toilet paper' would have been a more apt and useful sign. There was no hot water on the first floor, the rooms were littered with broken old (not antique) chairs, the ground was fake marble turning to gravel, the bathroom had a broken washing machine obscuring the entrance, the shower had the dimensions and comfort of Ms Trunchbulls's Chokey from Matilda, and the walls were unsealed, exposed brick, displaying a tatter of aged paint from the 70s. There was no common room or kitchen, and the place was deserted. People obviously saw it as simply a functional roof over their heads and left at sunrise and returned only when their feet were about to drop off. I too took this functional road. Less is more with this hostel I decided.
18. The rowdy teenage Ventians who got on my waterbus at San Marcuola, and after donning red bowler hats, they locked themselves in the seated section of the boat and forced the elderly, the babies and mums, the couples and tourists to view an impromptu performance. They stood up the front and in a show of cringey teenage self-entitlement sang, danced and generally made fools of themselves while one friend filmed the whole thing on her iphone. Apparently teenagers are annoying everywhere in the world, even in my beloved Venice.
19. Everything, I saw, did, ate, bought, admired, photographed. Venice Carnivale was an absolute treat. I will never forget it. Ever
Tuesday 25 February 2014
In Giardino con i Bambini: In the garden with the children.
Today was the first day we have actually been able to play in the garden. This means that Spring is coming to Italy! This is exciting as it makes me hopeful for more days like I had last weekend in Venice which was perfection. More about Venice soon.
Here in the city I am living in it has been getting warmer everyday which is nice (because being cold makes me ravenously hungry all the time. It's like I keep needing to fuel the fire or something) and we are getting more and more nice sunny days which are absolutely golden. Awesome lighting I find for taking photos of things in too. Everything is rendered warm-coloured and mediterranean, and the sun is so cozy and warm without ever being too harsh. In short when sunny, everything looks postcard perfect and I walk around in a happy surreal daze. Is there anything more beautiful than a cobble-stoned Italian village in summer or spring?
The garden of my host family is massive and landscaped to make a paradise for four enegetic young boys. When I first arrived at night I thought maybe they lived facing onto a park. Nope. It's their property alright. There is a field to play soccer in, a shady corner of large dropping trees covering a spacious chestnut wood cubby house (it even has electricity inside, like you can actually live in it). There is also a pond beyond the field to sail boats on that comes complete with arched bridge and a little bamboo island for the boys to reach via another little bridge.
At the back there is a small glass triangular prism shaped greenhouse, now disused, but being converted into a mini sunroom. The empty flower beds inside the house are being turned into benches with sinks, the gravel floor will be replaced with tiles, the exposed brick walls will be painted and the glass panes will eventually be cleaned and decorated with Tuscan style curtains. It is intended to be the 'summer house,' where they can sit watching the children frolic in the sun, and not have to keep running back to the house which is quite far away at this point in the garden. Outside this little greenhouse are now bare rose bushes threaded over arched displays. In summer they are in full bloom and I cannot begin to imagine just how beautiful it must be. The gardenia plant is also coming to life. We saw the first magenta pink blossom just last saturday.
When I asked my hostess if the boys spent much time here in the garden, she replied 'Oh yes! In Summer, they never leave! We never see them inside.' I think if I was their age I wouldn't either.
Today in the garden that smelt delicously woody and smoky, of warming lichen and neighbours burning firewood, I kicked a ball around with the oldest child. He was teaching me the important difference between kicking lengthwise versus upwards...'No, you see like this! (kicks ball) not like this!' (kicks ball again as I nod appreciatively and affectionately). 'Bravo!' I tell him. Then the second oldest came out and wanted to have a competition, who can kick the ball the highest. I judged until the littlest one began calling me to push him on the swing hanging from a huge beautiful tree near the field.
I would pull back the swing and ask 'Troppo??' (too much? Too high?) The little one would giggle and insist 'No!' I would pull him back a little higher. 'Troppo??' 'No!!' Finally when I could not hold on anymore, on three I would release as he cackled, twisting around mid-swing so he could try and punch me or stop me from tickling him under the chin as he swung backwards.
Having brought a large bamboo rod from inside (used by my hostess to point to various parts of Italy on a map they have inside the house. She often tells me interesting things about different regions. Like where the different food specialties come from) the little one then thought it a good idea to chase me around the field with it. Sometimes I let him catch me, but other times my fear was genuine. He still doesn't quite understand the meaning of gentle yet. 'Gentle! Gentle per favore!' I seem to say this a lot. Of late, if he does hurt me, he has taken to gasping in an exaggerated manner of remorse then grabbing whatever part of me that he has injured and pecking it with babyish little kisses, in between mutterings of 'Scusa! Scusa!' But this becomes a game in itself. I inevitably end up tearing him off me and to his delight roaring 'Troppo de bacci!!' Too many kisses!' He laughs and laughs.
The older two left to go to their swimming class and the little one and I remained in the garden. We visited the cubby house finding there lolly wrappers left over from last summer. He picked them up and tried to feed me with them, informing me in giggly Italian they were made of poo. Needless to say I rejected his generosity. We then jumped on their large trampoline, or he jumped and I was told to stay put outside the trampoline...the cheeky muffin hasn't quite mastered the concept of sharing either yet.
My hostess suddeenly appeared above from the kitchen window on the second floor. She had the little one's sky blue jacket. She dropped it down for me to catch. 'Hai freddo?' (Are you cold?) I asked the little one. 'No!' he retorted. Negative reply, as always. He was happy wearing the jacket all the same once I had stuffed his arms inside.
While jumping the caretaker of the property wished us goodnight as he drove past, leaving for the day. I told the little one to wave goodbye. 'Arriverderci!' He stood up, turned around and wiggled his bottom in the direction of the car. I couldn't help laughing, and grabbed him in order to tickle him and he shrieked and darted away. He told me I was like a crocodile, so I reached my arms out in the shape of a crocodiles snout and tried to snap at his legs as he jumped this way and that, giggling and cackling.
Eventually our jumping left both of us listless and dopey, so we lay on the winter leaf-covered trampoline and watched the sky turn darker and darker. Or rather I did, the little one loves ambushing me and jumping onto me when I least expect it, so he was occupied with that. 'Andiamo' I said finally. Let's go play with the lego. And so piggy-backing him off the trampoline the little one and I made our way back inside.
Till tomorrow and hopefully the day after that, lovely garden.
Here in the city I am living in it has been getting warmer everyday which is nice (because being cold makes me ravenously hungry all the time. It's like I keep needing to fuel the fire or something) and we are getting more and more nice sunny days which are absolutely golden. Awesome lighting I find for taking photos of things in too. Everything is rendered warm-coloured and mediterranean, and the sun is so cozy and warm without ever being too harsh. In short when sunny, everything looks postcard perfect and I walk around in a happy surreal daze. Is there anything more beautiful than a cobble-stoned Italian village in summer or spring?
The garden of my host family is massive and landscaped to make a paradise for four enegetic young boys. When I first arrived at night I thought maybe they lived facing onto a park. Nope. It's their property alright. There is a field to play soccer in, a shady corner of large dropping trees covering a spacious chestnut wood cubby house (it even has electricity inside, like you can actually live in it). There is also a pond beyond the field to sail boats on that comes complete with arched bridge and a little bamboo island for the boys to reach via another little bridge.
At the back there is a small glass triangular prism shaped greenhouse, now disused, but being converted into a mini sunroom. The empty flower beds inside the house are being turned into benches with sinks, the gravel floor will be replaced with tiles, the exposed brick walls will be painted and the glass panes will eventually be cleaned and decorated with Tuscan style curtains. It is intended to be the 'summer house,' where they can sit watching the children frolic in the sun, and not have to keep running back to the house which is quite far away at this point in the garden. Outside this little greenhouse are now bare rose bushes threaded over arched displays. In summer they are in full bloom and I cannot begin to imagine just how beautiful it must be. The gardenia plant is also coming to life. We saw the first magenta pink blossom just last saturday.
When I asked my hostess if the boys spent much time here in the garden, she replied 'Oh yes! In Summer, they never leave! We never see them inside.' I think if I was their age I wouldn't either.
Today in the garden that smelt delicously woody and smoky, of warming lichen and neighbours burning firewood, I kicked a ball around with the oldest child. He was teaching me the important difference between kicking lengthwise versus upwards...'No, you see like this! (kicks ball) not like this!' (kicks ball again as I nod appreciatively and affectionately). 'Bravo!' I tell him. Then the second oldest came out and wanted to have a competition, who can kick the ball the highest. I judged until the littlest one began calling me to push him on the swing hanging from a huge beautiful tree near the field.
I would pull back the swing and ask 'Troppo??' (too much? Too high?) The little one would giggle and insist 'No!' I would pull him back a little higher. 'Troppo??' 'No!!' Finally when I could not hold on anymore, on three I would release as he cackled, twisting around mid-swing so he could try and punch me or stop me from tickling him under the chin as he swung backwards.
Having brought a large bamboo rod from inside (used by my hostess to point to various parts of Italy on a map they have inside the house. She often tells me interesting things about different regions. Like where the different food specialties come from) the little one then thought it a good idea to chase me around the field with it. Sometimes I let him catch me, but other times my fear was genuine. He still doesn't quite understand the meaning of gentle yet. 'Gentle! Gentle per favore!' I seem to say this a lot. Of late, if he does hurt me, he has taken to gasping in an exaggerated manner of remorse then grabbing whatever part of me that he has injured and pecking it with babyish little kisses, in between mutterings of 'Scusa! Scusa!' But this becomes a game in itself. I inevitably end up tearing him off me and to his delight roaring 'Troppo de bacci!!' Too many kisses!' He laughs and laughs.
The older two left to go to their swimming class and the little one and I remained in the garden. We visited the cubby house finding there lolly wrappers left over from last summer. He picked them up and tried to feed me with them, informing me in giggly Italian they were made of poo. Needless to say I rejected his generosity. We then jumped on their large trampoline, or he jumped and I was told to stay put outside the trampoline...the cheeky muffin hasn't quite mastered the concept of sharing either yet.
My hostess suddeenly appeared above from the kitchen window on the second floor. She had the little one's sky blue jacket. She dropped it down for me to catch. 'Hai freddo?' (Are you cold?) I asked the little one. 'No!' he retorted. Negative reply, as always. He was happy wearing the jacket all the same once I had stuffed his arms inside.
While jumping the caretaker of the property wished us goodnight as he drove past, leaving for the day. I told the little one to wave goodbye. 'Arriverderci!' He stood up, turned around and wiggled his bottom in the direction of the car. I couldn't help laughing, and grabbed him in order to tickle him and he shrieked and darted away. He told me I was like a crocodile, so I reached my arms out in the shape of a crocodiles snout and tried to snap at his legs as he jumped this way and that, giggling and cackling.
Eventually our jumping left both of us listless and dopey, so we lay on the winter leaf-covered trampoline and watched the sky turn darker and darker. Or rather I did, the little one loves ambushing me and jumping onto me when I least expect it, so he was occupied with that. 'Andiamo' I said finally. Let's go play with the lego. And so piggy-backing him off the trampoline the little one and I made our way back inside.
Till tomorrow and hopefully the day after that, lovely garden.
The Preparations of a Noble Feast
Last saturday afternoon I left the house in the state of productive disarray to go to Venice for the weekend. Like Mary Poppins I packed a carpet bag, put on my hat and scarf, and stopped by the kitchen to say farewell. All four children were there, so was my hostess and their family friend who had been staying here as well for the last few days.They were cooking pumpkin soup and lasagna and although things seemed to be going well for the time being, I felt sure it was only a matter of time before too many cooks spoiled the broth.
That saturday night my hosts were actually having some friends over for dinner and the preparations leading up to the event gave me a chance to see the household at its most 'Noble'. And wow, was it amazing.
The floors were being polished by the household cleaner who lives next door, carpets were being shaken, the food was being prepared, the garden was being pruned and tidied...everything was going on.
I had wandered upstairs earlier that day to offer my assistance. Was there anything I could do to help out, to clean? To put away? My hostess and her friend led me along to her bedroom where opening a door she led me through to the Red Sitting Room and the Yellow sitting room, two gorgeous rooms named after their respective wallpaper colour arrangements, both complete with pretty floral sofas, elaborate stucco ceilings, mythological artworks, panelled walls, and grand fireplaces. Then, like a movie scene, some doors were opened, some lights were flicked on and before us, lit up like a ballroom, was the absolutely awe-inspiring 17 metre long sitting room. The ceiling, gilded and stunning towered above, from the walls hung gorgeous lamps and an antique pianoforte sat at the back, elegant as ever. The sofas still had their winter covers on but a glimpse underneath revealed peach velvetine. The room was amazing, truly something from Versaille. I was struck again by the singularity of my surreal adventure: staying with totally normal lovely people, but hell, they just happen to live in a palace!
We then set the dining room, a room leading off from the huge sitting room, that glowed from the gilded timber on the walls and ceilings, featuring a huge glass chandelier hanging low in the middle of the room over the beautiful 12 seater dining table. Using cutlery from the beautiful painted cupboards of the smaller dining room off to the side (and from the huge Tuscan style kitchen off that room) we set the table. The shelves were stocked with beautiful Tuscan pieces, all blue and white with floral or citrus inspired patterns. Each place at the table had a plate, a smaller plate for fruit and bread, a wine glass, another goblet for water and two sets of cutlery, with all handles decorated with mother of pearl. We placed a gorgeous silver platter in the middle of the table and two white porcelain bowls of fruit at each end. The table actually sparkled, reflected in the huge antique mirror at the front of the room.
While setting the table we passed by a corridor on our trips to and from the smaller dining room to the grand dining room. I asked me hostess if that led to the attic. On no, not the attic! It led to yet another floor of rooms. I began to get some idea of how huge this house was. We were only living in a about one-tenth of it for Winter....the family that lived in the house during the 18th century was obviously very very grand.
I was little awe-struck, it really felt as if I was more in a museum than in someone's family home. Yet everything was done with such casualness and familiarity. Nothing was sacred exactly, it was just their lifestyle. My hostess laughed at my gaping mouth and the way my eyes darted everywhere at once, trying to take it all in. For me, it was like visiting Versaille, incredibly aesthetically overwhelming. How to explain to anyone that before popping off to Venice I sat in a grand dining room polishing the glorious silverware of a Noble family?
Wandering back through the rooms I took my time, hoping that I would get a chance to see these rooms in their full glory before I would have to move on. My hostess pointed out to me another door way that led off the Yellow Sitting Room. She informed me that behind those doors was a small chapel.....just casually. She told me she would show me another time. I cannot wait.
Back to my departure. So I said my good byes, not before the little one insisted on trying on my cossack hat which I happened to be wearing at the time (the hat was way too big for him and the grey fur enveloped his face . He looked adorably hilarious and we all laughed), and set off, almost regretting the fact this weekend I had booked accommodation away. I wanted to eat in the grand dining room!! Blast you Venice!!!
Maybe I will get a chance to yet...
That saturday night my hosts were actually having some friends over for dinner and the preparations leading up to the event gave me a chance to see the household at its most 'Noble'. And wow, was it amazing.
The floors were being polished by the household cleaner who lives next door, carpets were being shaken, the food was being prepared, the garden was being pruned and tidied...everything was going on.
I had wandered upstairs earlier that day to offer my assistance. Was there anything I could do to help out, to clean? To put away? My hostess and her friend led me along to her bedroom where opening a door she led me through to the Red Sitting Room and the Yellow sitting room, two gorgeous rooms named after their respective wallpaper colour arrangements, both complete with pretty floral sofas, elaborate stucco ceilings, mythological artworks, panelled walls, and grand fireplaces. Then, like a movie scene, some doors were opened, some lights were flicked on and before us, lit up like a ballroom, was the absolutely awe-inspiring 17 metre long sitting room. The ceiling, gilded and stunning towered above, from the walls hung gorgeous lamps and an antique pianoforte sat at the back, elegant as ever. The sofas still had their winter covers on but a glimpse underneath revealed peach velvetine. The room was amazing, truly something from Versaille. I was struck again by the singularity of my surreal adventure: staying with totally normal lovely people, but hell, they just happen to live in a palace!
We then set the dining room, a room leading off from the huge sitting room, that glowed from the gilded timber on the walls and ceilings, featuring a huge glass chandelier hanging low in the middle of the room over the beautiful 12 seater dining table. Using cutlery from the beautiful painted cupboards of the smaller dining room off to the side (and from the huge Tuscan style kitchen off that room) we set the table. The shelves were stocked with beautiful Tuscan pieces, all blue and white with floral or citrus inspired patterns. Each place at the table had a plate, a smaller plate for fruit and bread, a wine glass, another goblet for water and two sets of cutlery, with all handles decorated with mother of pearl. We placed a gorgeous silver platter in the middle of the table and two white porcelain bowls of fruit at each end. The table actually sparkled, reflected in the huge antique mirror at the front of the room.
While setting the table we passed by a corridor on our trips to and from the smaller dining room to the grand dining room. I asked me hostess if that led to the attic. On no, not the attic! It led to yet another floor of rooms. I began to get some idea of how huge this house was. We were only living in a about one-tenth of it for Winter....the family that lived in the house during the 18th century was obviously very very grand.
I was little awe-struck, it really felt as if I was more in a museum than in someone's family home. Yet everything was done with such casualness and familiarity. Nothing was sacred exactly, it was just their lifestyle. My hostess laughed at my gaping mouth and the way my eyes darted everywhere at once, trying to take it all in. For me, it was like visiting Versaille, incredibly aesthetically overwhelming. How to explain to anyone that before popping off to Venice I sat in a grand dining room polishing the glorious silverware of a Noble family?
Wandering back through the rooms I took my time, hoping that I would get a chance to see these rooms in their full glory before I would have to move on. My hostess pointed out to me another door way that led off the Yellow Sitting Room. She informed me that behind those doors was a small chapel.....just casually. She told me she would show me another time. I cannot wait.
Back to my departure. So I said my good byes, not before the little one insisted on trying on my cossack hat which I happened to be wearing at the time (the hat was way too big for him and the grey fur enveloped his face . He looked adorably hilarious and we all laughed), and set off, almost regretting the fact this weekend I had booked accommodation away. I wanted to eat in the grand dining room!! Blast you Venice!!!
Maybe I will get a chance to yet...
Friday 21 February 2014
Books and Reading while travelling: A Cautionary tale of addiction
I have always had a problem with books. In the sense that I tend to buy and collect books faster than I can read them. I currently have 4 bookshelves in my room and despite pleas from friends and family I have no intention of curbing my growing library. I am in fact determined to transform my room into a mini version of the library from Beauty and the Beast.
The trip began hopefully. For the first month I didn't buy a single book and only read 2: a biography on Marilyn Monroe and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes lent to me by a friend.
It wasn't until Argentina when I had enough leisure time (no longer being on the tight schedule of a tour) that I could return to indulging my addiction. I bought One Hundred Years of Solitude and Madame Bovary in Buenos Aires and would have bought more if it wasn't for the wise advice of my two travel friends who thought starting a travelling suitcase version of the Beauty and the Beast library was a terrible, terrible idea.
However I experienced a severe relapse in Italy. From Rome to Bologna there was not a single bookshop safe from my raging compulsion to acquire excessive amounts of literature. My loyal travel companion at this stage, knowing what was best for me, tried reasoning with me, appealing to my hatred of carrying around heavy luggage, even simply saying 'No' and walking me out of the shop.
Her greatest successes were stopping me from buying $70 AUD worth of literature in Bologna. Among the picks were The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Of Mice and Men and I think a Michael Ondaatjee.
After raiding the surprisingly good book exchange shelves at our hostel in Milan, she also managed to convince me not to 'adopt' The Beach, On the Road and Heroes and Villains by Angela Carter (which I had never heard about and was super intrigued by!! I must find another copy again..). Seeing my despair though she allowed me to take the Angela Carter upstairs to 'look at it.' I believe I slept with it under my pillow that night.
Despite the intimacy the book and I shared that night, I did have a rare moment of clairty and when we left the next day I had the strength to leave it behind.
That said this moment of clarity came a bit too late. Soon after whilst checking funds I had a cold hard wake up call and a refreshingly pragmatic email from my father informing me that I had no money left. I had not even left Italy. I was supposed to travel EUROPE. Not only was I disappointed and shocked but I was annoyed I was disappointed and shocked. Of course I had run out of money. I am an addict and addictions are expensive especially when the aussie dollar is worth a pittance of the Euro.
So, as always it was a book that catalysed a revelation, in the sense that I had to come to terms with the fact that I couldn't travel to half the places I wanted to in Europe because I had speent too much money on books?! I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Inthe city of debauchery, Amsterdam, my addiction sunk to new levels. I fought the impulse to the best of my ability for the first three days...but even though I knew it was wrong, and that I really had no excuses left now, I caved in. Feeling sheepish and before I could really question what I was doing I found out from my hotel reception where the nearest second hand bookshop was that stocked english copies, was there within 5 minutes (turned out to be around the corner it was too near to pass up) and 30 mins later I emerged with Stephen King's The Shining and A Pair of Blue Eyes by Thomas Hardy.
To be fair it couldn't possibly have been books that broke the bank. What forced me into bankruptcy in Europe was indulgence. But even I, an addict who flits beetween denial and acceptance, can acknowledge that for me indulgence and books go hand in hand...probably always will.
The only other thing I can imagine I have spent as much on would be museum entries. Oh and croissants.
Books bought overseas:
The Book Thief
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Of Mice and Men
Breakfast at Tiffany's
Madame Bovary
The Shining
A Pair of Blue Eyes
Book on the history of the Medici Family
A french phrase book
Other books accumulated but not bought:
A Clockwork Orange
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
Wallpaper Guide to Paris
Biography of Marilyn Monroe (actually this one was brought from home, purchased in Canberra)
The trip began hopefully. For the first month I didn't buy a single book and only read 2: a biography on Marilyn Monroe and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes lent to me by a friend.
It wasn't until Argentina when I had enough leisure time (no longer being on the tight schedule of a tour) that I could return to indulging my addiction. I bought One Hundred Years of Solitude and Madame Bovary in Buenos Aires and would have bought more if it wasn't for the wise advice of my two travel friends who thought starting a travelling suitcase version of the Beauty and the Beast library was a terrible, terrible idea.
However I experienced a severe relapse in Italy. From Rome to Bologna there was not a single bookshop safe from my raging compulsion to acquire excessive amounts of literature. My loyal travel companion at this stage, knowing what was best for me, tried reasoning with me, appealing to my hatred of carrying around heavy luggage, even simply saying 'No' and walking me out of the shop.
Her greatest successes were stopping me from buying $70 AUD worth of literature in Bologna. Among the picks were The Perks of Being a Wallflower, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Of Mice and Men and I think a Michael Ondaatjee.
After raiding the surprisingly good book exchange shelves at our hostel in Milan, she also managed to convince me not to 'adopt' The Beach, On the Road and Heroes and Villains by Angela Carter (which I had never heard about and was super intrigued by!! I must find another copy again..). Seeing my despair though she allowed me to take the Angela Carter upstairs to 'look at it.' I believe I slept with it under my pillow that night.
Despite the intimacy the book and I shared that night, I did have a rare moment of clairty and when we left the next day I had the strength to leave it behind.
That said this moment of clarity came a bit too late. Soon after whilst checking funds I had a cold hard wake up call and a refreshingly pragmatic email from my father informing me that I had no money left. I had not even left Italy. I was supposed to travel EUROPE. Not only was I disappointed and shocked but I was annoyed I was disappointed and shocked. Of course I had run out of money. I am an addict and addictions are expensive especially when the aussie dollar is worth a pittance of the Euro.
So, as always it was a book that catalysed a revelation, in the sense that I had to come to terms with the fact that I couldn't travel to half the places I wanted to in Europe because I had speent too much money on books?! I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Inthe city of debauchery, Amsterdam, my addiction sunk to new levels. I fought the impulse to the best of my ability for the first three days...but even though I knew it was wrong, and that I really had no excuses left now, I caved in. Feeling sheepish and before I could really question what I was doing I found out from my hotel reception where the nearest second hand bookshop was that stocked english copies, was there within 5 minutes (turned out to be around the corner it was too near to pass up) and 30 mins later I emerged with Stephen King's The Shining and A Pair of Blue Eyes by Thomas Hardy.
To be fair it couldn't possibly have been books that broke the bank. What forced me into bankruptcy in Europe was indulgence. But even I, an addict who flits beetween denial and acceptance, can acknowledge that for me indulgence and books go hand in hand...probably always will.
The only other thing I can imagine I have spent as much on would be museum entries. Oh and croissants.
Books bought overseas:
The Book Thief
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Of Mice and Men
Breakfast at Tiffany's
Madame Bovary
The Shining
A Pair of Blue Eyes
Book on the history of the Medici Family
A french phrase book
Other books accumulated but not bought:
A Clockwork Orange
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
Wallpaper Guide to Paris
Biography of Marilyn Monroe (actually this one was brought from home, purchased in Canberra)
The House Maid vs.The Au Pair: What To Do When The House Maid Clearly Wants you Dead
It was a normal morning when the incident occurred. I was half-awake half asleep in bed, trying to summon the will to get up out of the coziness and make some decisions about how to spend my day. Padua had seemed a good idea the night before except now it seemed to be a grey day, constantly drizzling and a bit chilly.
Just when I came to the conclusion breakfast was a postive first step in the decision making process I heard two female voices suddenly begin arguing upstairs in the kitchen.
I kind of froze on my bed, trying not to hear but also, because at heart everyone is a snoop, strained my hardest to hear what was happening. It seemed to me that my hostess and her house maid were having one hell of an argument. At first I couldn't believe it was them fighting, because the house maid has always seemed docile and my own hostess is about as intimidating as a butterfly. I have never heard her raise her voice ever. Except for maybe when the oldest will not do his maths homework.
Just when I thought it could not get worse, they became louder and more aggressive. Finally it ended. I decided to avoid the kitchen area (because the post-fall-out-awkward-silence would be murderous to sit crunching museli to), took a shower and headed out about 20 minutes later. I called my hostess to let her know that I would be back by 3pm but didn't reach her. Two seconds later she calls me back, chirpy and cheerful as ever (she is the kind of person who can have a laugh at anything at anytime, she is just a very positive humorous person) and after telling me my plans were absolutely fine ('Please! Yes! Go explore! Do what you want!') she apologised profusely as I must have heard her row with the house maid.
Yes...I did, I confessed, and I asked if everything is ok, if she was ok? It wasn't, my hostess confided in me, because in fact since my arrival the house maid has been misbehaving very badly...my hostess explained the trouble began almost two weeks ago when the maid had called my hostess up on her mobile to tell her that there was a huge mess left behind in the children's attic playroom. What the maid really meant was that I, the au pair, did not do my duty and clean up after playing with the children. My hostess corrected the maid, informing her she had been there with us, playing too (that day we were both building railway tracks for the little one) and on her instruction we had left things as they were to go have dinner. I remember this day, and yes this is what happended.
Furthermore the maid just a few days ago called again. My hostess being busy asked her to call back a bit later, but the maid insisted it was incredibly important and she had to meet with my hostess in person to discuss it. They met and the terribly important information she needed to get off her chest was that I had left a mug in the sink. But worst of all, I had left it in the sink without its matching saucer....riiiight. I remember this as well, the only reason I did not wash the mug and put it away or put it in the dishwasher was because the maid was peeling carrots over the sink, and standing in front of the dishwasher, which is below. I did not want to interrupt her for peeling carrots seemed important to her at the time, so I left it, thinking she would have no problem tossing it in the dishwasher with the other dirty plates left there when she had finished. Wrong. Apparently.
I have mentioned already how meticulous I am when it comes to keeping this house I am staying in clean. If I eat something, I put it away, wash everything used, dry it and put it back in its place without fail. The other night I spent almost 20 minutes packing away the monsters, dinosaurs, puzzles, the Disney Monopoly, tennis balls and lego left behind when I was playing with the two little ones. The day before that I spent 40 minutes cleaning my own bathroom. 4 nights out of 5 I set the table after dinner ready for breakfast the next day, complete with wiping down the table and clearing it beforehand.
No one can say that I don't pull my weight when it comes to helping out my hosts and their family with keeping the house neat and tidy. Thankfully my hostess is such a wonderful person and I have her absolute confidence in this matter. She is more than aware of my contribution to the housekeeping, just tonight she told me 'Miranda, no please, do not clean the pans, go rest! Thank you for your help today!'
Back to the phone conversation, I asked my hostess what was going on? Why was the Maid acting out? She told me not to worry, she said knows what it is: the maid is simply jealous of me. I couldn't believe it.
My hostess continued, informing me that the fight I overheard escalated because apparently I had left a mess in the kitchen (lies. I did no such thing) and the maid had once again tried to turn my hostess against me. My hostess told the maid she was crazy and behaving like a child. The maid responded with a number of terrible hurtful things in response, not directed at me but sadly at my hostess including that by employing me, my hostess had insulted her. The maids insults only ended once my hostess accused her outright of being jealous of me. The maid apparently then fell silent.
So yes, this news came as quite a surpise because the maid strangely enough is actually quite decent to me in person. When she makes orange juice for the children, she will make me one too (that said I am kind of scared she has been spitting in it now or something, eww), she also says Ciao to me when she leaves and will happily cook me lunch should I be home during the day. Once when she was running late I took over peeling and cooking the carrots; we have worked as a team and she even thanked me numerous times. We do not speak much, this is true, but I always put it down to the fact that we cannot understand each other. She does not speak english and I do not speak Spanish. We more often than not communicate with each other through the children who can translate and this is only if we have to.
The girl comes from Ecuador, and it surprised me greatly when I found out that she was just 19. I confess I have been quite impressed with her ability to multi-task and her strong sense of independence because I didn't have it at that age. She also has a good rapport with the kids, strengthened I think by the fact she can speak Italian. But she also has a worldliness about her that has made me more than happy to place my trust in her abilities in the kitchen and with the ironing board. She is good at what she does.
So to find out that someone with whom you thought you got along well with actually is plotting against you is a little....weird.
Long story short, my hostess told the girl she can follow her rules or resign. My hostess is such a darling she doesn't want to fire anyone even a maid who has the audacity to tell her employer that her family is bad and that they don't respect her (they absolutely do, they treat her like a daughter). And I am comforted knowing that my hostess has not believed a single false word said against me, and has been defending me all along. I am so thankful for her kindness and trust.
In one sense I can understand why maybe the maid feels this way. Maybe she sees this family as her project, more importantly as her own. She sees herself as being necessary to their functioning, and now I am here the lines have been confused regarding the limitations and expectations of The Help's duties. We both take care of the children, we both clean, we both pick up the kids from school, we both feel attached to the family, we both want the hostess and her children to love us. Maybe she is worried that in the hours she spends peeling carrots I am becoming besties with the children over lego and readings of 'The Adventures of Richard Scarry.' That said though I do think she is still in a way more intimate with the children than I am, she shouldn't be feeling any jealousy when she still baths, feeds and dresses them more often than I do and can speak to them all the while in Italian.
Then again jealousy is not a rational thing, it tears apart even the most stable of marriages, happiest of friendships and strongest of teams..While I don't know really why she is jealous, the ferosity of her feelings are alarming to both my hostess and myself. What is more sinister is actually the calm with which she deals with me. She does not ignore me, she does not mistreat me, she is just there a presence that I know is silently seething with rage directed at me...*shudder*
My hostess actually ended up calling the agency she found the Maid through and explained the situation to the manager. He burst into laughter and told her that this is a common problem, maid's are more often than not jealous of the Au Pair of the house. He hears it all the time. He said giver her an ultimatum or find another maid and try again.
Common or not this problem, I just hope she hasn't been slowly poisoning me, or that she has some friends in the mafia.
Just when I came to the conclusion breakfast was a postive first step in the decision making process I heard two female voices suddenly begin arguing upstairs in the kitchen.
I kind of froze on my bed, trying not to hear but also, because at heart everyone is a snoop, strained my hardest to hear what was happening. It seemed to me that my hostess and her house maid were having one hell of an argument. At first I couldn't believe it was them fighting, because the house maid has always seemed docile and my own hostess is about as intimidating as a butterfly. I have never heard her raise her voice ever. Except for maybe when the oldest will not do his maths homework.
Just when I thought it could not get worse, they became louder and more aggressive. Finally it ended. I decided to avoid the kitchen area (because the post-fall-out-awkward-silence would be murderous to sit crunching museli to), took a shower and headed out about 20 minutes later. I called my hostess to let her know that I would be back by 3pm but didn't reach her. Two seconds later she calls me back, chirpy and cheerful as ever (she is the kind of person who can have a laugh at anything at anytime, she is just a very positive humorous person) and after telling me my plans were absolutely fine ('Please! Yes! Go explore! Do what you want!') she apologised profusely as I must have heard her row with the house maid.
Yes...I did, I confessed, and I asked if everything is ok, if she was ok? It wasn't, my hostess confided in me, because in fact since my arrival the house maid has been misbehaving very badly...my hostess explained the trouble began almost two weeks ago when the maid had called my hostess up on her mobile to tell her that there was a huge mess left behind in the children's attic playroom. What the maid really meant was that I, the au pair, did not do my duty and clean up after playing with the children. My hostess corrected the maid, informing her she had been there with us, playing too (that day we were both building railway tracks for the little one) and on her instruction we had left things as they were to go have dinner. I remember this day, and yes this is what happended.
Furthermore the maid just a few days ago called again. My hostess being busy asked her to call back a bit later, but the maid insisted it was incredibly important and she had to meet with my hostess in person to discuss it. They met and the terribly important information she needed to get off her chest was that I had left a mug in the sink. But worst of all, I had left it in the sink without its matching saucer....riiiight. I remember this as well, the only reason I did not wash the mug and put it away or put it in the dishwasher was because the maid was peeling carrots over the sink, and standing in front of the dishwasher, which is below. I did not want to interrupt her for peeling carrots seemed important to her at the time, so I left it, thinking she would have no problem tossing it in the dishwasher with the other dirty plates left there when she had finished. Wrong. Apparently.
I have mentioned already how meticulous I am when it comes to keeping this house I am staying in clean. If I eat something, I put it away, wash everything used, dry it and put it back in its place without fail. The other night I spent almost 20 minutes packing away the monsters, dinosaurs, puzzles, the Disney Monopoly, tennis balls and lego left behind when I was playing with the two little ones. The day before that I spent 40 minutes cleaning my own bathroom. 4 nights out of 5 I set the table after dinner ready for breakfast the next day, complete with wiping down the table and clearing it beforehand.
No one can say that I don't pull my weight when it comes to helping out my hosts and their family with keeping the house neat and tidy. Thankfully my hostess is such a wonderful person and I have her absolute confidence in this matter. She is more than aware of my contribution to the housekeeping, just tonight she told me 'Miranda, no please, do not clean the pans, go rest! Thank you for your help today!'
Back to the phone conversation, I asked my hostess what was going on? Why was the Maid acting out? She told me not to worry, she said knows what it is: the maid is simply jealous of me. I couldn't believe it.
My hostess continued, informing me that the fight I overheard escalated because apparently I had left a mess in the kitchen (lies. I did no such thing) and the maid had once again tried to turn my hostess against me. My hostess told the maid she was crazy and behaving like a child. The maid responded with a number of terrible hurtful things in response, not directed at me but sadly at my hostess including that by employing me, my hostess had insulted her. The maids insults only ended once my hostess accused her outright of being jealous of me. The maid apparently then fell silent.
So yes, this news came as quite a surpise because the maid strangely enough is actually quite decent to me in person. When she makes orange juice for the children, she will make me one too (that said I am kind of scared she has been spitting in it now or something, eww), she also says Ciao to me when she leaves and will happily cook me lunch should I be home during the day. Once when she was running late I took over peeling and cooking the carrots; we have worked as a team and she even thanked me numerous times. We do not speak much, this is true, but I always put it down to the fact that we cannot understand each other. She does not speak english and I do not speak Spanish. We more often than not communicate with each other through the children who can translate and this is only if we have to.
The girl comes from Ecuador, and it surprised me greatly when I found out that she was just 19. I confess I have been quite impressed with her ability to multi-task and her strong sense of independence because I didn't have it at that age. She also has a good rapport with the kids, strengthened I think by the fact she can speak Italian. But she also has a worldliness about her that has made me more than happy to place my trust in her abilities in the kitchen and with the ironing board. She is good at what she does.
So to find out that someone with whom you thought you got along well with actually is plotting against you is a little....weird.
Long story short, my hostess told the girl she can follow her rules or resign. My hostess is such a darling she doesn't want to fire anyone even a maid who has the audacity to tell her employer that her family is bad and that they don't respect her (they absolutely do, they treat her like a daughter). And I am comforted knowing that my hostess has not believed a single false word said against me, and has been defending me all along. I am so thankful for her kindness and trust.
In one sense I can understand why maybe the maid feels this way. Maybe she sees this family as her project, more importantly as her own. She sees herself as being necessary to their functioning, and now I am here the lines have been confused regarding the limitations and expectations of The Help's duties. We both take care of the children, we both clean, we both pick up the kids from school, we both feel attached to the family, we both want the hostess and her children to love us. Maybe she is worried that in the hours she spends peeling carrots I am becoming besties with the children over lego and readings of 'The Adventures of Richard Scarry.' That said though I do think she is still in a way more intimate with the children than I am, she shouldn't be feeling any jealousy when she still baths, feeds and dresses them more often than I do and can speak to them all the while in Italian.
Then again jealousy is not a rational thing, it tears apart even the most stable of marriages, happiest of friendships and strongest of teams..While I don't know really why she is jealous, the ferosity of her feelings are alarming to both my hostess and myself. What is more sinister is actually the calm with which she deals with me. She does not ignore me, she does not mistreat me, she is just there a presence that I know is silently seething with rage directed at me...*shudder*
My hostess actually ended up calling the agency she found the Maid through and explained the situation to the manager. He burst into laughter and told her that this is a common problem, maid's are more often than not jealous of the Au Pair of the house. He hears it all the time. He said giver her an ultimatum or find another maid and try again.
Common or not this problem, I just hope she hasn't been slowly poisoning me, or that she has some friends in the mafia.
Tuesday 18 February 2014
How to make kids like you: battles with the Wii and the Bidet
When I took my current job it was actually a rather quick process. I was contacted by the family who liked my profile, I skyped with the hostess not too many days later, and a week after that I found myself in their home unpacking in my little room downstairs. To be honest I decided it was best not to question how I was going to establish myself with the children...if I did, I think I might have chickened out.
Children are very canny from my experience, and are very quick to call bluff if they can see someone is not being themselves. It's like with substitute or new teachers at school. It doesn't matter how confident you are when you enter the classroom, it is how confident you are in handling the first time 'the naughty kid of the class' tests the boundaries. If you break you are done for. No respect for you because your confidence and therefore authority is a sham.
Often from what I remember is that the most successful teachers were the ones that managed to be really funny but also be kind of scary when they needed to. They hd a no shit attitude but could always deliver an excellent comeback whenever they received cheek. They always kept you on your toes, wanting to please them but also not wanting to fall under their wrath.
With this in mind I guess I am going for the 'be true to thyself attitude.' I figure that there is no way I can be the perfect playmate for 4 young boys without at some point betraying my act. I may as well be myself, never be perfect, but at least have their respect and my own?
I think this means I am just going to have to accept I will not be the most satisfying Wii Dragonballz 3 playing partner, nor a very good wii sports partner. Hopefully I can make it up with my array of random but silly stories and my rather nifty arts and crafts skills? My flexibility on the twister mat? My lego submarine/car/plane creations?
That said though any worthwhile human relationship I have learned takes time, this is normal. It is easy when we feel under pressure (particularly as I do consider myself an employee here and want to deliver my side of the bargain) to want to be best friends with the kid from the get go. I am happy to say I have had this unrealistic notion under control before I even took the job. And thankfully my prediction that the children would open up to me more if I didn't try to prize them open as if they were clams has been fulfilled. Is being fulfilled I should say, more and more each day.
At first there was a little resistance, strangely enough only really from the oldest and youngest children. The oldest was bashful and shy, and being on the cusp of adolescence is making him resentful and suspicious of any form of authority. 'Last year he was such a nice boy! I do not know what has happened!' says his loving mother. I assured her laughing that I am certain there is nothing wrong with him, he is just becoming a teenager.
At first I wasn't at all impressive to the eldest child. My first test was when I was asked by his mother to help him with the homework. He was cheeky, stubborn but also very witty. He was reluctant to be helped but I tried not to be thrown off. At one stage when I told him that he could ask me a question at anytime about english words, grammar etc he narrowed his eyes as if about to propose a challenge.
'Ok,' he said, I have a question for you...'
'Oh good! What can I help you with?!' I answered eagerly. There was a calculating pause.
'...Why must I study?' he asked.
Fortunately we were then called for dinner and I didn't have to find an answer to such a big question. He wasn't asking why does he have to do his homework, he knows he has to or he will get in trouble tomorrow with his teacher. He was asking what is the point in doing all this study, is it worth it? I would have said yes, just because that is what you should say, but to be honest in another way I was a little uncomfortable because I'm not sure I know the answer yet to that question myself.
My second test came when I was invited by the eldest to play Wii. I suck at playing Wii, just like I suck at playstation, Xbox you name it. The hardest game I have ever played is The Sims 3 PC and Age of Empires 2....I gulped but wasn't about to back down. I promptly had my ass kicked by a 12 year old boy and his 10 year old brother in about 10 rounds of DrangonBallZ 3. I suggested we change to Wii sports where hopefully playing golf or tennis I had more of a chance to prove myself to these boys, to whom skills with games are everything. Nope, I had my ass kicked again. The eldest got increasingly agitated. 'No! You have to go faster like this! See?? You are going too slow!! Noooo, not like that! This!!!' Then I realised he was trying to help me. He was a rather exaspperated teacher which made me giggle more than anything, but in a way it warmed my heart. He wanted to show me something of his he really loved. More than that he wanted me to be able to play with him.
Next time round when the second invitation came I was ready. This time in DragonBallz 3 I chose the strongest reincarnation of Vegeta, or whatever his name is, and I kicked some ass. None of this too slow stuff. I was all in there, kicking and punching and throwing big fiery balls of something at my rivals. And I won. The eldest was surprised, then annoyed and then satisfied. I was now a worthy competitor.
He then turned to a nearby computer and, opened up a library of music files, selected one and pressed play. An Italian woman began to sing with a raspy sensual voice (like a female Rod Stewart) to the sound of a full orchestra leaking with heightened emotion. I asked who the artist was. 'Mina' he replied. I was impressed and a little disconcerted by his sophisticated music taste. 'It is my father's favourite' he continued. 'So is this your favourite too?' I asked. 'Shhhhh,' he replied, 'quick, while the music is on.. Just play.' He then turned to the DragonBallZ and began pounding his opponent as the song gathered even more emotion. My heart swelled and I couldn't help smiling in amusement. He had a flair for drama and I liked that. I think this also counted as our first true bonding experience.
With the youngest boy, like all four year olds he is still very much attached to his mother and father, the gods of his little and perfect universe. Although sometimes naughty with them he is also very affectionate, smothering their face in kisses when he is in a cuddly mood. And he is a very cute cuddly little child. Even the oldest child will grab him, squeeze him and kiss him on the head when he comes home from school simply because he is so adorable. Highly aware of his cuteness the little one will squirm away or simply be indifferent, knowing there will always be hugs coming again soon. He only kisses his parents from what I have observed.
The littlest one was both curious and suspicious of me when I first arrived and I knew immediately it would take some time before he would trust me enough to prefer my company when it was available over that of his parents. Although from the start he has enjoyed playing with me, he also knew he could get away with disobeying me. When I asked him to wash his hands, as if the word was already there waiting to be spat out, he declares automatically 'Noh!.' Ok then, let's put your pyjamas on. 'Noh!' Ok...do you want to read a book before bed? A pause this time. 'NOH!' ok...we won't do those things then...usually if I wait for a minute or two then try to carry out these tasks when he is distracted looking at a picture book then I won't receive any resistance. He just likes to exercise his civil rights because he can and because I am not his mum. Fair enough, the little muffin is only 4.
We have however bonded the two of us over challenges presented to us by the dreaded bidet. Uusally when he goes to the loo he will announce his intentions loudly (Poo poo or Peee Peee) and then his mother will attend to him when he is done. One day though it was just me and the little one, I think his mother had just left to pick up on of the boys from an afternoon activity. It was just me, the little one and the bidet. I have just left the bidet alone in my own bathroom. I figure if you don't know how to use something, just don't touch it and it should all be fine. But when I walked in and reached for the toilet paper to help my little companion he squawked 'Noh!' He looked at me expectantly...then at the bidet. Perched on the toilet, legs dangling, jabbering away in Italian I could not catch he pointed wildly at a little hand towel on the rack above the bidet, then at me, then at the soap, then at the bidet. Then looked at me again, waiting. I actually had no idea what to do...I reached for the hand towel and reached towards him. 'No!!' Ok, maybe I have to wet it first..? I wet the towel but he wouldn't let it near him...I wouldn't have either actually. There was only one option left, but really? With my hand???
I picked him off the toilet, a compact little bundle,knees tucked up, little trousers still around his ankles and popped him on the bidet. I turned the tap on and that was when the real fun began. The water that came out full blast was freezing cold and he shrieked as it touched his bare skin. Panicking I tried to get it to turn to warm, but it was taking forever. He suddenly broke free of my grasp and began laughing and lurching around the bathroom with his pants around his feet. With the bidet still spurting I made to grab him but missed and fell over. He shrieked, thinking we were now playing some strange game of chase. I grabbed his ankle and as if it was one of those trust exercises you do at school camp he fell straight backwards onto me, playing ragdoll, winding me as he fell onto my stomach without warning. He roared with laughter at my 'Ooof!!!' noise. I tried reasoning with him, but couldn't get him to stand up, he was lolling all over the place now pretending to be dead, tongue sticking out and eyes rolling backwards. I inserted a bit of warning in my voice but it didn't work, I was basically laughing now too. Finally limp and floppy I managed to postion him back on the bidet and taking advantage of his ragdoll immobility began to do what I thought best and splash him with the still cold water of the bidet. He was laughing, giggling and shrieking, kicking his leg and trying to run away but finally I got him clean. Without waiting for me to dry him he leapt off the bidet, and ran away still pulling up his pants. I sat on the edge of the bath for a moment catching my breath before I was summoned to play lego. 'Andiamo!!!'
Almost certainly as a result of this experience, the little one was absolutely set against me helping him the second time his mother was out and he did a number 2. I reached to pick him up but he clenched his arms to his sides and continued to stare at the picture book he was reading on the loo, opened conveniently on a little stool in front of him. He told me in Italian that no, he wanted his mother. Fair enough. I told him that his mum might not be back for another 10 minutes. Did he want to sit on the toilet for all that time? Wouldn't he rather go and play with the lego? 'NOH!' Right...not wanting to admit defeat, I was determined to do it better this time. I waited for a moment and when he seemed sufficiently distracted I picked him up and placed him on the bidet, complete with picture book. I turned the taps on and had just begun when his Mum came through the door and saw how I was struggling. 'Oh! I am sorry! Yes you do not know how to use these do you?!' The little one on seeing his mother let out an earsplitting howl of validation. He had been right all along to refuse my help. The crazy Aussie girl has no idea how to even go to the toilet properly! I watched the mother (ahhhh, that's how they do it. Right. So simple. I am an idiot.) then backed out of the bathroom so as not to aggravate the already enraged little one.
However yesterday, my first day out of quarantine (I have been sick the past weekend and have been avoiding infecting the children by keeping to my room) something beautiful happened. Yes, I had my eye poked, was chased around the house as he peddled his bicycle, was jumped on, punched, had puzzle pieces thrown at my head, and my foot run over by a toy truck, but it was all worth it. Because I also got my first bit fat, sloppy, wet kiss on my cheek. We were playing and after a tickling session he threw his little arms around my neck and gave me a kiss. And honestly that meant the world to me.
That evening I mentioned to his mother that he seemed particularly over-excited this evening. She laughed and replied 'Yes! Because he has his Miranda back!' It never occurred to me that my absence of just three and half days would result in such rejoicing but the four boys and I really did have some good fun yesterday evening. We told riddles and joked and then played a game at the dinner table where we all have to pull silly faces and the last to laugh wins.
And after a little bit more tickling it was time for the little ones to go to bed. When I tried to put on the little one's pyjamas he still offered a 'Noh!' but it was less aggressive this time and soon after he let me dress him. After all he must maintain his civil rights, just because he can.
Children are very canny from my experience, and are very quick to call bluff if they can see someone is not being themselves. It's like with substitute or new teachers at school. It doesn't matter how confident you are when you enter the classroom, it is how confident you are in handling the first time 'the naughty kid of the class' tests the boundaries. If you break you are done for. No respect for you because your confidence and therefore authority is a sham.
Often from what I remember is that the most successful teachers were the ones that managed to be really funny but also be kind of scary when they needed to. They hd a no shit attitude but could always deliver an excellent comeback whenever they received cheek. They always kept you on your toes, wanting to please them but also not wanting to fall under their wrath.
With this in mind I guess I am going for the 'be true to thyself attitude.' I figure that there is no way I can be the perfect playmate for 4 young boys without at some point betraying my act. I may as well be myself, never be perfect, but at least have their respect and my own?
I think this means I am just going to have to accept I will not be the most satisfying Wii Dragonballz 3 playing partner, nor a very good wii sports partner. Hopefully I can make it up with my array of random but silly stories and my rather nifty arts and crafts skills? My flexibility on the twister mat? My lego submarine/car/plane creations?
That said though any worthwhile human relationship I have learned takes time, this is normal. It is easy when we feel under pressure (particularly as I do consider myself an employee here and want to deliver my side of the bargain) to want to be best friends with the kid from the get go. I am happy to say I have had this unrealistic notion under control before I even took the job. And thankfully my prediction that the children would open up to me more if I didn't try to prize them open as if they were clams has been fulfilled. Is being fulfilled I should say, more and more each day.
At first there was a little resistance, strangely enough only really from the oldest and youngest children. The oldest was bashful and shy, and being on the cusp of adolescence is making him resentful and suspicious of any form of authority. 'Last year he was such a nice boy! I do not know what has happened!' says his loving mother. I assured her laughing that I am certain there is nothing wrong with him, he is just becoming a teenager.
At first I wasn't at all impressive to the eldest child. My first test was when I was asked by his mother to help him with the homework. He was cheeky, stubborn but also very witty. He was reluctant to be helped but I tried not to be thrown off. At one stage when I told him that he could ask me a question at anytime about english words, grammar etc he narrowed his eyes as if about to propose a challenge.
'Ok,' he said, I have a question for you...'
'Oh good! What can I help you with?!' I answered eagerly. There was a calculating pause.
'...Why must I study?' he asked.
Fortunately we were then called for dinner and I didn't have to find an answer to such a big question. He wasn't asking why does he have to do his homework, he knows he has to or he will get in trouble tomorrow with his teacher. He was asking what is the point in doing all this study, is it worth it? I would have said yes, just because that is what you should say, but to be honest in another way I was a little uncomfortable because I'm not sure I know the answer yet to that question myself.
My second test came when I was invited by the eldest to play Wii. I suck at playing Wii, just like I suck at playstation, Xbox you name it. The hardest game I have ever played is The Sims 3 PC and Age of Empires 2....I gulped but wasn't about to back down. I promptly had my ass kicked by a 12 year old boy and his 10 year old brother in about 10 rounds of DrangonBallZ 3. I suggested we change to Wii sports where hopefully playing golf or tennis I had more of a chance to prove myself to these boys, to whom skills with games are everything. Nope, I had my ass kicked again. The eldest got increasingly agitated. 'No! You have to go faster like this! See?? You are going too slow!! Noooo, not like that! This!!!' Then I realised he was trying to help me. He was a rather exaspperated teacher which made me giggle more than anything, but in a way it warmed my heart. He wanted to show me something of his he really loved. More than that he wanted me to be able to play with him.
Next time round when the second invitation came I was ready. This time in DragonBallz 3 I chose the strongest reincarnation of Vegeta, or whatever his name is, and I kicked some ass. None of this too slow stuff. I was all in there, kicking and punching and throwing big fiery balls of something at my rivals. And I won. The eldest was surprised, then annoyed and then satisfied. I was now a worthy competitor.
He then turned to a nearby computer and, opened up a library of music files, selected one and pressed play. An Italian woman began to sing with a raspy sensual voice (like a female Rod Stewart) to the sound of a full orchestra leaking with heightened emotion. I asked who the artist was. 'Mina' he replied. I was impressed and a little disconcerted by his sophisticated music taste. 'It is my father's favourite' he continued. 'So is this your favourite too?' I asked. 'Shhhhh,' he replied, 'quick, while the music is on.. Just play.' He then turned to the DragonBallZ and began pounding his opponent as the song gathered even more emotion. My heart swelled and I couldn't help smiling in amusement. He had a flair for drama and I liked that. I think this also counted as our first true bonding experience.
With the youngest boy, like all four year olds he is still very much attached to his mother and father, the gods of his little and perfect universe. Although sometimes naughty with them he is also very affectionate, smothering their face in kisses when he is in a cuddly mood. And he is a very cute cuddly little child. Even the oldest child will grab him, squeeze him and kiss him on the head when he comes home from school simply because he is so adorable. Highly aware of his cuteness the little one will squirm away or simply be indifferent, knowing there will always be hugs coming again soon. He only kisses his parents from what I have observed.
The littlest one was both curious and suspicious of me when I first arrived and I knew immediately it would take some time before he would trust me enough to prefer my company when it was available over that of his parents. Although from the start he has enjoyed playing with me, he also knew he could get away with disobeying me. When I asked him to wash his hands, as if the word was already there waiting to be spat out, he declares automatically 'Noh!.' Ok then, let's put your pyjamas on. 'Noh!' Ok...do you want to read a book before bed? A pause this time. 'NOH!' ok...we won't do those things then...usually if I wait for a minute or two then try to carry out these tasks when he is distracted looking at a picture book then I won't receive any resistance. He just likes to exercise his civil rights because he can and because I am not his mum. Fair enough, the little muffin is only 4.
We have however bonded the two of us over challenges presented to us by the dreaded bidet. Uusally when he goes to the loo he will announce his intentions loudly (Poo poo or Peee Peee) and then his mother will attend to him when he is done. One day though it was just me and the little one, I think his mother had just left to pick up on of the boys from an afternoon activity. It was just me, the little one and the bidet. I have just left the bidet alone in my own bathroom. I figure if you don't know how to use something, just don't touch it and it should all be fine. But when I walked in and reached for the toilet paper to help my little companion he squawked 'Noh!' He looked at me expectantly...then at the bidet. Perched on the toilet, legs dangling, jabbering away in Italian I could not catch he pointed wildly at a little hand towel on the rack above the bidet, then at me, then at the soap, then at the bidet. Then looked at me again, waiting. I actually had no idea what to do...I reached for the hand towel and reached towards him. 'No!!' Ok, maybe I have to wet it first..? I wet the towel but he wouldn't let it near him...I wouldn't have either actually. There was only one option left, but really? With my hand???
I picked him off the toilet, a compact little bundle,knees tucked up, little trousers still around his ankles and popped him on the bidet. I turned the tap on and that was when the real fun began. The water that came out full blast was freezing cold and he shrieked as it touched his bare skin. Panicking I tried to get it to turn to warm, but it was taking forever. He suddenly broke free of my grasp and began laughing and lurching around the bathroom with his pants around his feet. With the bidet still spurting I made to grab him but missed and fell over. He shrieked, thinking we were now playing some strange game of chase. I grabbed his ankle and as if it was one of those trust exercises you do at school camp he fell straight backwards onto me, playing ragdoll, winding me as he fell onto my stomach without warning. He roared with laughter at my 'Ooof!!!' noise. I tried reasoning with him, but couldn't get him to stand up, he was lolling all over the place now pretending to be dead, tongue sticking out and eyes rolling backwards. I inserted a bit of warning in my voice but it didn't work, I was basically laughing now too. Finally limp and floppy I managed to postion him back on the bidet and taking advantage of his ragdoll immobility began to do what I thought best and splash him with the still cold water of the bidet. He was laughing, giggling and shrieking, kicking his leg and trying to run away but finally I got him clean. Without waiting for me to dry him he leapt off the bidet, and ran away still pulling up his pants. I sat on the edge of the bath for a moment catching my breath before I was summoned to play lego. 'Andiamo!!!'
Almost certainly as a result of this experience, the little one was absolutely set against me helping him the second time his mother was out and he did a number 2. I reached to pick him up but he clenched his arms to his sides and continued to stare at the picture book he was reading on the loo, opened conveniently on a little stool in front of him. He told me in Italian that no, he wanted his mother. Fair enough. I told him that his mum might not be back for another 10 minutes. Did he want to sit on the toilet for all that time? Wouldn't he rather go and play with the lego? 'NOH!' Right...not wanting to admit defeat, I was determined to do it better this time. I waited for a moment and when he seemed sufficiently distracted I picked him up and placed him on the bidet, complete with picture book. I turned the taps on and had just begun when his Mum came through the door and saw how I was struggling. 'Oh! I am sorry! Yes you do not know how to use these do you?!' The little one on seeing his mother let out an earsplitting howl of validation. He had been right all along to refuse my help. The crazy Aussie girl has no idea how to even go to the toilet properly! I watched the mother (ahhhh, that's how they do it. Right. So simple. I am an idiot.) then backed out of the bathroom so as not to aggravate the already enraged little one.
However yesterday, my first day out of quarantine (I have been sick the past weekend and have been avoiding infecting the children by keeping to my room) something beautiful happened. Yes, I had my eye poked, was chased around the house as he peddled his bicycle, was jumped on, punched, had puzzle pieces thrown at my head, and my foot run over by a toy truck, but it was all worth it. Because I also got my first bit fat, sloppy, wet kiss on my cheek. We were playing and after a tickling session he threw his little arms around my neck and gave me a kiss. And honestly that meant the world to me.
That evening I mentioned to his mother that he seemed particularly over-excited this evening. She laughed and replied 'Yes! Because he has his Miranda back!' It never occurred to me that my absence of just three and half days would result in such rejoicing but the four boys and I really did have some good fun yesterday evening. We told riddles and joked and then played a game at the dinner table where we all have to pull silly faces and the last to laugh wins.
And after a little bit more tickling it was time for the little ones to go to bed. When I tried to put on the little one's pyjamas he still offered a 'Noh!' but it was less aggressive this time and soon after he let me dress him. After all he must maintain his civil rights, just because he can.
Sunday 16 February 2014
Have you ever tried to shower your shower? A slow, clumsy but earnest progression from being the freaky Junk Lady from the Labyrinth to becoming a Domestic Goddess
Showering one's shower is really damn hard! Once you get in and spray the walls, the walls spit back at you because you are too close, the fold-in shower doors jab you in the back and wipe their sticky panes all over you, just when you think everything is clean you look at the shower floor and it is dirty from your ever-wet ever-dirty feet, when you try to hose the cleaning agent off the walls with the shower head itself it sprays everywhere including your into your own face like a mad thing...there must be an easier way to clean a shower...that's all I'm saying.
Cleaning the toilet and bidet (yes, there are bidets in every room, and yes, I still find them mystifying) is much easier. The sink, simply a breeze. But the shower...
That said I am finding this cleaning bizarrely relaxing. The realisation that there is a part of my dark, slobby, soul that actually loves cleaning occurred in Italy when washing socks in hotel basins became an almost nightly occurence. Something about the mindless productivity of it, the heat of the water melting away the dirt....it was satisfying. And yet at home I wouldn't touch the laundry unless under the pain of death. I am in fact hoping to keep this secret from my parents for as long as possible lest they take advantage of this newfound love of mine and put it to good use. That would take away the fun!
I am far though from being a domestic goddess. I remember reading an article about Nigella Lawson (who as far as I am concered is the Goddess of all Goddesses and the closest thing to a modern day Mary Poppins our generation could ever know) and how she went to Italy as a teen, discovering there her love for Italy, for its beauty, its food and for domestic related things. I am not quite at that stage yet, although scrubbing my toilet in my beautiful little bathroom in this stunning 18th century house is kinda heading in the right direction I hope.
I usually set the table for my family here and Italians I find are quite particular about how they like their tables set. At home in Australia my family always has dinner together, and yes the table setting follows a particular pattern. But usually if someone wants something to drink they just go to the kitchen and grab one themselves. Or, if they want tomato source same deal. Here though certain plates, decorated in that typically gorgeous Tuscan style, are settled on particular wicker placemats, cups are placed on the table for everyone with the assumption everyone will drink and only ever are forks used. Breakfast is more particular where instead of bowls being placed on the table for cereal large mugs are used, also Tuscan in style, with little matching plates. It is like eating your cereal out of a teacup and I am a massive fan. It is very cute too, because on alternating days depending on the dishwashing load the four boys have brightly coloured round mugs emblazoned with the characters from the popular Italian kids show here called Barbapapa Really cute. These do not have matching plates so we put them on clear glass ones.
After dinner I also help cleaning up, although sometimes the parents insist I relax and let the boys take turns cleaning up, loading the dishwasher. After playing with the boys I also tend to clean up afterwards and depending on the violence of the game (on a scale of playing 'let's run around the house and catch the au pair' to playing with plasticine, paint and textas simultaneously) the effort required for this duty can vary. It is never a burden though.
It does make me wonder though why I enjoy it so much. The first thought that came to mind was that I love taking care of people. But does that mean if I let my room disintegrate to the state of broken lingerie factory that I don't love taking care of myself? Maybe, in some ways taking care of oneself can be harder...maybe I find this because more often then not I live a lifestyle which doesn't allow me the time to relax into this duty, develop some discipline even to enjoy it. I know some people who love cleaning their room, re-organising it etc. After a night out, getting home at midnight or later, I do the bear minimum: brush my teeth, strip, fling the clothes to the floor and sleep, tricking myself into believing I will put those things away tomorrow...oh yeah, that dirty pile is kind of becoming the dirty field of doom....Next morning however I wake up late for an appointment, I throw myself out of bed, shower, throw open the closet, snatch whatever will not make me look like the freaky Junk Lady from The Labyrinth (which funnily enough I was dispapointed but not surprised to get as a result of the recent Buzzfeed quiz 'Which Labyrinth Character are you?') and head out the door as my dirty abandoned clothes hiss and scream my name, forever waiting for recognition of the state of neglect I leave them in.
I am just not good at it. I am not an OCD person, not at all when it comes to myself. I am a hygienic person though. I always wash my hands, I shower every day and I enjoy the feel of clean hair, nails and clothes..I just hate the processes I have to go through to get those privileges.
And yet here I am in Italy....scrubbing toilets and bidets with a silly smile on my face. Maybe I really am in love with Italy, and will just do anything for it, even things that go against my own Junk Lady nature.
Cleaning the toilet and bidet (yes, there are bidets in every room, and yes, I still find them mystifying) is much easier. The sink, simply a breeze. But the shower...
That said I am finding this cleaning bizarrely relaxing. The realisation that there is a part of my dark, slobby, soul that actually loves cleaning occurred in Italy when washing socks in hotel basins became an almost nightly occurence. Something about the mindless productivity of it, the heat of the water melting away the dirt....it was satisfying. And yet at home I wouldn't touch the laundry unless under the pain of death. I am in fact hoping to keep this secret from my parents for as long as possible lest they take advantage of this newfound love of mine and put it to good use. That would take away the fun!
I am far though from being a domestic goddess. I remember reading an article about Nigella Lawson (who as far as I am concered is the Goddess of all Goddesses and the closest thing to a modern day Mary Poppins our generation could ever know) and how she went to Italy as a teen, discovering there her love for Italy, for its beauty, its food and for domestic related things. I am not quite at that stage yet, although scrubbing my toilet in my beautiful little bathroom in this stunning 18th century house is kinda heading in the right direction I hope.
I usually set the table for my family here and Italians I find are quite particular about how they like their tables set. At home in Australia my family always has dinner together, and yes the table setting follows a particular pattern. But usually if someone wants something to drink they just go to the kitchen and grab one themselves. Or, if they want tomato source same deal. Here though certain plates, decorated in that typically gorgeous Tuscan style, are settled on particular wicker placemats, cups are placed on the table for everyone with the assumption everyone will drink and only ever are forks used. Breakfast is more particular where instead of bowls being placed on the table for cereal large mugs are used, also Tuscan in style, with little matching plates. It is like eating your cereal out of a teacup and I am a massive fan. It is very cute too, because on alternating days depending on the dishwashing load the four boys have brightly coloured round mugs emblazoned with the characters from the popular Italian kids show here called Barbapapa Really cute. These do not have matching plates so we put them on clear glass ones.
After dinner I also help cleaning up, although sometimes the parents insist I relax and let the boys take turns cleaning up, loading the dishwasher. After playing with the boys I also tend to clean up afterwards and depending on the violence of the game (on a scale of playing 'let's run around the house and catch the au pair' to playing with plasticine, paint and textas simultaneously) the effort required for this duty can vary. It is never a burden though.
It does make me wonder though why I enjoy it so much. The first thought that came to mind was that I love taking care of people. But does that mean if I let my room disintegrate to the state of broken lingerie factory that I don't love taking care of myself? Maybe, in some ways taking care of oneself can be harder...maybe I find this because more often then not I live a lifestyle which doesn't allow me the time to relax into this duty, develop some discipline even to enjoy it. I know some people who love cleaning their room, re-organising it etc. After a night out, getting home at midnight or later, I do the bear minimum: brush my teeth, strip, fling the clothes to the floor and sleep, tricking myself into believing I will put those things away tomorrow...oh yeah, that dirty pile is kind of becoming the dirty field of doom....Next morning however I wake up late for an appointment, I throw myself out of bed, shower, throw open the closet, snatch whatever will not make me look like the freaky Junk Lady from The Labyrinth (which funnily enough I was dispapointed but not surprised to get as a result of the recent Buzzfeed quiz 'Which Labyrinth Character are you?') and head out the door as my dirty abandoned clothes hiss and scream my name, forever waiting for recognition of the state of neglect I leave them in.
I am just not good at it. I am not an OCD person, not at all when it comes to myself. I am a hygienic person though. I always wash my hands, I shower every day and I enjoy the feel of clean hair, nails and clothes..I just hate the processes I have to go through to get those privileges.
And yet here I am in Italy....scrubbing toilets and bidets with a silly smile on my face. Maybe I really am in love with Italy, and will just do anything for it, even things that go against my own Junk Lady nature.
The Magic Flute
While in Peru, Nasca to be exact, I contracted a parasite called Entamoeba Histolytica. Just google it or the symptoms, they sound hellish and I can confirm they are as bad as they sound. But more on that another time...
As usual on this day of the Inca Trail I was at the back of the group. At the back as in a good 40 minutes behind. I had to stop every 10 minutes to catch my breath in the thinning air and scull mandarine flavoured gatorade of which I'd brought copious quantities. Occasionally (actually more often than I wish to admit in polite society) I would also need to stop to answer the calls of nature, which after 2 days of being diagnosed with Entamoeba were still more like fire evacuation alarms informing me with a strong sharp stomach cramp 'Miranda, stay calm, you have exactly 25.7 seconds to find a bathroom or public humiliation will ensure. Good luck with your task in the middle of nowhere, lol.'
At this stage this wasn't actully a result of the illness but the treatment. The antibiotics I was on were very powerful and my stomach felt demolished.
For some reason this day our 2 trail guides had swapped places. C who usually led the fittest and strongest was now doing M's job, chasing up us 'lazy chicas' at the back. C became my company for the next hour or so as we hiked Dead Woman's Pass. The previous night whilst falling asleep in my tent I had wondered how I was going to survive this hardest part of the trail, but C's company was patient and interesting. We talked about Peruvian history, Quechua resentment of the Spanish, taking Ayahuasca and many other things. Because I was distracted (also because we paused often on a ledge when immersed in conversation giving me time to catch my breath) I found the steep jagged incline of the Pass not as hard as I had feared.
However at one point mid intellectual conversation the alarm bells started ringing indicated by a sudden aggressive cramp in my stomach.
'- C,' I said interrupting him, 'I have to go to the bathroom. Soon. As in now.'
My guide very kindly began scouting around for a secluded outdoor bathroom, finding a nice little hill covered in tussocks of tall spiky grass, just off the path around the corner of the trail.
'Ok, you can go to the bathroom here, and I will be around the corner where you can't see me. I will just play my flute.' C had played this traditional instrument many times for us on our hike so far. He seemed to love this instrument very much.
And so I furiously scrambled up the hill to use the biggest and most spacious bathroom I have ever used. Views such as this were around every corner on the trail and often I caught myself forgetting to breathe, too busy just trying to take it in.The navy blue Andes towered above as grey wet clouds floated around their midriffs. Ancient terraces could still be seen marked like choppy giant steps on the grassy mountainsides, and occasionally a llama or cow, appearing as a tiny dot, could be seen grazing nochalantly in a lofty almost vertical field. We were always in awe of how these animals could scale such abrupt cliffs.
On top of the truly sublime panorama I was treated to during my bathroom experience, I was serenaded by the pipings of a woody but delicate flute, echoing off the faces of the colossal Andes cradling our path. Despite my discomfort (going to the toilet in prickly grass can be an abrasive experience at the best of times) it was a bizzarely serene and beautiful moment, imbued with the haunting sense that it was completely one off and unique. There would never be another time in my life when these factors would come together again in the same place and time. I remember feeling rather dazed and suddenly very insignificant.
When I emerged from my spacious cubicle my guide was in full swing. I almost felt like I was interrupting something sacred. He paused his flute solo to ask me if it was ok if I could continue on and he would catch me up.
'We are only ten minutes away from the top, it is not far now.'
And so, feeling like maybe I had walked in on someone else's strange but serene dream I continued my slow but steady way up the trail, into the misty air, climbing the jagged mossy steps, followed by the mountainous echoes of the magic flute.
As usual on this day of the Inca Trail I was at the back of the group. At the back as in a good 40 minutes behind. I had to stop every 10 minutes to catch my breath in the thinning air and scull mandarine flavoured gatorade of which I'd brought copious quantities. Occasionally (actually more often than I wish to admit in polite society) I would also need to stop to answer the calls of nature, which after 2 days of being diagnosed with Entamoeba were still more like fire evacuation alarms informing me with a strong sharp stomach cramp 'Miranda, stay calm, you have exactly 25.7 seconds to find a bathroom or public humiliation will ensure. Good luck with your task in the middle of nowhere, lol.'
At this stage this wasn't actully a result of the illness but the treatment. The antibiotics I was on were very powerful and my stomach felt demolished.
For some reason this day our 2 trail guides had swapped places. C who usually led the fittest and strongest was now doing M's job, chasing up us 'lazy chicas' at the back. C became my company for the next hour or so as we hiked Dead Woman's Pass. The previous night whilst falling asleep in my tent I had wondered how I was going to survive this hardest part of the trail, but C's company was patient and interesting. We talked about Peruvian history, Quechua resentment of the Spanish, taking Ayahuasca and many other things. Because I was distracted (also because we paused often on a ledge when immersed in conversation giving me time to catch my breath) I found the steep jagged incline of the Pass not as hard as I had feared.
However at one point mid intellectual conversation the alarm bells started ringing indicated by a sudden aggressive cramp in my stomach.
'- C,' I said interrupting him, 'I have to go to the bathroom. Soon. As in now.'
My guide very kindly began scouting around for a secluded outdoor bathroom, finding a nice little hill covered in tussocks of tall spiky grass, just off the path around the corner of the trail.
'Ok, you can go to the bathroom here, and I will be around the corner where you can't see me. I will just play my flute.' C had played this traditional instrument many times for us on our hike so far. He seemed to love this instrument very much.
And so I furiously scrambled up the hill to use the biggest and most spacious bathroom I have ever used. Views such as this were around every corner on the trail and often I caught myself forgetting to breathe, too busy just trying to take it in.The navy blue Andes towered above as grey wet clouds floated around their midriffs. Ancient terraces could still be seen marked like choppy giant steps on the grassy mountainsides, and occasionally a llama or cow, appearing as a tiny dot, could be seen grazing nochalantly in a lofty almost vertical field. We were always in awe of how these animals could scale such abrupt cliffs.
On top of the truly sublime panorama I was treated to during my bathroom experience, I was serenaded by the pipings of a woody but delicate flute, echoing off the faces of the colossal Andes cradling our path. Despite my discomfort (going to the toilet in prickly grass can be an abrasive experience at the best of times) it was a bizzarely serene and beautiful moment, imbued with the haunting sense that it was completely one off and unique. There would never be another time in my life when these factors would come together again in the same place and time. I remember feeling rather dazed and suddenly very insignificant.
When I emerged from my spacious cubicle my guide was in full swing. I almost felt like I was interrupting something sacred. He paused his flute solo to ask me if it was ok if I could continue on and he would catch me up.
'We are only ten minutes away from the top, it is not far now.'
And so, feeling like maybe I had walked in on someone else's strange but serene dream I continued my slow but steady way up the trail, into the misty air, climbing the jagged mossy steps, followed by the mountainous echoes of the magic flute.
Saturday 15 February 2014
Breakfast at Tiffany's: Marilyn Monroe, the real Holly Golightly.
Just finished reading Capote's delightful 'Breakfast at Tiffany's.' It was abolutely joyous to read actually, particularly in light of having read Lois Banner's biography of Marilyn Monroe, 'Marilyn: The Passion the Paradox', a few months ago.
I say 'actually' because it is one of those novels one hears a great deal about from friends etc. simply because it will never be able to escape comparison with the iconic movie adaptation....the typical classic/adaptation crisis that seems to affect more and more literary works these days. I went into the novel in a way cynically, expecting to find a more vague, less articulate version of the movie, perhaps with less enchanting characters and a realism that was more drudgery than enlightening. Maybe because I confess to knowing very little about Capote's style. What I have heard is that he pays close attention to the actual structure of his sentences and as a young boy and man dedicated himself to this art with great discipline. I also knew that his dedication to this art enabled him to create the non-fiction (semi-non-fiction?) work 'In Cold Blood.' For some reason in my mind I assumed this may result in something that reads like a newspaper article...and journalistic writing is something I have yet to learn to enjoy.
However my assumptions were proven wrong by the second page, when the characters come to life through the simplicity of his descriptions and his tendency to let his characters talk themselves, at length, even ramble, but in a way that is always constructive or at least poignant.
According to Banner Monroe was Capote's main source of inspiration for the flighty and naive Holly Golightly, and for me, the confused and complex starlet absolutely sprung from the pages as I read the novel (or novella? It is terribly short). I have also read he intended Monroe for the movie part, not Audrey Hepburn. Although I originally could not imagine this, after reading the novella I can and wish it were so! Or at least there were two versions, one Monroe, one Hepburn. Hepburn's portaryal of flightiness is charming, but I guess I always found it somewhat too refined. Even when trying to play a country child-bride become NY socialite I find her admirably poised and sophisticated. Whereas what came through in Capote's novella for me was a woman whose problems and broken hilbilly background have created scars within her psyche that were not all that refined at all and in this sense Monroe, whose background matches Golightly's to a rather alarming degree, could portary this perfectly in my opinion.
At many times in the novel I wondered how far Capote could push the dysfunction of the character before toppling it over into the realm of absolute no return, where the reader would lose hope for her and see her as simply a bum...no magic about that at all. I think I sensed this tension most clearly towards the end of the book when Holly is about to leave NY for Rio, aware that in doing so she would be abusing the friendship of a man who is forking out thousands of dollars to pay for her lawyer. I could not read fast enough to see whether this last straw was something Capote would need to defend, and my suspicions were correct, justify he did:
'I haven't much choice. I talked it over with the lawyer: oh, I didn't tell him anything re Rio - he'd tip the badgers himself, rather than lose his fee, to say nothing of the nickels O.J. put up for bail. Bless O. J.'s heart; but once on the coast I helped him win more than ten thou in a single poker hand: we're square'
Here Capote reassures us that Holly is not wholly without moral integrity, even if she does 'go lightly through life.' If he didn't at some point Holly would start reminding the reader of that friend we all have who never pays us back or leeches off us, I fear. Thus Holly would not be endearing or lovable, just rather annoying and pitiful. The type of character or person we lose hope in and stay away from in our day to day lives.
So Capote succeeds in mainting a fine balance between realistically portraying a wandering broken soul, but not one that is without charm or redemption. The story is in a sense quite gritty, a child-bride, living off charming those around her. As Holly says about herself: 'Even though I kept telling him: but, Doc, I'm not fourteen any more, and I'm not Lulamae. But the terrible part is....I am. I'm still stealing turkey eggs and running through a brier patch. Only now I call it having the mean reds.'
This is exctly the charm about the character: that Holly is keenly aware of her background and her psychological issues, and actively makes others aware of them too no matter how confronting, not to garner pity which is also common, but to invite them into her private world where they can simultaneously see her flaws but also her magnificence. For in doing so they can see for themselves the chaos she has endured making her survival all the more delicate and incredible. Once again I am drawn back to thinking of Marilyn Monroe, one quote of her's in particular (which I refuse to discredit simply because it is glorified quite meaninglessly on facebook):
“I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best.”
That is what this charm is, the charm of paradox. How one can be a mess and wonderful at the same time is an intriguing mystery to most people who discover this embodied in someone they know at some point in their lives (I say some point because these people usually do not remain present for long, always floating and drifting out of lives as quickly as they fly into them).
Another way in which Holly seemed to me the literary replication of Monroe was how both seem to be phoneys but also not to be phoneys. In the sense there is in some degree an awareness to their act, but on another level, a submission to some kind of impulse or way of being they believe is right within them. O.J. Berman at the beginning of the novel tries to understand Holly's at times self-aware socialite charade-sometimes lost little girl personality. 'You're wrong. She is a phony. But on the other hand you're right. She isn't a phony because she's a real phony. She believes all this crap she believes.'
One of Banner's most interesting argument in regards to Monroe was that when playing the dim-witted blonde bombshell, she was both giving in to the impulse to exhibit herself (her body, her sexuality, her desirability to men) and parodying this stereotype. Monroe was no dim-wit, but at the same time was highly aware of how powerful pretending so could be. In a way I feel Holly also uses this talent, switching from naive child to actress capable of parodying the very things expected of her from society and her peers, as long as it gets her somewhere or something in return:
'I suppose you think I am very brazen. Or tres fou. Or something.'
'No not at all.'
She seemed disappointed. 'Yes you do. Everybody does. I don't mind. It's useful.'
That said I am sure my perspective on Holly's character is biased, based primarily on this single biography I have read regarding Monroe. However this is the framework with which I choose to read the novella and I stand by it. The blonde hair though of Capote's Holly, the naive charm, the way in which she could be both genuine and phoney reminded me terribly of Banner's portait of Monroe.
On another note, the passage that moved me most, because in a strange way I could identify with it so strongly myself (maybe we all can or know someone like this) was Holly's advice to Joe Bell. It left me nearly in tears and I read it again and again, stunned by the simplicity and truthfulness of Capote's observation of all free-willed, lost individuals:
'Never love a wild thing, Mr. Bell,’ Holly advised him. ‘That was Doc’s mistake. He was always lugging home wild things. A hawk with a hurt wing. One time it was a full-grown bobcat with a broken leg. But you can’t give your heart to a wild thing; the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they’re strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That’s how you’ll end up Mr. Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing. You’ll end up looking at the sky.'
Beautiful.
I say 'actually' because it is one of those novels one hears a great deal about from friends etc. simply because it will never be able to escape comparison with the iconic movie adaptation....the typical classic/adaptation crisis that seems to affect more and more literary works these days. I went into the novel in a way cynically, expecting to find a more vague, less articulate version of the movie, perhaps with less enchanting characters and a realism that was more drudgery than enlightening. Maybe because I confess to knowing very little about Capote's style. What I have heard is that he pays close attention to the actual structure of his sentences and as a young boy and man dedicated himself to this art with great discipline. I also knew that his dedication to this art enabled him to create the non-fiction (semi-non-fiction?) work 'In Cold Blood.' For some reason in my mind I assumed this may result in something that reads like a newspaper article...and journalistic writing is something I have yet to learn to enjoy.
However my assumptions were proven wrong by the second page, when the characters come to life through the simplicity of his descriptions and his tendency to let his characters talk themselves, at length, even ramble, but in a way that is always constructive or at least poignant.
According to Banner Monroe was Capote's main source of inspiration for the flighty and naive Holly Golightly, and for me, the confused and complex starlet absolutely sprung from the pages as I read the novel (or novella? It is terribly short). I have also read he intended Monroe for the movie part, not Audrey Hepburn. Although I originally could not imagine this, after reading the novella I can and wish it were so! Or at least there were two versions, one Monroe, one Hepburn. Hepburn's portaryal of flightiness is charming, but I guess I always found it somewhat too refined. Even when trying to play a country child-bride become NY socialite I find her admirably poised and sophisticated. Whereas what came through in Capote's novella for me was a woman whose problems and broken hilbilly background have created scars within her psyche that were not all that refined at all and in this sense Monroe, whose background matches Golightly's to a rather alarming degree, could portary this perfectly in my opinion.
At many times in the novel I wondered how far Capote could push the dysfunction of the character before toppling it over into the realm of absolute no return, where the reader would lose hope for her and see her as simply a bum...no magic about that at all. I think I sensed this tension most clearly towards the end of the book when Holly is about to leave NY for Rio, aware that in doing so she would be abusing the friendship of a man who is forking out thousands of dollars to pay for her lawyer. I could not read fast enough to see whether this last straw was something Capote would need to defend, and my suspicions were correct, justify he did:
'I haven't much choice. I talked it over with the lawyer: oh, I didn't tell him anything re Rio - he'd tip the badgers himself, rather than lose his fee, to say nothing of the nickels O.J. put up for bail. Bless O. J.'s heart; but once on the coast I helped him win more than ten thou in a single poker hand: we're square'
Here Capote reassures us that Holly is not wholly without moral integrity, even if she does 'go lightly through life.' If he didn't at some point Holly would start reminding the reader of that friend we all have who never pays us back or leeches off us, I fear. Thus Holly would not be endearing or lovable, just rather annoying and pitiful. The type of character or person we lose hope in and stay away from in our day to day lives.
So Capote succeeds in mainting a fine balance between realistically portraying a wandering broken soul, but not one that is without charm or redemption. The story is in a sense quite gritty, a child-bride, living off charming those around her. As Holly says about herself: 'Even though I kept telling him: but, Doc, I'm not fourteen any more, and I'm not Lulamae. But the terrible part is....I am. I'm still stealing turkey eggs and running through a brier patch. Only now I call it having the mean reds.'
This is exctly the charm about the character: that Holly is keenly aware of her background and her psychological issues, and actively makes others aware of them too no matter how confronting, not to garner pity which is also common, but to invite them into her private world where they can simultaneously see her flaws but also her magnificence. For in doing so they can see for themselves the chaos she has endured making her survival all the more delicate and incredible. Once again I am drawn back to thinking of Marilyn Monroe, one quote of her's in particular (which I refuse to discredit simply because it is glorified quite meaninglessly on facebook):
“I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best.”
That is what this charm is, the charm of paradox. How one can be a mess and wonderful at the same time is an intriguing mystery to most people who discover this embodied in someone they know at some point in their lives (I say some point because these people usually do not remain present for long, always floating and drifting out of lives as quickly as they fly into them).
Another way in which Holly seemed to me the literary replication of Monroe was how both seem to be phoneys but also not to be phoneys. In the sense there is in some degree an awareness to their act, but on another level, a submission to some kind of impulse or way of being they believe is right within them. O.J. Berman at the beginning of the novel tries to understand Holly's at times self-aware socialite charade-sometimes lost little girl personality. 'You're wrong. She is a phony. But on the other hand you're right. She isn't a phony because she's a real phony. She believes all this crap she believes.'
One of Banner's most interesting argument in regards to Monroe was that when playing the dim-witted blonde bombshell, she was both giving in to the impulse to exhibit herself (her body, her sexuality, her desirability to men) and parodying this stereotype. Monroe was no dim-wit, but at the same time was highly aware of how powerful pretending so could be. In a way I feel Holly also uses this talent, switching from naive child to actress capable of parodying the very things expected of her from society and her peers, as long as it gets her somewhere or something in return:
'I suppose you think I am very brazen. Or tres fou. Or something.'
'No not at all.'
She seemed disappointed. 'Yes you do. Everybody does. I don't mind. It's useful.'
That said I am sure my perspective on Holly's character is biased, based primarily on this single biography I have read regarding Monroe. However this is the framework with which I choose to read the novella and I stand by it. The blonde hair though of Capote's Holly, the naive charm, the way in which she could be both genuine and phoney reminded me terribly of Banner's portait of Monroe.
On another note, the passage that moved me most, because in a strange way I could identify with it so strongly myself (maybe we all can or know someone like this) was Holly's advice to Joe Bell. It left me nearly in tears and I read it again and again, stunned by the simplicity and truthfulness of Capote's observation of all free-willed, lost individuals:
'Never love a wild thing, Mr. Bell,’ Holly advised him. ‘That was Doc’s mistake. He was always lugging home wild things. A hawk with a hurt wing. One time it was a full-grown bobcat with a broken leg. But you can’t give your heart to a wild thing; the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they’re strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That’s how you’ll end up Mr. Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing. You’ll end up looking at the sky.'
Beautiful.
Friday 14 February 2014
Flashback post: Donkey Herder
The Inca Trail was full of many amusing moments but one I remember distinctly was my 'donkey herding' moment.
At this stage of the trail, heading up to Dead Woman's Pass, generally considered the most challenging stretch of the 3 day hike, it was raining on and off and thick misty clouds billowed by at heads height, often straying onto the path.
Fortunately like many of my fellow tour group members I had bought a plastic poncho the day before in Ollantaytambo, the picturesque final stop before the Inca Trail. My poncho was stunning, with heavy sarcasm implied. When it was on all buttoned up it looked like I was wearing a bright blue tarpaulin, complete with peaked smurf hat. Although long ago I had relinquished my vanity (well most of it) to surviving the elements of Peru, I still felt a little silly.
When viewed from afar our whole tour group looked like a walking packet of brightly coloured jelly beans, making their way determinedly up the trail into the mist. At one point I witnessed a hiker from another group, (one of the snobby poncho-free hikers mind you), point at our group bobbing along the path. 'HA! Look at them!They look so funny!' she giggled. I don't think she realised I was right behind her.
As usual on this particular day I was far behind the group. With lungs that felt like shallow limp balloons that would not inflate and sudden cramps followed occasionally by an attack of the runs I resolved to concentrate on listening to my breathing and to repeating my 'mantra' to 'Put one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other, NO, DON'T LOOK AHEAD TO THE TOP OF THE NEVER-ENDING STAIRS, just put one foot in front of the other...gasp.'
I was obvsiously so immersed in this activity that when I finally caught up to the rest of the group it took me a moment to realise they were laughing and pointing at me. Needless to say I was a little affronted, after all they looked just as ridiculous in their jelly bean outfits as I did. A few of them shouted something at me, but I could not hear due to having multiple woollen and plastic layers covering my head and ears. To my horror, some then pulled out cameras and started taking photos. However when I reached them and turned around I totally understood their amusement.
As I pulled over to the side of the steep stone path a herd of donkeys, babies and mothers decorated with traditional headwear, trotted past us with a spurt of speed that indicated sudden freedom. They had been walking behind me for a decent amount of time I assume, unable to pass me on the narrow track. As I had appeared huffing and puffing around the corner in the misty rain it looked as if I was deep in some kind of deadly serious determination to lead these dokeys to a new homeland. Despite the rain and cold, I, the poncho-wearing donkey shepherdess would guide them there.
In reality I was panting so hard I hadn't even heard all 25 or so of them. Lucky for them becuse if I had I probably would have launched myself onto the most fit and able and forced it to carry me to the top. A caring shepherdess I would make...
At this stage of the trail, heading up to Dead Woman's Pass, generally considered the most challenging stretch of the 3 day hike, it was raining on and off and thick misty clouds billowed by at heads height, often straying onto the path.
Fortunately like many of my fellow tour group members I had bought a plastic poncho the day before in Ollantaytambo, the picturesque final stop before the Inca Trail. My poncho was stunning, with heavy sarcasm implied. When it was on all buttoned up it looked like I was wearing a bright blue tarpaulin, complete with peaked smurf hat. Although long ago I had relinquished my vanity (well most of it) to surviving the elements of Peru, I still felt a little silly.
When viewed from afar our whole tour group looked like a walking packet of brightly coloured jelly beans, making their way determinedly up the trail into the mist. At one point I witnessed a hiker from another group, (one of the snobby poncho-free hikers mind you), point at our group bobbing along the path. 'HA! Look at them!They look so funny!' she giggled. I don't think she realised I was right behind her.
As usual on this particular day I was far behind the group. With lungs that felt like shallow limp balloons that would not inflate and sudden cramps followed occasionally by an attack of the runs I resolved to concentrate on listening to my breathing and to repeating my 'mantra' to 'Put one foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other, NO, DON'T LOOK AHEAD TO THE TOP OF THE NEVER-ENDING STAIRS, just put one foot in front of the other...gasp.'
I was obvsiously so immersed in this activity that when I finally caught up to the rest of the group it took me a moment to realise they were laughing and pointing at me. Needless to say I was a little affronted, after all they looked just as ridiculous in their jelly bean outfits as I did. A few of them shouted something at me, but I could not hear due to having multiple woollen and plastic layers covering my head and ears. To my horror, some then pulled out cameras and started taking photos. However when I reached them and turned around I totally understood their amusement.
As I pulled over to the side of the steep stone path a herd of donkeys, babies and mothers decorated with traditional headwear, trotted past us with a spurt of speed that indicated sudden freedom. They had been walking behind me for a decent amount of time I assume, unable to pass me on the narrow track. As I had appeared huffing and puffing around the corner in the misty rain it looked as if I was deep in some kind of deadly serious determination to lead these dokeys to a new homeland. Despite the rain and cold, I, the poncho-wearing donkey shepherdess would guide them there.
In reality I was panting so hard I hadn't even heard all 25 or so of them. Lucky for them becuse if I had I probably would have launched myself onto the most fit and able and forced it to carry me to the top. A caring shepherdess I would make...
How to be a good Au Pair..for a Noble family??
When I arrived to stay with my current family I was aware they already had someone in everyday to clean the house, do the washing and prepare light meals. Also that they had a secondary cleaner to vacuum the floors, repair things and maintain the building. On top of that they also have a grounds keeper who maintains the garden. It must be a quite a big property I thought.
Having 4 boys under the age of 12 can be hard at the best of times, and their father is sometimes required to travel for work So in my opinion the call for another extra hand was warranted.
When I arrived in Castelfranco Veneto I was collected from the station by my hostess, greeted with a kiss on each cheek and driven back to their house. I was only able to catch a glimpse through the car window of the outlines of the cities sandstone beauty at nightfall.
When we entered the premises I could only assume the large block entered by a beautiful stone carriage archway was shared by many families. An old building converted into apartments?
However once inside I couldn't help admiring their house and I had only seen the lobby. Laughing my hostess thanked me for my compliments and chuckling told me that there was something she had not told me yet about her family. As if it was almost a joke she laughingly informed me that they are a Noble Italian family and this is the palace they inherited from her husband's uncle who died without children.
In Australia we don't have Nobles. If we do I certainly haven't met any. So immediately I was a little struck by the singularity of the experience. What the hell does it mean to be a Noble family in modern day Italy? Needless to say I was rather awe-struck, particularly when a few days after my arrival the hostess at my mentioning of the famous Borhese Museum in Rome, jumped in with 'Oh yes! I babysat a Borghese child when I was a teenager in Rome! Because my mother was good friends with the family and wanted someone they could trust.' No ounce of pride or snobbery, just simple fact. Amazingly humble.
I was then shown my rooms. The first is barely a room, more a lobby containing coat and shoe racks, as well as an ironing board. The second room contains my bed, a desk, more french-style wardrobe space than I know what I do with and a couch and tv. But it was the loungeroom, the library and the bedroom suite that really got me. High decorative ceilings gilded paintings depicting greek mythological scenes from the 18th century, beautiful wood panelling on all the furniture and ornate marbled floors...
I could not believe my luck. Things also started to make more sense now regarding the amount of caretakers, the cleaners, the fact her husband travels for work because he is a wine producer. His family have been Noble wine producers for centuries. My hostess later told me she deliberately leaves this information off her profile on the website I found her on, so people choose the four children and the parents, rather than the house or the nobility. Admirably humble is definitely how I would describe this family. It is lovely.
But, how does one be a good Au Pair? It is a question that is still foremost in my mind even after holding this position for more than a week and so far finding myself content and happy.
The question is not of what don't I do, but what do I do? The maid and housekeeper I was surprised to discover not only maintain the washing and house, but pick up one or two of the boys from school, take them to swimming lessons, even prepare them meals and play with them if needed. While it was heart-warming to see the children had so many trusted and caring adults in their lives it was also a suprise to me. Their parents, my employers, are far from distant or workaholic parents, in fact my hostess does not even work anymore, she remains at home with the boys and is a very hands on mother. So hands on at one stage my hostess and I were both playing with the youngest italian noble child, building a wooden railway side by side, collaborating and deciding together the best way to connect our end to the little boys end, which was becoming increasingly hard to catch up to. This is a mother who loves her children deeply and loves to play with them and be present in their lives.
Although an enjoyable experience it was unexpected. I assumed I was needed because the mother (who is a beautiful, beautiful mother and person indeed) was worried that one of the children may need to be taken care of or kept company when she was busy with the other three....or vice versa, not wanting one to be alone at home or feeling neglected. However this does not seem the case. The boys are never really at home alone because of the two cleaners, one of whom actually has his own apartment in a section of the house, he lives just next door. He doubles as a child minder if needed. So I am not here to replace anyone, at the same time nor am I here as a guest or step-in older sister.
So if I am not here to replace the mother, am I here to replace the father when needed? No it seems. The father works from home most of the time and has a beautiful close relationship with his four sons. Even if he goes out for just a day for work he is greeted enthusiatically by four little boys running down the stairs to see who can hug him first. Often when I am downstairs the father will wander up to the kitchen to help the boys with homework, or watch a movie and spend time with them. Yes he does go away for work (the family has vineyards in the Marche region) but this does not seem to be a scheduled thing warranting a constant extra hand like an au pair, me.
My point is, this is not a family that feels it is suffering from a lack of support or closeness. And while this a truly beautiful thing to see with my own eyes, the love and attention these parents, and maids and cleaners give the children, it still leaves open the question of 'but then why am I needed here?'
I am having fun, playing toy trucks is wonderful, but am I needed here? Or is this just a pleasure for the family? For the boys to have a forever available playmate and for the mother and father to have an extra hand in the (rare so far) circumstance that one is away in the evenings, to carry out any duties involving the children needed after 3pm monday to friday. What I understand from my hostess is that the four boys love having an au pair and even have reprimanded her for not having hosted one sooner (I am the second au pair they have had, the previous one last year). So maybe the boys do just love having this playmate/live in nanny. At the same time these are not lonely or needy children. My hostess also encourages them to spend time with friends and by themselves, reading or playing.
In a way all I can conclude is that this is an usually generous arrangement. This family provides me bed and board, I have dinner with them every night, receive a salary, can eat from their fridge at any time, and can go away on the weekend returning in time for moday afternoon. The only time I see myself as being truly required are the rare nights when the father is away and the mother must juggle doing homework with the older two children and putting to bed the younger two.
I am amazed at what generosity they are willing to give in return for what seems to me not just for so few hours compared to what I was expecting, but for so simple a task.
But there are further questions I have discovered that must be answered, and I guess will be answered with time. When I am with the family as a whole at the dinner table, when should I assume it is right for me to step in to feed the littlest one myself, loading his spoon with food and encouraging him to eat it. Often at the dinner table both parents are happy to do this themselves if they are close to him but I am certainly not present at the dinner table because they are not happy to feed the little one by hand. Nor am I there to add conversation to the table which is always full of discussion and laughter. Yes I can add some english to the conversations, yet they boys also receive english lessons.
It is an unusual concept to me, but at the same time maybe it will become more clear with time what my role is here other than distinguished-english-speaking-occasional playmate-mostly guest. And all I can conclude is that the people I am staying with have a generosity I cannot yet comprehend maybe because I have not seen it exemplified in such a way before.
Having 4 boys under the age of 12 can be hard at the best of times, and their father is sometimes required to travel for work So in my opinion the call for another extra hand was warranted.
When I arrived in Castelfranco Veneto I was collected from the station by my hostess, greeted with a kiss on each cheek and driven back to their house. I was only able to catch a glimpse through the car window of the outlines of the cities sandstone beauty at nightfall.
When we entered the premises I could only assume the large block entered by a beautiful stone carriage archway was shared by many families. An old building converted into apartments?
However once inside I couldn't help admiring their house and I had only seen the lobby. Laughing my hostess thanked me for my compliments and chuckling told me that there was something she had not told me yet about her family. As if it was almost a joke she laughingly informed me that they are a Noble Italian family and this is the palace they inherited from her husband's uncle who died without children.
In Australia we don't have Nobles. If we do I certainly haven't met any. So immediately I was a little struck by the singularity of the experience. What the hell does it mean to be a Noble family in modern day Italy? Needless to say I was rather awe-struck, particularly when a few days after my arrival the hostess at my mentioning of the famous Borhese Museum in Rome, jumped in with 'Oh yes! I babysat a Borghese child when I was a teenager in Rome! Because my mother was good friends with the family and wanted someone they could trust.' No ounce of pride or snobbery, just simple fact. Amazingly humble.
I was then shown my rooms. The first is barely a room, more a lobby containing coat and shoe racks, as well as an ironing board. The second room contains my bed, a desk, more french-style wardrobe space than I know what I do with and a couch and tv. But it was the loungeroom, the library and the bedroom suite that really got me. High decorative ceilings gilded paintings depicting greek mythological scenes from the 18th century, beautiful wood panelling on all the furniture and ornate marbled floors...
I could not believe my luck. Things also started to make more sense now regarding the amount of caretakers, the cleaners, the fact her husband travels for work because he is a wine producer. His family have been Noble wine producers for centuries. My hostess later told me she deliberately leaves this information off her profile on the website I found her on, so people choose the four children and the parents, rather than the house or the nobility. Admirably humble is definitely how I would describe this family. It is lovely.
But, how does one be a good Au Pair? It is a question that is still foremost in my mind even after holding this position for more than a week and so far finding myself content and happy.
The question is not of what don't I do, but what do I do? The maid and housekeeper I was surprised to discover not only maintain the washing and house, but pick up one or two of the boys from school, take them to swimming lessons, even prepare them meals and play with them if needed. While it was heart-warming to see the children had so many trusted and caring adults in their lives it was also a suprise to me. Their parents, my employers, are far from distant or workaholic parents, in fact my hostess does not even work anymore, she remains at home with the boys and is a very hands on mother. So hands on at one stage my hostess and I were both playing with the youngest italian noble child, building a wooden railway side by side, collaborating and deciding together the best way to connect our end to the little boys end, which was becoming increasingly hard to catch up to. This is a mother who loves her children deeply and loves to play with them and be present in their lives.
Although an enjoyable experience it was unexpected. I assumed I was needed because the mother (who is a beautiful, beautiful mother and person indeed) was worried that one of the children may need to be taken care of or kept company when she was busy with the other three....or vice versa, not wanting one to be alone at home or feeling neglected. However this does not seem the case. The boys are never really at home alone because of the two cleaners, one of whom actually has his own apartment in a section of the house, he lives just next door. He doubles as a child minder if needed. So I am not here to replace anyone, at the same time nor am I here as a guest or step-in older sister.
So if I am not here to replace the mother, am I here to replace the father when needed? No it seems. The father works from home most of the time and has a beautiful close relationship with his four sons. Even if he goes out for just a day for work he is greeted enthusiatically by four little boys running down the stairs to see who can hug him first. Often when I am downstairs the father will wander up to the kitchen to help the boys with homework, or watch a movie and spend time with them. Yes he does go away for work (the family has vineyards in the Marche region) but this does not seem to be a scheduled thing warranting a constant extra hand like an au pair, me.
My point is, this is not a family that feels it is suffering from a lack of support or closeness. And while this a truly beautiful thing to see with my own eyes, the love and attention these parents, and maids and cleaners give the children, it still leaves open the question of 'but then why am I needed here?'
I am having fun, playing toy trucks is wonderful, but am I needed here? Or is this just a pleasure for the family? For the boys to have a forever available playmate and for the mother and father to have an extra hand in the (rare so far) circumstance that one is away in the evenings, to carry out any duties involving the children needed after 3pm monday to friday. What I understand from my hostess is that the four boys love having an au pair and even have reprimanded her for not having hosted one sooner (I am the second au pair they have had, the previous one last year). So maybe the boys do just love having this playmate/live in nanny. At the same time these are not lonely or needy children. My hostess also encourages them to spend time with friends and by themselves, reading or playing.
In a way all I can conclude is that this is an usually generous arrangement. This family provides me bed and board, I have dinner with them every night, receive a salary, can eat from their fridge at any time, and can go away on the weekend returning in time for moday afternoon. The only time I see myself as being truly required are the rare nights when the father is away and the mother must juggle doing homework with the older two children and putting to bed the younger two.
I am amazed at what generosity they are willing to give in return for what seems to me not just for so few hours compared to what I was expecting, but for so simple a task.
But there are further questions I have discovered that must be answered, and I guess will be answered with time. When I am with the family as a whole at the dinner table, when should I assume it is right for me to step in to feed the littlest one myself, loading his spoon with food and encouraging him to eat it. Often at the dinner table both parents are happy to do this themselves if they are close to him but I am certainly not present at the dinner table because they are not happy to feed the little one by hand. Nor am I there to add conversation to the table which is always full of discussion and laughter. Yes I can add some english to the conversations, yet they boys also receive english lessons.
It is an unusual concept to me, but at the same time maybe it will become more clear with time what my role is here other than distinguished-english-speaking-occasional playmate-mostly guest. And all I can conclude is that the people I am staying with have a generosity I cannot yet comprehend maybe because I have not seen it exemplified in such a way before.
Monday 10 February 2014
Language Barriers
One thing my travel companion and I found particularly amusing while travelling through Italy was our inability at times to adjust to the new language we suddenly found ourselves immersed in.
Although we became absolute professionals in the art of pronouncing 'Ciao!', 'Buonogiorno!' and 'Grazia!' our conversational skills remained limited. Conversations with locals were usually clumsy English-Italian mumblings punctuated by suddenly confident 'Grazia's' with some excessive hand gestures/ interpretative dance moves thrown in for good merit.
Strange things happen to one's native language I find when immersed in a new language and culture. It is like in earnestness to fit in you forget how to speak your own language well but also abandon the hopes of speaking the new language well, settling for strange combination of the two. One time I even found myself unconsciously speaking english to a local but using something along the lines of an Italian accent. Why did I even think that would work? I am not sure...strange things happen!
But we coped! Despite trying hard we did cut some corners:
Piazza Barberini became simply 'Bombodino'
Galerie Pinocoteca became 'Gallery Pannacotta'
Il Cernacchino ineplibacly became 'La Cuchinella'
and when we went to Paris the fun continued there with Rue de Goeblins becoming 'The goblin street' or even simply 'goblins'.
One night the confusion even entered our own native language when communicating with each other. We had been talking about my books when my friend referred to my copy of Madame Bovary as 'Madame Flaubert'. This I enjoyed very much and will probably keep referring to it that way.
More recently I have noticed that I am developing a strange dialect of English of my own. I will call it 'translators English'. I have been immersed in a beautiful Italian family now for more than a week, and been around Italian locals now for longer than a month. And it is so strange! I suddenly became aware mid-conversation last night that my vocabulary, syntax and articulation has refined itself so much I sound as if I am in a permanent state of translation. The removal of all unecessary innovation, variations, turns of phrase and unusual words has rendered my speech incredibly simple....instead of saying 'Oh look how lovely that bird is!' I find myself saying 'Look. That bird! It is so beautiful!' The other day instead of saying 'I don't like this kind of thing very much' I found myself saying 'This thing, I do not like very much'.
Someone told me this is good, it means I am unconsciously trying to adapt to the new language but for now I remain suspicious and amused.
Although we became absolute professionals in the art of pronouncing 'Ciao!', 'Buonogiorno!' and 'Grazia!' our conversational skills remained limited. Conversations with locals were usually clumsy English-Italian mumblings punctuated by suddenly confident 'Grazia's' with some excessive hand gestures/ interpretative dance moves thrown in for good merit.
Strange things happen to one's native language I find when immersed in a new language and culture. It is like in earnestness to fit in you forget how to speak your own language well but also abandon the hopes of speaking the new language well, settling for strange combination of the two. One time I even found myself unconsciously speaking english to a local but using something along the lines of an Italian accent. Why did I even think that would work? I am not sure...strange things happen!
But we coped! Despite trying hard we did cut some corners:
Piazza Barberini became simply 'Bombodino'
Galerie Pinocoteca became 'Gallery Pannacotta'
Il Cernacchino ineplibacly became 'La Cuchinella'
and when we went to Paris the fun continued there with Rue de Goeblins becoming 'The goblin street' or even simply 'goblins'.
One night the confusion even entered our own native language when communicating with each other. We had been talking about my books when my friend referred to my copy of Madame Bovary as 'Madame Flaubert'. This I enjoyed very much and will probably keep referring to it that way.
More recently I have noticed that I am developing a strange dialect of English of my own. I will call it 'translators English'. I have been immersed in a beautiful Italian family now for more than a week, and been around Italian locals now for longer than a month. And it is so strange! I suddenly became aware mid-conversation last night that my vocabulary, syntax and articulation has refined itself so much I sound as if I am in a permanent state of translation. The removal of all unecessary innovation, variations, turns of phrase and unusual words has rendered my speech incredibly simple....instead of saying 'Oh look how lovely that bird is!' I find myself saying 'Look. That bird! It is so beautiful!' The other day instead of saying 'I don't like this kind of thing very much' I found myself saying 'This thing, I do not like very much'.
Someone told me this is good, it means I am unconsciously trying to adapt to the new language but for now I remain suspicious and amused.
Little Boys And The Destruction Of All Things
There seems to come a time in every young boy's life, when the activity most desirable (and natural!) to them is the destruction of anything they can lay their chubby little hands on.
Fortunuately if they are a blonde, long-lashed, angelic four year old version of Elijah Wood, this destructive tendency can usually be forgiven. It can even be endearing! I have qickly come to learn their mindset is 'So what if you spent 20 minutes perfectly constructing that lego submarine-car for my enjoyment, complete with steering wheel, headlights, satellite capabilities and a fully intact driver with a matching helmet? Throwing it into the air as high as I can then watching it split into thousands of pieces is awesome!'
Nothing is safe. Not Teddy bears, not books, not delicate little doggies made of Murano glass, not scooby doo collector cards, not plasticine figures.
As I hand the little one my latest lego creation (I truly believe I am getting more techinical with each one) he gasps and claps his hnds together, snatches it from my grasp whilst piping a voracious 'Grazia!' and promptly destroys it by smashing it into the wreckages of the one (two, three or four) of the other cars I crafted for him previously. 'MORTE!'
I have learned this violence, although often loud and alarming and aimed at my head, is a sign of his true apprecation of my work for him. In destruction there is love apparently, when it comes to four year old boys.
Destruction however is not just an activity that resides in the domains of lego, cowboys and indians or toy cars and trucks. I have learned from my little four year old companion that if one is creative enough they can bring about destruction for the sheer thrill of it when doing even the most peaceful of activities: painting, playing with clay, reading a book, doing a puzzle, playing with one's miniature kitchen.
In fact it is in these banal peaceful places that wrecking havoc can bring the most satisfaction because even they are aware it is most forbbiden or improper therefore more exciting. My youngest companion's new favourite game is to fling open the door to his little play fridge, select an item whether it be model frozen peas or a doughnut, pretend to eat it by pressing it to his mouth making loud munching noises, then, whilst making careful deliberate eye contact with me, throws the item as far or high as he can. Preferably while shrieking very loudly. It is also preferable if the food is flung so far it tumbles down the stairs of the playroom or into a lego tower causing further destruction. He will then without fail toss his little blonde head back, blue eyes rolling, and laugh manically as I pull a face of exaggerated shock. We usually conclude this activity with me jumping up and chasing him around the house in order to catch and tickle the cheeky messy eater.
So if I had to say anything about taking care of a four year old boy it would be that I think I have practically visited all four corners of the earth whilst trying to find the missing lego pieces his joyful destruction has distributed. But mostly smiling affectionately whilst doing so, I must admit!
Fortunuately if they are a blonde, long-lashed, angelic four year old version of Elijah Wood, this destructive tendency can usually be forgiven. It can even be endearing! I have qickly come to learn their mindset is 'So what if you spent 20 minutes perfectly constructing that lego submarine-car for my enjoyment, complete with steering wheel, headlights, satellite capabilities and a fully intact driver with a matching helmet? Throwing it into the air as high as I can then watching it split into thousands of pieces is awesome!'
Nothing is safe. Not Teddy bears, not books, not delicate little doggies made of Murano glass, not scooby doo collector cards, not plasticine figures.
As I hand the little one my latest lego creation (I truly believe I am getting more techinical with each one) he gasps and claps his hnds together, snatches it from my grasp whilst piping a voracious 'Grazia!' and promptly destroys it by smashing it into the wreckages of the one (two, three or four) of the other cars I crafted for him previously. 'MORTE!'
I have learned this violence, although often loud and alarming and aimed at my head, is a sign of his true apprecation of my work for him. In destruction there is love apparently, when it comes to four year old boys.
Destruction however is not just an activity that resides in the domains of lego, cowboys and indians or toy cars and trucks. I have learned from my little four year old companion that if one is creative enough they can bring about destruction for the sheer thrill of it when doing even the most peaceful of activities: painting, playing with clay, reading a book, doing a puzzle, playing with one's miniature kitchen.
In fact it is in these banal peaceful places that wrecking havoc can bring the most satisfaction because even they are aware it is most forbbiden or improper therefore more exciting. My youngest companion's new favourite game is to fling open the door to his little play fridge, select an item whether it be model frozen peas or a doughnut, pretend to eat it by pressing it to his mouth making loud munching noises, then, whilst making careful deliberate eye contact with me, throws the item as far or high as he can. Preferably while shrieking very loudly. It is also preferable if the food is flung so far it tumbles down the stairs of the playroom or into a lego tower causing further destruction. He will then without fail toss his little blonde head back, blue eyes rolling, and laugh manically as I pull a face of exaggerated shock. We usually conclude this activity with me jumping up and chasing him around the house in order to catch and tickle the cheeky messy eater.
So if I had to say anything about taking care of a four year old boy it would be that I think I have practically visited all four corners of the earth whilst trying to find the missing lego pieces his joyful destruction has distributed. But mostly smiling affectionately whilst doing so, I must admit!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)