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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taking Care Of A Disney Princess

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

 

***

 

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

 

***

 

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

 

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







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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. when one has kids.

...Fantastic.

***

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

***

 

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

 

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

We All Live In The Villa: My Downton Abbey Life

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

***

 

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

 

***

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

***

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


First of all, the Johnny Fontane storyline:

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Italians and Their Wine: My Ongoing Battle with the Bottle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Oh but you see -'

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

'It's the fermentation it-'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

*** 

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

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