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.

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.

Italians and Their Wine: My Ongoing Battle with the Bottle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Oh but you see -'

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

'It's the fermentation it-'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

*** 

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

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

How A Bad Day In London Transformed Me Into David Sedaris' New Publicist

I should probably write to David Sedaris and thank him for making me his new official publicist. It is not exactly official, but I think it may as well be.

It seems my keen readers ears are not as good as my keen readers eyes because despite his success and regular presence on bestseller lists I can only remember catching references to Sedaris' work a handful of times. Once in the car a radio interview was being conducted with Sedaris but this was ages ago, possibly years. But I still remember the instanteous smile he put on my face when he spoke about how his soft lilting voice is often mistaken to be female when talking on the phone.

Strangely enough I have seen his book 'Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk' on the shelves of many Italian book shops in the english section. I always gave it a tentative look, not quite sure why it was ringing a bell...'that funny guy I once heard of maybe, probably wrote it..might be a good book...but this is all too vague for me to make an informed decision...'

I finally gathered the momentum to buy 'Dress Your Family in Cuduroy and Denim' when I was in London a few weeks ago The purchase came about during a moment of extreme vulnerability.

My day began in Bloomsbury, the purpose was to visit the Britsh Museum but the experience proved to be somewhat anti-climactic. I have heard for so many years about how amazing it is that this became a case where the reality was left with no choice but to wilt in comparison to the imaginings. The journey around the gigantuan building had a checklist feel about it, because to my surprise there were no surprises! Everything I had been told was there....the Pantheon Marbles, the sensational Egyptian collection, etc,...as I encountered each item I had been told to look out for, my attempts to engage with it were thwarted by the apearance of a mental Tick symbol, comically large and green, lighting up with a ping noise. Maybe these items I had busted my gut studying at high school were triggering some negative mood associations... Maybe I was just very tired that day.

After the museum I resumed my second favourite activity in foreign countries, eating. With the first being spending money, I am a dangerous commodity. Mostly to myself. While I munched away on Pret A Manger yoghurt and museli I flipped through my guide book only to realise that Bloomsbury did not hold as much interest as I had predicted the night before.

I became annoyingly indecisive,  umm-ing and ahh-ing about everything my little Travel London book suggested. By the time I decided to visit the Charles Dickens Museum and had actually managed to find it, it was late afternoon. Soon things would be shutting. I was wasting my day...

After I then quite illogically decided to get to the Borough Markets, which involved a long bus trip followed by an even longer walk due to me getting off two stops early. Once I got there though I was a very happy camper.  I would go back to the markets another two times before the end of my trip. I tucked into a delicious piece of Banoffee pie, feeling so incredibly British in a Love-Actually-wannabee-Keira-knightley sort of way. I hoped maybe with the success of the markets I had made ammends with my indecision.

It was only once I was heading over London Bridge, feeling wonderful and Bridget-Jonsey, that I realised with a jolt that 'The Perks of Being a Wallflower' was no longer lodged under my arm. I had borrowed the copy from my cousin's book shelf that morning and been reading it throughout the day. I only had one chapter left.

As is typical of me I went into full panic mode. If my house was to burn down I can honestly promise to be uber calm throughout the occasion, taking charge, giving orders even making tea for distressed passersby. If however something relatively minor happens on the scale of life and death, such as losing a coat, forgetting an appointment...I am inconsolable. If I lose an item belonging to someone else I seriously contemplate running away to Cuba. I filed a lost property report for the book at the markets reception with the desperation of a mother who has lost a child in a crowd and moped my way back across the bridge, now feeling like Bridget but in all the bad ways.

After making it halfway on foot to the tower of london and realising that it was 4pm and it would be closed. So I backtracked and made my way through cheapside, feeling Elizabeth-Bennetty, to St. Pauls Cathedral. I stopped along the way in a few shops, taking my time. I was just leaving a shopping complex when the cathedral came into full view. I reached for my camera in my bag...my hand rummaged around, finding lipglosses, bus tickets, a hair brush, water bottle, coin purses...no camera. My breathing became rapid and I muttered 'stay calm, stay calm, stay calm' like an incantation. I emptied my bag straight onto the pavement as shoppers stared.

I slumped against a glass wall, all my belongings spread around me... everything except for my camera. My camera with a 32 gigabyte SD card containing 4 months worth of travel photos.

A female police cyclist passing by with her bike noticed me and when we made eye contact there must have been something very pathetic about my face because she came right over and bent down next to me.

"Hello dear,  is everything ok?"

My bottom lip literally wobbled and I started bawling like a child. I told her the whole tale in hysterical blubberings, starting from the point when I lost my cousin's book. She was so nice throughout my ranting. So sympathetic, nodding knowingly, a kind grimace of solidarity here and there...she even told me a story about how she recently lost an important set of keys and how angry she was with herself. She then asked me my name and told me her's was Elise. She took down all the details of what happened and gave me the number of the station she worked at so I could call in to see if the camera had been found and handed in. She encouraged me to retrace my steps in the meantime.

"But Elise, is there even any point?!" I groaned, fed up with the cruel, cruel world, aka my own chronic absentmindedness. She told me it wouldn't hurt.

I thanked her profusely and followed her advice. All I can say is thank god I did because I had only left my camera on the counter of the most recent shop I had been in. The sales assisstant 'aww-ed' when I was clasped the camera to my breast and I cried sloppy completely indulgent tears of relief, disturbing londoners trying to buy stationery. I headed onwards to St. Pauls, still relieved and weepy when I ran into Elise again! She was on her bike and told me she was been circling around hoping to see me and ask if I had had any luck. She was so happy for me I had found my camera and in that moment I really just wanted to hug her. I thanked her again a hundred times, not only for her help but for her understanding.

It was at the end of this day, of highs and lows, that I decided I needed only one thing to calm me down and that was to buy a good book. I took a bus to Angel Islington and quickly found a discount book supplier. I bought another copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower to replace the one I went and lost on my cousin, and then perused the shelves for something that would cheer me up and make me laugh. That's when I found 'Dress Your Family'. It wasn't as cheap as I would have liked,  but oh man, was it worth every cent.

It was on the bus back to my cousin's house in East London as I started reading that my new voluntary work as David Sedaris' publicist began. Since then I have laughed on buses, planes, trains; in baths, kitchens, beds, cafes, and parks. Once I had laughed my way through 'Dress Your Family In Curduroy and Denim' I scoured the Oxfams of London for more second-hand Sedaris books, finding 'Me Talk Pretty One Day,' 'When You Are Engulfed In Flames' and 'Barrell Fever,' so I could laugh my way through those.

I feel my greatest publicist work for Sedaris happened on the public transport system of London. I was on the double-decker bus heading to Oxford Circus and basically busting my lungs trying not to cry with laughter as I read 'Dress Your Family'. I was so immersed in Sedaris' hilarious piece on cultural differences called 'Six to Eight Black Men' that I jumped when the lady sitting in front of me said 'Excuse me?' I immediately assumed she was going to ask me to shut up or had mistaken my laughter for crying. But instead with eagerness she asked me what I was reading. She was so curious about what could make me laugh so much she just had to know! With relief and surprise I handed her the book so she could read the blurb, and praised it to high heaven. She thanked me saying she had been looking for a funny book to read and immediately began downloading it on her kobo.

My second publicity stunt occured when heading to Borough Markets on the underground tube. I didn't have a seat in the packed carriage but didn't mind because Sedaris once again was making me laugh myself silly. So silly I suspected that in that moment for all the Londoners sharing my carriage I was the 'typical loon' on their train that day. I read with the book held high over my face like a mask to hide my silent giggling but my shoulders which remained exposed still shook with laughter. Just before my stop I lowered my book to find the middle-aged couple standing opposite starring and smiling at me. 'Good book then??' the man asked, genuinely interested. I chuckled and told him was it ever! They laughed, asked to see the cover which I obliged and said they would look out for it, wishing me a very nice day as I stepped out of the carriage onto the platform.

Since London I have continued reading Sedaris in Italy. I am older and wiser now though, aware that if I read this one as quickly as I did the others then very soon I will finish it and the addictive joy will be over. I am still in the last chapter now of 'When You Are Engulfed In Flames' which I started three weeks ago and still preaching the virtues of his attractive self-deprecation, dazzling observation skills and the delicious way he handles irony.

Sure Sedaris isn't exactly up with the times, he is in fact quite a dork. So if you are looking for the musings of someone you can relate to by age and interest this is maybe not for you. But this is also what I like about Sedaris, he never proclaimed to be cool. His honesty about his own sexuality and oddballness, his hilarious portraits of his quirky family and friends, the wonderful one-line observations about the world, and his ability to always to wrap up his stories with an elegant bow, drawing the important facts together to make a satisfying final message, in my opinion makes him a very entertaining and neat writer.

So everyone go and read Sedaris now, particulary if you are in need of a good career change.

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.