New Food Gallery

Check out my new food gallery on my website! It is delicious :)

www.palpable-pictures.com

Enjoy!

Photo of the day, 29th of August, 2010. BUMBLE BEE Copyright Palpable Pictures

Pirin Mountain

I knew Bulgaria is beautiful, yet when you visit such a place, you are left with no words. I took some pictures on a small trip up the hills of the Pirin mountain. There are some black and white versions. See Facebook and my Website for my pictures soon.

Enjoy. Drop a comment if you wish.

Love,
Polina

http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=5570440&fbid=439669126624&id=110378056624#!/album.php?aid=203643&id=110378056624&fbid=439665791624&ref=mf

Our Friend the Policeman (il Poliziotto)

As I have mentioned before, public service offices in Sicily do not do much of a job. The same proved true for the police force. I was told that whoever is so useless that cannot do anything to make a living, he becomes a policeman. The salary is lower than the average, but it is a guaranteed job for life with little or no responsibility.

One beautiful day we were walking home and we took a new route so that I can explore the city better. We were passing by some Council building when we bumped into a friend of ours. Not really a friend, but an acquaintance; he is a friend of one of Alessandro’s numerous cousins and they came visit us in London last year.

Our friend is a policeman. He didn’t strike me with much intelligence or character when I first met him, yet I decided not to judge him. I thought he was just on holiday and he probably was enjoying himself a bit too much. It’s normal at the end of the day.

Yesterday we met him while he was at work. There was some important politician coming from Milano and they have sent additional policemen to guard in front of the impressive building. He was standing at the main entrance with another two policemen.

At first he did not recognise us; he passed by us and walked into the local Lotto shop. It took us a second to confirm that it was him so we followed him in the shop. He had just finished choosing his numbers and was paying for the ticket. The moment Alessandro said “Ciao, come stai? Ti ricordi di me?” the policeman recognized us and generously gave hugs and kisses away, like a good Italian.

We talked for few minutes, and then he said: “Come over to the next door cafe, let’s have a shot of espresso!” We walked in the cafe and he ordered: “Two espressos for my friends and one shot of Amaro Cinar (typical Sicilian liquor made from artichokes, with a really bitter taste). He then continued, “Oh, no, actually give me only a double shot of Jeggermeister because the other one smells too strong like alcohol. After all, I am at work.”

The barman, no older than sixteen years of age, poured the glass without even questioning. Obviously, who is he to question a policeman? He then drank the Jeggermaister faster than I drank my espresso. We talked for another 20 minutes standing in the cafe. That’s just the absolute minimum for Italians when they say “Hi” on the street.

As usual, my legs started hurting from standing too much and I started begging we go. The policeman agreed, “Yeah, it’s about time to go back to work, if I stay a bit longer, they might think I am hiding away during my shift.” We said bye to him and to his fellow co-workers, who were happily smoking away cigarette number 23 for the day.

It took us roughly an hour to say “Hi” to our police friend. Needless to mention, he was not on a lunch break.

Traffic!!!!!!

We stand at the traffic light at a very busy street, waiting for the light to turn green. The stream of cars is continuous and it is very impressive. Mind you, I spent the last 2 years in London, yet I have not seen so many cars and motorbikes per square meter. Palermo has approximately half a million population and there are on average 3 cars per family. And there is also a rule to have a nice car, which you only keep in the garage (or mostly parked outside) and use only on special occasions; something like when you put on your only suit to go to a fancy party.

Cars are parked anywhere and everywhere – on crossing zebras, on the sidewalk, on the side of the street, and when there is no space at all, they just stop and park in the middle of the street, blocking the traffic one way. It is normal for a two-way street to have only one lane and cars take turn to pass. And that’s the norm. Nobody attempts to regulate or give a ticket since there is no point – the whole city needs to be towed away.

Let’s go back to the traffic lights we are waiting at. It takes longer than usual and we are chatting away. The light turns green, the traffic continues with the same speed. They don’t even attempt to slow down. No! I try crossing at the zebra, nobody even acknowledges my crossing. I am just absolutely gobsmacked and I am just asking,

“What is this?”

“Well, it’s like crossing the street when the red light is on, “ is the answer. “If there are no people waiting to cross, you don’t stop the car, you continue.”

“But I AM waiting to cross!”

“Yeah, but you were just standing there!”

“But it is a huge crossroad with cars coming from six directions!”

“Well, they all go at the same time anyways...”

We somehow managed to cross and we end up at another traffic crossroad. Palermo is a big city, as I mentioned. For my surprise, the cars to the left of us stop when the light turned green. I walk on the zebra with confidence and as I am just about to put my foot on the sidewalk, two motorbikes the size of a horse jump the line by crossing diagonally through the sidewalk. One of them slightly brushes my bag. They don’t even lower their speed, they weren’t even bothered by the mother with two little kids, which they literally flew over. The mother didn’t even blink, for her it’s normal, it’s even ok. I stand in shock, trying to apprehend what has just happened. Another biker cuts through and beeps at us since we are in his way. How dare we stand on the sidewalk!

The other night some friends picked us up in their car to go clubbing (which was experience of its own, I will write about it in a separate blog). We are riding on the way and we can hear an ambulance approaching from behind. There is an accident involving a motorbike in front of us (what a surprise, eh?) For my astonishment, cars give way and the ambulance passes and stops in front of us. It parks right in the middle of the road sideways and blocks both lanes. The medical staff leaves the door open and go on doing their job. All the cars stand beeping. I am told it is normal to spend 30 minutes in such a situation, waiting for the ambulance to leave. But it was a Saturday night and everyone on this road is going clubbing, therefore one brave car start making its way by climbing on the sidewalk and all the rest simply followed.

Also, it is imperative to mention that all this traffic is accompanied by numerous loud honks. As much as Italians speak, whenever they get in their cars, they honk instead. They honk continuously and for whatever reason. They honk not only to raise your attention, but also to announce their presence. And to show discontent, of course. The honking continues during the early hours as well.

I was amazed by all this noise that just didn’t make sense at all! For example, one is riding on the main road. That would mean that all other cars which need to cross or turn onto the main road, need to wait a suitable opportunity. But since nobody waits for no one, the cars on the main road are forced to beep to announce their presence each time they pass by an intersection. Can you imagine what that means?

Few days earlier I was enlightened that all the honking is actually an elaborate system of signals. Can you imagine? For example, when you want to give way, you honk once. That translates into: “Go!” Two honks mean: “I go!” Three honks: “Che minchia fai?!” That roughly translates into: “What the fuck are you doing!?”

La Posta

So, we moved in a rented house designed especially for tourists. The house looks like a summer villa or a winter cottage – it has wooden walls and tons of decoration on the walls in no particular style or order. There are another 5-6 religious paintings around the house, representative of the power of Catholic Church in Italian daily life. After few unsuccessful attempts, we managed to connect to the dial-up internet connection! Yes, some things are very backward here indeed. We received the boxes with our stuff sent from the UK and now I can say we are kind of settled.

The only thing left to collect was a guitar that we sent via regular mail. We received a postal note letting us know where and when to collect it. The post-woman gladly announced to us with a threatening voice: “You better hurry and collect your guitar tomorrow because otherwise we don’t know what might happen to it!”

The next day we get ready and we are on our way to the post office. The address doesn’t tell us much therefore we ask around for directions. Nobody knows anything. We phoned one of our aunts. Again nothing. Finally, somebody figures out the area which the post office is located – Piazza Independenza. Our aunt gladly takes us there and now it is up for us to discover the actual location. I feel like I am in the TV show, in which they compete to find clues hidden in architectural monuments in famous cities around the world. We asked 3 people who seemed very certain of the post office location, yet they gave us three contradicting directions. Finally, a local policeman pointed us the exact building of the postal depot. Halleluiah!

We enter inside and there are 10 people walking around and nobody even acknowledes the presence of two strangers. We go further inside and pop in one of the open offices. A woman directs us someplace else. We go to something that looks like an Information Desk though there is no sign or anything else. The guy takes a look at the note and exclaims: “Aaah! You are the Guitar Guy! Go to the Director’s Office, the guitar’s there!” My husband laughs and I just follow his around.

By now everyone has heard the great news that the guitar guy has arrived to collect his guitar and they all come out of the offices to see him. I feel like a celebrity. We enter the office of the director and he says: “Oh, the Guitar Maestro! We were all waiting to see who this crazy guy is who sends his guitar via mail!” They all greet him and shake his hand; another lady comes to me with a smile and starts telling me some story. Apparently, it is totally uncommon for people to use the postal services for sending anything but letters. My guess is nobody has any trust in the postal services.

La Banca

The night before coming to Sicily, our former landlord gave us back our apartment deposit and also bought the furniture that we left behind. So we end up with approximately 2,000 Pounds in cash in our pockets that we needed to exchange in Euros.

Our first attempt was at the airport where the girl working behind the counter thought we are stupid tourists and wanted to charge us 5 euro fee plus 15% commission. When she saw that the trick won’t work, she said she would reduce it to 10% out of benevolence. As all the Italians that I have encountered until now, she did not speak even a gram of English, but from the look in her eyes I know she understood what I thought of her out loud. I said I have no time for bullshit and that I would just go to the bank and exchange it for no commission, and she even had the guts to lie and try to convince us that the bank would charge us the same commission. She really thought that we were that stupid. She’s from the breed of people that I hate the most – the one that is really ignorant, yet they think they know better than anyone.

The next was even more eventful when we went to the bank. My initial intention was to go around and see what the exchange rates were in all 3 (yes, all three!) banks and choose the best one. Well, my plan did not turn out that well.

At 10 am we were at the bank. We entered through this futuristic cabin-door, which scans your face and takes good 5 minutes to let you through. This was the first and last touch of technology available in the bank. We entered inside and I went around looking for the exchange rate screen. Nothing visible, actually absolutely nothing was hanging on the walls. There was only a big plasma TV, supposedly the camera security screen but instead of showing different views of the bank floor, it was broadcasting the face of the security card, who was sitting on his desk and taking calls. I am not sure what the purpose of this TV was, I just let you guess yourselves.

The bank floor was very small, with only two desks operating. The people at the desks were also taking the incoming calls. There were another 2 or three desks behind a window with people walking in and out, trying to look busy. A little crowd of pensioners was sitting on the waiting chairs and reading newspapers.

My husband and his brother then went around to ask for the exchange rate. They asked one lady who did not know anything nor was willing to help. Then they went and asked quickly at the desk – a very slow talking lady replied to ask at the desks behind the window screen. They went back and asked another person again and this time they were told that there is a lady who knows! Halleluiah! So, it was left for us to wait until she arrives. In less than 20 minutes a lady with a victorious smile came to us carrying a print-out with the exchange rates with the same dignity she would have carried the Holy Grail. There was no commission, just a 5 euro fee for the exchange. So, we decided to seal the deal and it was then when the next shock arrived.

In the bank and in any other public service building, Italians (I am not sure if I should write Sicilians because I have my suspicions that this state of affairs is more attributable to the south of Italy)have a waiting list – one picks up a numbered ticket from a machine and waits until the number is called. I was told in busy places, like the post office, there is always a guy (a bummer) who trades with those tickets. I could not yet grasp the idea why would anyone do that but everything became clear when we saw the number of our ticket. It was number 57. The screen was showing 32. I asked “How long it would take, approximately?” My brother-in-law replied in a very normal tone “Maybe around 2 hours.” The lady behind the desk was scratching her head assiduously.

“Let’s go drink coffee then,” I suggested. And guess what – there is a coffee shop next door diligently serving all the people waiting for their turn at the bank. We sat, drank coffee, talked for approximately 1 hour. We even witnessed the bank teller come for a shot of espresso and cigarette. For a smoke break, not for lunch, I want to make clear. At some point, we decided to go back. The screen was showing number 47.

After another 20-30 minutes, our turn came! A smart pensioner tried to take our turn. It didn’t work out and she walked away with a grimace. I passed the money to the lady, who was working with the speed of a handicapped turtle. She looked at them, one by one. It took her approximately 10 minutes. I was just standing and staring in amazement. She then started counting them. She counted them 3 times so slowly I almost managed to learn the serial numbers by heart on all of the bank notes. She did not use a machine, neither any sort of security check – scanner, pen, etc – that any other bank would use. She counted them one more time by hand, then went away to print few sheets, leaving the notes on the desk completely unprotected. Another 10-15 minutes of paper work followed – signatures, scans, final count, etc.

It was 1.30 pm when we left the bank. It took us 3 hours to exchange few pounds. What if you would like to use some more complicated service?

Ma che minchia fai?

Intro

It’s my first day in Sicily. My Sicilian husband and I relocated for several months in order to re-stress from our busy lives. Rent is cheaper, food is better, people take it easy plus it shines all the time. Why would you want to stay in London?
I have been here for only 2 weeks before, visiting friends and family last summer. I had a glimpse of what life is, or could be for us, but now I am looking forward to observing this interesting culture and writing about my own experience here.

***

The first thing anyone would notice, no matter whether you understand anything of the language or not, is the amount of talking going on. Italians talk a lot, I knew that and I was expecting it. But, mamma mia, I could have never been prepared for the waterfall of words streaming constantly out of their mouths. Talking a lot is not an issue, I talk a lot too. The language is designed for talking quick, it flows very smoothly and intonation-wise it is like a song. And Italians make the best of it. They talk about anything and everything, no matter how important or irrelevant. Quantity is virtue, not quality. And as passionate people as they are, it sounds everything they talk about is of dire importance. At times I thought they would be fighting for good 10 minutes, and then when I ask what the issue is, it turns out they are discussing where the car keys are.

Also, in order to cram more talking in shorter periods, they talk at the same time. The conversation doesn’t follow the common pattern of” I speak, you listen, and then you answer” and vice versa. No! They all talk at the same time, and in order to make sure they are heard, they shout. Obviously, duh!

Oh, did I mention the hand gesturing going on simultaneously while talking? If you tie the hands of any Italian, he or she would not be able to speak, I guarantee. In order to add importance or emphasize on what they are saying, they wave, point, shake, thrust, squeeze, slap, hold, etc their hands. It is a theatre spectacle all the time. And it’s free. :)

***

Italians take life easy. Or so it seems to the outsider. The rules are vaguely defined and even more vaguely followed. They love sipping their espressos in the local cute Italian cafes, talking loud, laughing a lot and enjoying the sun. Shops and even big retailers are closed at lunch time for 2-3 hours. Enjoying the good food and enjoying a slower pace of life is part of the culture. And I value this highly since your own health and wellbeing is the most important at the end of the day.

But this attitude would undoubtedly clash with the contemporary capitalist society. Not that Italians have problem consuming. Not at all, they love their fancy clothes and are ready to buy expensive products they can’t afford. One would think that would be the ideal place for a consumer society. But it is not. The culture doesn’t buy this “working hard” issue; rules and regulations are there to be disregarded. And this clash is what creates the pains of contemporary Italians and what creates a lot of material for me to write.

An Emotion

I woke up early morning after a night of restless sleep. A bird is singing under my window. I think it is a meadow lark. Its song is sweet, almost like a child’s laughter. I realize I haven’t heard a bird singing for more than two years since I moved to London. I am a bit disturbed to come to that conclusion. It feels like somebody has deprived my soul from its essence. I lie in bed with my eyes open looking in the dark towards the window, waiting to hear another sound. And she sings again. And I smile. Spring has arrived. My soul is blossoming. Today is the day I leave London.

Maybe it is the excitement from the unknown, maybe it’s the sea food my friend cooked last night, but it is 5 am and I have been wide awake for a few hours already. I am sitting in the empty living room, the place which I called home until now. It feels strange leaving the familiar. It is like a small death. Something inside me will definitely die, yet I am very willing to let it go. Anything else would feel like madness. It is very refreshing. I feel very alive, very much existing only in this present moment. My peppermint tea is particularly tastier.
Everyone of us has encountered death in from form or another during our lifetime. Yet, we don’t see beyond the negative emotion. But as I am leaving this world of busy hectic city life behind, I feel my “old ways” have died and my soul knows the true meaning of “Rest in Peace”. I can finally breathe deep again and be the real me. Breathing deep is very important.

Embracing the unknown is like rebirth. It’s like changing your batteries, maybe even getting a new hard drive as well. It is like a blank sheet of paper, waiting to be filled with exciting stories. The best quality of a blank sheet of paper is that it is blank. It does not carry positive or negative associations. It does not tell you neither “This is not allowed” nor “This is not possible.” It is what you do with it.

At the moment I feel like this little girl who was drawing something on her own during class and not paying attention to what the teacher was saying. The teacher came and asked what she was doing. The girl replied, “I am drawing god.” The teacher then said: “But nobody knows what god looks like.” The girl replied: “They will, in a minute!”

London, 01/02/2010