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

The Valuable Time of Maturity - Mario De Andrade

Upon the approach of the New Year, I would like to share with you a poem from a renowned Brazilian poet. This is how I feel and this is my message to you.


"I counted my years and discovered that I have fewer years left to live compared to the time I have lived until now.

I feel like a boy who won a package of treats.

The first he eats with pleasure, but when he realizes that there are a few left, he then starts to contemplate upon them.

I no longer have time for endless meetings that achieve nothing as statuses, rules, procedures and regulations are discussed.

Neither do I have time to give encouragement to absurd people who, despite their age, have not grown up.

I don't have time to deal with mediocrity.

I don't want to be in meetings where egos parade.

I won't tolerate manipulators and opportunists.

I am bothered by envious people, seeking to discredit the able ones, to usurp their places, talents and accomplishments.

I hate to witness the ill effects, generated by the struggle for a better job, among ambitious people.

I detest people who do not argue about content but titles. My time is too precious to discuss titles.

I want the essence, my soul is in a hurry. Not many treats are left in the packet.

I want to live among human people, very human. People, who can laugh at their mistakes.
Who do not become full of themselves because of their triumphs.
Who do not consider themselves elite, before they have really become one.
Who do not run away from their responsibilities.
Who defend human dignity.
Who do not want anything else but to walk along with truth, righteousness, honesty and integrity.

The essential thing is what makes life worthwhile.

I want to surround myself with people who can touch the hearts of others.
People who despite the hard knockouts of life, grew up with a soft touch in their soul.

Yes, I am in a hurry. So that I can live with the intensity, which only maturity can give me.

I intend not to waste any of the treats I have left. I am sure they will be more exquisite compared to the ones I have eaten so far.

My goal is to reach the end satisfied and at peace with my loved ones and my conscience.

I hope yours is the same, because the end will come anyway..."

Mario De Andrade

(The translation is mine, from a Spanish version.)

There Still Is Hope

Right, I am blogging for 15 mins and then I am going to do some boring but yet important paperwork tonight.

I meant to tell you the story of a little boy I encountered on the tube, on the way back from work. It gives me hope that no all humankind is lost in their egos, that there are people still in touch with who they really are.

Has anyone been on the tube in London? Between 5-7 pm on a working day? Even for those who have never been, it is easy to imagine the crowds. But, in order for my story to make perfect sense, let me elaborate a little.

The tube is a special place. It's weird. Cuz it triggers asocial behaviour. Yeah, that's correct. It is different from any other type of transport for few reasons. First and most obvious, it's underground. Haha, very funny, you think. Well, that means, you can't stare mindlessly outside the vehicle. Hence, you are forced to stare at other people, willingly or not so willingly. I do enjoy it, since most people choose not to and stare away at their shoes unless they are preoccupied with the stupid free gossip newspapers littering all the underground trains. So I sit and observe people's behaviour.

And then I noticed another difference, though I still don't know its cause or roots. People forget any social upbringing - giving way to the elderly, offering your seat to a pregnant woman, helping somebody with their luggage, etc. I don't know if it's the heat, the constant hurrying to reach somewhere, the fatigue before and after work, the unnatural underground environment, I don't know, it may be all of those. But it is a fact that travelling on the tube is weird compared to other forms of travel. (Unconnected to storyline, but I recently discovered that Transport for London did a survey, in which 81% of people who take the tube, admit that they behave in a non-accustomed way while travelling underground. Hooray, my observations turned correct!)

Now that you have the general picture, imagine me sitting on the Northern line going south at around 7.30 pm. I took the train from Euston and was heading towards London Bridge, a 15 journey of fifteen hot and often unpleasant minutes. It was my last day of work, not only because it was Friday but because it really was my last day of work in London. And that new found freedom gave me such peace in my soul that I was sitting on the tube and was even smiling. Not too much, but still my face was in a stark contrast with the grey, drained lifeless expressions of the rest of the commuters. Some people had their eyes closed, the man on the right was slightly shaking his head front and back like a zombie (that's very typical, too), some other guys in suits were standing to the left. The train was full, but not packed. One could stare freely at the person sitting across.

Two stops after I boarded, a mother and her son got on the train and sat almost opposite me, just one seat to the right. The tube went on, everybody staring mindlessly; or better - trying to look they stare mindlessly, seeing everything, yet choosing to acknowledge nothing. The boy was no older than 11. I would say 10. But definitely not 12. He, like me, I believe, has noticed the above fact - that people stare as if they have no mind at the tube and are awoken only by the gong at the end of the match, i.e. - the machine calling the name of their station.

As soon as the boy sat, you couldn't miss but notice his mischievous face and the alive look in his eyes. Kinda like Chris Rock before he utters some amazing truth or bullshit. And he looked like him too - same smile, I tell ya. His mom had a tired look on her face, the one that says "I just can't deal with you anymore, therefore I will pretend I do not notice the mischiefs you keep on doing." She stared for few seconds, then closed her eyes. The boy encouraged by this opportunity, immediately started his repertoire.

I didn't pay much attention at first since I thought that he is just a typical 10-year old, moving a bit too much and creating some unnecessary noise around him. A second later though, I noticed that he was actually talking to the people sitting in front of him. He had his left arm up, he was touching his "biceps" with the right hand and showing to his "audience". "Yeah, man, i got big muscles! They are so big!" He was looking from face to face, trying to establish eye contact with anyone. I don't know if he was just testing people to see if anyone would actually acknowledge him or simply was looking for an audience. I don't know, but he was persistent.

I laughed quietly to myself. He didn't notice me at first since I was sitting a bit to the right of him. After his muscle trick did not work, he continued with the next one. He would look up at somebody and raise his eyebrows vigorously few times, with a big smile on his face, kinda like saying: "What's up man, wanna see a trick?" He tried very hard with 3-4 gentlemen sitting across. Nobody responded. He continued the trick few times, again no response as he lost his attention for a second. This time he thought, I need to make something even more grotesque to attract some attention. He started making faces. Man, what an ugly face he made!

I laughed out loud! Few people looked at me, giving me an angry look. (Why would they be angry with me I don't know, but it is the tube after all!) The little boy noticed me. I thought he would be embarrassed, like any other little kid caught doing something naughty. No, he was not. He continued laughing and in order to stifle the noise and not wake his mom, he covered his face with his hands. That made me laugh again.

A few second later, he was peeping with one eye at me, his face still covered with his little hands. As soon as I look, he would hide himself away. And again like that few times. The man sitting to the right of me noticed us, but since you can't acknowledge anything happening on the tube (remember the rules!), he didn't do anything, apart from trying to follow our non-verbal exchange of communication with his eyes only.

At that point I thought the whole situation was hilarious. We were the only two beings in the whole tube that could do whatever we pleased and not care about how other people would react. So I made my ugly face. I only know one, I can't remember how it stuck with me since childhood, but it's called the "drunken worm". You fill up your cheeks with as much air as possible, you draw your eyes as close as possible together, and on top of that you try to pout like Victoria Beckham. Yeah, it looks as funny as it sounds.

The boy cracked out laughing, covering his mouth with both hands not to make a noise. After he got some breadth, he pulled his ears and bared his teeth at me. It was my turn to laugh. The guy next to me was visibly interested particularly at my odd behaviour but yet continued to follow us only with his eyes, pretending he's staring forward at times.

I kept laughing. The boy kept making faces. I tried to keep quiet as well in between the tricks as I did not want anyone to notice and spoil our fun. The boy kept looking at his dozing mom, just in case each time he would make a trick. At some point she woke up, gave him a quick smack on his hands, and closed her eyes again. I knew she was totally aware of his tricks and now her tired face perfectly made sense.

We laughed a bit more and the Dorris (that's how I call the polite female machine voice) told me "The Next Station is London Bridge. Change here for the Jubilee Line and National Rail Services." I waved him goodbye, picked up my stuff and left the train with a smile. On the platform, I turned back out of curiosity to see if he would do another funny face.

On the contrary, he had glued himself on the dirty train window, waving frantically goodbye with both hands, with a sad look on his face. I waved back and smiled. The train quickly gathered speed and disappeared.

I know he was sad, he had just lost his wacko lady "friend" but I was happy. His contagious laugh filled my soul with so much happiness that a week after this event I am still smiling. The world needs more people like him.

Quote of the year

BBC: "Celebrity culture has a democratic element - it is not just those with talent who get their moment of fame."