Second thoughts

What might not be surprising is that at some point after arriving in Genova I had this thought:

“What was I smoking when I decided to uproot my life in Toronto and land halfway across the world with almost nothing??”

Sure, all the travelling in Europe had been fun; exploring Italy was great; and a few weeks at an Italian-language school would be cool for anyone.

But it hadn’t quite dawned on me, the fact that I would be starting again from scratch. In a place where the basic first steps (opening a bank account, getting internet access, acquiring a cell phone plan etc.) were greatly complicated by my lack of ability to have a detailed conversation in Italian. [Surprisingly for a port city, there are not a lot of Genovese who speak English.]

Not to mention the fact that I was alone.

It was good that, in the flurry of preparations, I hadn’t stopped to think much about what it would actually be like, living in this place I’d never been before, thousands of kilometres from Canada.

If I had, I’m not sure I would have gone through with it.

The Italian Paperwork Odyssey, or, How to Become a Fugitive in 10 Easy Steps

1. The Police Station

In every informational book about Italy I’d read the same thing: foreigners must go to the local “questura” (police station) within 8 days of arriving to apply for a “permesso di soggiorno” (short-term residence permit). The Italian consulate in Toronto confirmed this, especially since I planned to work, legally, with a special visa. Well, I planned to do everything in Italy above board.

Like Jules Verne’s Phileas Fogg planned to sail around the world in 80 days.

Initially it wasn’t bad at all. In fact, it was fun! Even though I started at the wrong place, the young, hot police officer at the front desk was very friendly. He took my map and drew “the most beautiful route” to the questura, pointing out lots of nice places to see along the way. In fact, he spent so much time talking with me that he got a lot of teasing from a group of guys on their way out. Unfortunately their words were lost on me (but not their looks: the Italian police force seems to be comprised of male models moonlighting as law enforcers). Unfortunately he didn’t offer me a police escort...but it was a very pleasant afternoon at the police station.

I may be the only person who has ever said that.

Little did I know this would be the last ray of sunshine before descending to the depths of what I’m sure a modern Dante would have included in the bottom levels of hell...

the metastasizing tumour known as Italian Bureaucracy. 

2. The Questura

They were deceptively friendly, those questura people. So much so that I didn’t even mind that the office I needed had closed for the day (at 12:00).

On my second try I discovered their terrible secret: they had no idea what a Working Holiday Visa was. Yes, that thing -- for which I’d photocopied documents, filled out forms, exchanged umpteen emails with the consulate, paid $150, and waited 6 weeks to get – was an indecipherable mystery. They’d never seen it before. They regarded it with heads cocked, curiously, like chimpanzees assessing a Swiss army knife.

“Do you need a permesso?” they finally asked me. Well, they didn’t actually ask that question, as at this government office for supplying foreigners with residence permits no one spoke English. They used Google Translate.

3. The Post Office

It turned out that the questura was once again the wrong place, as the forms that maybe I needed were actually at the post office. (Obviously.)

When I went there and made my request, I received a “kit” of paperwork. Usually when you hear the word “kit” you think of something small and basic. But you wouldn’t think that if you’re in Italy. This envelope contained approximately 50 pages (single-sided) of forms to be completed. Everything, including the instructions, was in Italian. Only. (Guess the Québécois don’t have a corner on measures for enforcing the Mother Tongue.) 

4. Italian-speaking friends

Took one look at the mess, recoiled in distaste, and instantly directed me to an office set up, in part, to help people fill out these forms.

5. My Italian teacher

I hope it wasn’t rude, the way my mouth fell open when she said she could help me do it all on a coffee break. Fifteen minutes! Lady, do you realize what this is??, I just managed to refrain from saying.

[Meanwhile, the 8th day had long come and gone...] 

6. Post office number two

My teacher made good on her promise, and I returned to the post office triumphant. (You have much to learn, young one.) Like in Groundhog Day, the whole cycle began again. “Are you sure you need this?” Three different women huddled and conferred, like a line of coaches preparing their team to pulverize the enemy.

After some consulting of the playbook (a dusty government manual) and approximately one eternity later, it was decided that yes, I did actually need what the consulate in Toronto had taken some pains to tell me I needed. 

However, unfortunately I was missing some paperwork. And I had to buy a special stamp. Which was available at the local tobacco shop, of course.

7. Post office number three

After buying the stamp, making more photocopies, and filling out another form I figured I was ready to finish things off for this permesso, once and for all. (Oh, young one...)

I arrived at the third post office with everything ready to go.

But who knew that I had to make an appointment to drop it off?

And apparently I had to go to the questura again. Nobody knew why, but they were pretty sure, yup, they definitely thought, yeah, that could be a good idea.

8. The immigration office

Remember this, from #4? I decided it was time to pay a visit.

For the third time I was asked, “Are you sure you need one of these permits?”

A smarter person would have recognized this as a sign from the universe. “Uh, no, actually, but thanks anyway.”

But my naïve sense of responsibility, combined with an unfortunate doggedness to finish what I’d started, wouldn’t let me quit.

My new helper took a look at the forms...and freaked out when she saw they had already been completed. “We’re supposed to do this for you!” she cried. Then she saw some mistakes. Deaf to my pleadings to give liquid paper a chance (“No, we can’t use it. It’s the rule.”), she was about to throw out the whole sheaf out and start all over again...

...when my anguished imploring caught the ear of her supervisor, who, with an indifferent glance in our direction, drawled “Liquid paper’s fine.”

The rest of our meeting passed more calmly. Except when I got a little upset because she gave me ANOTHER STACK OF PAPERS TO FILL OUT.

It turned out that these were for my employer. Dodged that bullet, I thought, luckily the school can deal with those.

Once that was done I would return to the immigration office, fill out another form, go to the post office and deliver the kit, wait for it to be received and processed, return to the questura to get fingerprinted, then get my permesso for my six-month stay. Which might be over by that point.

9. The School (my employer)

Here’s where we hit the first snag. Oh, excuse me, the 207th. Apparently I didn’t have the right forms.

At first my boss told me that I should return and get the correct ones.

A few minutes went by.

Then she said, “You know what. I don’t think you really need to do this.”

(OK, universe, I’m beginning to get it.)

“In fact,” she continued, “this paperwork is ridiculous. I’m not going to do it.”

(You can just, like, decide that?)

“Here’s my advice,” she said. “Don’t go back to that immigration office. Or the post office. Just...disappear. And don’t worry about it.”

“But what if I ever get stopped...” I didn’t even get to finish the sentence; she was shaking her head like I’d just asked “But what if I grow a second head?”

Then she proceeded to extol the virtues of a free and open economy like Canada, and told me, in the nicest way possible, to go back there as soon as I could.

10. Hiding from the law

And so: I don’t have a permesso. I do have a working holiday visa, which, for every Italian in officialdom I’ve encountered, is like saying I have some Martian dollars.

Apparently the fact I don’t have this permesso will not be a problem (bluntly: “you’re not black”). So to put it in a nutshell: I’m illegal in Italy!

You know, I’ve never been illegal before. It’s kind of a rush.

(Dear Mom and Dad: Don’t worry, everything’s under control.)

Genova: new rituals

Genova: always there is the sea

My second night in Genova  I was introduced to the other students at the school AND a fabulous northern Italian ritual called the “aperitivo”. You go to a restaurant, pay maybe 6 or 7 euros for a drink, then fill your plate at the buffet to your heart’s content! Although it happens a bit early (between 6 and 8 pm) to be dinnertime in Italy, it’s a cheap way to fill up!

that's Jesus in the back (who knew he liked plaid?)

The next Monday I started my Italian-language course (half-paid for by the Italian Cultural Institute of the Italian Consulate in Canada, thank you very much)!

After months of studying the language on my own and with a real, live expat Italian tutor (thank you Filippo), I really hoped to test into a high level. (In fact, when I arrived I’d even hoped to be taken for a native Italian speaker...which was a tad unrealistic considering I had very little idea what anyone was saying!)

Instead I was placed just one level above complete beginner. Che tragedia! I then understood, with crystal clarity, the feelings of so many of my English students in Toronto. I had constantly heard students say they really thought they deserved to be in a higher level. (“It’s language karma!” a good teacher friend told me.)

However, I liked the teacher and the other students very much, and the Dutch owner (!) and his Italian wife were exceptional in their efforts to help students feel at home at the school and in Genova.

It was a great start.

Genova: home sweet new home

Here’s what I knew before arriving in Genova, the northern Italian city no one’s ever heard of:

1) it’s on the sea;
2) it’s not very big (600,000 compared to Toronto’s 2.5 million);
3) it’s off the beaten path, touristically speaking;
4) it’s close to other interesting European countries;
5) it has lots of hills.

All of these, except the last, made the city an appealing choice.


And I wasn’t alone, either; Jesus was my roommate.

No, really; he was a very nice guy from Venezuela. We shared an apartment that our Italian-language school arranged.
I would also briefly live with two Greek girls, a Dutch guy, three Germans, and a Russian...but I’m getting ahead of myself and there’s actually no punch line (even though it seems like there should be one)!

On my first night in my new apartment I was looking forward to cooking myself a real meal, after two months of eating as simply and cheaply as possible in hostels. My first Italian dinner, however, was a bit more basic than I’d planned: it was yogurt.......and stop. Who knew that ALL stores in smaller Italian cities like Genova close at 8 pm? Or that those “old-fashioned” gas stoves (you know, the ones you light with a match) have hidden switches with which to turn on the gas?

Adding to this inauspicious start were the facts that I had basically run out of money and, more crucially, with my first load of laundry in the apartment, somehow turned all my clothes pink.

Nevertheless, I was thrilled to finally have arrived in Genova. And looking forward to the completely different kind of travel adventure that comes with living in a new place!

Siena and Santa (Caterina)

So I have to admit I'd never heard of St. Catherine before, but she is one of Italy's two patron saints (the other is Francis of Assisi), and she came from Siena.

Sarah, a friend from Toronto, was my exceptionally knowledgeable tour guide in Siena (as she spends many of her summers there, doing research for her doctoral thesis). We spent most of our time taking in the sights and sounds of the Palio party, but there were other interesting things to check out as well.

The Basilica di San Domenico is kind of a shrine to St. Catherine. From all accounts (ok, a quick readthrough on Wikipedia), it sounds like she was an incredible lady.

So was her mom, who gave birth to an unbelievable 25 children (only half of whom survived). So glad our medical care  - and contraception! - has improved since 1350.

Anyway, as the "Saint" might suggest, Catherine spent most of her life helping the poor and needy. (She was a bit of a pain at home, as she was always giving away the family's food and clothes.) She also had a considerable influence on the popes of her day, while her letters to various religious figures and nobility are regarded as classic early Tuscan writing.

The interesting thing is that, as was done in those times, parts of her body were preserved after she died. Which means that you can go to the Basilico di San Domenico today and see one of her fingers and her head. Just in case there are any doubts, one of the only English signs in the entire church states that yes, this is her actual head. !!

As well, one of the stained-glass windows depicts her after beatification, holding her own head on a tray. This made me feel:

∆ strange 

∆ a little queasy

∆ that graves are good
∆ all of the above.

On to a less grisly subject...

One of the plaques told us that Catherine had met her spouse at that church. Which I thought was very romantic  -- did they catch sight of each other during mass? Was it love at first sight? Did their parents approve?

Then Sarah pointed out that Catherine had been a nun, so the “spouse” referred to was actually Christ.

Right.

"Women of Siena" cookies. If you ever go to Siena, you MUST search for and buy these. Not too hard, not too soft, with candied fruit and nuts inside -- incredible!

And if you go, try and go when Sarah's there. I think she knows 90% of the information that exists about Siena.

Siena in pictures

the misty Tuscan hills

the Campo, pre-Palio

Return of the itinerant

Well, I'm back, after another hiatus due to lots of (interesting) stuff going on. I have lots of dispatches to catch up on, so stay tuned! Hope to keep them coming over the next few weeks.

In Siena: Not your average medieval horse race

After a bit of a letdown in Pisa and Firenze, I wasn’t optimistic about Siena, the third stop on the Tuscan city tour. However, I was going to be there for Il Palio, a horse race that dates back to the 17th century, and that sounded pretty interesting.

My Palio weekend turned out to be one of the most fascinating experiences of the entire summer!

The important thing to note, right off the bat, is that nothing comparable exists in North America. There are die-hard sports fans, sure, but attaching your team’s flag to your car or painting your face is kid stuff compared to these tifosi. Italians have achieved near perfection with coffee (so I’m told), pasta and the sports car; so too their devotion to their soccer team or in this case, horse and jockey, is unsurpassable.

Within minutes of arriving at the Siena bus terminal on Friday, August 13th I knew I was in for something special. I could hear them before I saw them: drums, and a swarm of roving youth, adults who were maybe their parents, their little brothers and sisters, and a few stylish grandmothers – all belting out an old Sienese melody basically about how great their contrada was and how it was going to whoop all the others’ butts.

There are seventeen such contrade, or neighbourhoods, within Siena’s medieval walls. Each is represented by a pair of colours and an animal (Snail, Goose, Giraffe etc.) or an element of nature (Seashell, Wave, Forest etc.). Stroll around Siena during the Palio (if you can) and there is never a question as to which neighbourhood you’re in; each is festooned with special lights, banners and flags. Each one also has its own water fountain. But most importantly there are the people, many of whom would not be caught dead without their identifying fazzoletto (handkerchief). And, because they are Italian, the fazzoletto is colour-coordinated with whatever else they’re wearing.

 

I need to underscore here how very, very important the contrada is. The same families have lived in these neighbourhoods for generation upon generation; look them up on church records and you’ll find them going back to the Middle Ages. Babies born in Siena receive not one, but two baptisms: one at the local church, and one at the neighbourhood fountain. [There is some controversy now, in this modern time, about the appropriate contrada for a child born to parents from two different ones. Some say that if it is a girl, she should be baptised at her mother’s fountain; while others say the father’s contrada line should be continued no matter what.] Each group also has one sworn enemy. They celebrate their enemy’s loss just as enthusiastically as they do their own win (to lose in this race is to come in second).

As you can imagine, the air crackles with energy the four days before the Palio. Not only are seventeen contrada groups constantly drumming, singing and parading through the streets, there are the nightly neighbourhood dinners, the trash-talking, and of course the wheeling and dealing going on behind the scenes. (Secret payoffs, bribery, maybe some doping...there is not much that is not allowed.)

Actually, for some groups it’s trash-photoshopping: one plastered their enemy’s walls with fake movie posters featuring their captain in films about idiots or losers or both. There’s also the spray-painting of your symbols in your enemy’s neighbourhood.

"all we can do is cry"

The cena, or dinner, is a big party every night. Each neighbourhood has its own communal kitchen as well as enough tables and chairs to seat dozens. Food is cooked by the local chefs and served by the members to the members. Course after course continues until late, accompanied always by wine. The next bottle up or down the table is fair game whenever yours runs dry (as long as you can wrest it from the hands and somewhat good-natured protests of your neighbours).


 

(With Sarah Loose and new friends: lucky to get invited to a Chiocciola (Snail) contrada dinner. We're grinning because the delicious food that was on the table is in our bellies...)

 

The day of the Palio feels like Christmas Eve. Shops are open until the early afternoon but no one can concentrate on anything but what’s about to happen that night. The Campo (main square) becomes crammed with people hours before the race and police actually seal the entrances once it reaches capacity.

Those not in the Campo will probably be found in their contrade, assembling into huge processions that will follow their jockey and rider first inside their tiny neighbourhood church, where both are blessed by the priest, and then on to the square.

Where the average North American prefers a tall cup of coffee, a newspaper and a leisurely hour to finish them, the typical Italian has his morning shot standing up at the bar before jetting off to work. The preference here seems to be for short and intense and the Palio is no different: it is a scant 90 seconds long! But man, is there a lot packed into that minute and a half. The hopes and fears of all the years (or at least all the years since the last win) meet, no, explode in an emotional nuclear fission that peaks with the first horse to break the rope. As if tear ducts were fused to the finish line, instantly the sobs are released – not from the losers, but from the winning neighbourhood. Like long-lost brothers meeting after decades of separation, grown men embrace each other with tears cascading down their cheeks. Women howl collectively. Teenage boys ricochet off each other with ferocious back slaps and little boys fight over the honour of waving the jumbo flags.

This delirious crowd triumphantly hoists their jockey to their shoulders, then lurches and stumbles alongside their horse to the Duomo. Also part of the procession is the actual Palio, an intricate hand-painted silk banner that will hang in their church for a whole year. At the Duomo, the priest has been on standby for this moment when the crowd, the horse and the jockey arrive. He officially proclaims the winner of the Palio but of course is barely heard above his jubilant congregation. (When questioned by an incredulous tourist, “But you take the horse inside too?”, one Sienese man responded, “You don’t?”)

Naturally there is a LOT of money involved in this twice-yearly spectacle. Seats in the bleachers of the Campo run from €180-350 ($250-500 CAD), but that’s nothing compared to the money raised at those neighbourhood cene (which often start around sixty euros a head and can go much higher). That fundraising is chiefly for the cash reserves needed to broker secret deals with other neighbourhoods and, of course, pay your jockey, if he wins. These professional riders command at least €8,000 ($12,000) and, for the experienced, can be as high as €80,000 ($113,000) -- if they win. (Even for a beginning jockey that’s approximately €88 per second.)

Is it dangerous? Yes! The jockeys ride bareback, as they have for centuries. The track is narrow, with a treacherous turn, and many a horse or rider has been injured (as for deaths, no one I talked to was willing to say).

But it is unlikely that this four-hundred-year-old tradition will end any time soon. The Palio represents the evolution of the life of a human being. And for the Sienese, it is life.
  
*    *    *

What Shouldn’t Tourists Do During the Days of the Palio? (ilpalio.org)

For the Sienese, the days of the Palio are days of celebrating, but also of great tension. For this reason in certain situations it is good to be careful. In particular:

- Under no circumstances should you go near the horses.
- Do not disturb the contrada members during moments of great tension, for example, during the time they accompany the horse to the trials, during the minutes before the race or after the race if they are disillusioned or angry.
- In Piazza del Campo, do not put children on your shoulders the day of the Palio: that can block the view of the others (in general, it is not advisable to bring small children in the Piazza, due to the crowds).
- Do not make sarcastic comments regarding the tension of the contrada members before the start of the race, do not protest or complain instantly if it takes a long time for the start of the race to take place.
- If the contrada members ask you to move or get away from a certain area, do as they request.

Required reading

A post on amazing Siena is coming soon. In the meantime...some of you probably remember conversations about paradise and how Italy isn't actually it. Here's an article from this week's TIME magazine that outlines some of the major reasons why.

Arrivederci Italia: Why Young Italians Are Leaving

Firenze Duomo

the famous Baptistry doors depicting Biblical scenes

Forgive me for Firenze (Florence)

Because some of the world’s most priceless collections of Renaissance art weren’t exciting enough, I decided to take my LIFE into my hands and BIKE around this fast-paced city!

I survived, but for the record, I recommend being aware of which way the traffic is moving when entering a roundabout on a two-wheeled contraption with nothing but your wits about you.

As for other thrills, since Italy was the 14th country in two months, unfortunately it’s where I really began to feel some existentialist angst about the meaning of all this travel.

Save up lots of money, then fly halfway around the world to see something really, really famous. There are about ten thousand other people with the same idea who show up at the same time (making you think silly thoughts like “If only I’d come yesterday!”). Barring the actual famous site itself, whether it’s the London Bridge, Eiffel Tower or Leaning Tower, the experience is the same. Long lines, ridiculously high admission fees, jostling for the best photo ops [last night I dreamed there was a two-hour line just to take pictures of the Pisa tower], and people who are every colour but white hawking cheap and awfully tacky souvenirs everywhere you turn. For me – not moved much by objects that don’t move, as it turns out – there is not much to recommend.

And, it turns out, I’m not actually a huge fan of Renaissance art. I did see Michelangelo's David at the Accademia ("Now that's what God intended" -- some boisterous American women near me), and I spent a morning with the huge collection at the Uffizi...and I was good to go.

near the famous covered bridge on the Arno

some of the famous Tuscan hills

Touchdown in PISA

Palm trees are always a nice touch

Arriving in Pisa (via a three-hour flight from Stockholm) felt like stepping into a giant amusement park. After such a long buildup (a year of preparation and study, not to mention a looooong journey there, literally) actually being in Italy didn't seem real! Only a few hours after landing, my arms were covered in red blotches, thanks to Pisa’s thirsty and plenteous mosquitoes (the onomatopoeic zanzare]...but they could just as easily have been pinch marks.

After months of seeking out any Italian speaker I could find with whom to practice, in Pisa I felt obliged to all those nice people speaking the language for my benefit! I wanted to stop and listen to every conversation, or follow behind the strolling ones like a puppy, eavesdropping shamelessly.

Of course my first stop was the gelato shop (next door to the hostel, which was not accidental. Location, location, location)! How much gelato is too much? Really, it’s a rhetorical question.

As usual I met a cast of characters at the hostel. Two nervous American sisters (16 and 21) and I joined Filippo, a real, live Italian man (a friend of the owner) for an impromptu night tour of Pisa. The girls kept trying not to giggle at his “Italianness" (dark curly hair, gold jewelry, a strong accent). They returned to the hostel early but the idea of sleeping on the first night in Italy -- how ridiculous!

Filippo and I carried on with the tour and he tried to begin carrying on with me at a small bar on the Arno. He wouldn’t have had much success anyway, but he really sunk his chances when he mocked me for ordering a pop -- “a drink for children”, he sneered. Grazie mille ma arrivederci!

* * *

The next morning I made the requisite trip to La Torre Pendente and watched tourists take photos of themselves either leaning against the tower or pushing it over. (Thus proving that creativity rarely exists within large groups.)

After that I wanted to go inside the Duomo (the large cathedral)

 

but the admission fee was pretty steep. Remembering my friend Pam’s question regarding free entry to churches for those who wish to pray (“Do they have sincerity wands like at airports?”) and not seeing any, I slipped to the side door and tried my best Italian: “Vorrei preghiere, per favore” (“I’d like to pray, please”). And: the guard nodded! He stepped aside! And he opened the door! My secret pass-phrase was like a religious Open Sesame! (But really, was he going to say no?)

Once inside I tried to look as pious as possible...but the guards were too bored and the tourists too gawky to notice.

If you couldn’t tell, I wasn’t much inspired by Pisa. I left it quite happily after half a day!

look carefully: which of these is straight?