neve nell' estate

// summer snow

On my first day in Italy, the air was full of floating blossoms that resembled gently falling snow. Today, my last day here (for now) there are little star-shaped seeds drifting down from the window sill and landing in my hair, as if to remind me that the magic of Italy is still there if you look hard enough...

...one does, however, have to look very very hard.

Oh I know I sound cynical and jaded and whiny, I have actually had fun here, have had the good fortune to meet some kind, generous, wonderful people, and have seen some very pretty places. But four months in Italy is enough to make it very hard to write a post about how kind the people are, how beautiful it all is, what magic there is floating in the air (see my attempt above) and all that guide booky stuff.

There is so much to say about this country and I am in no mood to write a proper essay, probably you are in no mood to read one. Point form to the rescue!

the bad

• The one scent that I will forever associate with Italy, is the smell of dog piss. It's everywhere, in all the streets of all the cities, wafting up from the grass.
• In every region of Italy, the Italians will tell you that the Italians from a different region are 'chiusi' ‑ close minded. They are all too close minded to consider that it might just be all of them.
• Italians don't hesitate to tell you that Italians are not helpful people. They don't help old ladies, don't stand aside for each other on trains and buses, don't help people with their luggage, generally just don't help each other at all.
• Parts of Italy (eg Napoli) resemble a third world country, in terms of the cleanliness, the chaos and the smell.
• Italy is a country where they do everything the hard way and then complain about how it should be easier.
• The only thing that makes Italy more fashionable than, say, Australia, is that they don't do muffin tops here. Everything else is pretty blah.
• The beaches are crap, the pools are crap, there is no grass anywhere, everything is hugely overpopulated (not as much in the south though).
• A sandwich is ham and cheese. While the type of ham and the type of cheese may differ, you will never find one with tomato, not to mention anything else.
• At every city I visited, there was at least one 'information booth' which was empty when it should have been open. It got to the point that an open tourist bureau was a big surprise.
• Even bus timetables allow for lunch breaks, so you can end up waiting an hour or two if you expect to be able to catch a bus at midday.
  

the amusing

• They pick songs at random to go into ads, with no idea what the lyrics mean. Who thinks that an emo broken‑heart song by Evanescence belongs in a luxury car ad? The Italians!
• There are cross walks all over the country that lead to nowhere; a brick wall, around a blind corner where speeding cars zoom past, a fence, the top of a cliff... one wonders if they are trying to increase their death rate.
• Stunning Italian women in tight pants struggle through the cobblestone streets on stilettos, it's great to watch.
• It's not rare to see an 8 year old kid being lovingly pushed around the streets in a pram.
• Every train has a gypsy who walks along the carriage depositing bits of crap for sale. You take what you want and leave the money in its place, and if you don't want anything they just collect it again a few minutes later. It's actually a good system, but sad to see how many of them there are.
  

the good and the guide‑bookey

• Every city has water fountains with potable water all over the place.
• There are castles, nuns and churches everywhere ‑ a town with 4000 inhabitants can have 18 churches.
• On Sundays, the kids and the women are always beautifully dressed.
• Italians don't tag the way we do; Italian graffiti is always romantic. "Ti amo" is everywhere. One guy scrawled the name of his ex‑girlfriend, Francesca, on the walls of train stations in several major cities. "Francesca, torna a me, ti amo, chiami mi" ‑ "come back to me, I love you, call me".
• The train service is excellent and not nearly as unreliable as people like to pretend.
• There always seems to be a festa going on when you arrive in a town around July or August. The festas are very family oriented and there is a notable lack of drunks.
• There are very few fat Italians, except for the old ladies.
• Vespas are everywhere, perfect for taking that touristy Italy shot.
  

the conclusion
An Italian friend told me that Italians won't try food that doesn't look good. First they taste with their eyes, and then with their taste buds.

This might explain how a service station I visited got away with making panini that are stuffed full of beautiful red tomato, lashings of fluffy white cheese and layers of ham and lettuce...for the first few centimetres which is all you see in the window display until you have bought it. You bite into it and realise that most of the panino is merely bread.

I can't help but suggest that my panino may be the perfect metaphor to describe Italy.

sporca citta

// dirty city

They all say Milano is dirty but I didn't notice any unusual levels of dirt. The sights are conveniently close together. Starting in the centre, you visit the huge Duomo. Its pale white stone blinds tourists in the sunlight, its interiors are refreshingly understated ‑ partly because most of the decoration is so far above your head that you can't see it properly. There are gargoyles, biblical figures, animals and decorations carved high on each pillar. Stained glass windows send shards of coloured light bouncing off each other, but the size, grey walls and sombre mood of the place leave a feeling of doom. Not the kind of place I'd like to go to worship.

The outside is far more interesting. For some strange reason there were empty bottles of water arranged in a blue, white and green path just outside the entrance. As usual there were men with little bits of string trying to get the tourists to hold something long enough to be pressured into buying it. I had a panino from a streetside café and a Chinese guy spoke to me in German because he thought I was from Austria, not Australia. His friend laughed at him and said "stupido!". It's not the first time someone has confused Australia with Austria. Perhaps it's my German‑in‑Italian accent that throws them.

I lingered in the main square for a while, trying to awake my travel weary senses so they could tell me how wonderful and exciting this yet‑another‑church was, before I gave up and headed for the Galleria.

The Galleria is one of Milano's famous landmarks. Once a crossroads, it was covered by a glass dome and now resembles the Queen Victoria Arcade of Melbourne, with ritzier stores and a giant McDonald's re-branded to match the surroundings. I took a couple of photos, skipped through and found the world famous La Scala Theatre at the other end.

Ok, I have been travelling for a long time now, and I'm somewhat harder to impress these days, but to me La Scala more closely resembles the Brisbane Hotel pre‑renovation than an internationally renowned theatre. The Maj on Hay St is much more interesting. In fact it was only the signs outside that alerted me to the building's location.

Trying not to look too disgusted, I went on into the Quadriletto d'Oro - Golden Quarter - Milan's famous fashion district. The most famous district of the world's most fashionable city, totally on the cutting edge. Giant careers have been made here, the biggest, best and most beautiful brands in the world line the streets. People wander the streets toting bags upon bags of the latest clothes. Famous models turn their coke-powdered noses up at the mere mortals who dare invade their territory. The criss-crossing streets echo with the squeals of delighted bargain hunters who consider anything designed by Tom Ford a bargain if it costs less than a grand. at least, that's how I imagine it is every month of the year except August. Yep, even Milan shuts down for Ferragosto. I shrugged, having had a vague expectation that I'd find Milan in this state.

Most of my photos of Milan are photos of shop windows and graffiti.

photos

Am having issues with my flickr account therefore can't upload as many photos as I'd like. I'm sure they'll sort it out soon, so in the meantime you'll have to be patient.

There are a few more CVA photos but still more to come. Eventually.

Bolzano/Bozen

After fleeing the farmer, I went on to Bolzano to hook up with a guy I know: Ötzi (more on him later) Bolzano is in the far far north of Italy and German is the first language, followed by Italian and a fairly good knowledge of English. With my three languages around me I thought I'd be in my element but I actually had a lot of problems deciding which language to use! People would speak to me in German, I'd respond in Italian and they'd notice my accent and swap to English while I realised my mistake and switched to German. Ordering a meal was a big adventure.

German and Austrian tourists zip around on bikes and their language grates in contrast to the lyrical Italian words. A portico lined street is flanked on one side by German shops and on the other by Italian shops. Pizzerias sell pizza topped with würst while birrerias (breweries) sell pasta cooked in beer. Every street has two names and the buildings are a strange mixture of German facades decorated with brightly coloured Italian frescoes. It's a very pretty town and very rich. Fortunately the shops were all closed for Ferragosto which probably saved me a lot of money. Window shopping sufficed as I made my way past stunning window displays toward the Museum of Archaeology where Ötzi was awaiting me.

I first encountered Ötzi while reading my guidebook in a cafe. Ötzi is no looker. He's past the prime of his life, only 5 feet tall, has leathery wrinkly skin, sunken eyes and a large gap between his front teeth. Still, you have to forgive him these shortcomings when you consider that he has been dead for three and a half thousand years.

Ötzi was murdered after a fight with a mysterious stranger and his corpse was left to rot, however nature took over and in 1991 his body was found frozen in a block of ice by two hikers. He is now resting in a giant temperature controlled room in the Archaeology Museum of Bolzano, with a window through which tourists come to stare at him. His body provides many clues about how people lived in his time. His skin bears strange marks that the scientists suspect are the earliest known form of acupuncture. His last meal, recent ailments, clothing and tools have been studied and are now on display in an entire floor of the museum, it's a very interesting exhibit and I spent a lot of time there.

Ötzi's settlement is long gone, but there is a castle that may be the last remaining ruins of the very same settlement that he belonged to years before the castle was even built. It's one of many such castles nestled in the hills surrounding Bolzano. Snaking around the ruins are endless rows of vines, climbing in ever‑diminishing circles. The effect is dramatic in the evening when the sunset adorns the vines with golden light, but in the daytime the effect is somewhat marred by the many power lines that bring electricity to the ancient town.

I wandered along the river to a castle with two names; Runkelstein in German and Runcalo in Italian. Its walls bear mediaeval frescoes which depict the tales of King Arthur, Tristan and Isolde and various other tales. They are the oldest surviving mediaeval frescoes in the world.
Back in town, I noted the presence of much anti‑Nazi graffiti scrawled in Italian, German and English. I passed through the main square to the Duomo, which is a mixture of various architectural styles that surprisingly complement each other quite well. I'm more than a little jaded now when it comes to churches, but this one had a pretty spire.

Bolzano was an interesting little town and would have also been very expensive if the shops were open. I wandered, window shopped and then left after a couple of days, headed for Milano.

Future updates will probably have to wait until Spain, as it's August and everything in Italy is closed, including internet places. I found one today by luck but don't expect to find another.

I'm making my way through the northern part of Italy, visiting Milan and then heading for Pisa where I catch my flight to Spain. No, it's not with Spainair so it won't crash!

Til next time!

la fattoria

// the farm

Well, the farm thing turned out to be a complete disaster. The usual deal with WWOOF is that you work a maximum of 6 hours in exchange for a bed and food. Some places are different but those places make it clear prior to arrival. I'd actually originally been destined for one such farm but they wrote to tell me that they had changed their methods and I chose not to go there, instead opting for another farm in the Dolomites.

The place I chose was beautiful, nestled in the mountains, surrounded by pine forests and green hills, pretty church spires and little villages lining the nearby hillside with lights twinkling prettily; all of which I glimpsed from the windows of the kitchen and laundry while I worked 10‑14 hour days without a break except to eat the food cooked by another overworked "wwoofer".

It was interesting at least to see the workings (ahem, "workings") of an Italian farm. There were 40 goats which were milked for cheese, 13 puppies which were for sale and three dogs which were for the cats to chase. Each morning a temporary electric fence was set up on a grassy area to form a yard for the goats, which were herded in an unusual way: you run away from them and they chase you into the enclosure. Think they could teach our sheep a thing or two! The dogs didn't seem to do much (like their master) the farm actually ran out of food for the dogs while I was there, something that has never happened on our farm in 30 years but was apparently normal there because they were so isolated (nearest town: 15 minutes drive).

While the goats were feeding, their stalls were cleaned out each day and some were selected to be milked. To make cheese, the milk is heated to 60 degrees, then allowed to cool, then rennet is put into it to curdle it before it's heated again to about 90 degrees. Then the top of it is scraped off and the rest is moulded into cheese. The cheese is left in the cellar where it shrinks as the liquid drains from it and it develops a crust that smells like very old toenail clippings.

That was the extent of the farm life experience. The rest of the time was spent cleaning plates, cleaning rooms and cooking for the guests. The place was organised so badly that even with 2 owners and 5 helpers, the dishes, cheese, goats and cooking took 10‑14 hours each day. Ridiculous. The food was all cooked by another wwoofer (when she arrived there hadn't been anything for her to eat!) and we weren't allowed to drink, rest or have anything resembling fun. We did organise a secret party in the teepee they had out the back which was fun until the owner turned up and had the gall to ask for a glass of our wine! I pretended to be asleep until he finally left and everyone laughed when I suddenly sprang into life the minute he disappeared through the doorway.

I was fortunate in that there were three other Italians wwoofing at the farm along with a French girl fluent in Italian and we all got along well. The Italian couple had their own car and on Friday we all decided we'd had enough so we told them we were leaving, had a big argument (try arguing in a foreign language, very frustrating) and took off first thing the next morning. It's a shame because the place was really lovely, but in my opinion 10 hours of work in exchange for 2 plates of pasta and a bed is not an 'exchange' at all. The "farmer" (who got up at 9am every day) was a very unreasonable and disorganised man incapable of understanding why we weren't happy, even though we had explained to him twice during the week that the deal was not what we'd agreed to, nor what anyone in their right mind would agree to. He said that he always has problems with Australians and I said that's because we aren't easily intimidated and we aren't used to being ripped off. Ha.

This is nothing against wwoof of course, most of the experiences I've heard of have been good, in this case it was just bad communication and bad organisation (I say this with a wry smile ‑ bad organisation in Italy? What a shock!)

Anyway, enough of that. It was an interesting experience, I learnt to make cheese (I prefer cheddar though) and once I'd decided to do the Italian thing and go on strike I spent a nice afternoon in a beautiful room watching the rain and being comfortable. I didn't get to see anything of the mountains but I have seen a lot of mountains now anyway. I spoke only Italian the entire week and learnt a lot of new words and phrases. The other wwoofers were very good to me and took me all the way to Venice on Saturday, from where I caught my train to Bolzano. The trip must go on!

conservazione not conversazione

//conservation, not conversation

My two week CVA working holiday comprised seven Aussies, two Italians (plus 20 or so drop‑ins), several rude stereotype‑enforcing French people, three languages, lots of pasta, innumberable weeds, some very blunt tools and a fair amount of questionable concrete mix.

Our tour took us from Carignano, near Torino, to the Mercantour Mountains in France before ending in Monte Carlo, where we enjoyed our last two days together eatng, drinking, and avoiding the casino.

We were assigned a search and destroy mission for week one in Carignano; search for the three or four actual plants in two parks and destroy everything else. We pulled, hacked, snapped and swore at weeds, unearthing a beautiful little castle in one park and a whole lot of white moths in the other. We met a lot of locals and while we had the impression that they thought we were completely barmy travelling all the way from Australia to do their weeding, they were kind to us. We were treated to a tour through Carignano (which has a spectacular fan‑shaped church), as well as various other towns, along with home‑cooked pasta, bocce games and mint tastings (nearby Pancalieri produces world famous mint). In Carignano we were shown a big, heavy stone and our tour guide told us with great relish that people who hadn't paid their debts were once dropped onto this stone, bottom first, from a height of about 5 metres. These days, locals who are deeply in debt tell their friends that they have "andato a culo" ‑ literally "gone on my ass".

Speaking of the locals, there were some truly unforgettable figures in Carignano and one of them was Gino, a tiny old man with a very cheeky smile and a taste for vino. He is a member of an RSL‑type club across the street from our accommodation, which is in fact more to do with wearing funny hats and playing Bocce than it is to do with anything else. Another notable was Loris, who materiaised every now and then to make mountains of pasta for us or to leave a container of hand‑picked wild blackberries on our kitchen table. He spoke to us only in Italian and laughed at everything. His pasta was the saviour of our BBQ to which half the town was invited while we were naively cooking for 20. I caught a few of the Italians conversing about the incredibly odd watermelon salad (watermelon with ONION!?!?) and noted that Loris' pasta was a very popular dish with the Italians, who are loathe to try anything that seems even slightly unusual. (Explains a lot about the country.) All in all, the Italians took good care of the weird Aussies who wandered the streets in work clothes and floppy green hats.

On a Monday morning we departed Italy for France. Our first day was free so we wandered through a nearby valley, where I developed a strange obsession with taking close up photos of flowers and insects. From Tuesday to Friday we worked very hard, some of us building an entrance to an old mine which will be opened to tourists while others jigsaw‑puzzled their way through creating a stone path masterpiece. We were ensconced in dorms on top of the world, at the bottom of a valley (up and down works differently in the mountains). We carted wooden planks, shook our heads in confusion at the French leader's idea of a concrete mix, stole a few moments to look for silver near the mine and collected a lot of rocks, putting them into the wall from where they were promptly pulled by our merciless Italian leader Stefano because they didn't fit properly. I will never again take for granted the beauty of a rock wall; it's harder work than you can possibly guess. We had a couple of interesting altercations with the French leader who seemed not to understand the difference between volunteers and slaves (I marched to his house one evening and lectured him while he sat on the stairs in his underpants, pretty funny really.) In the end though they came through for us and we were given excellent hiking advice, some very good picnics and even a few polite words. The French are perhaps more ignorant than rude... perhaps.

I enjoyed myself in both places far more than I expected to. I have learned to wield a whetstone, mix concrete, build rock walls (and learned that they invented bricks for a reason); I can now expertly hack at weeds with a scythe, paint the Italian way (add some paint to your water) and best of all, I have discovered a real love of hiking and, apparently, photographing flowers and insects. Two new hobbies!

However, the aspect of the trip that I enjoyed the most was meeting the inspiring, interesting people I worked with. Every one of them taught me something about how to make a success of life, the men were refreshing evidence that men with grace, tact and intelligence do in fact exist while the women were blueprints for the sort of person I hope to become. I definitely recommend a trip with CVA, whether in Australia or overseas. It was interesting, fulfilling and enjoyable.

all's well

no net access at the farm, am at a nearby hotel but it's an hours walk away so you wont be hearing from me again until the 23rd

al'ls well

ciao a dop (til later)
K