A lifelong trip

TravelEng 2 - A lifelong summer

2011-08-09T08:01:00.000-07:00

"Close your eyes, breathe deeply and tell me: what's the first memory of this summer?"

If I had to carry out this delicate task I gave to my students, I'd have said: the taxi driver asking me "ok, where should I drop you off?" And I, without a clue, "at the central office?" Thus began my adventure in the immense English Hoghwarts-style campus, including creepy buildings with common rooms, passwords to get in and fields beyond the horizon. That day Miss Dash saved me, leading me to the central office while asking to herself where we were going, because she sill got lost. And I kept getting lost for four weeks too, without ever remembering where we were allowed to go and where it was "out of bounds" and walking every day along the 5 km road through the woods from the dorm to the canteen, using the camera flash to illuminate the path.

In four weeks I managed to break almost every rule that I had been given on the first day, first of all to not hug the students "but we didn't let you!" remarked the Colombian girl, as she kept hugging me.

I was a teenager too -strange but true- and I perfectly remember what it means to go on a study holiday to England at that age: it feels like opening the "Neverending Story" book, diving into another world, living billion experiences and emotions to 200% and then closing the book with all its characters and getting back in the real world, without knowing how to respond to everyone who asks you "So, how did it go?"

It went that I met great people, there was the Greek and the Other Italian, 007 and 008, the Funny and the Cute, the Scott and the Swed, the Talker and the Theatrical, and many, many others who are as always added to the map of my heart. Then it went that I danced to the songs I used to dance when I was 15, and I failed miserably when I tried to dance Scottish dances, but I also learned to Jump On It! and to dance to Korean songs. It went that I didn't hide my origins, and students also enjoyed having me on stage for the national anthem while in class almost everyone spoke English except one which continued undeterred, "ma cche mme capisci se parlo italiano?" (but do you understand if I speak Italian?) It went that I considered myself to be the most boring teacher on the planet Earth (or any other planet that was) but no, the students were crying bitterly when saying their goodbyes, they wouldn't let me go and everybody thanked me heartily. As I thanked them for every laughter we shared in class when they gave the weirdest answers ever.

It went that there's such a huge whirlwind of memories that I don't know where to start and where to finish, from our catchphrases among the staff (smashing, fabs, ball!, bullshit! -slap-, whaaaaaat?, can you imagine?!...) to the beach and the sea during the weekend excursions to the awesome performances during the international nights ... it's the Neverending Story, no doubt about it.

And like any good Neverending Story, we closed the book, said our goodbyes and stored our memories. I wonder if we can find the magic word next year, to reopen the book and start a new adventure?!

TravelEng 1 – The crossing

2011-08-08T13:59:00.000-07:00

When you've sent your contract two months ago and not heard anything from the school, it's always a comfort to receive an email the night before leaving "excuse me, may I ask you when are you going to arrive here? Signed: your boss." Oh well.

Yes because, as pointed out by many with disappointment, amazement, humor and distrust, although I'm Italian I'm going to England for a month to teach English. So what?! It's a sign that I'm being considered a native speaker, so suck it up, please.

The journey begins in the evening, with a Ryanair flight which surprisingly (but not for the regulars) is an hour late, while we're also asked to tear out our boarding passes already... so then if we have time we should fly the plane, what do you say?! While waiting to board I stare in awe at the two-year-old boy who probably still doesn't walk with ease, but on the other hand uses his iPad as I wouldn't be able to do even after a 60-hours course "iPad for dummies."

The plane is packed with crying infants, lovely babies do you actually need to take planes at night and not let anybody else sleep?! Arriving at Stansted, I say to myself "smart as I am, I'm going to sleep on the chairs at the arrivals' lounge, nobody will have thought of it!" Not a single soul.There is already half of London's population lying in preposterous positions, on the chairs and on the floor. A group of German girls was ready with sleeping bags (in fact there's a temperature of 5°C), pads, pillows, so on and so forth. I have the super cheap kit and you can see why: it constantly deflates, forcing me to assume contortionist's positions and certainly doesn't help to sleep. At 4am I see a brave man taking all of his stuff and leaving 3 free seats, I almost throw my 20 kg suitcase: chairs taken! Too bad that after an hour I must get up and refresh myself with a crepe (I ask for white chocolate, they put dark chocolate... I wish they were all like this, the errors of life!), then go to the bus stop to get to London. Then you wonder why it only costs £ 2. Well, when this sort of small truck comes where you need to load your suitcase by yourself, you understand everything.

In London it's raining -surprise!- but I find the familiar smell that I still don't know if it's smog, rubbish or restaurants but it's London's smell and I love it. I swear that the next British tourist who complains about the bridges in Venice shall be tortured to death. Try and run up and down the subway with a suitcase and a backpack and then tell me. Escalators and elevators, these strangers. Toronto 1-0 London.

I look for shelter at Starbucks'. Where the wireless connection isn't free.Toronto 2-0 London. But I'm ready for a true adventure in the pure English countryside, hoping that my shoes are waterproof. Meanwhile, today let's go and see "Mamma Mia!", tomorrow we'll think about the job.

I thought it would have been easy

2011-07-08T02:02:00.000-07:00

I left more than one year ago thinking I could shut all my Italian life in one bag and forget about it.

I left after making peace with those unchangeable vices with which my country is filled, but it was that kind of temporary break one allows to somebody they don't want anything more to do with.

I left filled with prejudices on my people, already looking forward to that land I filled with good things and dreams to fulfill.

Then I arrived overseas, in that land which used to offer a bunch of opportunities and which now hates immigrants because they steal jobs to Canadians.

I arrived in that land where not only the weather is cold, but the people as well, as long as you don't know them.

I went to see Bon Jovi's concerts and the very first thing I was told was “Who says you can't go home?”

I went to see NBA matches, but then I would suffer while following the web report of Reyer's matches, my hometown team, while my girlfriends showed me our little stadium via Skype.

I went out for dinner with the Italian community, only to be told how jealous Canadians are of that bond that keeps us Italians connected to our home country, no matter what.

I celebrated Italy's Birthday preparing a well-known speech and listening a thousand times to "Buonanotte all'Italia" (“Goodnight Italia”) while crying for rage for that little country that could not manage to wake up.

I came back shutting my ears at the nonsense of the know-it-all's, fed up with the ignorance of those usual Italians standing at the bus stop.

Then I went back in person to our stadium, realizing that we're the only people in the world to clap while singing the national anthem, as if we were at a street festival or something.

And maybe the only modern country to accept dictatorships for a while, to then wake up from time to time.

A country that maybe is finding the guts to express its own opinion, even if it's not what everybody would expect.

A country where -contrary to what prejudices say- many things work as well as, if not better than, in the rest of the world. A country that will maybe be able to keep the “shift” pressed and call itself a Country.

I thought it would have been easy to break that bond and forget I'm Italian. Instead now I want to be one of those Italians who stay and fight. Because “even if in Italy there's not much, you can always find something to do!”

TR # 22 - Missing

2011-04-20T09:51:00.000-07:00

The exact date of my return to Italy must be a secret for most of my friends waiting for me, but now it's useless to deny that the date is near or perhaps even imminent or maybe already gone. It's therefore time to take stock of and to count the things I will miss and those that I will instead be happy to leave behind.

Let's talk about food. I'll be happy to have back the sense of taste, the tasty vegetables, juicy fruit, dense olive oil, pasta that doesn't overcook. I won't miss the cinnamon either. I think that in Canada it's second only to maple syrup, cinnamon I mean, and I don't even like it! I won't miss the Alfredo pasta and will happily find cream again, leaving the sour cream to its fate. Therefore I won't miss the Italian restaurants, where the value for money is unacceptable and that with their authentic-ish names serve dishes that throw us authentic peninsularians into despair. But I must admit: I will miss the international restaurants and food, the wide selection of quesadillas and perogies, and the cafés. Ok let's just say it, my struggle for the introduction of Starbucks in Italy goes on. But I even found better and certainly cheaper places, from Tim Horton's to Second Cup and drinks for every taste. And for God's sake, when will we decide to serve cheesecakes, cupcakes and donuts even in the Italian pastry shops???!! Really, we have only to gain and nothing to lose. In calories, at least.
I will miss the seasons. Because here better than anywhere else we realize the transition from one season to another, with the sudden temperature variations, while the vivid colors as in a picture hit you with violence, and the light. The light is dazzling, no matter if it's sunny or not. The snow reflects the light, and so the lake, parks, the green islands which in autumn change in a thousand shades. I will miss the sunsets and sunrises over the lake, this oasis of peace where you almost don't hear the rest of the city with its hustle and bustle.
The weather. I'll miss it a little bit, a little I won't. It's always extreme, in the heat as well as in the cold, but it toughens your body to withstand the unusual. And most of all it's dry, my hair and my bones are thankful! I will miss the snow, because I've never lived in the midst of so much snow, I've never played so much and I became a little girl again. And I'll miss the ice-skating rinks on every corner (even in the houses' gardens!), Not because I like to skate -I'd rather watch others skate- but yes, it's soooo American!
The distances. I'll miss them sometimes, sometimes not. Now I'm used to travel at least half an hour for a coffee... that's a moment that I was missing for so long, the commuting one, where I can relax, watch other people and listen to music. But sometimes it's annoying, I'll be happy to walk anywhere and get anywhere in ten minutes. Windows' screens are also in the middle, I'll miss them a little and a little not. Here they are fixed, they can't be opened, which is great for insects in the summer and the rest of the time for squirrels and raccoons, but knowing that I can open the window and look out -yes, I need that!
Speaking of distances, I won't miss the TTC, the local transport company. Forget everything I had said earlier: it costs an arm and a leg, it's unreliable and inadequate, it keeps you waiting in freezing temperatures for tens of minutes, the drivers lack any common sense... a disaster! Just as much as I won't miss the taxes. Someone please explain to me why I have to add 13% to any advertised price. But WHAT THE DUCK, if I have $10 in my pocket, do I have to do maths with my cell phone to see if I can buy a packet of crisps?! I won't miss the hectic workaholic lifestyle, the bureaucracy that lacks common sense (at least in Europe we have that, even if we're slow), the super expensive healthcare for non-citizens, and here again, with peaks of insensitivity and meaningless bureaucracy that Europe would not even consider.
I will miss Tutorino. And here I start naming names, which I never do, because sometimes you've just got to. This company, founded out of sheer passion for Italy, has managed to do in Toronto far more than the Italian institutions ever strove to. It gave people like me the opportunity to work once you got here, which is precisely what, in my case, no one else did. The Italian consulate is completely useless, the IIC, the Chamber of Commerce and the Canadian Courier, when they deign to answer, it's almost always to offer unpaid internships. Not to mention Dante Alighieri, to which they keep cutting funds. And ironically, there are requests for Italian, and many too. It's about time to wake up! Nor will I miss the renowned UofT, the University of Toronto that offers Italian courses with teaching methods from the 20's... better for us, we welcome their students for private lessons. I won't miss the Italian community: where if you know someone, you can join them, if not... we're always the same.
I won't miss the Torontonians, because as I explained to some people, it's not just the weather that is cold. People here don't speak, don't approach each other, no physical contact at all! In the subway everybody's bent on their book / Ipad / Ipod / blackberry and nobody chats. But I will miss some Canadians. Because there are some people similar to the "fearful mimosa", the plant in Pa's garden that would close its leaves if touched: if you get close to them, they close themselves, but if you give them time you'll find out that they are extraordinary people and unimaginably generous too. And I will miss the friends I've met here and that have been there for me... as any other traveler, I will mark their names on a map in my heart and keep in touch for a long time. I won't miss the hypocrisy of Canada instead, the much-bragged-about tolerance covering the barely concealed racism of the man on the street, the intolerance and religious fanaticism (both religious and atheist, to say the truth) of many Canadians, who generally have a high opinion of themselves and their homeland.
Finally, I will miss the CN Tower. As it already happened for the London Eye, I will look out the window, puzzled, in search of the tower's slender figure in the distance, with its colors. I will miss it because it witnessed of all my experiences here, since the day I saw it in a taxi in the rain, the very first day, through tears and laughter, friendships and everything else. I take away with me a bigger bag than when I left, and not only because of the wool clothes to bring back, but because I'm a different person, grown up, knowing that I'm ready to write the next page. Perhaps from a window overlooking the London Eye.

"The circle is closed, the wheel turns, nothing else's there." Goodbye Canada.

TR # 21 - Moonlight and Valentino

2011-03-05T18:27:00.000-08:00

I'm Luna, it's February 14, I'm going to see another concert by Bon Jovi. Could I choose a different title from that of the film starring Jon?!

The weather is mild - 5 or 6 degrees ABOVE zero! - I just finished crying like a fountain watching 127 Hours, great movie, and I proceed with the BonJovi-dressing-up routine with the legendary, long-sleeved jersey and the Reyer sweatshirt -two passions together. I leave with the Ipod in my ears that plays all my favorite songs, the cobalt blue sky and the red clouds that I feel I'm in a picture of Van Gogh's. I'm happy like ever on a Valentine's Day, enjoy the classic hot dog pre-gig and walk to the legendary Air Canada Centre, while also meeting my neighbor who will see the concert from the upper level.

And here I am for my last concert in North America; my adventure began three concerts, twenty degrees and nine months ago in New Jersey and I think of how many things have changed, how much water has flowed under the bridge and what still stays the same: the feeling of being, as Jon sings "Exactly Where I'm Supposed To Be", especially from the first sector from which I see them closer than ever. Apart from the very first technical observation - as my grandmother would say "ooohhhhh deeeaaarrrrr, he cut his hair how tiiiidyyyyy" - I enjoy a concert focused on love, with Jon that says the historic " Bon Jovi is like Viagra for women" welcomed by the cries of all of us, while the kiss camera looks for couples in the mood for romance among the audience. The setlist is no exception, with gems not to be missed (Thank You For Loving Me over all) and covers that make all the many couples in the stadium hug and dance. Here's the complete setlist: Blood on Blood, You Give Love a Bad Name, Born To Be My Baby, We Weren't Born to Follow, In These Arms, Lost Highway, The More Things Change, It's My Life, Runaway, We Got It Goin 'On, Pretty Woman, Bad Medicine / Bad Case of Loving You, Lay Your Hands on Me (Richie Vox), My Funny Valentine; Bed of Roses; Superman Tonight (Acoustic), I'll Be There For You, Who Says You Can't Go Home, No Apologies, I'll Sleep When I'm Dead / Start Me Up, Keep The Faith, Thank You For Loving Me, Wanted Dead or Alive, Someday I'll Be Saturday Night, Just Older, Livin 'on a Prayer.

Many don't know Bon Jovi, don't appreciate them and / or don't understand the reasons behind their success. Well, let me quote a comment to one of the videos uploaded on Youtube: "No other band in the world can reach out to their audience the way this one does ..... Tommy and Gina are in the background ... . dancing a slow song!" Yes, I can imagine Tommy and Gina too, hugging, despite the hard times, taking a moment to dance a slow dance without thinking of anything else. Because this is the strength of Bon Jovi: they reach the hearts of ordinary people, of all the Tommy's and Gina's around the world.

And I'm proud to be part of it. So I hang onto the free pins they give us while going out, I head back home and I plan the last crazy act of this adventure overseas. 'Cause before going home I'll drop by where it all began. After nine months, twenty degrees, and three concerts I get ready to go back to New Jersey, this time just for one lunch. At Jon's.

TR # 20 - Belonging

2011-03-05T17:44:00.000-08:00

Outside it's -20 °, very good reason not to go out, and I look on the internet the latest episodes of "Che tempo che fa" from Italy, all focused on the referendum about the Fiat-blackmail. To cheer myself up a little, I open a folder always present in my mail, it's called "Dialogues" and collects all the most interesting and literary stimulating emails that I and others have written over the years. I open it with a specific purpose, to go and read the emails I wrote when I was 17, full of "x" and "k" and full of enthusiasm, anger and energy for my first encounters with the world. There's not much time left to my return to Italy and I'm sort of taking stock of my months here and looking back once more to that first trip to London. After coming back I was asking a friend: "Tell me, may there be a "Britain nostalgia"? Yes because I always heard of the "Africa nostalgia", but what I feel seems just like it! It was a vacation -but more than that, a life experience- truly wonderful and exciting." And he replied to me that yes, there may be all kinds of "nostalgia", or better it's a "situation nostalgia", the nostalgia of those places and moments that will probably never come back. Ten years later I know for sure that I will not suffer from the "Toronto nostalgia" because no matter how much I appreciate this experience and what it gave me, I won't regret these places and this hectic life (but I'll leave to another post the list of what I'll miss and what I won't). And I don't suffer from the "Italy nostalgia" either, although I miss my loved ones and sometimes the places, because I know I don't belong to my homeland either. Here it is, this is precisely the right verb: to belong. I want to find something or someone to belong to. It 's something you often see around, in those who talk about a place that's dear to them or about a loved one: there's a different light in their eyes, a very special excitement in the voice of those who speak to you about what they belong to. Some people have a "Colombia nostalgia" and staring into space they describe the difficulty in breathing for the thin air and the lack of seasons as something awesome, then there are those who have the "Italy nostalgia" although they have almost never been there, and you can almost see the image of the countryside and endless olive tree groves, and there are those who talk like that about a loved one, and no matter where they are in the world they know they belong to that person only and they feel at home anywhere. And I saw the "Europe nostalgia", the Brazilian saudade, and many other situation nostalgias. But I still have to find a place of which I can talk like that, and I'm strongly determined to find it. Meanwhile, I can say I'm happy to have lived this experience fully, in the sense that while sometimes things happen too fast for you to realize, in these months I have enjoyed every instant at the very moment in which I lived it. And almost without realizing it, I have accumulated experience in my field that will be invaluable in the future. So I'm definitely happy with what I got on a personal level and continue my search, going home for a pit-stop.

TR # 19 - The Ghost of Christmas Past

2011-01-03T16:36:00.000-08:00

Nice to meet you, Luna Scrooge. I don't think it's a recent thing, my hatred for Christmas. I mean. First, when I was a child it meant I would stay at home from school and I liked studying a lot. Pureblood nerd, here I am. Then there was the stress of the tree (and every other year, also the Manger): sacred hush while Pa' unrolled the lights and equally sacredly swore at full blast because some didn't work. And then he tried to explain to us why some cables worked even if a light was broken while others not… mysteries of the electricity on parallel cables or similar stuff. Then bad words and crazy screaming if we didn't put the larger balls near the trunk and wild complaints if the tree was real (it only happened twice, I think) because it scattered pine needles anywhere. Shortly, 'twas a penance. And then the Christmas lunch that, although funny and very pleasant in the result, required a preparation and a long job of diplomacy between supporters of the lunch at home and supporters of the restaurant that Wikileaks would make a fortune out of it. And my family -that we weren't properly conventional wasn't yet clear?- follows the politics of “if you need something we can buy it during the year, there's no need to wait for Christmas” therefore there weren't even heaps of presents to unwrap. On the bright side, I found when I was 4 a more than rational explanation to Father Christmas and I keep sticking to it (I'll write about it in another post, it would be too long). What?? Do you still believe in Santa Claus? Not mentioning the fact that I met him when I was 18, yes, I still believe in Father Christmas. Just saying, you still believe in Berlusconi… let's make a challenge!! He's sure cheaper and less harmful for the general well-being, the Father I mean, rather than the Papi.

And let's admit it too, the more years go by the worse it becomes, the Christmas period. It feels like here in North America, everybody rushing to the malls to buy a whole lot of generally useless gifts, everybody stressed out to decorate their houses according to the latest fashion's criteria, God forbid the neighbors and guests don't see that they're not up-to-date… how boring! And then, daily demonstrations of an alarming hypocrisy -that I have especially noticed since I entered the job world- with gifts exchanged among people who can't stand each other, pretending to believe in the spirit of Christmas when instead they can't see each other and they would kick and punch each other rather than buying a “little thought”! The Japanese know it best, since they hardly celebrate at all and they even work on the 25th!

Then during the last few years life -or bad luck- also got in the way to create ugly memories to me, all concentrated in the dull days between Christmas and New Year's Day. There are memories of death, of diseases diagnosed on the 31st and toasts made in the entrance hall of a hospital. Memories of police officers at the work place, of crisis of anxiety and attacks of panic for the situation that had been created on my work place. And then it was iron's turn. Yes because around this time one year ago I started making iron injections for a serious anemia of which I was absolutely unaware before the blood tests. And on December 28 last year they very wisely thought of doubling my dose of iron, causing an anaphylactic shock that scared me more than anything ever. I haven't spoken about it a lot since then, but the feeling of losing control over my own body, with my heart pulsing like crazy in my back and the pressure rising and falling in a minute -I remember everything as if it happened yesterday. Just as I remember, on the 30th of December, the overwhelming terror to go out of my house: on the threshold I almost went back in because I was terrified at the idea of feeling sick again, not being able to control my body, even fainting or something like that. I fought the fear, went out, and nothing happened. Then on New Year's Eve we made a promise with Gica: this year would have been different, enough celebrations in Mestre square with the lame concert and drunk guys throwing firecrackers.

Said and done, I celebrate it in Toronto City. And here they know their stuff. The inauguration of the Christmas period was on the 27th of November, with a big celebration in the main square, a million people, fireworks hitting the buildings (yes, says Ma', they must have indoor fireworks............) and Christmas music while all the people were skating as if we were shooting “Home Alone 2: Lost in New York”. And once I left behind the baggage of the Christmas' duties and the snow fell, with no gifts to buy, I feel like smiling more than anything else. I even decorated our house with small houses, penguins, little trees and snowflakes. I also drank the snow (that is, I held my mouth open until a snowflake fell within) and I'll probably go throwing snowballs very soon, in the nearby park. The Ghost of Christmas Present seems therefore much optimist and even not knowing what the Ghost of Christmas Future has ready for me, I count on succeeding in throwing behind my shoulders every negative memory brought by the Ghost of Christmas Past.

Sincerely,

Luna Scrooge.

TR # 18 - In excelsis Deo

2010-12-09T17:15:00.000-08:00

Corrections on the title won't be accepted, since I spent 2 hours to decide what the right form was. And if the endings are random, the thought is what counts.

The day begins talking about funerals. No, it's not fault of my ancestral pessimism or of the snowstorm or some other tragedy, but only of intercultural exchanges between me and Toy, the Japanese. Because if in Italy there's a monotonous Catholic monotheism, in Japan they have more imagination and freedom of thought. In fact, almost all of them are Buddhists. And they dress in black and white (red and yellow are the colors of Tibetan), and watch the corpse all night eating sushi in the company (of the dead, of course). Then they cremate him and make the funeral at the temple. You spend a King's ransom (or better, a Buddha's ransom) for flowers, coffin, urn, and name. Yes, the name. Because when someone dies, they're assigned a new name. It's the monk to decide the name, according to the money he's been given. Then we talk about privacy, spirituality and mafia behavior. Ever heard of protection money?!

But the day doesn't end here, in fact I'm invited to a concert in a church in Christmas theme, with music by Monteverdi, Palestrina, Vivaldi. Ma' has no doubts: "Vivaldi?! Of course, they'll play the Four Seasons!" No. It 's a Christmas concert. And in fact they are two hours of magnum mysterium, lullaby (as if I needed it...), ode a te probo vir, and then Vivaldi: Magnificat and Salve Regina. Help. I had never been to an Anglican church... or rather, never except as a tourist. The ceilings are high, OK. Seatings on the benches are strictly for 3 or 4, which you can tell by the number of prayer books in the prayer-books-holder. Books have not only text, but also the score of the songs, how professional. The pews are hard as all the pews, and next to the books there are tickets to be put in the offertory "I'm not giving cash because I already support this church with Visa or Mastercard". Oh. Speaking of privacy, the supporters are listed at the end of the concert's booklet... starting from the most generous down to the least, but is that normal?! The church is decorated with Christmas lights and Christmas trees, and after some minutes I understand what's weird: we don't have garlands, or perhaps one under the statues of saints, and the tree is a pagan decoration, for goodness sake! On the other hand, we have miles of cribs. Finally the concert begins, and I am surprised to like it ... more or less. But being surrounded by slumbering spectators when not sound asleep, I'm delighted by my stamina. And I ask myself technical questions: why that unknown instrument, the theorbo, is so long and unwieldy? The soprano improvises her trilling or Vivaldi had written, "On the lu of hallelujah trill 7 times A-G-A-F-E-C-B sharp"? The Mystery of the Faith wasn't the death and resurrection of Christ (which among other things, to explain it to Toy this story seems an episode of Twilight)? So why the magnum mysterium of Palestrina is summarized in the fact that it was mysteriously allowed to an ox and a donkey to see our Lord? I'm confused, what a mystery. During the break, the Sleeping Spectator wakes up because of the applause and with perfect nonchalance turns to me and begins to comment on the technical aspects of the choir ... you were sleeping, what do you know????! But I appreciate him as one of the few Canadians -if not the only one- starting a completely random conversation with no ulterior motives. He tells me about the Christmas Carols, which are really a tradition here, with the singers who used to go door to door singing.

After the concert, with a well-wishing "Goodbye, stay warm" of my new friend, I decide to ignore him and take a brisk walk. With a temperature of -5°, that with the wind feels just -12°. And the flying ice -because if it doesn't snow how do they say? Icerains?- whipping my face while I admire the megavillas behind my house. Finally I get home and I take refuge under the blanket, in the warmth. Thank God... or thank the heating.

TR # 17 - Shoelace

2010-11-09T08:17:00.000-08:00

"The people you've touched,

the way you've touched them

I hope they've touched you too,

'cause in this life it's hard to tell

what's false and what is true."

I don't remember how old I was, maybe five or six, maybe even four. I used to chase Ma' like a shadow, shoelace in hand, begging her to teach me how to tie my shoes. And I spent hours blocking the blood flow of her arm to practice, while Gogo and Pa' were trying to teach me the technique in theory with their typical masculine logic ("Take the lace, turn it, then slip the top into the hole and pull the other side".... men ....). I don't know if any of them has memories of this stage of my childhood, but certainly they don't remember why I had it. I was terrified that Ma' could die at any moment without having time to teach me to tie my shoes (and this says a lot about my confidence in the teaching methods of the males of the house). I don't know where I've heard it, perhaps it was Freud perhaps an episode of CSI or Criminal Minds, that this is a very common phase for every child, reckless fear of seeing their parents die suddenly. Instead the laces' thing was just my obsession.

Tonight Tat returned home with shining eyes, a lump in her throat and a calling card ready to call her boyfriend, whose father died suddenly. He had a cancer, but died for a regurgitation due to the chemo. He was 55. I've been there, Gogo's been there, and in our way we were both far when they needed us the most. Gogo gave up his Erasmus, I came back with my boyfriend back then to help arranging the funeral. It's one of those experiences that you don't wish to anyone, but that teaches you more than you learn in decades of school. It teaches you to be strong for everybody, to fight back your own tears so you can dry everybody else's, while you're waiting for your turn to fall apart that never comes. It teaches you the meaning of the word "impotence" and it brands it in your heart, in that guilt that-no matter if you're near or far-makes you think about what you could have done said changed and instead you've not done said changed. It teaches you to reconsider your life, your future projects in the light of what happened, because when death hits you so close it also inevitably changes your life.

I was taught to seize every opportunity and to learn as much as possible from everything that happens to me and from the people I meet. And if today to learn how to tie my shoes I can Google or Wikipedia "tie shoes" and I'm fine, to learn to appreciate life and decide what I want and what I have to change I have no other choice but to observe the world, the people, and myself in all this. And every day, remember what I learned and who taught me. Meanwhile, shoelace in hand, I begin to review.

TR # 16 - Life is now

2010-11-05T16:41:00.000-07:00

In Toronto it's All Saints' Day but for Canadians it's only the day after Halloween.Yesterday we saw the first snow -yes, in October!- but soon it stopped because the temperature dropped below zero -yes, always in October! So I go to the Walmart for a stock of heavy stockings "in pure bamboo".... .... .... which don't have "denari" to indicate the thickness, like in Italy, nor sizes but only weight "40-49 kg" or "50-59 kg" as if they were goddamn diapers! It's two days since I Toy Yu and Tat moved to our new house that is not so new because it's the house that my fellow CELTA mate Al left us and that I knew well from when I did the course. Ma' put me immediately on guard, "clear understandings breed long friendships, establish immediately some rules for who washes and cleans eh?!" Yes, we and our Italian mentality... just got out of my room I found Toy and Yu -Japanese and Korean, respectively, with vacuum-cleaner and sponge to wipe invisible stains ... right, Toy teaches home economics, I forgot. And I become the expert on laundry, dishwasher, groceries, cleaning, oven ... who knows how long will it take for them to realize that I don't have a clue about all these things! The first Italian dinner is a success, despite the flavorless olive oil here in Canada and Barilla spaghetti that are not like spaghetti Barilla in Italy ... and the first laundry is a huge success despite the 70-minutes dryer on clothes whose labels indicate in capital letters DO NOT TUMB DRY, DO NOT SPIN, HAND WASH! Well from now on we'll ignore the labels. It seems strange to be able to wash your hair on Monday, and be able to leave the bed unmade 'cause it's my room and there are no more MM's bollockings and to her face we spend every night together and have dinner together, contrary to what she thought.

And like a deja-vu the Internet works in fits and starts and I slip back into the despair of the early days here and I think maybe I'm a bit tired of Canada and I'd love to go back home. Then another deja-vu and the pre-sales for the 2011 concerts of Bon Jovi open, like exactly one year ago the 2010 pre-sales and I bought two tickets for the North America that would bound me to leave despite the visa despite the money despite everything. Now I buy a ticket to Toronto on Feb. 14 and one for Udine July 17. And then Tat tells me that she begins to regret having to return home soon, to Brazil, because this is a unique experience while her family will always be there waiting for her ... saudade de Canada, as they say. And then I remember Al's words, on the eve of her departure for Vietnam she said: "Yes, I'm afraid, but despite everything I know that I'll be exactly where I'm supposed to be" and unwittingly quotes word for word a song by Bon Jovi, the "Welcome to Wherever You Are" that gives the title to my blog and I should remember more often. Then I take a walk in the park near the house and my iPod decides to play the song I was listening, crying, while waiting for the plane that would take me here: Ligabue tells me "and also the stars fall, some both inside and outside.. for every wish that you make, another hundred are left out ... no worries". And looking at the dazzling colors of the Canadian leaves, that fell to the ground creating a layer of pure poetry for my eyes... it almost makes me want to see how it will look with the snow. Not that long to wait, I guess. And then there's Jon waiting for me for Valentine's Day, I can't miss that. But then he'll be waiting for me back home, and certainly I can't miss that either.

My last year

2010-10-18T14:13:00.000-07:00

My last year

TR # 15 - New horizons

2010-10-18T13:29:00.000-07:00

For some time I've been neglecting my blog and I apologize to those who, alarmed by my absence, wrote me heartfelt appeals to have news from the Land of the Maple Leaf. I wasn't lazy but -as my master's colleagues know too well- I was fully immersed into the maze of teaching English, which made me lose sleep but alas not pounds, because of the abundance of Nutella, and I was officially given the title of Teecha of the English language. But beyond that, the course was a valuable source of teaching practice, and a valuable source of new friends, fellow teachers as well as tireless travelers which will add new locations on my map of "friends around the world." And the first day of school my horizons changed completely. No, I'm not speaking metaphorically. During the admission test to the students I met two Italian students, Franz and Pav, who unlocked the mystery of the extendable visa and the next day I received an email for a job. Shortly, I found out I had the opportunity to extend the visa for another six months by making a simple request. Then, a local association of private teachers called me for an interview. The interview went well, I have the first students and tomorrow I will start classes around Toronto. I'm still amazed by the unpredictable amount of people who want to learn Italian here and I don't know what to expect from the first lessons.

My horizons ahead have therefore completely changed: no Vancouver in November, no going home, no Christmas with my family... or Easter... or birthday. I'm not excited about the prospect of the Canadian winter but I take this opportunity to gain experience and curriculum, knowing that I will not come back to Canada soon and I can enjoy all the time here trying to make the best out of it. I will also try to teach English and not think too much about my home.

Meanwhile, I think about tomorrow -the first class- and the move later this month. The rest... we'll see.

TR # 14 - Among the secessionists

2010-10-18T12:26:00.000-07:00

After preparing Foulie (the suitcase) with the bare essentials, I leave late at night for the streetcar stop, destination coach. Destination of the coach: Quebec, the separatist region of Canada. When I arrive at the bus stop I'm filled with doubts: on which of the three buses do I have to go?! The doubt is dispelled by Brit, "La Negra" as will be renamed by my fellow Spanish travelers: follow me, you're with me! So I sit down, the group travel bracelet on the wrist and seek a comfortable position to sleep during the trip... the search goes on for the whole trip keeping the well deserved rest at a safe distance. The landscape outside the window is monotonous, as I already knew: green green green green green green green water boooringgg. At 3 am we stop at a gas station to go to the bathroom: the place is dingy, but music comes from a radio... French music, you can tell we have crossed the border. I enjoy the sunrise at 6.30 am from the bus, a spectacle beyond description that only me and the driver witness, given that all the others are sleeping -good for them. Finally arrived in Quebec City we refresh ourselves with a tasty breakfast not included in the price and there I make the acquaintance of four Spanish women who are easily convinced that my understanding of Spanish is quite good... forcing me to try and catch a word every five, without much success. Without any time to rest we're back on the bus to go walking in the city center. Brit tells us about the history of Quebec City, where the governor stays during the summer, where there's the last Canadian fort since the war, where the French fought fiercely against the British enemy. The war lasted exactly 10 minutes. Maybe the soldiers at the end of the line had not even pointed their guns yet. And the French were humiliated, but you'd better not tell them. There is a tree with a cannonball embedded in the roots: for the French it's the symbol of their culture that grows and develops in spite of the English bully trying to subdue it... everybody laughs at this latest proof of French arrogance except for the group of French speakers, especially the Parisian-like girl who poses as a great diva and is perfectly in line with the spirit of the Québecois. After the tour of the old-European part we have five free hours. And the question arises: why couldn't we relax a bit in the hotel instead of hastening to walk around the city?! I take this opportunity to go to the park and sleep on a bench... what a relax! Then I take the public bus back to the hotel asking the driver to warn me when I should get off and take a look around: The hotel is "on the right" according to Brit... except you forgot to mention the need to cross a highway hmmmmmmmmmmmm. Finally I get in the room where I will divide the tiny bed with one of the Spanish girls and where the air conditioner is loud as ever, kinda like the bathroom's exhaust fan. No time for a shower 'cos it's already time for dinner at an Italian restaurant downtown. Risk-loving as I am I order a pizza and, surprise surprise, it's even decent! Only it's small, but OK, never mind. I'm sitting with a group of Brazilians who believe that an Italian like me must certainly understand Portuguese.... gulp. We go back on the bus where I can appreciate the driver's long face (at my question "ooohhhh how come there are fireworks over there?" his reply is "Well, there are fireworks. Period." ... I know he has French ancestors...) and it's finally time to sleep in a real bed, ready for day two.

The morning begins with another abundant breakfast (considering what I pay, I try to make it as abundant as possible!) and after paying I get chased by the waiter "did you pay??!" Yes moron, yes. On the bus once again I try to sleep in vain and I see Montreal approaching. Mostly you see the gigantic roller-coasters of the amusement park approaching... are we going??! No. The bridges of Montreal deserve a separate chapter. The one we're crossing was involved in secessionist attacks in the 70s (yeah sure, 3 years of terrorism with a couple of bombs here and there... amateurs!) while the near one was built on an Indian burial site: despite the warnings they continued to build it, and it collapsed twice killing 89 people, exactly the same number of people buried in the cemetery; the one we see in the center's mini-Eiffel towers on top just to celebrate a bit of French culture. We stop to photograph the Olympic stadium and while Brit draws a veil on its history, I learn from the inclement travel guide that the costs to build it doubled in the 70s, they made a project for the expensive opening roof that never worked and especially the stadium was hardly used at all during the Olympic Games and Canadians are still paying for it with taxes. The designers were Italian, confess! We spend the rest of the day shopping which has never been a passion of mine in Italy, let alone when I travel. "There isn't much to see, only the Notre-Dame church" says Brit... not much, you say! But given that it rains and the umbrella is safely in Toronto, I resign myself to go shopping. Among others, "Noël Eternel" stands out, the store that sells only Christmas stuff. I feel like the Little Match Girl who spies on the homes of rich people: used as I am to see exclusively religious articles, I'm amazed at the astounding variety of decorations for the tree (there's even the Little Mermaid!) and Charles Dickens village houses with even skaters on the ice. I buy a couple of souvenirs and take pictures of the cathedral of Notre Dame, then I go back to the bus. Destination: the Eaton Centre, which is exactly the same shopping center as in Toronto. Argh. The only peculiarity is that it's almost all underground, as during the winter in Montreal they live most of their time underground to avoid going out. As I head back to the bus I find another church worthy of pics and then spend the evening at the hotel, bored to death.

The third day begins with an included breakfast and continues with the riddles that Brit gives us into the bus as we head to Ottawa. On the way we see the prime minister's residence and that of the governor manned by guards of the Queen (the ones with the bear's hat, for instance). After having passed all the consulates of various countries and having appreciated the mega-spider in front of the art museum (spider worth millions of dollars...) we get downtown and head to Parliament Hill. The queue to visit the Parliament buildings is endless, I get through the controls (where the policeman opens both my phones... yes, I have two phones, what's wrong with that??!) but since it's finally a beautiful day I give up the tour and go for a walk around the city. Ottawa is very nice, the stroll along the river is pleasant and the landscape is beautiful. I admire the monument to one of the greatest champions of Canadian hockey (we don't have monuments to Totti or Alberto Tomba!) and I head back to the bus, destination: the 1000 islands.

The cruise on the thousand islands (on the border between the U.S. and Canada) is worth the whole trip, the views are breathtaking and the atmosphere is of total relaxation. Just across the border, we see what is now a luxury hotel but was originally built as a private castle expressly as a gift from a loving husband to his wife.... Canadians are the best, nothing to say about that. As usual Vodafone is grateful, and I receive EIGHT text messages on the inexpensive rates to call from the U.S. ... gulp. It's time to go back, and I enjoy the awkward efforts of the sixteen-year-old Spanish guys to conquer their peers... she won't give it to you darling, you'd better sleep!

Finally, I'm sure that Montreal is worth a visit as well as the other two cities, but I'll come back to make sure. Aside from the absurd organization, I still found what I was told, namely that Québec is very European from the disposition of the roads to the buildings and even the smells, and of course the language. A breath of home overseas.

TR # 13 - Teecha

2010-10-15T18:38:00.000-07:00

With Rui it was love at first sight. No matter that he's engaged, and to a polyglot too. Yes because she speaks "another European language". Really? What? Italian? No. English? Obviously she speaks English, we're in Canada! No, another one. OK, so French? Spanish? German? Russian? No, no. I got it! Taiwanese!

Yes, because Rui is six years old, he's been in Canada for not even a year and doesn't have a very clear idea of geography. It's hard to make him understand where Europe is and even more that Canada does not border with Africa. Rui has come as a surprise, at the very last moment his mother decided to enroll him to the summer camp where I volunteer as a teacher -Teecha as they call me here- of English to recently immigrated Chinese children. They know me as "the Italian, the one who can make pizza" which is now an inevitable association. The supervisor immediately puts her confidence in me and considers me the group leader, which doesn't make me feel calm at all. Then I ask Rui if he wants to play something. Yes, Teecha! Let's play Tic-Tac-Toe! Which if I was brought up in Canada I would know is what we call "tris" but this is not the case. And how do you play it? "Eeeehhhhmm it's a game.... That is it's easy. It's just a game. With paper and pencil. And you draw the lines so and so and then you put the ball and then you win." Then we play other games and children often re-create the rules themselves. Ste in particular, only to lose anyway... "Sure I made the rules myself, but I must also respect them!" Then we study Canada and it's assumed that I know how many provinces and territories there are or how many points the maple leaf has. But I know the official languages, and also Rui: "English and....... Chinese!" no honey, it's French! "But I know many people who speak Chinese and no one speaks French! And then you know that they do everything in China? Also this case is made in China because there they do everything and then they sell all over the world!" Rui likes to exercise, therefore every day he wakes up at 6 am to go jogging do tai-chi and then have breakfast before going to school or to us. What sports do you like? "Baseball, hockey... football, soccer..." and here we have to write your favorite sport, what is it? Badminton! How do you spell it? " Sure you don't want to write baseball hockey or any other sport that I KNOW the spelling of?! "No, I like badminton!" gulp.

At the summer camp it's important to do many different activities. Manual activities such as origami (Rui says that I'm doing pretty well), projects such as "my home in Canada," baking cookies and playing outdoors. On his project Rui is doing the highway and the river and the bridge over the river. Why don't we also draw the wooden planks on the bridge? "Eeeehhhh. Eh. Because then if the car goes on the wood it falls into the river." Yeah. It's true. But maybe there's the asphalt under the wood? "Eeeeehhh. Yes then I color gray underneath so you see it." What's that, a plane? "Eeeehhhh no. It 's a rocket in the rocket-station which is close to the river." And why are you doing people on horses? Who are they? "They are soldiers then there's the king here and that is the tower of the soldiers and the great one for the king." But why are you doing the soldiers? What are they for? "Eeeehhh. Because they are the ones who protect us from evil and so we are sure that Canada is free, right?" Self-evident. Meanwhile, I make a car "very good, put it on the highway, Teecha!" Now write the words you learned "...eeehhh car? King?" Are you sure they're new words? "Hihihihi eeehhhh eeehhhh not really?"

Before cooking you should learn the words related -it would be even better that I knew them but never mind: break the eggs, you know what that means? "Eeeehhhh break like when you break stuff?" exactly, precisely. But what do you like to eat? "Ooooohhh I eat a lot of rice!" Really? And do you cook it? "Eeehhhh no, grandma cooks it for breakfast. Ohhh but at lunch yes, I cook! Do you know how to do it?!" no, tell me! "You take the rice Teecha you put it on a plate, open the microwave, press the button, wait for the third beep and then it's ready!" Better than Chef Ramsay. Then we make cookies and I pretend to be able to measure in cups and teaspoons because the other teecha's afraid of the dough. And fortunately she's not there the following time, when we eat half the dough raw... she would've fainted. The supervisor then asks me to teach good manners... but why so much confidence in my native culture?! Rui loves his parents, rightly so. But "they just arrived from China and sleep all the time, they don't work!" tells me the first time, so they can follow him in the garden ("like eeeehhh you bury the seeds, water, and after a while the plant comes up... but a couple have been eaten by the raccoons!") or take him to swim ("yes, because here I go to the swimming pool but in China instead my mother took me to a cold cooold river which is big like a sea! "). Then his father gets a job and what does he do? "Oh, a Chinese job. He like... sells. Sells Chinese fruit." So Rui stays with his mother and asks me: "But do you believe in God?" eeehhhmmmm... you? "Nooo, hahahahaha. How could a God exist who doesn't have a mother? I think my mom is always there, but God has no mother!" His logic is flawless. We also go on field trips. In which the supervisor gives me again the role of leader. And asks me at inopportune moments, "how many kids do you have?" just when I've not counted them for at least two hours. But in the end everyone arrives safe and sound. At the science center I don't know whether to keep an eye on the children or the teenage tutors who play more than them, then we visit the oldest theater in Toronto but Rui only remembers the ghost upstairs Sam the trombonist: "We have visited the haunted house!" ehm not really. At the amusement park Rui is too short for almost everything but the next day "eeehhhmmm can I tell you something, Teecha? eeehhmmm just wanted to say thank you for giving me the money to shoot even if I didn't win the toy." You're very welcome darling. Rui always wants me to play with him "eeeehhhmmm Teecha, would you mind playing with me?" And at Taboo and Apples to Apples we make an awesome team together. And even with the sand castles we aren't bad at all. Rui perhaps didn't learn a lot from me during these weeks but has an excellent memory: he perfectly remembers the first thing I taught him and he tells it to me while we say goodbye the last day.

"Eeeehmmmmm can I tell you something?" Of course, anything you want. "Now when I see the Moon in the night sky you know you know you know what I think? I think of my Teecha because Luna means Moon in Italian!" I hug Rui and maybe watching the Moon I'll think about his round face too and the wonderful person he's destined to become.

TR # 12 - I've seen a million faces, and I rocked them all

2010-10-14T10:26:00.000-07:00

Whoever is not a true Bon Jovi fan can skip this post without any painful consequence.

But instead you faithful reader who keep on reading despite already knowing the topic, here is the chronicle of the second concert of this year, the sixth overall, of the most... most rock band in the world. My afternoon starts with the usual long-sleeved BJ shirt -what was I thinking?! - an atrocious hot, a hotdog and a hot water bottle at the stand. I head to the Rogers Centre at 5.30 pm, admiring the kitsch sculpture above the entrance representing supporters cheering on the athletes. I put myself in line at the gate and in the meanwhile the stand of the local radio station plays BJ songs at full volume while the lady guard tells us: "we hope you enjoy the show!" The building is huge but honestly I imagined it even bigger, considering it is a hockey and baseball arena. Canadians are smart: instead of putting a normal soil of any material they covered the field with fake grass, which is among the most uncomfortable things to walk on. The average age of viewers is incredibly high, with hale old guys ready to rock out with the 80s' hits of our idols. Of course there are also 80s' girls dressed in improbable matching colors and leather skintight leggings on thighs that they'd be better not show off with such impudence.

Already during the opening act I realize that for the first time I'm in a closed structure, rather than in a stadium or an arena. The acoustics are terrible, the sounds echo and the echo is unbearable. Good, very good. I have the opportunity to deepen the problem with the second performer of the evening, Kid Rock. I don't know much about him, except that he has long hair and a huge tattoo on his back, plays rock and metal with hints of country, that he's well-hung since the video shot during the story with Pamela Anderson (strange, a scandal related to our Pamelona!). Instead I find out that Kid Rock kicks ass on stage, has a stage presence and energy beyond description and also finds time to insult Britney Spears (here we don't do that shit, here we play live!) He ignites the audience with his most famous hits ("All summer long ", for one thing), but is also capable of much more intimate country ballads like "Picture", originally a duet with Sheryl Crow. And finally, it's time for Bon Jovi. Again you hear the jingle "This is our house" and then they start. Jon is in good shape despite a sprained ankle, women go crazy (me included), and he doesn't wait to be asked twice. "I spend a lot of time in bed but baby I don't like to sleep no" he sings winking, and then smiles to the girls in the front row singing the most famous ballads. The opening gave me a song that I never heard live, here's the setlist: Blood on Blood, We Weren't Born to Follow, You Give Love a Bad Name, Born To Be My Baby, Lost Highway, Runaway, It's My Life , I'll Sleep When I'm Dead, We Got It Going On, Bad Medicine / Old Time Rock 'n' Roll (w / Kid Rock), Love's the Only Rule, Lay Your Hands On Me (Richie Vox), Bed of Roses , I'll Be There For You, Something for the Pain, Someday I'll Be Saturday Night, In These Arms, Work for the Working Man, Have a Nice Day, Who Says You can't Go Home, Keep the Faith. Encore: Always, Wanted Dead or Alive, Livin 'on a Prayer.

This time I'm almost moved at the thought of how much water has passed under the bridge since the first time I saw Bon Jovi live in the dramatic Padua concert in 2001 that many remember with distaste. That was before 9/11, for one thing. And now I'm here, who would have thought?! I leave the Rogers Centre with my ears plugged, the smile on my face when finding out that the radio stand is still playing Bon Jovi songs. While crossing the bridge to catch the tram and go home I sing along with thousands of other people "Livin 'on a Prayer" while the stand turns down the volume on purpose to hear our voices. "Take my hand, we'll make it I swear... we're livin 'on a prayer" we sing in chorus as we go back to our lives. Until the next gig.

TR # 11 - A typical day

2010-10-13T12:05:00.000-07:00

The most frequent question that I'm asked from overseas is: "so tell me, what is your typical day like?" Wide question, no doubt about it. Well, my typical day starts at about 9.30 am, when my housemates go to school and I get up for breakfast, doing the slalom on the wooden planks of the floor and managing to ride roughshod over the creakiest ones, to the delight of MM. Then it's time for the daily session of psychoanalysis of the blinds. Yes because the American-style blinds are a sort of curtains that you pull to shut and pull again to open, but mine are not very eager to open. So they almost reach the floor before I convince them that their fate in this world is also to open, during the day. One of them took its mission so seriously that now all of a sudden it rewinds itself at night, of its own free will. Sigh.

After this effort, I make a beautiful Italo-Canadian breakfast: toasted bread with a considerable amount of Nutella, toasted bread with a thin abundant layer of jam, and Oreos. Then I leave and I venture to the city, according to the commitments I have. Commitments that will inevitably include the use of public transport, given the size of Toronto. The bus stops are at practically every intersection of major roads, and you don't need to hitchhike because the always angry drivers are skilled psychologists: they know by themselves if you are waiting for the bus or for the light to turn green. And you don't even need to request the stop at the subway, because everybody already knows that half of the passengers will get off. At first I didn't understand why the streetcar recommended to "make sure that the traffic is stopped before you get off", since the stops were on the curbs... Then I took the streetcar on the southern streets and I understood. Because they stop in the middle of the road and we must hope for the cars to be VERY careful and respectful of the rules of the road, or you may end up splattered like a cat on the highway. Given that in Canada they frequently commit suicide, it happens that sometimes the subway is closed down to retrieve the body of the unfortunate one... and so we run to take the shuttle bus, which at rush hour takes us commuters to the nearest station announcing "there you go Ladies and Gentlemen, thanks for flying with us." Haha so funny. Among many things, buses lower to help those who have strollers or those who have difficulties walking, instead bicycles can be loaded on the rack in front of the bus... and how will the driver make sure they are well secured?! Well, maybe he will realize it as soon as he leaves again.

If I need to shop I go to the big Mall, in particular the Wal-Mart is the best stocked and cheapest supermarket and instead at the drugstore you can buy medicines. Here in particular there are entire shelves of over-the-counter medicines (including Fisherman's Friend, which in Italy are candies and here are cough drops...), the counter for the prescriptions at which doctors create the amber bottles that you often see in the movies and then... the post office. Yes, in the drugstore. Then there are a lot of food shops too in the Mall: you can have something at the various Starbucks and McDonald's but also in the traditional Italian eateries... like the Sbarro chain. Now, seriously. I won't make easy jokes but I'm sure my Italian friends and especially the Venetians will understand my concerns. How can you call a typical Italian restaurant Sbarro, especially given the North American pronunciation?! And just for English speakers' benefit, I will explain that sborro in Italian is a vulgar word for "sperm"...

The premises must be licensed to sell alcohol nor there are any alcoholic beverages in stores nor you can drink alcohol on the streets under penalty of arrest. This explains the lack of Venetian immigrants in Canada. Yes because you can not smoke inside the premises, even outdoors, so beer and cigarette... not allowed, must choose one or the other. And as in all situations of Prohibition I find out that alcohol and soft drugs are the two main plagues of Canada. The prohibition of alcohol has its advantages, however, for me since I don't drink: the desserts are absolutely non-alcoholic (no rum, no holly, no nothing!), I can order any kind of milkshake or other colorful cocktail without asking the Hamlet-like question whether it is alcoholic or not.

Upon leaving the premises everybody disinfects their hands at the Amuchina gel-like dispensers which are now everywhere and then return home. Once a week I do the cleaning, which in the language of MM is to use all the Swiffer products in rotation, and every day I have to empty the trash, carefully recycling: I can throw pads in the green bin but not their plastic bags; the cotton swabs, hair and make-up removers MUST not go in the green bin; plastic bottles should be washed thoroughly before being thrown into the blue plastic recycling bin. The police regularly searches the bins and steeply fines those who break the rules. In fact the bins are personal and are placed at the curb once a week when the truck comes to withdraw.

Then I help set the table for dinner which often includes "Italian" pasta dishes with Alfredo sauce: mushrooms, peppers, sausage, beans, tomato; Bolognese meat sauce with tomato, sausage, beans, peppers, paprika and mushrooms. MM takes her "Italian" recipes from the "Italian" cook that has a program of his own on TV. His name is Mario, he wears a crucifix on his hairy chest, his shirt open, his hair in a ponytail and a ham on his shoulder... and if he says that that is the real Bolognese sauce!

After dinner, once the dishes are washed, we retreat into our rooms, while outside you hear the music of the ice cream truck that goes away and the next day you wake up at 7 with trucks that are beginning to work on the road at improbable hours. Then I can start again, with my typical day.

TR # 10 - Waka Waka fever

2010-10-13T10:08:00.000-07:00

30 days ago or so, I was dancing in front of the computer trying to learn Shakira's sinuous moves. Grandma Holly instead called home: "here's a thing, does your TV work?! Ooooohhhh deaaarrrr I hear a constant hum as if I had flies inside, it's unacceptable! And why can't I see Totti? And how come every player is drying his hands on his butt, I don't think that's polite!" The World Cup is started, and grandma is calibrated on the "national coach" version, with the problems of injuries and annoying vuvuzelas, the South African trumpets. Instead, I explore Corso Italia in search of a place to watch the first match, armed with the flag I bought here and so much-misplaced-confidence in our national team. I avoid the first local sports bar, full of exalted old people who sing loudly "Gloria" as if it was the anthem. Instead I sit in an ice cream shop where I order ice cream and watch the varied clientele. There is the owner's family, who speaks only dialect (I think Calabrese), and whose grandchildren answer in Canadian, although understanding his language; there are some beautiful South American girls, with light blue shirts and the myth -also misplaced, nowadays- of the Italian macho to pick up, the boy born in Canada but with a shirt that says, with the fonts of "The Godfather": "The Cup is ours", 15-year-old kids with the life-size cardboard shape of Buffon (and when Buffon injures himself the discouragement is widespread); the fortyish-year-olds who are wondering why Lippi hasn't brought Baggio... which Baggio?! No one sings the anthem but me, so I feel a bit observed and I doubt they even know it, but in the end everybody burst out clapping as an encouragement. Encouragement that is useless, as we know, and that soon turns into the frustration of the elderly owner who beats his hat against the plasma TV when he sees Lippi. I console myself with the arrival of two Canadian hot guys, who support Italy for "sympathy"... at least my eyes are pleased! For the last game against Slovakia I go back to the ice cream place for that weird Italian idea of luck that goes "even if it went wrong, you never know that if I change place it may go even worse" and there's only place outside, with a tropical temperature... but for Italy I can sacrifice! I start chatting with the other guests who are fascinated by my roots and the fact that Venice has not sunk yet and I dwell in technical explanations as to why Balotelli and Cassano were not called up... as if I knew any better, among other things! At half time, a streetcar stops in the middle of the intersection and the driver goes to find out what is Italy doing, blocking the traffic in the meantime. Unfortunately the game goes as we know and we go home downhearted, while the makeshift stands that pop up at every street corner that are beginning to sell Dutch and German flags instead of Italian ones... Yes, of course. Those I meet along the street who see the Italian flag give me their condolences as if someone had died while others stop me to ask me what happened... maybe I ask my grandmother and I can tell you. MM and other inhabitants of the area are very happy with the defeat of Italy, a little due to an atavistic dislike for the way we play soccer, a bit because the Italian ability to block every road with carousels is well known. Four years ago half the Toronto Police Service had undertaken to divert traffic due to the Italian celebrations. Not that the other Latins are any better, however: the Portuguese created 6 km queue in all directions to celebrate the advancement to the next round, with window flags, hood flags, so on and so forth. Now that the World Cup is over, and Spanish supporters celebrate the first title in their history almost no streetcars are running and some participate in the carousels; among other things, all the fans that I saw were Asian... melting pot or an excuse to pull girls?! Who knows? However, while the saddest World cup in Italian history comes to an end, the happiest for the nearby Iberian peninsula, the World Cup of Paul the Octopus who predicted all the results, the World Cup of vuvuzelas boasting a symphony orchestra, and the World Cup of Waka Waka that I eventually didn't need to learn anymore because there was nothing to celebrate... let's meet again in four years or if we believe in good luck let's go directly to 2020, with Buffon's heir in place of the beautiful (as many keep saying) Casillas, on the top of the world.

TR # 9 - Proudly

2010-10-12T19:06:00.001-07:00

"Then there's also that stuff there ...." My adventure at the first Gay Pride in my life starts like this, with my landlady MM who announced the events of the week, snubbing a rainbow-colored newspaper clipping. "If you want to go see that faggots' parade, be sure to spray yourself with a lot of insect repellent. Because it will be full of people with HIV, and no one has ever proved it, but who can tell that HIV is not transmitted by mosquito bites?" After a considerable effort not to laugh, cry, look too horrified... and in each of these cases, not to spit my food or choke, I nodded with participation and I got back to my room. To volunteer for the Toronto Pride 2010. The next day, I received a call that assigned me to the parade as "sign-carrier", with the polite request to dress in white.I wake up early on the Parade Sunday, I dress in white and spray myself... no, not with insect repellent, but sun protection, as the temperature could reach 32° and I just got back from a strong sunburn. I reach the headquarters of the Pride volunteers, crossing the sleepy street full of closed stands that are soon to give life to the show. I queue under the sun, realizing how hard it will be to resist the heat, I sign trying to spell my unintelligible last name and I get the pass, but not the colored t-shirt because my role requires white, Ugh! While I wait I eat a slice of pizza and sip icy water, and meet my colleagues. There's the girl who's volunteering because of her curriculum (the Gay Pride enhances your CV, who would have thought?), the young boy with the eye-liner that would give anything to get his period and the guy who is very white-skinned, and is worried about not being able to keep his skin white today, the black girls, so excited to participate in the parade that they haven't slept more than one hour in three days, the fifty-year-old fit guy, who's continuously spraying himself with sun protection and never missed a parade in 30 years. It's him that informs us that in 30 years, never a parade was canceled by bad weather, and proposes a fast track for those who want to walk drinking beer (it's forbidden to drink alcohol out on the streets); it's always him who tells me, based on my roots, of his recent trip to Riccione, and how everybody burst out laughing when he said had been to Rikkione... it's my turn to translate, of course, and to explain that "rikkione" means faggot in Italian.Finally, we are summoned and sent at the start of the parade, a few blocks north. We are told that, being the 30th anniversary of the Pride, we each will bring a sign around our neck on which one year is written, with the event which marked the history of Pride in that year, and we will march in pairs with balloons tied to our wrists, at various stages of the parade. I got paired with Jed, a girl from Toronto, and we have the years 1987 and 1988. My year, '87, marks the tenth year of operation of Brent Hawkes, a Toronto gay priest, thanks to whom gay marriage was legalized in Ontario (since 2005 it's legal in all Canada) and who's always been in the forefront of the struggle for gay rights. Father Hawkes happens to be at the parade and when we meet he thanks me for the sign around my neck. The parade starts, and we are condemned to wait in the atrocious hot weather while colorful characters and various associations march (like PFLAG, parents and friends of gays and lesbians, the Community of Father Hawkes, which gathers thousands of people shouting "nothing can separate us from God's LOVE"); to prevent the lynching of the public who can't see through the balloons, they make us move to another place, and finally me and Jed can march too behind the gay Jews association and gay policemen.The mass of humanity that has gathered in the streets, on the houses, roofs, under the sun to watch the parade is beyond description. Men, women, families, children, all with the colors of the rainbow and a smile on their faces, to greet us and encourage us... one million people it's what the news say today, and I wouldn't have said anything less. Some boys hold signs on their foreheads with the rules for a happy life: laugh-smile-love-dream, many are asking us to stop to take pictures and as Jed points out to me, we turned into two numbers "Hey, 87, stop! Call the 88 as well!"... it seems to be on the red carpet, and there is also the national TV, I wonder if MM is watching me from home! At one point I understand why the group of Israeli has policemen who march before and after: some idiots among the public try to invade the parade, but they're blocked immediately, at least today should be free from politics! But the atmosphere gets relaxed again, two guys behind us improvise acrobatic rock'n'roll on the street, the truck before us plays the typical songs of the Pride, among which I find out Rhianna has been included and instead I can't hear Lady Gaga. After a two-hour parade I'm just about to collapse from the heat, but I'm proud. Proud to be part of this event, proud of a city that brings a million people on the streets, proud to represent a great man like Brent Hawkes, who's in the audience, sees me and thanks me again, when it should be me to thank him and all those like him who are fighting for the rights of those who don't have enough voice to fight alone. After the parade we head back to the headquarters and I meet a family who asks me if I can give the balloons to their child, and God forbid, I'm just glad to get rid of the weight! I finally refresh myself with icy water, pizza and vegetables to dip. Greeting Jed and the others, I head back to the subway walking down the street that this morning was still asleep, and is now in full swing. The sidewalk has a rainbow drawn to indicate the way to the subway, and all those I meet smile to me and wish me Happy Pride.On the subway there's an elderly lady, the volunteer pass on her neck. She smiles at me, I smile at her. Proudly, Happy Pride.

TR # 8 - Falling

2010-10-12T17:13:00.000-07:00

I was very curious to finally travel on a famous Greyhound bus. Unless I found out that it's anything other than a bus, only with a grey hound drawn on. The bus station is sad and gray like in the movies, the conductor takes his time to understand the Italian pronunciation... yes because "Niagara" in Italian does not sound like "naiègra" in English, no, better keep that in mind. People are already lining up at the lane, and the happy couple with the child is already jumping the queue, as usual. We divide: the good customers directed to NYC board a huge bus, we get on a little bus because we are the poor people directed only to the falls.The scenery on the way is a highway that winds between two wings of blinding green, and occasionally the sea peeps out... oh no sorry, it's just a lake. Arrived to the village Naiègra Folz (or Niagara Falls, as we persist in writing), I realize that I no longer consulted a map since before leaving Italy. Ok, but my sense of direction tells me to go left. So I head confidently to the right, and in fact I find myself walking along the Niagara River, bound for the first attraction. The road is a highway, surrounded by Motels as seen in the movies, with neon signs at the roadside, and after half an hour under the hood of the sun I finally arrive at the Spanish Aero Car.

The Aero Car is a cable car built in 1916, which has never had an accident -we don't want to start today, right?!- suspended in space and traveling many, many hundreds of feet above the river on the border between New York and Ontario. The wait is long, so I spend it eating a hot-dog (but nothing compared to real hot dog stands); we finally board the cab, and half the trip we're on the right, half on the left of the cab to allow everyone to enjoy the show. Vodafone thanks, and sends me a text message every time I cross the border... basically, the phone vibrates continuously. Down below I see people on the rocks, and I honestly wonder how the hell did they get there, on those rocks. I thought the trip was more impressive, instead, except for the troubling wobble at certain points, the show is enjoyable and relaxing.

Out of the Aero Car, I head to the People Mover train, talking to a couple from New Jersey who of course loves Bon Jovi. Already on the train when you approach the falls area you hear the rumble from afar, and you begin to see the mess. Yes, because you feel as if you were in Las Vegas around the waterfalls, with all kinds of eating-bucks-attractions: Casino, lookout tower, amusement park, water park, Planet Hollywood, Hard Rock Cafe, so on and so forth. But if you just look away from this side of the road, forget about everything else. The water looks green, before falling. And I imagine what it must be like, to fall from there. And in all this glitter, I think, nobody thought of building a bungee jumping. It would be the only thing I would do, holy patience. The first attraction is the Journey Behind The Falls: armed with a K-Way, we admire the falls from directly behind. Apart from the shower because of the water vapor raised by the power of the falls, the view is impressive, even from the observation points behind the waterfalls as well as near it. And then the roar... you can not describe it, you can just live it.

Going from the Journey to Niagara's Fury, I wisely choose to go out... only to find out that the wind is now blowing in my direction, and I don't even have a K-Way. Soaking wet, I am now going to discover the history of the waterfalls with a new K-Way on... and I find out that I don't need it now, but later, when we enter a room with the self-propelled floor that simulates the movement of the falls, while jets of water splash upon us from the ceiling. But I stay dry because I chose the place near the guard, the only dry -a-ha!

As the cashier of Fury has given me the ticket, although it was not in the programs I go to the White Water Walk, the walk over the rapids. The queue is long, the sun is hot, will it be worth it?! Yes, the show is memorable. You walk next to the escarpment (but now, after Neuschwanstein, what will it be?) and admire the rapids, the most violent in the world (well, honestly I don't quite believe so much in this one...) that with an unstoppable energy stream down to the valley. Many records were marked on the rapids (oh no, let's not go back to the CN Tower-style records please!): The first one to cross them in a barrel, the tightrope walkers who have crossed from one bank to the other with all the appliances one can think of (there we go... ) and also with people loaded on their shoulders, the first tightrope walker to bike-cross them, even some banal swimmers, who have had their issues in order not to die.. etc. etc.

After the walk, I go to my last attraction: the Maid of the Mist. It's the historical boat, which has sailed under the waterfalls for centuries and has also recovered the only person ever to survive an accidental fall from the falls, a boy escaped unhurt from the mishap. We're provided yet another K-Way, and there's good reason for it: The boat is making his way under the American Falls, then under the Canadian Horseshoe Falls and back again. I wisely choose not to go upstairs, where I may not get wet, it's quicker to swim directly! The impact force of the wind near the falls is such as to push me a few feet back, but not enough to take away my desire to take pictures of the show, and of the rainbows in the waterfalls. Reluctantly going back, I look at the waterfalls in the distance one last time and tell myself that no, I cannot wait for the sunset or I'm never going back.

I would console me with a hot-dog, maybe at the double-decker restaurant near the station... but of course it's closed, because away from the falls everything closes at 5 pm, we are out of the mess. Low-spirited, I head for the train station, wondering what a family of Amish is doing in this place of perdition, aren't they against all forms of worldliness?! The bus arrives 40 minutes late (coming from NYC, what the hell...), and the driver also takes a break to eat and go to the bathroom. Finally I sit down, exhausted, and the last image of Niagara Falls is a limo parked in a driveway: I think it's because it's prom time, because if there is someone who really enjoys running around town with a limo, we really crossed the line. The line of beauty on one side of the city, the line of ridicule on the other side.

TR # 7 - Sightseeing Toronto

2010-10-12T14:03:00.000-07:00

The initial phase of a transfer abroad, Hofstede teaches me, is the phase of the tourist. Okay, so let's enjoy it entirely. I have already tasted the smells and bustle of Chinatown, which you access through a door with a dragon, I've seen the water park in the distance, the Ontario Place, and the medieval house near the port, dedicated to tournaments in costume and medieval dinners. But now it's time to get serious, and buy the Toronto Pass: I have nine days to visit the five main attractions of the city, ready set go!

I start from the "castle" of Toronto, which is not a castle but the home of the eccentric Sir Pellatt, who for the joy of the very Victorian neighbors wanted to transform his house into a castle worthy of Ludwig 2nd. I chose a good day, and like me THOUSANDS of school children on field trips and even a nursing home... what a fluke. At the entrance I'm given the audio guide, too bad that the map and the signs don't make clear which number to select, which makes it unusable. Inside Casa Loma there are all sorts of stuff: bathrooms (the house dates back to 1911!) even with a shower and then lifts, secret passages, an endless wet tunnel that leads to the stables (why don't you go there in the sunshine?! ), the towers with the steep spiral staircases with hundreds of noisy kids that come down when I would go up. But the view of Toronto from the towers is worth the wait. I give up having lunch at the restaurant of Casa Loma ($ 15 a sandwich...) and instead I have lunch downtown, with a "Spanish" ricotta and spinach lasagna... wasn't that Italian?!

The evening shows a clear and cloudless sky, so I decide to visit the CN Tower. To the disappointment of Toronto people, this tower -nothing but an antenna, in fact- became the symbol of the city when, in the '70s, the telephone company and the railway company decided to join forces to build it. Soon only the Canadian National, the railway company, was left and realized the touristic potential of the tower. In fact, today 20% of the profits comes from the antenna, 80% from the tourists! Actually, the 553 meters of the tower seen from the bottom are impressive, especially when illuminated by purple at sunset. The first stage of the visit provides a dynamic show at the cinema, a show that I had already seen in Gardaland, but with the unexpected addition of special effects. In fact, when the log protagonist of the movie fell into the waterfalls.... the seats of the cinema watered us generously! And when there were crocodiles, we felt tails flapping against our legs, how disgusting! Then finally, soaking wet, you can access the tower, by a transparent elevator that goes so fast that you don't even have time to be scared. The show at sunset from 346 meters high is breathtaking, and you do not realize that those buildings are skyscrapers. I take a shit load of pictures, also from the transparent floor, and look for the exit to the observation point almost ending in the very exclusive luxurious restaurant OOPS! While waiting to go down, I read on a wall the many records marked on the CN tower: the fastest to climb it, the fastest to climb up the stairs, the fastest to climb up in a wheelchair, the tightrope walker who started from here walking on the wire to I don't know what skyscraper, the group of idiots that went down the stairs of the tower with a washing machine, a television and a wardrobe.... once I went down I took some more pictures of the illuminated tower, indescribable!

The third monument is the Royal Ontario Museum, ROM, that if anyone has visited the British Museum... Well, it's not even worth it to get in, it's enough to take pictures of the futuristic exterior.

Then it's time for the Ontario Science Centre. The journey is long, around an hour and a half, and I spend it observing the many techniques of travelers to sleep in the most absurd positions without falling. It's raining cats and dogs, so it's the ideal day to shut me up somewhere... and that's the same thought of the thousand students visiting the science center, sob.The first thing I see is a huge structure, all animated by the motion of the balls thrown by children, causing a number of mechanisms to push other balls and so on: hypnotic, I almost move a child aside and start playing... No, maybe it's not a good idea. In the center there are a lot of demonstrations, and experiments to do with all the five senses, but also to understand the perception of truth, to study the different areas of the brain, so on and so forth. After going through the rainforest, I decide to visit the Harry Potter's exhibition, like any good fan. The price is expensive, but I soon find out that it's completely worth it. Just entered, a "magician" makes me wear the Sorting Hat that assigns me to Gryffindor, and then the train to Hoghwarts waits for us, to introduce us to the Gryffindor common room, the Quidditch goals, Hagrid's hut, the giant chess, the Great Hall with candles hanging from the ceiling: all the costumes and furnishings are from the original set, I gloat as a kid in a candy store! Needless to say, the gift shop will sell wands and candy made in Hogsmeade! I leave the science center fully satisfied with my visit.

If I thought that an hour and a half's journey was long, the two hours and something to get to the Zoo are an eternity. It's equatorial hot, the site said "10 km to walk" and yet I decide not to buy the ticket for the Zoomobile train, "because" I think, "I'll buy it after..." NO, the answer is NO, you can buy it only at the entrance. The maps scattered here and there lack a tiny detail: the symbol You Are Here, therefore they're useless. So I resign myself to walk randomly all the 10 km, and three and a half hours later I'm wasted. I've never seen so many animals in one zoo: elephants, giraffes (with which I have a photo taken), zebras, rhinos, grizzly bears, polar bears (which take a nap in the shade, poor things...), lions (hidden, alas), snow leopards (hidden, to which a visitor provides her capricious little girl as a snack... but she's not acceptable to them either), peacocks strolling alongside us and ominously croaking, owls, sharks, tarantulas, marmots, snakes (brake for the snake, a sign warns the drivers... so snakes are not only in the glass cases), kangaroos, camels, gorillas... I could go on forever. After the first hour and a half under the sun, it becomes increasingly uninteresting to see all the points of observation and I begin to rant against the signs, "Howler Monkey ->" Fuck howler monkeys, I can skip this! "<- Cormorants" but who gives a fuck about cormorants, except for Alessio Boni in Tutti Pazzi Per Amore, EH??! Then I decide to take some refreshment with a slice of pizza made in Canada, and while I'm taking back control of my legs a small crowd gathers to rescue a baby bird fallen from its nest one meter from where I sit.... not even a moment's peace! The latest attraction is the pool of shaved rays -meaning that they're deprived of the stings, so you can pat them... disgusting, it feels like touching a square eel! I finally let myself fall on the seat of the bus, and almost two hours later I get on the second bus... that will not leave. Because an angry passenger refuses to pay -but doesn't get off- because he waited too long and the bus is too full so he pretends to travel for free. In order to avoid being lynched, he resolves on paying. Needless to specify the nationality of this character who approaches me to ask for some information.... Italian. And of course, I answer in English. May we never be associated!

TR # 6 - First days in Canada (No Mac, no party)

2010-10-11T17:13:00.000-07:00

I leave Philadelphia curiously looking at the shoeshine at the airport, and wondering what the hell my neighbor is doing, so important that he's glued to his blackberry all the time. The arrival in Toronto is very heartening: in less than half an hour I'm already in a taxi, with the visa in my pocket ...nothing like the States! I notice that the greenery abounds, and I also appreciate the residential streets leading to the great shopping streets, and realize that I'll hardly be wrong when coming home: the sign "REMOVE YOUR SHOES" is visible from miles away. I immediately learn the rules and restrictions of MM, my landlady: take your shoes off, lock the door when you go out, dinner at 18.30 with food of all colors, no towels on the bed and no electricity before 9 o'clock in the evening! Gulp. I go with her to the grocery store, and notice the Canadian irony -a bit British- on the bus' windows: "Move to the rear of the bus, thank you" says the first and the second "well, maybe a little FURTHER back, THANKS. " I discover that there are no buttons to request the stop: you pull a cord that looks like a rubber electric wire and runs along the walls of the bus. On the bus and at the supermarket I hear no English at all, except by MM: I hear Russian, French, Italian (mostly dialects), Portuguese, Spanish... but then they all use English again when addressing strangers. It 's a first taste of the melting pot that Canada has managed to create over time.

On the third day in Canada, without any time to get used to the amount of paprika and garlic in the dishes of MM, my Mac surrenders to the change of voltage and dies. I bring it to the Mackhospital -the Apple Store- where the clerks talk to each other through a Macbook, and open the cash counter with an Iphone. Mackie is hospitalized, and I find myself completely puzzled. Not being able to communicate through my computer, all the shock that I didn't experience so far falls upon me, especially because of the distance from home and my loved ones. At the same time, I feel in tune with Toronto, I still feel that nothing can go wrong and that everything happens for a reason. I begin my pilgrimage looking for a job, at the Dante Alighieri (sorry, but you know...), at the gelati place Novecento in Corso Italia, on the online ads for Italian lessons, so on and so forth. Italian institutions are disinterested to say the least in the fate of compatriots on a working-holiday, even if it should be their role to promote us! Mah. At night I console myself with a stroll along the lake. On the bus there's a group of bad boys, which here means "guys who put their feet on the seats of the bus" but they later move them, apologizing, when I mention I want to sit... real thugs!! Among other things, they are six and of six different races: Asian, East European, North African, South American, African-American... again, the melting pot made in Canada. The spectacle of the lake at night is incredible: fresh air, the ideal temperature, the parks and the CN Tower in the background. Besides me there are girls who are jogging, people walking, everybody on the sidewalks of those that are not roads, but highway with sidewalks on both sides.

I've always loved the cities on the lakes, and Toronto is no exception. Here one feels safe, cannot get lost (because if nothing else, the CN Tower is a point of reference) and the transport network is so efficient, punctual and safe to be astonished when hearing those who complain -MM for example- to have to wait 5 minutes for a bus! I am going to make friends with this city, and I get ready to explore it far and wide.

TR # 5 - Going out

2010-10-11T16:25:00.000-07:00

As usual, once a leg of my journey is finished, I stop for a moment, pick up my notebook of "things to do and see before I die" and delete as appropriate: New York+Stephen King, New Jersey+Perth Amboy, BJ at the Giants Stadium. Only three?! There's a lot left. My impressions about the States? Contradictory. I saw the land of the TV stereotypes: yellow cabs, MacDonald's, splatter and gossip TV programs, skyscrapers, air conditioning at full blast, the super sizes of everything, the houses with the American flag in the patio and the backyard. I found some peculiarities, not to mention the oddities: people handcuffed on the street because they were drinking alcohol in public, the smoking ban 20 feet from the entrance of the buildings, preachers at every street corner and in the subways.

I found a diverse population, overall friendly and open, I was awarded the honorary citizenship of the Garden State (New Jersey) by one of his drivers, and I was given way almost anywhere, in the subway as well as on the plane.

But I also found a very frightened nation, whose perseverance in the assimilation now doesn't hold water anymore. The belief that foreigners should be grateful for being welcomed and therefore deny their origins and become deeply Americans has no rhyme nor reason anymore. And Americans have come to realize all that, though still the astonishment resists in those who can not explain the hatred and attacks perpetrated by inhabitants of this country, but whose origins generate today fear and suspicion. And clumsy attempts at reconciliation between cultures crop up, such as the final draft of a mosque near Ground Zero: the controversy raged, and there is no way of knowing if the politicians know what direction to take, or just run with the hare and hunt with the hounds: a monument to the Americans and a place of worship for Muslims -who are Americans as well. It 's time to cross the border to find out if the Canadian culture is different from that of their neighbors.

But all in all, God bless America ... whatever your God is.

TR # 4 - Caterpilling

2010-10-11T11:28:00.000-07:00

Of course it's boiling hot in New York as well. And I'm actually worse than the typical Japanese tourist: New York in less than two days, is it even doable?! My first experience on New York trains puts me in a '60s atmosphere: wooden interiors, the controller wearing a peaked cap, seats with moveable backrest (to seat in the right direction!). As soon as I come out from the Penn Station I feel like I'm in the middle of a bunch of stereotypes: skyscrapers, crazy traffic -but only because there are thousands of yellow taxis- behind me the Madison Square Garden of many famous concerts (Bon Jovi, just to name one ...). While I proceed in the excruciating heat I see Macy's, the Empire State Building of which I willingly ignore the hour-and-a-half queue to climb to the top, and the Grand Central Station which competes with certain scenarios from Harry Potter. Contrary to what people say, the subway is not complicated -even if, in fact, you can easily walk your way around New York- and it accepts the Italian ATM card to buy the tickets as well... wonderful! My plan includes a wide detour to go see a skyscraper unknown to most people, but for those who have read The Dark Tower by Stephen King, it's a must: at 2 Hammarskjold Plaza there's the Dark Tower of our world, aye Roland. Once I paid my respect to this milestone, I dive back into another stereotype: the hotdog stand on the street, and what a street! The fifth, or rather the famous 5th avenue. A job to be taken into account, that of the stand in Manhattan, a bit like the "bar on a tropical beach". My trip continues at the Rockefeller Center -the one with the famous ice-rink- and the nearby Starbucks to refresh myself in the heat of the City. This brings me to the well-known Times Square, and I wonder if the Americans are copying Piccadilly Circus or vice versa. After a due stop at the toy store, where there is also a ferris wheel ... and even here, who copied whom? Hamleys or Toysrus? - I relax in the dining area -basically, a series of tables and chairs in the middle of Times Square. Next to me sits an elderly Japanese lady knitting, then a boy approaches our table to lay down the oiliest McDonald's bag I've ever seen and eat his Big Mac on the spot. I end the first day in Central Park, just one look and then I'm off to some well-deserved rest. All in all, I have debunked many of my prejudices about the City: you can breathe a beautiful air of life, enthusiasm and not -as I thought- of hustle and hurry.

The second day is dedicated to Lower Manhattan, and I naively buy a ticket to the Statue of Liberty: the queue to board the ferry practically starts in Brooklyn, but it's enlivened by performances of various street artists. Fortunately the heat is tempered by the air, yet my shoulders are colored with a lobster-amaranth shade that's all but reassuring. The security controls are just like those at the airport, with the metal detector ... and of course try and guess who makes the alarm go off four times?! Italians. From the ferry I admire New York's skyline, and there are already hints at the chasm left by the Twin Towers. We arrived at Liberty Island, where I discover that the statue is not as small as they describe it, indeed! Maybe it's because the base is extremely high, but the whole monument is impressive to say the least. I continue to Ellis Island, where I fall in and out of sleep while Gene Hackman's voice tells us about the incomparable generosity of this country which has received millions of dirty stinking sick poor immigrants, long live America! And I couldn't describe the disgusted look on the guide's face while answering "Italians" to the question of which people had brought the largest number of immigrants to New York.

Coming back, a nice summer shower catches me by surprise and makes me regret the umbrella, safely inside the suitcase. Taken cover at Starbucks, I then go to Wall Street, which is nothing but a very busy street, and to Ground Zero. I very strongly looked forward to and feared the meeting with this place, because my 9/11 was the watershed date between the naivety and innocence of my 17s and the rude awakening to discover that no, America was not perfect, the American dream was a hoax, there were those who hated America and those whom in turn America hated. It was the moment when we lost all the serenity, the neutral look on anyone with a beard and a turban, the serenity of going out alone at night, the relaxed feeling of traveling without wondering what everybody carried in their bags. These days in the U.S., oddly enough, gave me back a bit of that lightness: the peace of mind of "come what may, it'll be a success," the open-mindedness that made me sit on a guard-rail in the middle of nowhere, at night, and chat with strangers without fear. Ground Zero takes your breath away. That's right, you're looking around and then suddenly you're in apnea. A void that can not be explained, because if I watch the images from 9 years ago and compare them with what I see now, I cannot explain how all the other buildings can still be standing. The conspiracy theories are gaining more and more appeal. There are two cranes, nobody knows to build what, it's not clear and it will be revealed only on the day of the tenth anniversary. But there are two American flags draped in mourning hanging from the cranes, for eternal memory... As if the void was not enough, to take your breath away.

CELTified

2010-10-02T15:03:00.000-07:00

"In looking for ways to move forward as a teacher,

you will also find ways to grow as a person.

Good luck. I hope you enjoy it all."

Jim Scrivener

My story begins more than one year ago, when my English teacher said: "You really don't need these lessons anymore. You should actually do the CELTA and teach English, not learn it. And you're also a foreigner, therefore you know the grammar, which we don't. Think about it."

As weird as the idea might sound at first, I started thinking about it and almost one year later I sent my application for the CELTA course in Toronto. From that moment on, my experience is similar to that of 9 other people who were applying for the same session and who went through pre-course assignments, interviews, pre-course tasks and so on, and who were asked the same question at one point: "Are you sure you can do it?!" The answer we gave was almost the same: "Hell, yes!! Who do you think you're talking to?!" Little did we know...

The first day wasn't so bad, I thought I would have had a tough month but I wasn't worried at all; I started defining "tough" from day 2, and consequently started crying and never stopped for the next 4 weeks. Because I wasn't prepared for the work load the course required, nor to be in front of a class while my peers and tutor were observing me, and pretend I know what the hell I'm doing here. I learned how to manage a class while teaching something useful (and feeling like an idiot when asking ICQs...), I learned how to write on the board, I learned how to plan a lesson in English and how to try to meet the criteria to pass a teaching practice... and I also decided not to give a damn about the criteria sometimes, and teach the people to try and see how real life works.

During these weeks I questioned everything about myself: am I a good teacher? Am I a teacher at all or should I change career?? Why should somebody pay ME to learn English, rather than a native speaker? Do I have the real-life-knowledge that I need to teach English culture? At this point, I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Then I started staging my breakfast: "toast the bread - 3 mins; spread the Nutella - 20 secs; feedback: is the Nutella evenly spread?" and after that, listening to Eros Ramazzotti sing "life sometimes cheats you, because it tests you before teaching you the lesson" I thought it was a perfect example of TTT... yes, I was on the verge of a nervous AND emotional breakdown.

But I'm alive, quite healthy and proud of what I achieved. And if I were to answer that question again "are you sure you can do it?" I would know exactly what to say. I'd say no. Unless you give me back those wonderful people who made this possible. I could write about a million things, about the unfair judgements and the incomprehensible standards, about the tutors, about the feedback, about the resource room and the printer that never worked... but I won't. I will write about the amazing Half-Italian girl whose laughter I already miss; I will write about the Aussie girl who speaks a mysterious language of her own that I pretend to understand; I'll write about my Tiny-Beautie that's always overanalyzing everything and never realizes what a beautiful person she is, and an amazing teacher as well; I'll write about the two Mothers in the class, that the students love because they're calm and confident and make you feel as if nothing could possibly go wrong; about the Half-Finnish guy that rehearses his lessons in front of the mirror, and everybody could tell how much he's improving; about the Clownish guy, who's the most entertaining teacher ever and spent time correcting my assignments and asking me why I put commas everywhere -because, I'm, Italian, of, course; and about the Actor-Teacher, who's not at the board - he's on stage performing his lesson, and the students love it. In this group I've been called the "Native-Italian-Positive-Vibe-Grammar-Book" and yes, as my teacher told me, I knew grammar better than anybody else. But they were all there when I was falling apart, and in their special way they gave me the strength to go on and never give up... and this is not something that you can learn from a book. So in the end, I learned a lot during this month, especially about myself. I learned that I can teach English as well as Italian, that students like me and don't give a shit if I'm Italian or not, that it's worth trying challenging myself because I never know how much I can achieve, that I'm generous and love to help other people... and I learned about friendship in the English-speaking world, where there's no distinction between love and affection, there's no "ti amo" vs. "ti voglio bene", there's only "I love you" and the idea that you will cherish a person for life.

I also learned a phrasal verb. It's a very special one indeed, because it's the only phrasal verb we used every day throughout the course and the only phrasal verb I definitely like. Whenever something went wrong or someone had a bad day, we would say to each other: "Hey come here, let's hug it out." And whenever I'll have a bad day and start questioning myself, I'll know I can just call a friend and hug it all out.

TR # 3 - New Jersey (finding Jon)

2010-08-09T18:12:00.000-07:00

My adventure in New Jersey begins under a dreadful hot weather, hopping on and off three different trains and waiting endlessly for a cab to deign to come to the station -why in god's name am I doing this?! Oh yeah, it's because of Jon Bon Jovi. Finally the cab arrives, so I can chat a little: what are you doing here? All the way from Italy FOR A CONCERT?! And what's your job? Who do you teach Italian to, in Italy? Don't they speak it already? Your English is perfect, by the way! Don't forget to come and see me too, one of these days I'll be playing in the stadiums too! Yeaaahh, sure... whatever. Finally I get to my apartment hotel, in a suite with stadium view and the highway all around, which means I can't leave this place other than in a cab. Perfect. Therefore I shut myself in the room, try to hand-wash my t-shirts -and successfully manage to!- and I make a sandwich. The sandwiches are already cut, awesome. Then I cook a pasta for dinner, and I realize that here they don't use normal burners, but hotplates which turn fire-red when hot... it took a while, before I realized I wasn't supposed to wait for a flame.

My first night goes by in a dreadful cold, thanks to the crazy thermostat. The day before the concert is dedicated to visit Perth Amboy, Jon's hometown, where I take for granted I will meet him, since he will be certainly there to rest. And indeed... my breakfast at the station is made of a traditional local Donut and an also traditional local watery coffee, after which I buy a newspaper to read on the train. Perth Amboy is very nice, it looks just like Wisteria Lane: cute houses with their gardens, the wooden stairs, the porch and the American flag in the patio garden; the beach on the... well, the canal, smell of saltiness in the air. My iPod plays Bon Jovi's songs, which in some way gain a whole new meaning, in this context. After walking along the canal, I resign myself to not meeting Jon while he's walking his dog and I take a seat at local restaurant to eat something. Which means, for just $10: icy cold water, blue cheese salad, crab cakes with lobster sauce, baked potatoes, dessert that I don't have, choosing an espresso instead... full of cinnamon, what the hell. Right when I was enjoying the cakes, the unforeseeable happened: a black sedan approaches from the road next to the restaurant, signals and turns... Jon is driving, with his headphones on, beautiful as ever. In the end, I was right. I can hardly eat anymore, of course, so the waiter asks me if he has to pack what's left for me to bring home... oh no, God forbid! I go back to the station, take the chance to go down to the beach and wash my feet in the water -icy cold, it's always an ocean after all- and I walk past through the worst neighborhoods. I'm ready for the concert.

The first thing to hit you is the absence of any fee meter on the cabs, because the fee is negotiable. Or rather, it's fixed. Whether you go to the station or across the street (the highway in my case) in just about 5 minutes, you still pay the same. It's boiling hot, what was I thinking when I bought a long-sleeves Bon Jovi shirt??! The stadium is huge even from the outside, and for those who have followed this band for a while, it's a dream come true: the old Giants Stadium, next to it and already half demolished, is a memorabilia in BJ's history. I arrive while they're still rehearsing, therefore I hear some hints of the songs they're going to play. Finally they open the gates, I take my seat and stare at the 3 rings of this "home of the Giants and the Jets!" which will host the Super Bowl too. I can count about 100 thousands seats, and some of them are way TOO high. As they usually do here, the seats on the field are numbered as well, which is good to prevent crowding and illnesses, and also to give to the people the opportunity to sit down. The seats are provided with drink-holders, and they're also very slippery. Those sitting next to me are an alcoholics' family with bottles of wine everywhere, and on the other side two typical extra fat American ladies. Unlike what I was told, the Americans are all but cold at concerts, on the contrary. After the opening act OneRepublic (the ones playing "Apologize"), the concert begins, with a jingle "this is our house" followed by two of my favorite songs, "Who says you can't go home" e "We weren't born to follow". The concert lasts three and a half hours, and when Jon thanks us for our loyalty, because he wouldn't be there if it wasn't for us, I think that I should thank him instead, because I wouldn't be here if I hadn't had those tickets for months. Now I know that a new phase of my life is beginning, without regrets and no more "I wish I was there", because I'm here now and I want to live every second to the best. For all the BJ lovers, here is the setlist: Who Says You Can't Go Home, We Weren't Born To Follow, You Give Love a Bad Name, In These Arms, Born To Be My Baby, Just Older, We Got It Goin' On, Raise Your Hands, When We Were Beautiful, Superman Tonight, Captain Crash and the Beauty Queen from Mars, Bad Medicine, It's My Life, Love's The Only Rule, Lay Your Hands On Me (Richie Vox), Livin' in Sin / Chapel of Love, I'll Be There For You, Something For The Pain, Diamond Ring, Sleep When I'm Dead/Jumpin' Jack Flash, I'd Die For You, Work for the Working Man, Someday I'll Be Saturday Night, Keep The Faith, Dry County, Wanted Dead or Alive, Livin' on a Prayer.

Once outside the stadium, I try to call for a cab but it's too late to get one. So I resign myself to sit on the crash barrier together with other unlucky guys, to wait. There's a guard in the middle of the street, trying to stop the approaching cars with a flashlight, to warn them to do a U-turn because there's a traffic jam and it would take more than one hour to go through, but nobody gives a shit about him: "I hate my fuckin' job!" Finally a cab arrives, after almost an hour, and I share it with father and son from Indianapolis. It's time to go to sleep, and to begin a new phase of my journey.

TR # 2 - First impressions

2010-08-08T10:19:00.000-07:00

My notebook's first page says “my dream is....”: not enough dots, I leave it blank. I leave my home persuading Ma' that, altough the suitcase is half empty, Klappar the hyppo wouldn't fit in it. At the airport, after saying goodbye to Pa' and Gogo, I head for the check-in desk with a blasé attitude. After the first passport check, I find out that the beauty case counts as suitcase, so please pay the extra fee thaaaanxx. There's the huge novelty in Venice, the body scanner, ooohh yes. Nice. Shut down. Unused. Nicely spent. The plane is on time, we're served lunch -cheese maccaroni, not so bad as I tought- and I realize how much people overstates. When they say there's a lot of room for your legs, or no room at all -the room is always the same-, that you're given lots of stuff -a pillow and a dressing gown, which I assumed to be a cover-, that you must walk or your blood will not flow and you run the risk of a paralysis -I stood up only once and never suffered any consequences. I enjoy two movies, the Christmas time kind, and observe that a trans-continental flight is no more silent than the others, on the contrary. When the pilot says that we're going to land one hour earlier, the old man sitting next to me can hardly contain himself and starts telling me about his 15 days in Italy. After descending and finding the exit among a thousand labyrinths, I line up on the "visitors" line, and I'm told I must fill in a green form. Exactly the same as the ESTA form, which I already filled in, asking me once more if I'm a relative to Bin Laden. NO, WHAT THE FUCK. After which I line up for the security checks, which make you feel SO welcome in this country. There's a sign describing the procedure: right hand's fingerprints, then left hand's, digital picture, and in the end it says “welcome to the USA”... woah, what if I wasn't welcome?! The hour of advance is already wasted, while I'm explaining to the cop that I'm a turist... "and you're staying in Bensalem??! To visit what?!" I'm staying at a friend's, HOLY GOD!!! I rescue my suitcases, hurled off the conveyor belt, and go outside. Until I'm on the street I can't believe I don't have any more checks to go through.

After a quick call home, I drag myself to the first available cab, giving the driver Mel's address. The energetic driver, while busy setting the GPS, ends up on the sidewalk, but the situation is under control. Then I meet the very first local tradition: the air conditioning at full blast. My neck cervicals are grateful. Along the way I see the skyscrapers, typical of Philadelphia's skyline, and the bridge: these are the first images I record. In the end, the nice driver can't find the right street "I cant see numbers, I cant see!" so I decide to call Mel to give me a ride. The weather today is what we would call "suffocating" in Venice, so hot and humid that you would rather stay at the Equator. After leaving my suitcases at Mel's cats' mercy, we drive -of course- to the local supermarket. The car are huge here, on the other hand streets are immense too. At the supermarket I meet my friend Air Conditioning of course, and in the fruit and vegetables department a storm breaks out: you can hear the thunder, then a light rain waters the produce -choreographies made in USA. Every product -fruit, vegetables, bread, delis- lasts up to a month, open in the fridge. Gulp. And in facts you don't buy hundred grams of delis, but a pound... half a kilo, who cares, since they last?! Luckily it's Mel who prepares dinner, meat pizza, and then it's time to go to sleep... or to play with Ninì the female cat, in my case, thanks to the jet-lag.

The next day I'm numb to say the least, because of the sleepless night, therefore I spend my time on the Internet. When my Macbook's battery runs down, I realize to my chagrin that the expensive transformer I was sold in Italy and said to be absolutely necessary, is useless, and all I need is plain adapters. Hmmmmmmm. In the afternoon we go for a stroll at the Mall, the shopping centre, with Mel and the faithful Air Conditioning. At the Mall you can find all kind of brands on sale, not necessarily in "sales weeks" as in Italy. Thus the Guess store sells bags at 25 dollars, while the Levi's store hauls jeans at 30. On the other hand, unlikely sweaters by D&G and Missoni reach $500-$600, but they used to cost $2,000-$3,000! While you walk through the mall's hallways, you can find any kind of stuff: candies machines, masseurs, estheticians who depilate your eyebrows USING SEWING THREAD, make-up stands where you can ask for a free trial to see how the make-up looks on you. Many dummies here have a 42 bra size... local beauty model; the Nike store sells a purse that you can fasten to your sneakers; the Lindt store is shutting down, therefore they're selling 4 pounds of Lindor at $7... that's too much even for me, the local super sizes are giving a hard time even to my undeniable voracity. Every shop assistant is smiling, and even if I know they're posing, I love to hear their greeting "Hi, how're you doing?", 'cause it sounds as if they gave a damn. After dropping by Victoria's Secret -which actually exists, I couldn't believe my eyes!- we head back home, and finally tonight I manage to sleep!

The third day couldn't start any better, with the skype-call home, and it goes on even better, with the trip to Philadelphia. It's boiling hot, and the temperature range between outside and inside must be around 20 degrees. An inspector validates the tickets, then puts them on your seat, and takes them when you're supposed to get off. The first stop we make in Philly is the Liberty Bell, which is the symbol of the American Independence. It has a whole museum of its own, where they stored souvenirs dating back to 1960... memorabilia indeed!!! The rangers won't allow us to sit on the very valuable outside little wall -it could date back to 1980, show some respect!- and finally we're admitted to the guided tour to the Congress Hall, where others valuable memorabilia are stored... 1700's stuff... the guide gets excited while talking about the best Constitution ever written and represented in those very halls... yeah, we must be in the middle of the world. After a tasty Mexican lunch, we take a stroll in the skyscrapers' area, which couldn't exist until a short time ago, because no building could be higher than Penn's statue's hat -Penn is the founding father of Pennsylvania. It's still boiling hot, but at least we have some shade from the skyscrapers. We seek shelter at our friend Air's, in one of the most recent skyscrapers, and after drinking a smoothie we head for the station, which is conveniently connected to the skyscraper, underground. Our train is canceled, therefore we squeeze ourselves into the next one and then we go shopping: tomorrow it's time for me to leave, New Jersey is waiting for me.

Travel Report #1 - The eve (what I'm leaving)

2010-08-07T15:52:00.000-07:00

There are a few hours left until the plane will take me overseas, a few minutes left until the episode of my favorite TV series, which I'll watch tonight for the last time. This was a goodbyes and last times' period, sometimes aware and more often unaware that they were the last. Clearly, just as every time I'm about to turn my mental scrapbook's page, I weigh the things I'm leaving behind and the things I'm taking with me.

I'm leaving my hometown, and its memories. Good memories and bad memories, of a nearby town that's unique, and therefore so hard to accept: 'cause when you're a child, you think all kids in the world live next to a pile-dwellings town. Then you see other towns and you realize they look much more like the place where you live, across the bridge, on the mainland. So you cherish Venice with all its lacks and hate Mestre with all your heart. But today I can say I made peace. Peace with the streetcar, the mice, the stinking Marzenego, the crazy limited traffic zones and the smell of smog. But I also made peace with the smell of sunset, of wet grass and grilled chicken... with the dawns at S.Giuliano, the parks, the Riviere. I take some digital pictures with me, and many, many more mental pictures stored behind my eyelids: when I close my eyes, they start sliding.

I leave my home, where I laughed, cried, loved, studied, fought. But I always say goodbye to its walls, everytime I leave.

I leave my many stuffed animals. Swettie the white sitting bear, Klappar the hyppo, Quack the duck, Placidia the hen. When I was a child, I used to wish goodnight to all my "1792" stuffed animals (I never counted them, it was an approximation by defect). Now, as a grown-up-like, I always wished goodnight to two of them, Black-Snout-Clergygirl, the monk seal, and Grey-Snout-Rabbie, the hare. Because I bought them at Hamleys', and they were there on the bedside table to constantly remind me that away from all the things that didn't fit me, away from the job I couldn't stand, there were more challenges, more opportunities, more different worlds.

I leave the challenges I lost and the ones I won, the satisfactions and the disappointments, but I take with me what I learned from those. I leave some people who were worth it, and some whom I wasted my time with. I take with me the awareness of giving everything I could, and somebody will never realize how much they lost.

I leave the ones I love, but I take with me the smiles, the hugs, the love they'll give me no matter where we are, the strength I gain from the fact that I mean so much to them as they mean to me.

I take with me the will to tell, to live, to observe, to feel life running through my veins. And the fear too, 'cause as Gogo says "it's part of the game, it's fair to shit yourself."

I know I'll be a different person when I'll come back, I hope I'll be much better, and I hope to pack -on the way back- at least half more mental baggage than what I'm packing now.

The suitcase is ready, it's time to shut the laptop down. And to turn the Italian TV on... at least one thing I won't miss.

Scent of coffee grounds

2010-08-05T16:30:00.000-07:00

Bam bam bam. A light, then nothing. Quick pics flow like a film, quick flashes now slowing down. Here we are, me and Roby. I've grazed my knee, because he was holding me and he let me slip out of his arms. I'm afraid of blood, but I don't want to cry because I don't want to give him this satisfaction. «It hurts?» «YES!!» «Sorry, didn't mean to…» «You're a jerk, as usual. I won't play with you ever again.» And then I cuddle up, pretending to hurt more than I actually do. He stands up and goes to the kitchen, he's gone for a while. When he comes back, he's got two coffee cups, even if mama doesn't want us to drink it. «I put four sugars in yours, shall we make peace?» I don't answer, take my cup and mix the sugar. He's fooling around, gargles and make me laugh. «Still mad?» «Little less now.» «So you can smell the scent?» «What scent?» «That scent you smell after you drank a cup of coffee when you're happy. Can you smell it?» «You're right, I can smell something. I think it's the scent of coffee grounds.» «Oh, I thought it was the cup. But you're the one to know such stuff, so I trust you. It's the scent of coffee grounds.» Pics flowing again, running fast. Here they slow down again. Me and Roby again, but older. I'm crying after I just broke up. «Hussshhhhhh c'mon, stop it huuuushhhhhhh!!» He could never stand my tears, he's afraid of seeing me cry. «It's not worth it, c'mon! He was such an asshole!! He can't force you to do something you don't want to! If you're meant to be, you will meet him again, if not you'll find a thousand other guys, much better than him!! Huuusssshhhh stop it, c'mon stand up and follow me.» He draws me out to the balcony where we hang our laundry out to dry. We can see all the roofs from there, time's close to sunset. «Do you think it's worth to cry?? Look at this sight, look at the colors of the clouds! This is worth crying for, but with happiness!!» I stopped crying, but I don't give a damn about the clouds. «Thanks.» I smile. «Fine, that's a start. If you stop fuckin' sulk, then, you can also find a new Brad Pitt.» I push him in play and laugh, he puts his hand on my shoulder and we go back inside.

Bam bam bam. I open my eyes, where am I? Blue light Oh My God I can't breathe aaahhhh aaahhhh calm down calm down it's just an oxygen mask. I take a deep breath, where am I? IV everywhere, am I at the hospital? I'm passing out, I close my eyes. Pics flowing again, as if I'm watching a movie. Me and Roby again, we're children again, we're puffing up our cheeks. We're Bubboo and Bubbee, we must keep talking like this until one of us laughs. He's doing everything he can to make me laugh, and finally he manages to. He's happy, but not because he won, just because I'm laughing. Pics flowing again, memories shoal and mix together. Here I am, at Roby's door. Ding-dong. «Heeeyyy dumby, how come you're here??» «Hi.. well… I dropped by to give you the invitation, you know... I'm marrying Manuel.» «Oh. Oh, OK. But, are you sure? Come on in, let's talk about it.» «Oh no, he's waiting in the car, I'm on a rush... sorry.» He looks down at the invitation. «Sorry for what? The thing is, I don't know if you would still be sorry, if you were happy. And if you would miss that sparkle in your eyes. But if you say you're happy, then I believe you, you know I trust you.» «And I trust you.» I've got a lump in my throat, I don't want him to frown at me. «Don't turn away from me.» «Heeeyyyy are you nuts?? How could Bubboo turn away from Bubbee??» And he puffs up his cheeks, like when we were children. I laugh, and he's relieved to see me laugh as I used to. «But if you have any problems, you know I'm here, right?» I hold him tight, because I'm afraid we will end up growing away anyway.

White lights, distant voices. «Doctor, the girl is waking up.» One light in one eye, then in the other one. «Giovanna, can you hear me?» My mouth is furred, I can't answer. «Sedate her, she's still weak». It's dark again, and the pics are flowing again. Me and Roby walking on the beach after it rained. He lifts some wet sand with his umbrella and I get dirty. I'm about to get mad at him when he throws me to the ground with a wrestler's move, we laugh and fight. Back at the bungalow, mama gets really mad. «C'mon mama, it's my fault 'cause I made her kinda tumbling down!!» I laugh again. Pics flowing, once again. We're in his car, I'm crying while Roby's driving. «I don't wanna start with "I warned you", so let me just say he's the biggest jackass on Earth. And stop looking at that fucking mobile or I'll throw it away!! He's not gonna call you, and if he does, he will talk to ME! When will you begin to understand how much you deserve thanks to the wonderful person you are and all you give to other people??» «Sure, what I give besides ballbusting? Evidently, I wasn't enough for him.» «YEAH, SURE!! And if that was true, he's justified in finding another woman? Are you kidding??! If I weren't driving I would wrestle with you like we used to, just to see if I can re-activate some cells in that brain of yours!! And do you really want to know what you give to other people? Look at what I found in my stuff, the other day, read something that's worth crying for, c'mon!» He takes a piece of paper out of his pocket, it's old and yellow. At the top, there's a date written by a child. «Hey, what the fuck is he doing?? WWWOOOHHHAAA!!»

Bam bam bam. I wake up, I'm still numb but my head is clear. A nurse is changing the IV. «Good morning Giovanna, how do you feel?» «Confused… weak» «You had a bad accident, it's normal.» «Roby… Roberto, my brother, where is he?? How is he?» «You must thank him, if he hadn't had that quick reaction... he sheered on his side, to avoid you being hurt. He saved your life. He's in a different ward.» «Can I see him? I want to see him.» «Maybe tomorrow, right now he's still too weak.» She goes away. I start looking around, bringing the room into focus. I see my mobile on the bedside table, and that piece of paper. I must have had it in my hands. I take it and read the first lines:

“March 10th 1989. That is the day I turn eight.

Today I'm writing the eight nine or maybe ten stuff I more like, so when I read this in four or maybe five years I can see what I like still and what not. I begin from the less good to the best good.

10.Playing Pang on the Amiga, cos I always win at Pang and sometimes at golden axe too.

09.The recess at school, so I can run and play and I can not study for a while.

08.When we sit around the table at Christmas and New Years Eve all together and we laugh a lot and we eat what Auntie makes and then we count sixty fiftyfive and so on, cos now I can cos I'm older but some time ago I couldn't cos I was too young and I slept a lot earlier.

07.The scent of burned paper and wood when papa cooks barbecue and we collect pine needles. Then papa always gets sick and that's not good, but before it is.

06.The scent of grass when it rains or maybe not, the scent of everything when it's not raining anymore and everybody go around in tracksuit with the umbrella and then you can see the rain bowl too.

05.When we go to the beach together, cos we sing in the car and we laugh all the time but then my sister gets sick so we must be quiet but I still like it.

04.When my mom hugs me tight and I don't know that she wants to hug me, so I like it anyway no I like it even more.”

A smile fills my mouth, tears fill my eyes, I close the paper and decide to go on reading it later, with Roby. He's so right, there are many things worth crying for. Finally they let me see him. Doctors have dark, crusty faces, I don't like them. They stop me in the hallway.

«Hi.»

«Miss D., maybe you should wait a little while. It's not a good show.»

«I don't care, I wanna see Roby. How is he?»

«Oh… he's not well, Miss D.»

«What do you mean? How long will he have to stay here?»

«Well… he suffered some traumas and brain damages which led to an oedema… he's in coma, Miss D.»

«Coma? But he will pull through. He must pull through.»

«We don't have big hopes, honestly. I'm sorry but... well, if he doesn't react in the next six hours, we will have to declare his brain death. I'm really sorry Miss D., honestly.» Silence.

«Mrs.»

«Sorry?»

«You keep calling me "Miss" even though I'm married. Mrs.»

«Oh… sorry. Seriously, you'd better choose another moment to see your brother.»

«No. If you're telling the truth, this could be my last chance to see him.»

«It's up to you then, ma'm. Let me take you to the room.»

The room is dark, Roby's got IV everywhere. His head is all wrapped, his legs too. Oh My God brother, what happened? I get closer and hold his hand. «Hi, it's me.» Beep beep beep. «C'mon, stop pretending, you won. Wake up.» Beep beep beep. I can feel a lead weight on my stomach. It's called helplessness. I'm looking at the only man –or maybe the only person- who never deceived me, and gave me all he had without asking anything back. And I'm helpless. And I can't even tell him, how special he is. How long I've been looking for someone like him, someone who could see in me all the good things he saw. I can't stop staring at that bandage around his head... how much did it hurt??! Why?? To save me, once more. To save my life and save me from my life, at the same time. To make me realize how many walls I built along the years. Walls around myself, to prevent me from getting at my heart and hurt myself. Walls against other people, to prevent them from getting at my heart and destroy me. Walls against the whole world, afraid of I don't know what, but it's something that could kill me if it'd only got closer. Maybe it's fear of happiness. Roby never built any walls. Every time he was slapped, he smiled back. And every time he was let down, he chose to trust again. Like he did with me. I let him down all my life. And yet he made me feel the most important person in the world. What's so special in me, I don't know. I can't even wake you up. I keep crying. Oh yeah, the list. I take the paper, start reading it and remembering with him. Nothing. Beep beep beep. There's only half an hour left, I've been here for five hours and a half. I go on reading, there are three items left.

“03.The sun set when there are a lot of clouds in the sky, and they color orange and pink and then birds fly into them and there's the light wind that ruffles my hair.

02.The scent of coffee grounds, cos then you are very happy if you smell it, and you love very very much that who's with you. When my sister is there I always smell it. Only if I drink coffee, that is.”

Oh, yeah. It's been a long time since I thought about that. It's been a long time since I last smelled it. I take a glimpse to the last line, and everything collapses. The world as I considered it until now, the idea of being forced to fight for something different from what I already have. I look around and discover a new world, that is the same world but now I'm able to see it. And I understand that my life is stronger than my efforts to ruin it. And I finally understand that there are many things worth crying for, but many more things worth laughing for. Once again, Roby gave me joy, gave me my life back.

“01.My sister's smile, cos it colors everything and it seems that there's a light so strong that you must close your eyes, even if it's raining outside. And she always smiles even if I say silly silly stuff, but she smiles cos she's nice. Here they are. This are the stuff I more like. One day I say them to my sister, so she can say hers. Not today cos she's mad, and I want to make her laugh. So then she's happy.”

Beep beep beep. I can't hold back the tears anymore. I stop. I read the list all over again. Beep beep beep. A doctor walks in. «Ma'am… you should walk out the room.»

«No.»

«Please, ma'am, we must unplug the machines.»

«Unplug them, but I'm staying here. And bring me a coffee, with lots of sugar.»

«But ma'am…» He's persuaded by my glance. When the nurse comes in bringing my coffee, I slowly mix it. I look at Roby, and I can't see anything else. I drink my coffee as we used to. Beep beep beep. Beep beep. Then nothing. His face softens, he looks as if he's ready to stick out his tongue and make me laugh. Thus I laugh, laugh, laugh and everybody thinks I'm crazy but I can't see them nor hear them. Out of the windows there's one of our sunsets, full of clouds in the sky. And I bet you can smell wet grass, rain and burnt wood in the air. But I can smell only one thing, and put my lips on Roby's 'cause I'm sure he can smell it too. It's that scent, again. The scent of coffee grounds.

Three nickels

2010-08-04T16:52:00.000-07:00

“21. 11. 1992

Dear Santa,
Ill write you early enogh so you can find the time to find the stuff I need.
This year I don't want any presents for me even tough I've been a good girl, but I just need a kimono and a radio, 'cause mama needs them. So I can help her pull out the three nickels shes got on her forehead and we can plant them and grow the nickels tree. Thanx a lot, say hi to the reindeer.
Giorgia Badin.”

“18.02.1993
Dear Santa,
I just wanted say thanx for the kimono and the radio, even tough mama didn't need them, after all. Oh, and while you're at it, say thanx to the Wise Men for the candies, mama liked those!
Giorgia Badin.”

“01.02.2013
From: Giorgia gbadgirl@libero.it
To: Ale; Anna; Babi; Cher; Dani; Ele; Eleuni; Elyb; Elytit; Mary; Nick; Ozzy; Peppe; Rosa; Vero
Obj: B-Daaayyyy!!

Hey guys!
I'm depressed right know, can you believe I'm almost 30??! Still I'm safe for another year :-D! And not the oldest of the gang, uh?! Just kidddin! C'mon Vero, no offense meant!! How about celebrating (or drown our sorrows)?? See ya on the 18th of course, at my daddy's place, OK? If my boss won't change his mind on the V-E-R-Y S-H-O-R-T meeting we're having (he's such a cock), I'd say we meet 9.15 so that MAYBE you, Ely, will make it on time??! Let me know who's coming so I can book the place! Bring whoever you want! See yaaaaaa! Hugs,
Giò

P.S.- This year NO PRESENTS, no kidding!! But you can bring the cake ;-)!”

“18.02.2013

Dear Giugi,
the date on this letter is not -of course- the date it was written, but the day you'll receive it. I didn't choose your 29th birthday by chance. When you're 29, you're often taking stock of your life, making tough choices, tough decisions. Or, as in my case, you suddenly see "game over" on your screen. I'm 29 right now while I'm writing, you're in your room and you're just eight. In my whole life I always did everything in a rush, as if I had known I wasn't allowed to waste my time. But I wouldn't retrace my steps, I don't have any regrets and just few remorses. I started writing because this morning, while touching my forehead, you asked me what those bumps were. Since I couldn't explain, I told you they were three nickels, remember? And that I would have had to go to Heaven, to pull those out and plant the nickels tree. Forgive me for lying to you, forgive me for not being there to see you grow up. See? I'm asking your forgiveness for things not under my control. This is something you should keep in mind: be always sorry and thankful, even for things that don't figure on you or people around you. There are so many things I wish I could teach you, even if I'm not the best person to do that. Take care of your dad, he looks strong but he's fragile inside. I wish I were by your side, when you'll have your first gratifications, and your first disappointments too. Don't beat yourself down, be strong. You're already strong.
You just came and showed me your letter for Santa. You must have heard me and your daddy talking about chemo and radio therapies... I'm so sorry honey, I didn't mean to steal your dreams.
Back to us, what were we talking about? Now that I don't have much time left, I reconsider everything under a different light. Sounds prosaic, but it's true; oh, by the way, the old "when you don't have much time left you do everything you always dreamed about" isn't true. It's bullshit. When you're diagnosed a cancer, you spend every second trying to recover, and you have hardly any energy left. Thus, live now, live every second without a second thought, don't linger on resentment or regret because you really have just one life. And nothing lasts forever. Now that you're young, everything seems to last forever, delights as much as deprivations. It's not like that. Everything -except death- changes more often than you could imagine. The way you'll miss me -that will change; the "endless" love for your first boyfriend -that will change; the disappointment for your first breakup -that will change; the job you hate -that will change; your lease on life -that will change. Don't ever let your life go without your guide, fight to change what's wrong. And don't ever stop fighting just because everybody else goes against you: I fought to get married and give birth to you when I was barely twenty, and now everybody agrees with me. Even your grandma.
Always follow your instinct, even in the worst moments, because I trust it to lead you in the right direction. Remember how the sun rises in the sky: it always wins, against any clouds, it will fight and rise every single day. Do the same, follow your light, rush headlong into every experience, breathing every moment of those. I'm already missing those breaths, those smells and those moments which get out of my hands... but I wish you will feel this nostalgia in a far future, in sixty years at least.
I wish I could write forever, but I don't think I can. Trust yourself, don't trust others too much, and most important don't trust those who promise the world to you. Your dad conquered me with actions, not words. Take care of him, make him proud. Now it's time for me to end this letter. I love you, I know you know it, and I'm not watching you from up above, so do all the crap you want to. If one's value is measured on the mark she leaves on others, when I look at you I'm proud of myself because I'm worth much more than I could ever imagine. Have a nice life, happy birthday Giugi.
Mommy.

PS- In the envelope you'll find three nickels... who knows if they'll still exist, in your future, and maybe they're worth a lot!"

“15.03.2013
From: Giorgia gbadgirl@libero.it
To: Babi
Obj: Done!

Baby, it's done!
I booked the flight... and gave notice!! AAAAHHHH!!! I've never been this impulsive, am I fucking things up, whaddo u say?! I know it's crazy, relying on a letter and all that stuff, but... you know, it's my mother!! She's right, I should live my life! Do you remember when we bungee jumped, that time?! Here, I'm diving with the same recklessness... and we liked that so much! Yes, maybe it will hurt afterwards, but why don't we mention the thrill of the jump??! Oh by the way, I went to have the coins evaluated as you told me: yes, you were right, this coinage is a rare one, they're worth a fortune! But I don't care, I gave them to my daddy because I know he treasured them. Now I must go, I don't want THEM to find out I'm minding my own fucking business while at work, these last days ;-)! Call you tomorrow, hugs!
Giò
P.S.-Would you mind learning how to use that fucking Skype, so I can at least call you once I'm there??!"

The Big One (Bon Jovi contest)

2010-07-16T17:40:00.000-07:00

My ideal Bon Jovi concert would begin one day before the show, with me and my friend flying to Chicago early enough to visit

the city. Maybe I could also enjoy some crazy activity, such as bungee jumping from a skyscraper... maybe with a "Live Before You Die" T-Shirt on! I wouldn't give a damn about going to the concert in a limo, that's just not my stuff. I would rather travel on a Bon Jovi train, with all the people outside staring at it and asking themselves where it's going.We would get to the gig one hour or so before the show begins, just in time to go backstage and take a picture with the guys. Then we would go outside and watch the show from the front row - but not on the stage, I like being in the crowd and jump and scream all time long!-. The setlist would include some classics and some surprises, just like this:

-We weren't born to follow

-Who says you can't go home

-Blood on blood

-Bad medicine/Shout

-You give love a bad name

-Superman tonight

-Fast cars

-It's my life

-Blame it on the love of rock'n'roll

-Bang a drum

-Keep the faith

-Live before you die

-Have a nice day

-Wild is the wind

-Without love

-In these arms

-I'll be there for you

-This ain't a love song

-Dirty little secret

-I get a rush

Encore:

-Kidnap an angel

-Someday I'll be Saturday night

-Last cigarette

-Wanted dead or alive

-Livin' on a prayer

Well, if Jon should have any energy left (and I don't doubt he would!!), he could choose to add "Thank you for loving me" and dedicate it to me... OK, that's pure dreaming, but since I was taught by BJ's songs never to give up my dreams... this is just one of them! The other dreams I used to have, well, I'm just following them and they took me away from my hometown on the other side of the world just to see a concert in New Jersey one month ago... and now here I am, living overseas and dreaming about another astounding concert! Let's hope this dream will come true, too.

Who knows (taste of regret)

2009-06-24T11:45:00.000-07:00

Memories are treacherous: you're sure that they're elaborated, rationalized and stored in the back of your mind to explain all your life's events… and then, little removed details suddenly come to light, awaken by the smallest feeling. And so you understand, in that short instant, the reasons of many of your behaviours. Thus, when my seven-year-old daughter insists on making me taste that so-called "strawberry milk", I'm not expecting what's about to happen. It happens that the so-called milk tastes like strawberry chewing-gum. So what?! So much, instead. 'Cause that's the same taste of my first kiss, so long ago. I remembered having thought two things: "Tastes like strawberry" and "that's it?!" But then that beautiful sensation came back to my mind, for a short instant. Having the whole world at my feet. Having all that I wanted. My mind empty, no thoughts. Pure happiness. It lasted just a moment, then and now. And since that day -that evening, I mean- I never dreamed of flying anymore. My analyst told me it's because I'm not able to let myself go. Of course. The bruises of the crash, when you fall, remain, they don't heal. It's called "growing up".
Then there was my first time. My first time tasted like tears. Not because of the pain –not only that, at least- but because it represented freedom. Freedom from taboos, from concerns... concerns of what?! After all these years I can't recall it, but sometimes that taste of freedom comes back to my mind, oh yes.

And then so much water flowed, under the bridges. Bridges of life, death, pain and joy. And then he crossed the bridge. He seemed so far from me that I must have been on a boat. Our affair was a matter of distance and lack, more than normality. That normality which -who knows- could have destroyed us. Our desire was fed by the impossibility of living it -or, who knows, it could have been real love. And after all, "real" depends on those who live it. And we both lived it, but each one in his corner, afraid of the possibility that the whole world could have put us to the test and asked us a reason for being us, and not simply "me" and "you". I insisted on saying that a dream can change the whole world's mind, and persuade it. When you're young you're sooo ingenuous, sometimes. But then maybe -who knows- if you try, maybe the world is ready to be changed by a dream. And then maybe -who knows- we would have fallen upon that normality that scared us so much. All that I know is that, when I hugged him, in that fake friendship's farewell in which each one really wished the other one to find a way that would finally separate us... well, I tasted tears once again. But they didn't taste like freedom, this time. They tasted sour, they were talking about regret. And if I think of us now, and despite everything I look at my normality, that doesn't scare me anymore, since I'm far from him... I can still taste that flavour in my mouth.
And I think, who knows?

No smoking

2009-06-16T12:09:00.000-07:00

Every time I used to leave or come back, the "no smoking" writing would welcome me. It was written in enormous letter over the buildings sorrounding the railway station, and it had become the symbol of every trip, ever since. Now that I was coming back to the place I used to call my home, that writing had disappeared.. of course, since the smoking ban was now law, there was no need for it to be written everywhere. The station though was still the same, so grey, smelling bad and with all those faces that here are called "sooo shady" and instead, there where I consider to be my home now, are just faces and nothing else. I was setting foot in Italy for a short weekend, right on the threshold of my endurance to my mother's care, just for a special occasion: ten years from our graduation, to see how much we've grown old and what's happened to That who's not Her boyfriend anymore. The places that I used to know have changed, but not so much. The streets have still holes in the asphalt, people and houses are still asking themselves if we're a village, outskirts or a little town. The air smells like smog. But the date with our past is "downtown", so at least it's troubling for everybody - and that's fair. Our funny chap mate arranged the whole thing, reserving a front-lagoon pizzeria to have the comfort of the landscape, at least. "Downtown" you can smell saltiness, humidity, sewer.. same as always, but in the evening you smell saltiness more than anything, so you feel better and almost think you're on holiday. So here we are, twenty adults who don't know what to do with this meeting, except for buzzing about it the next day, with the only close friend left frome those years. There's the copycat, the never-studying one to whom everybody should always pass the tests but-it's-really-not-fair-'cause-this-is-my-effort-and-you're-taking-advantage-of-it, there's the self-confindent girl damn-English-teacher-wasted-my-high-school-years-but-I-still-have-a-fucking-degree, there's the poser girl from-my-loft-I-can-see-the-London-Eye.. guess what, it's enough to say that you live in London, and you MUST see the london Eye, that big. «Instead I live in Lausanne, and from my loft I can see the lake». It's a joke –of course you can see the lake, you can see it from every house in Lausanne- but He's the only one to get it. Yeah. Of course. He saw it, “the loft”. He was supposed to live with me, in the loft. It was not a must, but it was a plan. At least my plan. Slightly before he planned to tell me "If you love me, stay here". «How are you?» Where do I start from? I'm just like that. I'm looking for something that may not even exist, I'm blaming other people for that happiness that I can't find in what's already there, and that's so much. «I'm fine, and you?» Let me tell you that you look like one whose eyes are full of melancholy and regret. But it could be just my sensation. «Not bad, you know.. the same, you know.» Yeah, the "same" that we used to share day and night, and seemed so worth to me. The same that turned out to be the same, nothing else. So true, the magic vanishes. He's a little fatter, turned a little whiter, he's a little normalized. He's not the man I wanted to marry anymore, I can't recall what I thought was so special about him. Except for the love he felt for me. «How's your job, how do you feel living in Switzerland?» You mean, except for those two lonely months spent crying? And the remaining time healing the wounds, to finally find out that I'm stronger by myself? And those pathetic attempts to hear each other? As if we could really remain friends, after all? «I was sorry not to hear from you again» «I think it was better like that» «Yeah, maybe you're right» Still don't have the guts, uh, even after all those years? I don't know what I'm looking for, but it's certainly not here, tonight. Not in his eyes, not in twenty faces that play no role in my life. And I even ate a better pizza in Lausanne. We stand up, a quick walk by the lagoon, then we greet each other. «Well, take care. Maybe we could hear each other, someday.» Yes, of course. Guaranteed. I walk away, breathe deep the air of what used to be my home and I used to think was my whole world. There was a time when I thought I could stop. Then I understood that maybe those who wanted to love me should have followed me - or wait for me, like John Donne's compass. To go back I get on a plane, to escape faster. I take my seat, fasten my seatbelt, watch the lagoon farther and farther away, I fly over the clouds and let myself be blinded by the sun. Beep. A warning has been switched on. It shows a cigarette with a red cross over it. No smoking. Welcome back home.

One noise, just one

2009-06-07T03:41:00.000-07:00

One noise, just one. To sweep this gloomy air away, to heat this night with new life, 'cause night creates ghosts and fears. I was afraid of the dark when I was I little girl too, she thought. It's waiting for those things that we don't see, but we know exist, that scares us. Or -maybe- we're afraid of being alone and listening to ourselves. Too bad, that loneliness. But you have to turn the light on, right? That's how everything turns out right. But it could happen that it lights up only a little part, it could happen that I can't find the switch. That's when fear comes back. One noise, just one, would be enough to make you understand that life goes on around you, to understand that everybody else isn't looking at you. Or maybe is, if that noise is the bogeyman's step, if he's coming to grab you. Shit, I'm freaking out. No good, you must breathe deep Meggie.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Panting doesn't do any good. It's a friend of silence, and silence brings ghosts and fears along, 'cause it's a night-mate. Oh no, this is no good. I'm sweating.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Neither the moon is brave enough to show herself, what a coward. And I know what "coward" means. Oh God, I know. Well, is there a God somewhere? I would really like to meet him, if he does exist, so that I could congratulate him. He made me perfect. Wealthy family, happy life. Not too many ambitions, way too many illusions. And the dream of love. Why didn't he make me a lesbian? Could have been the same, who knows. Or maybe not. I would have find it out too late, for sure. Another missed opportunity, one more. For her all life, in every damned event of those filthy twentythree years, she had never arrived at the right moment, ever. I was even born too soon, my fate was written. Fate. He's there, beyond everything, he manages everything and decides everything, he never speaks and throws cheap shots. But if you go off to war with him, it's like you're an underdog. And what's worse is that you cannot fly into a rage, this is not left to you either. 'Cause it's not someone's fault. "Fate's fault", you shrug your shoulders and that's all. But I can't beat anybody up, and I can't lean on anything. He must keep the balance, he must keep this crappy world up. That's the reason why he's so constant, he repeats the same old story again and again. It's such a pity that I found myself in the middle of that. If only HE was there, too. That's a record. Five minutes without mentioning HIM.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
He's not here and he won't be here. You must do without him. But the pain... you can't do without the pain. And it comes from deep inside, that's where it starts from. And there are no fake tears, no more light memories. Tears are as real as ever, memories are way too heavy. Tears that turn into screams, memories that turn into stones. Your wall is made of stones. But everywhere you turn, there's his smell, his face, his smile. All those things now are gone. And if you try to hug his shadow, you can't grab anything but yourself. But if you can't stand tall, you'll fall over and you will never learn to fly. And everything falls along with you. He's not here, you must do without him. In six months, how many time did I say that? Had I ever understood that. Had I ever learned that. If only... if only what?? If only I was different, but I can't be. I just can't not give a damn about it. As if it wasn't anything. It was everything, that's the fact. The fact is that I never arrive at the right time. If I had arrived before, I would have had him on time. If I had arrived later, maybe he wouldn't have even noticed me. 'Cause he would have already been with her. "Already"? I should say "again". "Her"? "Slut" would be more appropriate. Oh my God. Calm down.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Maybe I was too weak, maybe he was too unsure. I don't know, I can't know. Being at his side all those months, not knowing if he feels the same, if his heart is beating at the right pace. I don't know who would stand that. Having to trust his words, even if the light in his eyes shows a different colour. Your conscience then, it'd better shut up. Or it would tell you, that he's not talking real.
Devastating. It's so tremendously devastating. Suddenly arriving in his life, when they were breaking up. Bad choice, bad timing. Falling in love with him, while he was still thinking of her. Bad choice. Waiting all the time he needed, allowing him enough time to recover. And, in the meantime, falling deeper in love with him. Oh God, why? Why.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Kissing him, then. And what's worse, believing that that was the solution. Figuring a solution where there's no solution. Believing that a hug, a strong hug could reassure both of you. But his hug is a shy one, his squeeze is not convincing. And you pretend not to see. And you spend your time hoping he will call you, watching TV 'cause if there are interferences, it could be the mobile ready to ring. Damn stupid, they were just interferences. Your mobile is dumb and the silence is a night-mate. And so, you create your ghosts and fears, but who can prevent that? Wonder who he's thinking of. Maybe he's thinking of her, and she's thinking of him. And I'm still here, waiting for interferences. Maybe he doesn't love me anymore, maybe he's thinking about going back to her. And I'm not brave enough to ask him. 'Cause if I turn the light on and I find out the bogeyman for real, then I know it's over. Better be uncertain, 'cause I'm sure he will choose me, at the end. Whatever. Slut. Such a slut. She took him away from me, and he let himself be taken.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
I would have made the grade. I would have persuaded him that I was the right one. If only she hadn't come back. Sure, what can you do? After two years with her, six months with me can be thrown in the dump. Together with my whole life. Today it would be our first year. Today, right here. But he's not here, I must do without him. And the pain and the silence clasp my soul, good God how it hurts. He disappeared, soon after telling me he was going back to her. Nasty coward. He surely is an asshole, but I just can't hate him. 'Cause the fate drove him, he loved me. He loved me. And now he's not here. I must do without him. But how can I? How?
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
There must be a reason, for all this. Sure. Such a pity that nobody knows it. Oh, but I'm not waiting for someone to explain it to me -that's for sure. I've got the solution, 'cause he's not here. This night lasts too much. I just have to calm down.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Breathe in, breathe out.
And close my eyes. And know everything's fine. Know that I'm worth. He used to tell me. But he's not here, and I have to do without him. Goodbye my soul. I used to love him. I still love him. I love you Jack, can you hear me? My darling, can you hear me? Holy God. My God.
Bang.
One noise, just one, ripped the night, swept the gloomy air away, woke up the nature. One noise, just one. And just like a call, here he comes as if he heard it. He comes, he sees, he doesn't know.
'Cause if it had to be a goodbye, it would have been a goodbye, but as he wanted it to be. 'Cause "cancer" must not be said, cancer scares, cancer hurts. And she was so close, she had already healed him, from a too long-dragged love. Suddenly bursting into her life, when she was so frail and so delicate. Bad choice, bad timing. And disappearing, when she was deeper in love than ever. Bad choice, even worse maybe. But fate had decided, it had all the power. There had been no choice, nothing else to do. How could you impose also that, on her? How, after imposing on her to be close to you, to be able to stand what everybody else wouldn't have stood, to heal, with her smile, the disillusion of a past love? That smile that teased him, that face that kept on coming back, in the places, in the streets, in the smells and faces of their love, so brief and yet so intense. It would have lasted, one more instant would have been enough to reach eternity. But if pain doesn't leave any way out, disease leaves even less. And that illness, so big, so invisible, had taken possession of him, and life changed. His eyes changed, when he said I Love You, 'cause if this could be the last time, you're almost breathless when you say it. And you're not brave enough to tell her why, why that voice, why that blink. And if you don't say it, the silence will create ghosts and fears for you. Fear of not seeing her again, fear of hurting her, fear of stealing her smile, but her smile is all that's left for you. And fear brings you to drastic decisions. 'Cause she will hate. But rather than hating fate -'cause against him, you're an underdog-, she'd better hate you. She'd better call you a bastard, she'd better have a picture to tear, a pain to yell out, a name to give to that pain. 'Cause maybe, if it's you that will give her that pain, that pain can heal. Maybe. You'd better tell her you're going back to your past, you're going back to the other one, nobody's fault. This last thing, then you're gone. You just can't say who paid more. But you paid a lot. So painful, that hospital room, that white cold wall where her eyes still reflected themselves, and her face in your dreams. Don't know how, you fought thinking of her, hoping she could still be happy. And instead, you recovered. Don't care how, you're out of that. Regressed. Cancer has regressed. And while it's gone, you come back. But not at her's, couldn't be such a bastard. You come back to see one more place that talks about the two of you. The old barn. One year ago a new feeling was born, one year ago a brand new emotion. Memories of her all over the place.
Here he comes, here he goes in, here he sees. And the daylight brings light into him. Here he understands. Here he knows what he did, here he feels where he pushed the limit. Here she is, there, smiling at her mocking fate, while dying. 'Cause one more time, she chose the wrong moment. He's there, she doesn't have to do without him anymore. He's there but it's too late, it's too late when he understands. But the new day brings new light with it, sweeps the gloomy air away and brightens new colours. And as bright as the light, here comes the only choice.
Bang.
One noise, just one, had said goodbye to the night, and one noise, just one, welcomes the day, receives the light and sweeps the darkness away. And finally Jack's heart beats at the same pace as Meggie's. Finally two hearts, but only one beat, only one noise. One noise, just one.

One noise, just one.