First days in Florence

Yes I know. I read something similar in the Guardian the other day, just before leaving England. I had all the good reasons to leave the country that I cannot claim as mine. Now ten days later, I still think I made the right choice.

But with what cost…

Leaving South England for beautiful Florence causes a lot of envy. My first day here I lived all the reasons causing that envy: beautiful weather, stunning architecture, bohemian life style, good food, staying out late.

That’s all for that. Then real life begins. So I got the job, I got the apartment. Now I have to build the life around them. Being used to England where everything is just a mouse click away, Italy is challenging. The internet speaks Italian here, and does not do things for you… it only tells you about them, if that.... Then the internet stops working… just because, and you, go figure…

I have my little habits. I want to cycle to work. Then I want to cycle to my gym and then I want to cycle back home. Florence simply does not let me do all of that. I have to pick.
My enemies? The incredible traffic, the famous Florentine hills, the stunning architecture (with equally stunning walls around the building resulting in tiny roads of 40 degrees incline, somehow mostly uphill, don’t ask why)
I feel defeated. No way to get to the gym I want… so I visited the local one to accept my fate. My very welcoming host was a huge pumped up guy clearly Italian who clearly had spent far too many hours under the solarium lamp. The inmates of the gym looked rather suspicious. My eyes were locked on this old woman with full make-up on, working on her inner thighs… I could not stop thinking about her potential profession… la Madame? [Ahem…brothels are illegal in Italy, no?]

So that one, rejected… even though I was assured that all the players of the Fiorentina train here (one more reason to put me off).
Maybe I expect too much wanting just to import my old habits into a new environment. Maybe I should just accept that my only sport for a while will be the chewing of the gorgeous Italian pasta I can get everywhere.
Until I find my way around this city, or until this city finds its way around me…

But in the meantime I miss England more than just the anticipated little bit. Not for anything else, but for its ability to accommodate.

The EU Health and Safety Regulations and the sheep

You go one lovely Sunday (or whatever other day your country tells you to), and you vote for them. Then they go to Brussels and discuss things. The newspapers do not write about them, because they are too technical, who wants to read them after all, we want to sell some copies anyway… The Brussels people ask doctors, lobbyists, all kinds or random people full of knowledge.

Then they make a bill. Then they vote for it. Then it passes.

And then I go to work, turn on my computer, and five minutes later a sheep appears on my screen. It tells me: Hey dude, you are working too much, time to do some hand exercises. I press cancel. Ten minutes later it appears again, this time proposing some neck stretches. In the meantime I have lost the idea I am working on. The poor idea is lost in the deep gaze of a stupid sheep. Black, for your information.

And so the story goes. Every ten minutes I get a set of stretches, if put together they would give me a full pilates course.

As if that was not enough, seven and a half hours later the sheep tells me: You worked enough, your time is up! Time to switch of your computer, the sheep wants you to fuck off!

Has anybody informed this damn sheep that I am an academic? We LIVE in front of the computer. We need an Ethernet cable to breath! This sheep works in an academic institution, someone at some point has to teach it some manners!

And so has the EU invaded my life. First in a good way (paying my salary and exempting me from taxes) and then… through the sheep.

Oh not again! Now it is time to stretch my legs.
Farewell!
Baaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…..

Basqueball

My crash course in Basque culture started early Sunday morning (see: Greek definition of “early”). As church was the only other recreational alternative at that time of day we picked the first choice: Basque pelote, or basqueball to be Anglophone-friendly. We drove to a neighboring village hosting a most peculiar game, not only to my inexperienced eyes. Even the locals have difficulties understanding the full set of rules: Le rebot…. Or the cricket of pelote basque, as I was wisely warned. I started the hard way.

Being unable to understand the mystifying rules of the game holding the key to decode the English class system, I feared I would have the same fate with pelote basque. To me, basqueball only represented an instrument of reproducing and intensifying the basque identity, both in France and in Spain. To Basque people and my not-so-basque hosts, though, it is a great form of entertainment.

Le rebot: Simple it was not. Two teams playing against one another in the village’s “fronton” trying to defend their own ‘territory’ of variable size. Explaining the rules of this game is beyond my intellectual abilities, since I failed to understand them in full. One needs high levels of geeky-nes or at least geek-potential to be able to absorb all this information.
I will nonetheless highlight some points: The game has the structure and numbering system of tennis. In simple English, that means there is a net, over which the ball has to pass. Or… or through it in this case, as the net is actually made of human players trying to block all passing balls (while avoiding to be hit by it, as it hurts…). The position of this human net changes and is marked by two small basque flags.
For those who think that this is hard core nationalism, I remind you that flags in Denmark are used to indicate the “sales” in a shop. Not that nationalistic…

Oh and the count of points is sang in Basque. Quite an experience.

During the game, exactly at midday, after hearing the church bells the game stopped, the audience, players and referees had to pay their respects to Virgin Mary. Following the instruction “Angelus”, we sang the Ave Maria. And by “we” I mean “they”. I was just standing there respectfully, pretending I fitted in.

The game was a massacre of the green ream. The blue team were the kings! I am sure the colors represented some local towns but I was unable to pronounce them and thus I forgot.

Watching basque pelote is not as exciting as playing it as I found out that same day. We went to our local fronton, where I was taught hot to play two different kinds of pelote. I used the “pala” first, a wooden racket that hurts your feelings, as it simply does not want to be tamed. Result….? The ball goes all over the place or over the fronton, including the neighboring gardens/windows/cars.

An embarrassing hour later I tried the chistera and I fell in love. A long thin basket that attaches to your hand in the form of a glove. A “small glove” as it was called, le petit gant, even though it was at least one third of my height. Apparently there is a grant version of it ( I suspect, half my size.. and I am not small… for a greek). Using that basket-glove was easier than anticipated and much more fun to play.

Afterwards I had a clear feeling of achievement and was convinced I deserved my French three-course dinner that was to come. After all… how many Greeks have ever tried their luck playing basque pelote? Especially female Greeks, considering the sport is exclusively male territory. A raised eyebrow is least amount of criticism a woman gets if caught playing.

Putting my hand into the “petit gant” at once challenged both my gender and national identity. So many connotations for just one object, even handmade.

The rest of my days in the French side of the Basque country I watched, and became passionate with, two more forms of the sport (and it has many, as you have guessed), joko-garbi and cesta punta. The first for the atmosphere in the village fronton on Wednesday afternoons, where the elderly joke around, the younger relax after a days hard work and the kids try to catch the missed shots. The second for the technique, the beauty of the movement and the excitement in every gained point.

As I saw it, Basqueball is much more than a sport. It contains the philosophy of life of the Basque people. And watching it, is not only exciting because of the competitive element, but for the deeper understanding of the country in itself. To me, basqueball was an experience.

And I am hooked!

Weddings: Santorini

Weddings are like conferences. They are mainly clustered around the school holidays, when one does not have to teach. This one took place in April, perfect timing for me, just after my field work in Greece.

Being a “destination wedding” (just to use the Guardian’s middle class vocabulary) it was not easy to organize, especially when you live in the old Albion. The happy couple, living somewhere in the trendy side of Islington, London, had to pay an Asian looking wedding planner to make sure everything would run smooth on the “happiest day of their lives”. And as we know, smoothness is priceless; especially when you have a jolly English family flying in from South England and a traditional Greek family that likes to have the last say in everything.

Clash of civilizations nicely balanced at the edges of a volcano. I had a unique perspective of the wedding. I know the groom since neither of us could utter anything apart from “ta ta ta” or “gu gu gu” and since then we followed a similar path, spending in England the past seven years of our lives. He made a breakthrough bringing home an English bride, not following his father’s example to bring home only his PhD from abroad. Shock absorbed, preparations made, there we were…

The Greek surroundings were an interesting folklore tone for the English, who on their return to familiar greyness would spend ours talking about the great Greek weather, the beauty of the island and the amazing food. The choice of the island was no mistake. Santorini is the flagship of the Greek Armada put together by the ministry of Tourism. You think of Greece? You have a picture of Santorini in your head. Quite an experience.

For the Greeks, though, that was even more of an experience. Uncomfortable with the idea of civil ceremonies, the lack of holy blessings and familiar chanting, they focused even more on the stunning views and the traditional touches. I could even sense the pride in their eyes when gazing towards the “English side”: You see how great is our civilization? Give us back the Elgin marbles! (oooops!). The personalized touches of the ceremony included some Greek modern poetry samples and medieval wedding songs (I had to present one myself as member of the welcome-to-the-family-committee for the bride).

The wedding was elegant, timid, and simply beautiful. Everyone was happy. And the menu… full of local delicacies (and I have a soft spot for Santorini cusine). I spend my time shooting pictures and chatting to the hired photographer. Maybe also dancing a bit. Or more than a bit.

In the end, I can say, the two great nations, the English and the Greeks, felt a little bit closer. Even though the Elgin marbles are still an issue…

The hat of nationality change +1

Monday morning 8.30am El. Venizelos airport, Athens

My last five hours of the fieldwork-easterholidays-weddinginSantorini month in Greece have to be spent in the transit of the Athens airport. The local internationalism of airports always intrigues me. As the same safety and consumption standards have to be kept everywhere, you get the same familiar feeling of airport-land. It matters not where you are, you still see the same signs, smell the same perfumes, eat the same food. I was even surprised to find traditional english train-station food in the main "food village" area of the airport.
For those nomads like myself, true citizens of no other country but airport lounges, differences between airports are small.. but striking. Sipping my coffee, eating my spinach pie I observe my co-airport-time-wasters being approached by:
1. A lottery ticket seller
2. An unfortunate lady begging for money
3. An unfortunate lady selling lighters
4. A lottery ticket seller (yes, a second one)
Typical, I tell myself. Having coffee in any square in Greece one would be approached by 5.2 people per hour asking for money. So.. the only thing that is missing is the small gypsy child playing (really really badly) some sort of musical instrument and a disable persopn that is normally too upsetting to look at (hence the 0.2).
By the time the second unfortunate lady appeared it was clear to me. Nobody approached me. I checked if I was invisible. Negative. Did I look poor? Negative. I had my (infamous duck-hunting) hat on and I was scribbling on a bit of paper.... Maybe, just maybe, I looked to foreign to be asked?
An hour ago, while trying on some face cream (of the type my academic salary will never be able to provide) I noticed... the shop assistants talked to me in english when I had the hat on, but in greek when I did not. Does my silly duck-hunting hat actually have magical powers? [Oh just now another lottery ticket seller passed me by. It must be the hat again].
The power of hats was never more clear to me. I praise now the wise english saying "Putting a different hat on". Never underestimate the wisdom of a people with an enormous ability not to adapt to new environments but to transform these environments to fit its own needs, a different hat in each case of course!
9.45 I wonder how many spinach pies I have to eat to pass my time until my flight...
10.51 Why does my computer not eat spinach pies too? Plugs seem to be nowhere in sight. Aspiring laptop users are strongly encouraged to do shopping instead!

PS. The title is inspired by DnD, for geeks of the bad kind. Wearing it in the head slot gives you a nationality change bonus of +1 (hmmmm.... My case is serious).

You know it is Spring in England when…

Spring on this island always causes a certain amount of fascination (to me), and the emergence of various feelings (to the indigenous). But why fascination with Spring?

Well, first of all, it exists. Coming from a country where temperature cheats, it naughtily jumps from 7 to 28 degrees Celsius, catching even the weather forecast service (or rather them foremost) in surprise, Spring is definitely not a phenomenon one is used to. It requires a certain amount of observation. You know, to recognize the symptoms, if not to find a cure.

First thing I noticed this morning, was the clock telling me something different to what my body knew. 6.55am, and I was wide awake. The only reason I can possibly be looking at this combination of numbers on a clock is easyjet’s inhuman flight times. But today my body was not obeying reason (Stay in bed, you fool!). Shower, breakfast, my regular Italian exercise of the day, all set by 7.40. Spring speeds you up too, it seems.

8am and already at work, it gave me extra time to finish some papers ect… Foolish thoughts, that disappeared the more I looked out of the window. By 16.00 I had had it. Apparently, Spring makes you impatient too. So, empiricism in hand, I ventured to the outdoors to investigate spring effects on other people.

The sun is a weird stimulant that makes English people believe that a) no matter the temperature, it is time to relief yourself of excess clothing, to allow maximal exposure to sun b) it is appropriate to do so just anywhere.
Of course to my curious and ever-hungry eye that would be a good thing, if only all the people around me had a decent six-pack or at least a close approximation instead of these rather generous prosperity curves. Oh well, who said it is a perfect world?

Sitting in the sun like hundreds of others, on the grass in the park, I realize this is a thing I would never voluntarily do in Greece. I appreciate the English, for they make a celebration of every patch of sun they spot in the sky. That, my dear blog, is an art I wish I could master. You know, live for now, because the sun is out NOW.

Somehow the amount of couples strolling around has increased. This I also blame to the Spring’s intoxicating influence. People, who in the winter rarely left their bed for the one or rather the other reason, now they proudly want to demonstrate their ability to find a partner who can hold their (un-gloved) hand on a spring day. Alas, for the rest of us, unworthy singles, who stubbornly failed to “capture” a suitable partner many springs now. I take a good look around to locate one, just for as long this sunshine lasts, you know, just to partake to the fun. Nothing in sight. It seems, I won’t be lucky this spring either. Spring is mating season but my behavioural patterns show that I failed everything I learned in school, about bees and flowers. Even observing the ducks every year, taught me absolutely nothing.

Never mind that. Exercising my newly acquired English trait, I sip my tea and live for now. As Sinatra, the famous bard, plainly put it: Let’s live for now, and anyhow, who needs domani…

Let's forget about tomorrow....
Tomorrow will be again another day at work, most likely sunless and gloomy, despite the optimistic BBC weather predictions, I will face an even bigger pile of “stuff to do”, have the same problems, same reasons to be unhappy, same dreams.

But for now, I have my cup of tea, and I have the sun. Who needs domani?

Late night smoke

Walking on the same pavement stones day by day, things become familiar. My foot gets used to touching them. Their shape keeps the memory of the daily contact. I shape them, they shape me.
Same with people. At first, I hardly know them and then the forces of our personalities mingle and brew their own results.

Uniqueness is one of the greatest self-indulging myths a human being can cling on to. There are only so many different combinations of the same elements that make us human. Inevitably you will meet someone that happened to follow the same patterns. And what happens then? Your mirror image recognizes its own kin. It either celebrates the similarity, or fiercely chooses blindness and obscures the ghost of a different self.

Fine.

And those around your mirror image? How do they react to this not-that-obvious but you-feel-it-under-your-skin similarity?

Many of the battles we fight, and we think we win so easily, a mirror image has fought for us before. These fights have no gains. No city is to be conquered.

Go pick a different fight. Your own.

These thoughts, at 2am.
Accompanied with Golden Virginia tobacco untouched for years.