Polignano a Mare and Many, Many Detours

On the 5^th of March, I left work early to get to the Garden Hotel where my parents were staying. After stumbling along the edge of a busy road that was a lot longer than I thought, we went to pick up Izzy and the little dogs to start our day out. Needless to say Izzy was not ready and assaulted me with complaints about the fact I don’t own a hairbrush. Really, you would understand if you saw what happens when I brush my hair

Something like this

We then set off down the motorway, planning to first visit Castellana and then go to Polignano a Mare. However, we took the wrong road and ended up heading down the coastal route instead of inland. This would not be the last directional mistake we made that day. It didn’t matter much though, we changed plan and arrived in Polignano with the sun shining.

I’d already seen plenty of pictures of the pebble beach at Polignano, a kind of cove closed in by high cliffs and boasting bright blue waters on a hot day. That’s the first place we went when we were dragged away from the car by Lily and Cassie. We followed a family, who seemed to know where they were going, down the Roman trail: a path of winding steps set into greenery. Unfortunately, these plants and low stone walls were ideal hiding places for cats, Lily’s number one enemy (on a par with birds). After a fair bit of barking, we made it down to the beach and me and Izzy took some selfies, for tradition’s sake.

Road Trip!

The Cat Incident

The Roman Trail

After heading back up some steeper steps, we found the entrance to the ‘Centro Storico’ of Polignano, which was similar to the old parts of other Apulian towns I have visited. It had the usual white stone steps and coloured doorways, flowers trailed over balconies, tiny bed & breakfasts and ceramic shops. We met another cat and came across a bar called ‘La Casa del Mojito’ and stood on all the windy lookout points over the sea, which was deep blue against the rocks. Crossing a bridge and heading downwards along the seafront, we found the statue of Domenico Modugno, the singer-songwriter who was born in Polignano. He seemed pleased to see us.

By then it was about 1 o’clock and we were faced with the the typical tourist dilemma of ‘we’re hungry but this is the South of Italy so there all of the restaurants will be empty’. We took the plunge and walked into one called Osteria di Chichibio, where we were met by a giant spread of fresh seafood and a friendly waiter who said that dogs were allowed in on the condition that if they misbehaved they would end up on the grill. About three different restaurants used this joke over the course of the holiday but we didn’t mind as long as Lily and Cassie could come in and be angels as they usually do when they lie down under tables. For some reason, this is the only time that they are completely calm, to the point that you forget they are they until they unexpectedly snuffle your leg and make you choke on your pasta.

The lunch we had in Polignano was probably some of the best food we had while my parents were here. The atmosphere of the restaurant was very pleasant: white tablecloths and walls lined with fancy wine bottles and shelves of interesting trinkets. Me and Dad had the same asparagus and seafood pasta, while my mum and sister had non-prawny alternatives. We had been offered pink fizzy wine, bread and taralli so the portion was a perfect size, especially since the food was rich. Obviously there was space for dessert: I was so content with my favourite tiramisu that I left my sister’s chocolate soufflé alone. Last time she was in Italy, I committed the capital offence of stealing the “best part” of a chocolate soufflé in Alberobello, a memory that has stuck with her and made her reluctant to let me taste any of her food. I plead innocent; she’s just very attached to chocolate pudding.

 

We still had a lot on the agenda for our first family day out in Puglia. Back in the car, we used the fairly rubbish GPS map on my phone to head towards Castellana, where there are some interesting grottoes. The Apulian countryside is flat, full of olive trees, small roads and interesting villas: we passed through a lot of little towns before reaching Castellana Grotte, following the brown signs indicating a top tourist destination. With the number of signs we saw, you’d have thought it would be swarming with visitors, but when we pulled up in the desolate car park we began to reassess our expectations. Mum refused to come because she was in heels, and anyway taking two Jack Russells into a cave would probably not be the best idea. Dad, Izzy and I went to investigate: we found the ticket booths closed and another group of wandering tourists but no trace of opening hours or notices. Ah well.

 

Instead, we took an impromptu trip to Alberobello, despite Izzy’s misgivings (“not those houses again”). You can tell when you are getting close to the town of the trulli when by the roadside you see clusters of little huts with conical roofs, sometimes incorporated into modern houses, sometimes lying in poetic disrepair between the trees. The weather wasn’t looking so good, but it only drizzled a bit as we walked around the little white town. Dad was pleased by the trulli: they are really so precisely made and it’s fascinating that people could live in them. We did a loop of the town before going back to the car park, where Lily had yet another stand off with a stray cat.

Lily vs. Cat

From this point, the day started to go a bit wrong. We drove through the countryside following signs for Bari, passing through all sorts of towns along the way, including Putignano, which is famous for its carnival processions. Once we had reached Bari, we made the fateful error of trying to find an Audi garage because Dad needed an audio cable for his new phone. I will stress here that it was all his idea because soon after our fruitless tour around the garages of the industrial zone (everything except Audi), we were bound inland on the wrong road to Foggia, passing Terlizzi, then Ruvo and then coming off the motorway in a shower of rain in a town called Corato.

We were lost and I only had a vague sense of where we were, not any idea of how to get from Corato to Molfetta. There were barely any road signs to be seen, or if we did see any, the writing was worn off, leaving a plain blue rectangle shining unhelpfully in the darkness. First we were frustrated, then on the brink of an argument, then we started to laugh. Crazy pedestrians were launching themselves in front of our car to cross the street, people were pulling out from nowhere: Dad was incredulous about the terrible driving we saw that night. I was texting Antonio, who is from Corato, to tell him about our misadventure and get directions out of there. Try as he might to understand where we were and patiently guide us out of there, I couldn’t see a thing and could not fathom what road he was talking about. In the end, we drove out of the city centre and suddenly out of the corner of my eye, I saw a sign for Molfetta. We swung to the left and embarked on a long, long curvy road, barely wide enough for two cars, lined with close olive trees on either side. Dad put on his full beam and once in a while we saw more signs, with Molfetta 10, Molfetta 8 written on them, until finally we emerged from the country trail into the industrial area of Molfetta, by the big shopping centre I know so well. We were a little stunned by our trip. It was such a massive detour that we had mood swings between despair and hilarity at the situation we had got ourselves into. In the end, all we wanted was a pizza and an early night. Well, Mum and Dad had an early night: me and Izzy put the dogs to bed and then stayed up late chatting. Because that’s what sisters do.

 

Rome Again: ‘Viaggio della Memoria’

I’m back. This is the first afternoon that I have spent at home in three weeks. Between the trip to Rome, a weekend in Venice and a visit from the family, I’ve seen a good deal of Italy recently and very little of my sofa. On top of this, there’s been the usual work that comes with being a language assistant (ie. trying to avoid the sinking feeling of being totally unprepared in front of thirty blank faces) and last but definitely not least, getting to know a special new Italian named Antonio. More on this to follow.

On the penultimate week of February, an exciting opportunity was presented to me at the last minute. As deputy head of the school, Antonella was accompanying four of our students on a trip to Rome to commemorate the Holocaust, “un Viaggio della Memoria’. On the 27^th of January, the victims are remembered in Italian schools with classroom activities like readings of Primo Levi. This trip was an opportunity for select students from all the schools in Molfetta to find out more about this period of history by visiting the Jewish quarter in Rome and listening to real stories from survivors of the concentration camps. On the Wednesday, I was offered a place on the bus, on Thursday I paid for my hotel room, and on Friday the 21^st of February at 5am, I was on the coach with students, teachers and the mayor of Molfetta ready to set off for the capital.

The journey takes around 5 hours if you count the compulsory break for coffee and cornetti. We rolled out of the bus onto the pavement surrounding the main Synagogue of Rome, where the Jewish museum is also located. After waiting around in the sunshine for a while, we were ushered in and given a whistle stop tour of tapestries, ornaments, traditions and customs. Then, after a quick sit down in the Synagogue, we left our breathless guide and listened to some stories from the daughter of a Jewish woman who managed to escape from soldiers who wanted to take her away. Or at least, I think that’s what she said: my Italian skills are such that if people speak very quietly, if there are too many people around, or if I’m getting hungry, I tend to miss some things.

The Synagogue

Jewish Quarter

We took a walk around the Jewish quarter and looked at the ‘stolperstein’, golden paving stones to commemorate individual victims who used to live in those tall and ungainly houses. The buildings in the Jewish ghetto are stacked up high, as floors were added whenever they were needed. In the afternoon, a historian named Anna Foa accompanied us around a building where she used to live and from which a Jewish family was taken captive, children and all. Her research has consisted of finding out the stories of all the inhabitants of the building: the events that she told us about made the rooms feel very cold, even as the climbing plants around us glowed in the sunshine.

In our lunch break, I ate with Antonella and two other teachers: we decided to try some falafel, hummus, battered fish and deep fried artichoke, as well as the extortionately priced bread. It was all very good and garlicky, taking me right back to Izzy’s cooking: she is the sort of chef who will stick a whole bulb of garlic to bake on a pièce of Brie. But one time she made falafel and it was tasty. At around 4pm, we were back on the bus and heading across town towards the Trastevere area of Rome, on the way to listen to a famous survivor of Auschwitz, Piero Terracina. He has been active in speaking about his experience of the camp, speaking in schools, writing and visiting Molfetta some time ago. He had invited us all to his apartment: bearing in mind that there were over thirty of us, this was no small matter.

After a short but hostile encounter with an appallingly parked car, the bus turned the corner and dropped us off at the apartment building. We climbed all the way to the top and filed into the apartment, each of us shaking Piero’s hand as we went in. We were offered drinks and little cakes, as we all sat on the floor or available chairs and listened attentively in the hot, close air of the flat. There was silence as he spoke. Even if I did not catch every word, the atmosphere was solemn and intense as he spoke about the day that he and his family went into hiding, and then about when he was taken. He spoke about the appalling conditions he lived in, about knowing cold, knowing hunger. The true meaning of suffering that no human should be subjected to. We left after an hour, all of us once again shaking his hand and smiling with respect and gratitude. The mayor of Molfetta expressed her emotion at seeing us all, each with a different expression on our face upon saying goodbye to this man. As she said, we are fortunate to hear the stories from the last remaining witnesses and it’s our duty to internalise this memory and hand it down to future generations.

A bit weary, we headed to the hotel where I found a big double bed all for little old me. The dinner at the hotel was standard school trip catering: decent enough pasta, but meat like an old dog’s ear and shudder-inducing potato purée. A bit giddy with tiredness, we headed out around half past ten for a walk around the city. It was very nice to chat in Italian with the four students from Galileo Ferraris and with teenagers from the other schools nearby. We walked up the Spanish steps and looked at the stars, Antonella sighed at the poorly kept gardens flanking them and then we stopped at the Trevi Fountain before getting on the metropolitana back at Piazza del Popolo. My legs were freezing their tights off by that point so I was happy to climb into bed and sleep in a quarter of the space I’d been given.

Rome by Night

Trevi Fountain with Antonella

On Saturday we had to be up early because we had an appointment with the mayor of Rome. That’s right, on a spontaneous trip to the capital, a British girl infiltrates the Campidoglio and gets a handshake from Ignazio Marino. I had breakfast with the teenagers, who were decidedly unimpressed with the coffee from the machine and the transparent apple juice. For the duration of the trip, I fluctuated between getting down with the kids and spending time with the teachers, but I’m pretty sure my youthful complexion and general wide-eyed disposition allowed me to blend in more with my students than with their supervisors.

We went for a walk around the Altare delle Patria, the monument dedicated to Vittorio Emanuele II, before being graciously ushered inside the Campidoglio, the Capitol where all of the important decisions go down. We were shown into the Sala Delle Bandiere, which had a long wooden table running down the centre and walls bedecked with flags. And then the mayor strolled in with his sash on and delivered a succinct but seemingly heartfelt speech to us about the importance of memory, then accepted our gift of olive oil all the way from Puglia. Then of course he had to meet people more important than us, so he shook all of our hands and went out again. We completed our morning with a tour of the official meeting rooms and some sort of antechamber, before getting back on the trusty old bus to head to the Fosse Ardeatine.

The monument to Vittorio Emanuele II

Seagull on a statue woop

Il Campidoglio

Capitoline Hill

Inside the Sala delle Bandiere

The Mayor of Rome and the Mayor of Molfetta

The Fosse Ardeatine is the site of a terrible massacre, which took place on the 24^th March 1944 as revenge for an Italian ambush against the Nazis. This was another solemn event for us. It started to pour with rain as soon as we arrived, so we were ushered into the caves and told the story of the killings that took place there and then how the terrain was bombed to hide the evidence. The Nazi authorities decided that for every German killed, 10 Italians had to die and so they selected prisoners condemned to death, or Jews, 335 in number. It was chilling to see the tombs of the fallen men: memory hung in the air as it had all weekend. We touched the little silver wreaths, each encasing a photograph, and felt a sense of duty and responsibility towards all of these names. I paid special attention to the tomb of ‘Ignoto’, unknown and unidentified.

This visit concluded our journey through the traumatic past and so we headed up the mountain to a restaurant overlooking a lake. We ate plenty of food again, stocking up on bucatini and meat before beginning our trip back to Molfetta. At the table, I was taken to be Antonella’s daughter for the twentieth time and then called ‘bellissima’, which is fine by me. After a busy weekend, I was glad to get back to familiar Molfetta at around quarter past nine, where my boyfriend was waiting for me at the Calvario, the little church by the park. He carried my suitcase and gave me dinner, the cherry on top of an emotional, interesting and unforgettable weekend. I feel lucky to have had the opportunity to take part in it, and devote some time to remembering an atrocity that is almost too horrific to imagine. The point of all of us travelling across the country was not just for show, but to increase our awareness of the role we have to play in posterity. Being on a year abroad, I learn something every day, not only the Italian language but also about the country’s history and culture.

A Mini-update from Molfetta

I can almost hear the tumbleweeds drifting across my neglected little blog. Blogging about your year abroad requires a fine balance between writing and doing. Of course you can fill pages and pages with new photos and chitchat about the customs of the country you’re falling in love with, but not at the expense of going out and living in it. This week has been one of my busiest times since arriving in Molfetta. Since I wrote about my trip to Giovinazzo on that sunny mid-February weekend, I have:

– Been to Rome for the second time. I was unexpectedly invited on a school trip dedicated to remembering the Holocaust and discovering the history of the Jewish community in the capital city.

– Visited a Norman castle in a town called Sannicandro di Bari, and then eaten my body weight in Puglia’s culinary delights

– Tried Aquagym for the first time and almost died

– Been to Bari to see Saving Mr Banks: how bizarre to hear the songs of Mary Poppins sung in Italian

– Picked a load of oranges in the sun, spring is officially on the way.

All of these experiences have been great and soon I hope that I’ll have a spare moment to document them properly. Tomorrow morning, I’m off to Venice for a potentially rainy Carnival weekend: masks at the ready, it’s going to be a great trip. And THEN, the very afternoon I get back to Molfetta, my family will be arriving. They’ll tumble out of the car after a 13 hour trip from Mondovì, dogs and all: the following days will be my chance to show off how beautiful this region is and to spend time with them all.

Until then, here are some photos of my every day life in Molfetta:

A photo I took on the train to show my sister how I had matched my clothes like a navy-cream boss

The mandarin and orange orchard in the garden

An admittedly dodgy photo of an espressino, my favourite kind of coffee that apparently only exists down here in the Sotuh

A little park near the school where I like to spend my breaks

Two little plants that I have been taking care of – miraculously still alive :D

Walking home from work under a beautiful blue sky.

New Students, New Topics

Meeting a new class is an interesting experience. You are placed in front of twenty-five brand new people, with different names and faces. In the transition from my older classes to the younger ones, I’m going to have to create some more brain space to remember them all. I would try and forget useless information like how many children the Beckham family has, but that won me a quiz last night.

Quiz Duello: the latest app craze that has got Italians shouting at each other :)

In these first lessons, my students and I spent most of the time talking about ourselves. This eased any nervousness and allowed me to discover new things about them (mostly, what football team they support and how many times a week they go to the gym). The average age of my new pupils is 16: they seem much more eager than their fifth year counterparts and with their final exam a whole two years away, they’re not feeling the pressure yet. Some of them actually had quite a good level of English so let’s hope that I can teach them something interesting. 

I’ve actually been preparing a lesson about football: all the vocabulary and phrases needed to read a match report. I have a feeling that there will be an exchange of knowledge; I don’t know what the offside rule is or the dictates of extra time. Judging by the enthusiasm that swells the room when I so much as mention Juventus or any football team for that matter, I will have an interested audience. Thank goodness for premierskills.britishcouncil.org/ 

As much as I try to spread the love for British cuisine, I can’t help conceding that Italian food is just…well, better. It seems healthier, fresher and more diverse, and I was never a fan of shepherd’s pie. My duty as an ambassador for the UK compels me however to mention the multiculturalism of food in Britain: you can have tapas, Chinese, Indian or Thai food wherever you are. Also, there are some little luxuries that I miss from the UK, like scones. If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you’ll remember the horrendous kitchen disaster circa October 2013 and understand my reluctance to try baking them again. But the craving for a good scone, with jam and clotted cream and a cup of tea with milk in it…it’s still here and is only partly satisfied by a good piece of tiramisu. I also explain the phenomenon of fish and chips, and do a survey of the radically differing opinions of the English breakfast.

 

Outside of school, this week has been fun and full of more shopping errands. I’ve been to a fashion warehouse called ‘Business’ to browse through discounted brands of some nice and some frankly hideous clothes, I’ve helped select a new set of crockery, a cake tin and a hob. I’ve successfully fought off a cold with pig-headedness, a couple of paracetamol, getting some fresh air helping in the garden and of course, with some hot chocolate. On a side note, Cameo is the best Italian brand: it brings you instant panna cotta, psuedo-healthy chocolate cereal and this sweet deliciousness.

Rounding off the First Semester

The end of January disappeared in a gust of wind this week: I am now exactly half way through my contract at Ferraris school. This means that I get to meet the other 300 pupils that I haven’t seen yet, leaving the older classes to work hard towards their exams. I’ll be chatting to younger students this term; fresh faced 16 year olds who might be more pliable than their elders. Perhaps I can inspire a love for the English language in a few of them, ever the optimist! Next week will bring a series of introduction lessons: the photos of family, friends and Leeds will come off the dark and jumbled shelf that I call my filing system.

Despite the weather getting a bit colder this week, I’ve been out and about in my free time running errands and seeing friends. It has been a busy and fulfilling week: exactly what you need in winter to avoid those evenings indoors, watching the rain against the windows and hearing the wind knock things over on the terrace above. My mood has always been influenced by the weather: in Leeds, my tendencies for homesickness would hit hardest when temperatures were sub zero or when I got soaked to the skin walking home from university. This week has been one of personal development and experience:

On Monday, I first experienced a cardio session at the gym. In my twenty years on this Earth, I had never set foot on a treadmill. It wasn’t until I had to get on one that I realised what a scary and potentially harmful experience it could be. I spent the eight minutes time on a walking setting, gripping the bar with terrified fingers and watching my feet, willing them not to stop. I imagined myself falling off in front of all the seasoned gym goers, including some of my students from school. I decided a while ago to stop being ashamed of my gym incompetence: I stick out like a scrawny sore thumb and own it.

Tuesday is a rubbish day really. It doesn’t have the fresh new week factor of Monday but neither is it remotely close to the weekend. It drifts in the beginning of the week, dull and unsatisfying; so I decided to do something about that and went to see a film in Bari with Katie. Before the show, we went to have our usual espressino (such a delightful little milky coffee) and a pasticiotto, a cute oval pastry with cream and cherry inside. We chose an Italian romantic comedy, which we both enjoyed and understood. Oh, and I have never seen such cheap popcorn: 2 euros will get you a decent sized pot. If only for that reason, I can see cinema trips becoming a more regular occurrence for combating tiresome Tuesdays.

   

Wednesday was also a super fun day: I made guacamole, then me and my ‘host mum’ decided to skip the gym that evening and go to Trani to buy a present for her friend. We wandered about arm in arm, window-shopping, before reaching our destination: a handbag boutique. At the moment, some designer shops are offering a 50% sale on fancy scarves, clothes, shoes, so if you want to spend a semi-reasonable amount on an Italian made luxury item, the time is now. We browsed for a luxuriously long time. Fashionable Italian ladies do not impulse buy. They do not rush when choosing handbags. They tour the shop, ask the shop assistant’s opinion, ask the other customers’ opinion and study each one in the mirror. They assess each merit of each bag, its size, its colour, its decorative quality, the effect it would add to an outfit, if it looks youthful or distinguished and all the other qualities a handbag could have. Through this process of collaboration, we settled on a bright blue handbag with a gold chain, as well as a turquoise clutch, two scarves and a raspberry handbag for a future wedding. We chatted to the shop assistant about where to get custom shoes made, exchanged contact details to make further enquiries and left the shop with two big white bags. This was followed by more window-shopping in the wintery weather, and then on arrival back in Molfetta, another delicious ice cream. On the threshold of this favourite gelateria, I felt another sudden impulse to live in Italy in the future. These emotions occur whenever my happiness reaches a certain peak: funnily enough, it seems like going back to Leeds will be a ‘year out’ from my life here in Italy. With my parents living in Piedmont, my friends in Puglia and so much more to explore, I feel that it makes sense to return.

Guacamole – how un-Italian of me

On Thursday, I saw turtles and fresh vegetables at the market in the morning, then tagged along on some more errands. Even though I might not have contributed much to proceedings in the bank and the travel agent, it was a pleasant outing in Molfetta once again. In the jewellers shop, picking up a repaired watch, I was approached for conversation lessons that would help with a practical aim to make airports/restaurants/hotels a bit easier to navigate. We’ll see how that pans out. Before going home, we popped into the supermarket to buy artichokes for Sunday lunch. That’s the day when families usually cook something a little different for the first course: for example pasta al forno, lasagne or cannelloni.

Surreptitious shot of the Thursday market. I know my finger is in the way

On Friday, I attended a meeting in the afternoon between all the English teachers about language courses that needed funding. After quickly establishing common opinions, the meeting was over. All I did was read the brochure. Then it was off to the gym for more cardio but the carrot on the stick this time was a meal out in Bisceglie with two other language assistants. I took it as an opportunity to try something special: the waitress recommended the seafood antipasti, so I ordered some insalata di polpo. I was expecting a small plate to taste, but two dishes turned up with little fried squids in one and purple tentacles in the other, dressed with parsley and oil. A tasting session went down and it transpired that I was the only one who could deal with the texture. Fair enough, let’s say that the appearance of the things can easily put people off, and the different parts of the squid can be chewy or gelatinous. I’m not selling the idea too well, but with a drizzle of lemon and eaten whole, the little squids were really delicious. They didn’t leave much room for the pizza I had also ordered, I had to leave half of that after eating all the toppings. After the food, accompanied by a very reasonably priced and slightly ‘vivacious’ white wine I felt happy and sated. We also had a tasty chocolate liqueur on the house, which was like alcoholic Nesquik. With the others heading back to the station, I went to meet my friends who were in a pub just down the road. We stayed for a while listening to Oasis covers before heading back to Molfetta. One of my favourite songs was on the radio, which rounded off the evening nicely. On Saturday, we went off to Trani despite the icky February rain. It was a lovely evening, with truly good pizza in a restaurant tucked inside an arch with the region’s typical white stone and warm lighting. I was indulgent this weekend, eating out twice, but there are so many good restaurants around here to try and you only get one year abroad!

L’Antico Granaio, Bisceglie

Il Covo delle Chiacchiere, Trani

And that is this week’s round up. I wanted to record it because I feel that it was a perfect end to January: keeping fit, getting closer to the people around me and making the most of Italy. Roll on Part 2.

A Blues-Busting January

January can be such a bummer sometimes. After the excitement and indulgence of Christmas, our daily routine resumes, bringing with it dullness, dieting and doomed resolutions. Not to mention for Leeds University students, a horrendous exam session that takes up half the month with New Year revision. And it’s still as cold as it was in December. 

I’m feeling rather smug this January. I gather from various social networks that exams are well underway in my university city and that they are even more tasking than usual due to most of my friends being third years. I came to the joyous realisation that in the whole entire year of 2014, I will have absolutely NO EXAMS. My next season of painful academic testing is scheduled to take place in January 2015. This thought made me feel light as air, even while holding a tome of Italian poetry. Boasting over. 

 Another element that usually makes my January a bit miserable is the weather. This time last year, the heating wasn’t working and my house was like a roomy and carpeted igloo. Me and my housemates would each spend approximately 15 minutes per day holding down the ignition for the pilot light and we had to come up with a rota of when to wash our hair to avoid icy showers. This year, I have strolled around in the day brazenly wearing my ‘light’ coat, although I will concede it does get chilly in the evening. On Wednesday, I sat on a bench to write letters and Snapchatted pictures of the port left right and centre. Today though, I only went and discovered that there are chemical bombs in the port of Molfetta (!). Due to language barriers, I am not certain of all the technicalities but basically they are there, thousands of them, chilling under the sea. An interesting development to be sure. 

Want more info? Here you go: http://ilmanifesto.it/a-molfetta-un-mare-di-bombe-chimiche/

I’m now in the third week back at school and activities have resumed as before with added things besides. I’ve chatted to the students about their hobbies and interests, about Romeo and Juliet and about false friends that it’s best to avoid. I was in school on Saturday, helping out with a translation project, AND on Sunday for the institution’s open day. It was a good turn out: the room was full and the deputy head delivered a convincing speech. I was there as an asset, essentially: all I had to do was look pleasantly English when she introduced me and carry a thermos of tea around (how apt). I spent most of the morning chatting to the students that were there to serve orange juice. 

‘Next stop, your future’ brochure

Today at school, there was another exciting event. I had just got back from having coffee with one of the teachers, expecting to conduct a lesson in the language lab, when I was informed that the police were coming to speak to my class and that I could go along to listen too. Going with the flow, as per usual, I found out that the officials present were in fact members of the Guarda di Finanza, a law enforcement agency whose job is to chase down tax avoiders to try and remedy the terrible mess that Italy currently finds itself in. Financial crime of massive proportions is an extremely hot subject at the moment, and the informative videos we were shown ignited the teachers’ fury in the front row and caused general uproar in the sea of teenage boys behind us. One countess in Rome apparently owned around 1,800 apartments without paying tax on any, and one woman was arrested for claiming benefits for being blind – when she could see! These stories are almost impossible to believe but certainly the Guarda are trying to chase down the offenders and at the same time, raising awareness in schools of tax avoidance and drug smuggling. They also went through a slideshow in an aim to convince the young’uns to enlist in the academy for the Guarda di Finanza. I was surprised to find out that they only started allowing women to enrol in 2000 (I mean…come on). I smiled over my shoulder at my students when the timetable came up: with three hours of language lessons a week, they wouldn’t be escaping English just yet (hehe).

And how could I feel the January blues when there’s still so much delicious food around ? When I got back to Molfetta, I was happy to try new and tasty recipes for stuffed peppers and to help finish the Christmas desserts that were left over from the holidays. One of these sweet specialities is the cartellate, which are these kind of weird crinkled fried pastries cooked in sticky wine and other stuff. They taste strange but good. There was also dried fruit, some of it covered in chocolate and sprinkles, and little almond pastries that are also typical of yuletide in Molfetta. On Sunday, I was told to make the final remainders disappear once and for all, a task which I obviously accepted. 

Cartellate

 

Another sweet discovery were chiacchiere, brought to school by a secretary and then brought home for me to try with my coffee. They are typical of the carnival period and apparently take their name (which means ‘chatter’) because they are crunchy in your mouth. I took the empty plate back with a happy smile and found out afterwards that the secretarial staff had discussed the opinion that I had gained weight since starting at the school, and that I look better for it. I’ll choose to put it down to my new habit of exercising regularly and muscle weight rather than the fact that I eat pasta every day and probably have too much cake for my own good. The people around me took a ‘We did it!’ view of this, happy to be feeding me up it seems. Ah well, as long as my clothes still fit me, I’ll enjoy the Italian cuisine as much as I can and try everything that is offered to me because it’s very rare for me to dislike something. After all, I’m only here for a year.

So that’s that, January contains no more blues than any other month and I’ve got into the swing of 2014. The deputy head told me that the English teachers often ask how I am doing here in Molfetta, worried about my general wellbeing. She told me that she answers ‘Elly is always happy’. That made me glad because 1) it is more or less true and it’s nice that other people know that, and 2) there are worse things to be known for than smiling all the time. 

“Looking for a Sea Change”

“Off my doorstep straight into the sunshine

Walking west and following the coastline

Looking for a sea change”

(The End of the Movie – Stornoway)

I’ve always been a fan of walking. In Leeds, I didn’t really mind the half an hour walk from my little ‘slug palace’ house into the centre of town (if it wasn’t raining). Here in Molfetta, the afternoons are at my disposal and sometimes to break the post-lunch lull, I go down to the seafront for a long walk and have a tour of the town.

The fresh air really does wonders for you if you’re so sick of the Victorians that you’re about to throw your laptop against the wall. Or if you’ve just tried to repair a jumper and accidentally cut some of your hair off while trimming the thread (me, yesterday). The January weather here in Molfetta is extremely mild this year, everyone tells me in consternation. Apparently this means the early arrival of mosquitoes and a threat to plant life. If I look at it selfishly though, I do not miss feeling like my nose is about to fall off. The icy winds and rain of Leeds are a distant memory: I can amble along, kept at a perfect temperature by my duffel coat.

Walking is the best way to appreciate a place. When I visited Amsterdam, I went everywhere on foot, fuelled by fun museum trips and bacon/banana pancakes. When I go to London, I’d rather wander from Seven Dials to Leicester Square and across the bridge to Waterloo station than be packed in the Tube against a stranger’s armpit, like a sheep or a sardine. When Mum and Izzy visited Molfetta, I dragged them round the whole town in the heat, prompting complaints that I was walking too fast on my legs of steel.

It’s the same for Molfetta. To be fair, I wouldn’t know where to start with getting a bus but I’d rather walk anyway. I love pottering in the streets among the green shutters, seeing people out and about in the morning, posting their letters and buying their fresh vegetables. I weave my way down to the seafront and sit on this particular bench I’ve adopted for my purposes. I can just sit and stare at the sea, for ages, without even doing anything. People pass me by, sometimes remarking that it’s a bit ‘freschetto’ (which translates as ‘girl, it’s cold, what you doing?’) and sometimes just staring at me like they’re trying to read my odd English mind. These people have probably lived here all their lives and forget how pretty the cathedral is on a sunny blue morning or how pleasant it is to watch the pink sunset crawl further towards the horizon. I sit alone, but I’m not lonely because there are fishermen around and an old lady who leaves food out for strays.

Taking walks like these is a good way to gather your thoughts. I sometimes listen to ‘sea’ themed music and occasionally read my book. Looking at the sea also makes me think about other shores and other places where I might end up in the future, and about my friends and family in distant countries. I do sometimes feel sad without them for a moment, but I know they are happy wherever they are, in the UK, France, Germany, Spain, Canada or the USA.

I make my way home when I realise my fingers are too cold to bend properly, and by that time it’s usually gone dark. I’m safe but occasionally a bit jumpy when I encounter large barking dogs or long shadows. Today a cat popped its head out of a bush with a tiny ‘miaow’ and I jumped a mile. You’ve gotta watch out for those cats.

Molfetta – 15th January 2014

Molfetta – 19th December 2013

One time I saw an ‘E’ washed up on the rocks – a SIGN?

Buon Anno 2014

2013 sailed away with rain and reminiscence on the banks of the River Thames, waiting for London’s giant firework display. It’s been a special year for me and my friends, the beginning of our hotly anticipated ‘Year Abroad’ or the start of the final year at university. I always thought 2013 sounded odd and ungainly as a date, but it has turned out to be a wonderful year in terms of events, exploring and meeting new people. I went to the USA, where I took part in a beautiful wedding and spent three days exploring New York with kind new friends. I also saw Pisa, Amsterdam, Rome and Naples. Then of course, I moved to Molfetta and felt part of a new place and gained an insider’s perspective on a new culture.

The time has gone terrifyingly fast. I can remember the anticipation as I boarded the train from Bari to Molfetta that very first boiling day. I can still feel that mix of excitement and fear of the unknown as I looked out of the window at the sea on one side and olive groves on the other. And now, in a blink of an eye containing a thousand images and faces and feelings, it’s 2014 and I’m ready to return, explore and face the wide future ahead of me. But before I do, I’d like to recap my highlights and achievements in Molfetta so far:

1)    Getting better at my job

When I first arrived, I was pretty daunted by the pressure of preparing and delivering a successful lesson. Over the past months I have developed a better sense of what my role is in the school and started to really enjoy my rapport with the students. Well, when I say rapport, what I mean is that I like making stupid jokes and seeing if they understand what I’m saying. Sometimes they do, and that makes for a good atmosphere. Other times, I look like a fool but at least they learn English from it. It’s all part of the process. I also enjoyed doing lessons with 10 year olds because I could use drawings of a haunted house to teach them place prepositions.

Goals for 2014: Keep learning and maybe give some more one-on-one lessons or conversations. Oh and try to memorise some more names, although with 250+ students that is HARD.

2)    Seeing new places

As I mentioned earlier, I have had quite a lot of jet setting opportunities this year. There was my university trip to Pisa in February, which was both lovely and instructive, and a four-day stay in Amsterdam in June. Then of course I enjoyed the French summer in Toulouse before heading off to the States. My year abroad in Puglia has allowed me to see a new place almost every weekend, like Bari, Alberobello, Trani, Bisceglie and Giovinazzo locally, and Rome, Turin and Naples further afield. I feel extremely lucky to be in such a fantastic region and will soon put together a ‘To See’ List for the coming eight months.

Goals for 2014: cf. this To See List, which is still forming in my brain

3)    Language Learning

The whole point of the Year Abroad, as I was reminded by a rather tedious university questionnaire, is to make progress in Italian, in speaking, reading, listening and interacting with people without feeling like a complete idiot. I’d say I’m pretty comfortable now with my level of Italian: obviously I make mistakes, but I can have a spontaneous conversation without blanks and even make jokes sometimes. I cannot wait for the day when my Italian will be good enough for puns and innuendo. Seriously though, being integrated in a family, a group of friends and the staff at school is really improving my Italian. I wonder if I’ll go back with a Southern accent.

Goals for 2014: Try to read more Italian books or magazines. I do own Dante and Petrarch’s works but they have just been chilling on the shelf so far. Memorise some swear words.

4)    Being independent

I moved out of my family home when I was only 17, which seems quite young to me now. I’ve travelled through a selection of airports alone, and generally feel that (apart from buttering bread) I can cope as a human being. I still make the odd stupid mistake but living in a new country without familiar people and places takes courage and I feel proud of my three months so far. Of course, it all depends on the situation, and I have been extremely lucky with the people I have met. Instead of being scared of the future, I feel confident that I can go places and meet people without self-destructing.

Goals for 2014: Not to leave my debit card in a supermarket again. Be safe, and streetwise.

The last I saw of Molfetta in 2013 was a beautiful pink and blue sunset, with a solitary fisherman on the water. I went to say a nostalgic goodbye to the sea because that’s what the Christmas period inspired in me. You may have noticed I’m a sentimental person at any time of year though, so you can no doubt expect more outbursts of feelings on the old blog later on in 2014. Keep reading to find out how I get on with 5 months more work in brand new classes, planning my summer and making the most of my time in Puglia. Happy New Year!

Going on a university trip to visit an exhibition in Pisa

Reuniting with Naomi and meeting her fiancé JD in January 2013

Being silly in Amsterdam for a few days in June.

On the top of the Empire State Building with friends.

At Naomi’s beautiful wedding.

My first day in sunny Molfetta

My 20th birthday in Molfetta, a perfect day

Mum and Izzy’s visit to Puglia.

Seeing the capital in all its glory

Preparing for Christmas, and getting a present from San Nicola

Spending time with the family at Christmas

Spending New Year’s Eve in London catching up with my British side.

The Puglia Christmas Feeling

So I’m back in the French motherland, on a brief hiatus from my Italian adventures. I arrived on the afternoon flight yesterday and grinned the whole way home. I am reunited with my family, my dogs and my house and looking forward to festive cheer, meaning mince pies and presents.

The Christmas spirit has been increasing all week, culminating in my last day on Thursday where I gave out cards to my teacher colleagues and delivered three more lessons about the good, the bad and the ugly of British yuletide. Explaining the cranberry sauce and turkey combination was a lost cause from the beginning.

In Puglia, the decorations were up from the beginning of December and the shops prepared to lure shoppers in with glitter and reindeers. Last Saturday, I went off to Bari by myself to do some Christmas browsing. I say browsing because the idea of seasonal shopping overfaces me and I end up drifting around like the ghost of Christmas future, not buying anything. Being alone meant that I could indulge this indecision, buying a jumper for myself after trying on three different colours, and mess around in the make up shop testing the wrong shade of foundation on my hands. I also came across some chocolate orange hand cream that could have been confectioned by Terry himself.

I met my friend at the Bari Christmas market, between the oversized Baby Jesus and the homemade baubles. We strolled around the ubiquitous nativity scenes and bought a small cup of hot chocolate, ‘corrected’ with a sneaky bit of Baileys. Hot chocolate in Italy is something else. Far from the liquid drink with clumps of powdered cocoa floating in it, the chocolate we bought was basically a miniature fondue.

That evening, I went to the ‘Notte Bianca’ of Molfetta, where the shops stay open and local producers roll out their stalls of food, craft items and more food to tempt the crowds into the blustery streets of the Centro Storico. I bought a reindeer cupcake from the Red Cross stand and sampled ‘pettole’, salted fried dough balls in a paper cone. I encountered a few of my students along the way, some of whom looked flabbergasted that I have a life outside of school, where I drink wine and have fun with friends. It was a chilly evening but there was live music, including covers of my familiar friend Fabrizio de Andrè. The decorations on Corso Umberto were sparkly as we speed-walked back to the car. We rounded off the evening with an espresso and stories about my friends getting drunk in a tent. It was most entertaining.

Pettole

Monday was an excellent day for festive feelings. I conducted some successful lessons and then was invited to a colleague’s house for lunch. As usual, I was spoiled with delicious food and sent back with home made ‘bignè’ pastries. I think that there is some kind of unspoken conspiracy in Molfetta to make me put on weight. In the evening, I burned off some of the calories in a satisfying gym session, where for once I actually followed the step routine. Usually I flap around confusing my left and my right, feeling defeated, but this time I focussed and jumped around exercising like a boss. Then I was picked up from the gym and was taken to one of the most beautiful patisseries I have ever seen. We had lemon-nougat and panna cotta ice cream; our sight regaled with rows of Christmas desserts and tiny tiramisu pots. I was introduced as the English girl in town and I smiled a lot to show my enthusiasm for Italian food. Because that is one of the most important pleasures in life there. Traditions and seasons are measured by cakes and vegetables. Pasta is an unquestionable daily occurrence. The conspiracy has reached its target: I have put on weight, but feel happy and healthy for it. It could be my new abs anyway. Bring on the eating fest that is English Christmas dinner, and don’t forget the cranberry sauce.

Teaching Bambini in Bisceglie

I’m definitely spreading the English love down here in Puglia. I spend my mornings at the school, doing reading and speaking activities with 16-18 year olds and saying ‘hello, hello, hello’ as I pass them all in the corridors. One of the English teachers said that she likes the way they look at me when I speak: I’m not sure whether she meant admiration or complete bewilderment.

Besides my job as a language assistant, I offer people words in English now and then as points of comparison when someone teaches me new things in Italian. It must be pretty annoying actually. I now know how to say ‘scalpel’, ‘wisdom teeth’ and a variety of vulgar expressions in Italian. I’m absorbing slang and vocabulary like a sponge.

Thursday is a particularly full day as English educating goes because I give private lessons in Bisceglie, a town I have mentioned before, just North of Molfetta. Every week, I hop on the 17.42 train for one stop, and spend an hour and a half in the company of four primary school boys who are having a sneaky bit of tuition with me on top of their official English lessons. I have been informed that their teacher is none too pleased about this but oh well. I follow their school book but also make my own worksheets

An excuse to draw stuff.

These lessons are overall a pleasurable experience due to the sheer enthusiasm of nine year olds, in comparison to the lethargy of high school students. We’ve talked about Halloween, prepositions, the weather and time. Often, we start from a clean slate: they are always asking me for new words. Yesterday we did all types of food, including mussels and octopus. In the first lesson back in October, the boys were unexpectedly docile but now they have lost that initial shyness. As their concentration span begins to wane, the decibel levels soar. Usually, drawings and activities that they can all do together keeps things under control, but I have been caught in the middle of a paper war before now, and witnessed a full on wrestling match at the stroke of half past seven, when the lesson officially ends. Also the sentence ‘Enrico magic pig’ seems to have stuck as an insult.

As well as giving me a little extra experience and income, these lessons are a way to meet new people: I visit four different houses because they take turns hosting the lessons. Sometimes I have found myself in riotous situations, like being punched by a little brother running round with an iPad and dealing with a terrier that jumped on the table halfway through the lesson. The families are all breathless with shepherding young children around, but for the past two lessons I have been offered home made focaccia, which is my favourite type of bread ever. Sure, eating it impedes the speaking English part a little bit, and I leave with greasy photocopies, but these lessons are supposed to be friendly and fun after all. I have been told that the boys are all fond of me and proud when they know all the answers in their English lessons at school. I always leave Bisceglie happy, having done something constructive and satisfying with my otherwise quiet weekday. I go home and relax watching terrible Italian soap operas, or their version of Deal and No Deal, which bizarrely sometimes includes a box with a crocodile toy inside (I mean, what is up with this) and the weirdest song and dance interludes since the 1980s ended. Noel Edmonds, take note.

I will not boast about the weather anymore because it’s cold and I spend the afternoon working like this.