Home ?

It’s Sunday evening. Last week this time I was at the Rome airport waiting to board the plane.

In the morning, I had asked Patrizia to call a cab for me. Thank God she was the one on duty! She helped most cheerfully, and was on the phone for almost 10 minutes trying to get a cab. I was wringing my hands in nervousness. No doubt, the train station is only 5 to 10 minutes away but who knows how long it would take to get a cab? According to her, cabs are not so easy to come by early Sunday mornings.

When the cab finally arrived, Patrizia was really sweet and carried my luggage out for me. She needn’t have to at all (no receptionist has done that for anyone, as far as I could see). At the gate, she still had an animated conversation with the driver about the front gate that he should have entered. And there I was still very kan cheong about getting to the station on time.

‘’How much is the fare to the station? I do not have much cash with me,’’ I asked the driver, when I saw the flag off fare already at almost 8 euro! I didn’t remember it being so much when I first came to the residence from the station. ‘’It’s about 10 euro, not more than that,’’ he replied. When we arrived, it was about 10.35 euro, but he said kindly, ‘’10 euro, è basta’’ (it’s enough).

When I arrived I saw Marcia, from Saint Petersburg, already waiting at the station. She had been there much earlier, having taken a bus to the station instead. She was delighted that we were waiting for the same bus to Rome. ‘’That way we have company,’’ she said happily. Marcia, an undergrad, stayed at the same residence but we hardly talked as we were in different classes. Now that we were on the same bus, (followed by train later) to the airport, it gave us an opportunity to chat. It was her first time to Italy and she was really brave. She had arrived late at night in the middle of Siena city centre and had tried to catch a bus to the residence, luggage and all. A few Senesi helped her look for buses and eventually she had to take a taxi.

Where the bus dropped us, we had to take a train to the airport. We had forgotten to look for a ‘’stamping machine’’ to validate our ticket before boarding the train and was wondering whether to make a dash back to the entrance, when we met an elderly man, who explained, ‘’it’s ok, just write the date and time of the journey at the back,’’ and he did just that for us! True enough, when the inspector checked our tickets later, he ‘’cleared’’ them! Only in Italy do you get such whimsical actions of writing on your own tickets to validate them.

At the airport lounge in Rome, I went to help myself to a juice and some peanuts. Next to me, I saw a woman trying to scoop some nuts on a napkin and when she saw me scooping them into a drinks glass, she said to me, ‘’smart idea, I’ll do that too. They don’t even provide a plate!’’ I just smiled. She looked at me again, as if trying to elicit an agreement from me, ‘’it’s terrible isn’t it, how do they expect us to eat this?’’ I just shrugged, and mumbled, ‘’oh well’’.

Although Singapore was still at least 15 hours away, but I knew I was already very, very near home, when I heard the typical complaining and whining in perfect Singlish.

So, what did I do this weekend when I got home? For a start, memories slowly kick in. Though I was very much in touch with my friends here while I was in Siena, there are details that I have filed away. Like trying to remember how to get from one destination to another, or how ill mannered people are.

It feels like I had been living on a different plane in August. I was fully aware of the happenings in Singapore, while living a contented student’s life in Siena. Despite the gripes about mosquitoes and having to share limited facilities, I have grown to miss the simplicity of life there, and how unassuming the people are.

As I got pushed and shoved while getting lost in the maze of new entrances and exits at the Orchard MRT station linking up new spanking malls today, I could not help feeling aghast at the crass materialism and aimless shopping that got everyone crazed.

Back in Siena, Sunday is a family day where family members spend a large part of their time having a nice home cooked meal together, not out roaming the streets to check out the latest shop or gadget, or the latest gourmet food in downtown supermarkets.

The Senesi are happy to shop at residential or suburban hypermarkets, where house brands rule the market, and whose quality are superb, if not indiscernible from the ‘’branded’’ ones. (I know – I ‘’tested’’ this on my colleagues with a taste test!)

Sigh – I knew I was going to miss Siena – not just its monuments and sunshine, but its values and lifestyle.

Going Home

This morning, I bumped into Rosy, the Brazilian lady, at the kitchen. ‘’Ah, you are still here, when do you leave?’’ she asked. ‘’Tomorrow,’’ I told her.
‘’Good, there’s still you! I leave tomorrow too, almost everyone is leaving today, she replied’’.

Yes, we bade farewells to many of our housemates this morning. I asked Min, the Korean guy when he would be leaving. ‘’In February,’’ he replied. He studies Italian as part of his University programme in Seoul and will be here for quite a while. That’s great for him; I am sure by February he will speak very well. Already I am hearing more complete and comprehensible sentences from him.

Another Korean girl asked me when I was leaving (‘’when are you leaving’’ seems to be the greeting these last few days) when I met her on my way up to my room. I told her tomorrow and she said, everyone is here only for a month, I will be here for a year, she replied. It must be sad bidding farewells to people every month. I asked if she was going to stay in this house for a year and she told me that she would be looking for another residence somewhere nearer town.

If I were her, I would have the same desire to find another residence too: one month in this sua ting villa, and I have donated enough blood to the greedy fat mosquitoes here to open a private blood bank.

And though having two stinking fridges exploding with food stuffed in a chaotic manner is still tolerable, what is not is: having people take your food without your knowledge or consent. Apparently this happened to some students on many occasions, but it just had to happen to me on my second last day here, when I am trying to manage my food supplies and not stock up too much. But as a result of this pilferage, my limited supplies got depleted and I had to make a trip to the supermarket last evening.

I asked Stefano, the cute and friendly receptionist, a silly question. Better to be save than sorry, never mind if I sound stupid. I asked if there is taxi early in the morning at 7 am tomorrow, as I had to leave by 7 am to go to the bus station to catch a bus to Rome. ‘’Do I have to book today, or call tomorrow morning?’’

He told me to call on the morning itself, rather than book the day before. I asked again, ‘’it’s early in the morning at 7 am, there is taxi?’’ I know I doubt this medieval city and the medieval way they do things, and was not going to take any chances. After all, if they have such infrequent bus services, which terminate after 9.30 pm, what can you say about taxis? ‘’Yes, yes, our taxis operate 24 hours every day,’’ he assured me.

Tomorrow morning I leave for Rome, to catch a flight home, transiting first in Bangkok. A month has jet by quickly, as quickly as the aeroplane.

Arrivederci

Today is our last day together as a class. In the morning we still had class till 1 pm, though we had an exam at 2.30 pm, and the individual oral exam tomorrow.

Though many of us look forward to going home, there is always a tinge of melancholy in us. Melancholic about time whooshing past so quickly, melancholic about having to leave newly made friends, and simply – melancholic about an ending.

Yesterday evening, Ilker, Deimante and I went out for our last dinner together. As usual we hunted around for a ‘’budget’’ dining place. Hard to come by, since Diemante did not want an indoor dining area, nor a ‘’stand up-fast food-pizza-kebab’’ type place.

We had wanted to try the one and only Chinese restaurant around but since Diemante preferred outdoor sitting, we decided to wander around to look for something else. In the end we managed to find Il Grattacielo, a cosy ‘’hole in the wall’’ place that offered simple ‘’home cooked’’ dishes.

Today during the break many of us were busy exchanging contact details, and taking class photos. School mates from other classes were laden with various cameras trying to help us take the group photos.

And it was just so apt that our last 1.5 hours of lesson was spent watching the rest of the movie ‘’I Cento Passi’’, which we had been discussing and from which our exercises had been based.

The movie was also a kind of ‘’goodbye’’. It ended with the death of Peppino. The movie is very touching and although our teacher wanted to fast forward certain portions that we have seen and discussed, some of us requested her not to.

At punctually 1 pm, the movie ended. This time, when she invited us for comments and views, the silence was even longer and more deafening than the previous day. She did not push for any comments, only saying that she could tell the movie had left us bereft of words.

In fact, the movie left many of us in tears. Without a word, we shuffled our papers, and left the class.

Somehow we decided to go back to the Chinese restaurant for our meal, instead of eating at the school canteen. We agreed to order take-aways and find some place outdoor to eat, before returning for our exams.

Since we were so hungry, the minute we could find a place that we could rest our bums, we stopped. Take a look at this happy photo.

There will be many memories of Siena that I will bring home. But the most beautiful one will be this - having a 2.50 euro meal somewhere in the middle of Siena, near our school, and my friends ooing and wowing over the yummy fried rice and noodles. ‘’It’s so yummy! It’s so hot!’’ they exclaimed, gingerly handling the hot foil container. ‘’Is Chinese food always so yummy and always eaten so hot?’’ they asked.

This memorable scene sure beats the experience of having dined in a chi chi osteria or trattoria.

Characters that you Meet

I suppose the others are doing what I am doing now, except perhaps they do it verbally, or in their heads.

For me, I am more ‘’lethal’’ – I write about them and spread the word, ha ha.

At the 24 hour portineria (concierge/ reception), there are a few people on duty, working in shifts. The one I like best is Patrizia. She is jovial, bubbly and has a hearty chuckle. She is the one making funny gestures to express how hot the weather is. Two days ago, she placed a chair smack in the middle of the entrance landing, so she could slouch on it, because it was ‘’soooo hot!’’

There is a bald guy called Marco. He is the one I dislike. The first week we were here, he came to the room where the TV is located and shouted, ‘’this is for TV, not for working’’, knowing very well (and we stressed that to him), that this room is where the internet connection is decently acceptable.

At times when we returned from school and wanted to retrieve our key from him (yes, we have to leave behind our key when we are out) he would make facetious jokes and say ‘’why must I give it to you’’. Once he pretended not to understand me and when I repeated the request, he gave it to me in slow motion, after peering real hard into my face like a clown.

Yesterday, he told me that he could not give it to me. I did not bother to joke with him, not even smile. He explained, ‘’I can’t give you # 17, I only have 17A’’. He was trying to be funny. Every one knows there is only one 17, the ‘’A’’ is not important.

Then there is one lady who is usually grouchy and grumbles to herself. I had the misfortune of having her sign me in when I arrived on Sunday. She was far from informative or helpful. It was Patrizia who showed me around and explained a lot of things later.

Another lady whose name I did not ask is quite helpful too; so is another guy (rather cute as well) who is very cheerful and friendly. I dread Sunday evenings, it’s usually the time that Marco is on duty.

Marco was once quite pally with a girl from Beijing, who even massaged his shoulders. But yesterday, she was furious and used both Mandarin and Italian expletives complaining endlessly about him, even saying he has ‘’no respect for her’’ (?!). Apparently he had been facetious with her too, and even followed her around. Whenever she cooked, he would go to the kitchen to ask what she was cooking. I told her my experience with him and suggested perhaps he was interested in her.

It turned out that one of my roommates disliked him too and had an exchange with him last week. Everyone says that there is something wrong with him.

Then there are my teachers. The one teaching us grammar, Lucia, is pretty international and can pronounce names from most countries. Except mine. The first few times she called out ‘’Yah net’’ I didn’t know she was referring to me. You see, in Italian, there is no ‘’J’’. She seems to know quite a bit about Singapore because each time I am asked to talk about certain aspects of Singapore (it’s all part of our class oral practice) she would ask questions and ask me to confirm, eg, ‘’Singapore is one of the most advanced Asian countries, isn’t it?’’

The other teacher who gives us all sorts of ‘’maddening/ interesting texts’’ is also called Lucia. She is not popular. She did not make an effort to remember our names and always points and says, ‘’you, you sitting there, answer this question!’’.

Lately she has taken to trying to call us by name, by reading off our attendance list. But she mis pronounces any name that is not Italian. Ironically, she got my name right!

She reminds me of the stereotypical image we used to have of a teacher from her dressing to her behaviour – old spinster like, hunched and judgmental. And very defensive. We could not give any little criticism about Siena or about the Palio. She would just slam down any comment you make (yet she was the one who invited comments) and then rebut with something dismissive, with that awful ‘’old school teacher look’’.

There is a bunch of Maltese who behave like you are invisible in the same house that you live. No nods, no smiles, no ciao even if I initiate it. They even brush past you like you are thin air. I am sure that if I gneh gneh stood in their path and not budge when they wanted to walk towards me, they would have razed me to the ground as if I didn’t exist. (That said, to be fair, there are about 2 who are not like that.) This bunch would cook up a storm every evening, hogging the kitchen. Even their breakfast every morning is a big deal.

There are 3 Chinese here who are pretty friendly to everyone. One of them – the loud one – is the gang leader and quite a show off. She is the one that had over reacted when she got mad with Marco.

One Brazilian woman initially had this permanent scowl on her face but now that we are all more familiar with each other, she smiles more. Plus, now that she knows my name she bothers to greet and chat with me. Today, she said, ‘’Janet e il suo computer!’’ (I am known for sticking with my computer all day long after school). The other Brazilian, a guy, was initially quite reserved too but is now friendlier, especially when last Saturday he was a bit drunk and kept calling me, ‘’Janet, ciao’’ when he saw me – you guessed it – at my computer’’. Both of them were so happy and thrilled/ surprised that my name is so simple – Janet, and not some words resembling bottles and pots clanging together (you know who I am referring to)

Ilker from Turkey also just could not understand how I could have an English name, since I am Chinese. In Turkey, it’s unheard of, he said.

My 2 roommates are from Serbia and are shopaholics and vain pots with their constant nail painting and application of make up. I try my best not to be influenced by their shopping habit but I must say they are very good at sniffing out bargains! One of them is 30 and the other is 32. When they found out I was … er… my age, they could not believe their ears and insisted I was joking. ‘’I thought you were 28 max, and that’s after you told me you are already working. If not, I would have guessed even younger!’’

Since then, once in a while they would still say, ‘’I really can’t believe you are not 28.’’ I modestly replied, ‘’maybe it’s my hair style, and very little make up’’. ‘’But no, it’s your skin, and look how firm and toned you are, and your face, no wrinkles…’’

One of them even asked, ‘’what cream do you use?’’ She is chopstick skinny but kept saying I am very slim, and that I have no cellulites. Yes, she is very conscious about such things, massaging herself with gadgets daily to prevent cellulites. ‘’I have a lot, but you don’t have any,’’ she always says.

Every morning I would be the first to get up, shower and get ready. (I am, after all, a kia su Singaporean!) If both have woken up by then, they would be looking at me with great curiosity as I get dressed or prepare to go out. ‘’That’s a nice dress/ blouse,’’ they would often comment. (No, they are not gays – they are both engaged)

There is an elderly Japanese lady who has already retired but took up Italian as a hobby. She keeps very much to herself. She is the typical Japanese, polite, organized, and pretty conscientious in her food preparation. She would even bring a white towel to the kitchen as she cooks. For breakfast, she actually brings a little manual juicer so she could have freshly squeezed fruit juice!

We have a Korean guy, Minh, who does not understand anyone and whom no one understands. Trying to converse with him requires a lot of 6th sense. Sometimes he would say ‘’no’’ or ‘’si’’ and you would think, eureka! he understood you; but no, he totally misunderstood you, or seems to contradict what you had understood from him.

There are 2 Lebanese girls – one very quiet and the other behaving like a typical French – drama queen, in her gestures, exaggerated speech, etc (Lebanese speak French as their second language) They speak Arabic to the Egyptian girl, but the drama queen would then say, ‘’we should speak Italian and not Arabic’’. I guess that’s because the Egyptian refuses to speak (not even try) Italian. She would not even learn how to go to school or how to get back in the first week !!

The 2 Lebanese girls share their room with an obese elderly woman from Russia. She is pretty anti social and keeps to herself. She would not let the 2 girls turn on the light (not even the small ones above their individual beds) when they get home past midnight. Once there was a huge quarrel among them, that Marco had to intervene. I could hear the Russian woman shouting at the top of her lungs in very fluent Italian, while the poor Francophones struggled with limited Italian.

There is a blond girl from Finland. Very pleasant. The only thing about her is, she likes to sigh. Her greeting is always, (deep breath) and then a big sigh. In the middle of something, she would sigh again. Another of her favourite expressions is ‘’O dio’’ (O God) Either she is always very bored, or tired with life, or it’s her way of self expression. She is what I would call the ‘’nua’’ sort, soft spoken, does things in slow motion, and very indecisive. But when it comes to hanging out, she will not sigh! Maybe she is easily bored and needs to get out often, so much so that she has cut a few classes to go to other cities, or to visit Siena’s Wednesday open market.

In my class there is Efi, a pleasant girl but also a mini drama queen, in the sense that she complains a lot and exaggerates. She hates class and says the teachers are no good, she has learnt nothing and that everything is so boring. It’s not true that she has learnt nothing. If she hasn’t, how come she kept complaining that she did not know so many words in the texts?

Maybe it’s the warmth of the Mediterraneans, but she likes to throw her whole self at Ilker, who is pretty gentlemanly and tries not to touch her even if she pours herself all over him. (and I mean literally – like sitting on his lap, leaning on him and lying on his shoulder) Ilker likes to joke about men’s superiority (typical man’s viewpoint in Turkey, according to him) and Efi likes to stress that she has a very successful career, that she earns much more than many men in Greece.

Then there is So, from Cambodia, who is quite funny, until he has to talk about his country. He would harp on Pol Pot and the war, and the suffering that Cambodians went through. Not wanting to belittle the massacre, but to me it seems that he could link every thing and every phenomenon in Cambodia to Pol Pot.

So irritates Diemante, our classmate from Lithuania, to death. They live in the same residence, and he would call her in her room daily, once up to 7 times a day. Often she would not bother to pick up the phone. She is lucky to have a single room, but that also means no room mate can pick up the call for her. She once told him not to call her and he asked stupidly, ‘’are you angry’’ and when she said no, he said, ‘’I am so glad you are not!’’. Finally on Saturday at 11 pm, when she has already gone to bed, he rang her again to ask her out the next day, and she flatly refused. Come Sunday, they bumped into each other in town and he kept taking photos of her like a papparazi. He did the same during the Palio too.

In the same class there is a guy from Bosnia who talks non stop, worse than any woman. He looks, acts and dresses like a sam seng. I think he must have a very low self esteem and must create opportunities to draw attention to himself. He has a comment, facetious, or stupid, for anything and everything. The teachers seem to like him, thinking that he could speak well. However today was the last straw. Most of us were extremely annoyed with his non stop chatter, while we were trying to read our text and do our exercises; even when our teacher was trying to explain something. At one point, the teacher told him off and to get out of the class. He kept saying ‘’sorry’’ but would not leave. ‘’If you are not interested in the lesson, it’s ok to leave,’’ she kept saying. But I don’t understand why he didn’t want to leave, since during most lessons he did not bother to take notes or seems to have already known everything.

We also have a guy from Bulgaria, who has a chubby baby face. He tends to mumble and swallow his words and this annoys the class. He makes facetious remarks that no one appreciates.

I suppose I soundly really catty here in all these descriptions but heck, I am sure I am not spared their comments. I wonder what they will say about me? I can hazard a guess – ‘’she is that Chinese looking girl with an English name but could not speak Mandarin very well. She does not talk much, but sticks with her Blackberry the minute she wakes up and then with her laptop the minute she returns from school. She has a very boring diet – she eats only bread and salads and fruits. Either she is on a permanent diet, can’t afford anything else, or she just does not know how to prepare anything else!’’

Should I defend myself? Well, maybe for the Blackberry and laptop bit: can I help it if my boss sends me emails everyday asking questions, telling me to do this and that, despite it being my legitimate annual leave? Efi my Mediterranean friend from Greece has the typical Mediterranean response for me, telling me to tell my boss, colleagues and even customers: ‘’if I am not around, too bad, I am not around; I’ll attend to your queries when I am back. Come back again when I return!’’ (Apparently she tells her patients that at her dental clinic!) Ilker my friend from Turkey, a civil servant, says something similar, ‘’when I am here, I turn off my mobile and use an Italian SIM!’’ Maybe I should try this one day. Sure, I won’t be fired, but there will be other consequences too complicated to elaborate here.

I guess, no matter what we like to say - about it being a small world, and how international some of us are, or how a common language unites us – nothing can change how each culture thinks and works.

A Singaporean will always be a workaholic, a European will always know how to enjoy life first.

Profondissima

I am glad we are no longer talking about architectural details of a cathedral, or geological formations. It’s still on to more Italian things, but this time with a bit more colour and excitement.

We spent quite an amount of time talking about the Mafia and its origin, something Italy, especially Palermo (capital of Sicily) is known for. Of course we were thrown with some complex texts which embeds all the hierarchy of a mafia nucleus and we had to unravel that as part of our comprehension text.

Not to mention in addition to learning Italian we now have to learn quite a fair bit of the Sicilian dialect. The vocabulary is quite quaint, I must say.

Once, we had to watch the beginning of a famous movie (I Cento Passi - a real life story about a mafia’s son, Peppino, who renounced the mafia society and who paid the price for it by being assassinated), with the volume switched off. No, we were not learning how to lip read. The task was to figure out and discuss the subtlety of how the mafia behaves and thinks.

Then, we watch it again with the volume and on, and we discussed again, to see if our impressions have changed.

Before this, we had to listen to the cryptic dialogue of one of its middle segments (without the visual this time) and analyse the conversation between Peppino and his brother, and insert punctuations for the dialogue.

Today, we continued with the text and parts of the movie. This time we saw the actual visual of the dialogue we had listened the week before.

We also had to analyse the poem that Peppino has read aloud in the opening scene. It was a ‘’cheem’’ poem and we were struck silent. Profound silence! (It was ‘’profondissima’’ – a word used in the poem too!) Part of the difficulty arose from the vocab – if you do not understand certain key words, you will never understand the poem, no matter how you bluff your way through. The teacher did a great job explaining not just the literal meaning but the metaphorical sense, in her typical intense Italian way.

We just sat there, not able to react when she kept asking, ‘’Any comments? Any views?’’ For once even the chatter boxes in my class kept quiet.

‘’What happened to you all today? What’s wrong? Why so quiet?’’ my teacher kept asking. ‘’Are you all very sad that this is your last week and you have to leave your friends?’’ she continued.

In response, and to avoid complete silence, some of us said, ‘’si!’’

A Day at the Races - Il Palio

The actual race took a couple of minutes, but the amount of preparation and anticipation took weeks.

Before the race, there were trial runs, communal feasts and even a band performance the night before. Colourful flags hung proudly from the old buildings in the historical centre.

August 16 was a big day for the Senesi (people of Siena). Hours before the race there were parades along the streets, and some roads were also blocked.

Deimante, Kaisa and I went to Il Campo at 3 pm to get a place that could give us a good view. Even our teacher said we were mad.

By the time we were many others have already arrived. The heat was unbearable. Kaisa used her bolero to cover her head. Deimante took out her umbrella to shelter us. The entire scallop shaped piazza of Il Campo was swarmed with people – Italians, Senesi, and tourists – all craning our neck to catch a glimpse of the pomp and pageantry of this medieval tradition that has its origin dating as far back as the 12th century.

All 10 of the 17 contrada (district) of Siena participating in the race paraded and performed with their flags in full medieval regalia. The wigs and costumes were so thick and heavy I wondered how the poor participants managed to endure marching in the heat wearing them. Some of us sat on the floor, defeated by the heat, some squatted, but many stood through out the entire event. I alternated between sitting, squatting and standing. One Italian guy standing next to me gave me a nudge out of the blue and said kindly, ‘’move your legs so that you won’t be tired.’’ Deimante drank up almost the entire 1.5 litres of ice water that she bought at the piazza. I tried not to drink too much as we were all trapped inside the square and it was impossible to move out to find a toilet.

The positioning/ order of the horses was determined by drawing lots. There was a sudden silence as someone read aloud the order of the horses just before the scheduled start of the race.

The race was supposed to start at 7.30 pm. But it was only after 8.30 pm that it started. The horses were agitated and it was near impossible to get all 10 of them in place. Each time the last one barely managed to stand in line the crowd cheered, or hissed, or boo-ed, depending on how many times the horse ‘’rebelled’’, and all 10 horses started to move away from the start line and the whole painful process of lining them in order began.

This is not the professional race you see at racing or betting clubs. The jockeys were assigned the horses only 3 days before the race, again, by drawing lots. I was told that for some of the horses, it was their first time in such a race! There was no proper ‘’gate’’ to hold the horses in place at the start point before the gun fires its shot to signal the start.

In fact, there were actually 3 false starts – when all horses seemed to be lined up and about to start, in a split second one would bolt away in the other direction, the gun shot would be fired (not realizing the rebel horse’s bolt), leaving the rest running the whole course. Our teacher told us the next day that the final race actually didn’t have a ‘’valid’’ start, as one of the horses actually didn’t start at the same time. But the officials decided to declare the race valid, otherwise the horses would be tired, and it was getting late. In fact, in this race, one of the jockeys fell off and the horse ran its own race.

It turned out that ‘’la nonna’’ (grandma) has won – the contrada called Civetta (Civet). They call it la nonna because it has not won for the past 30 years.

After the race, there was pandemonium, and an explosion of emotions and euphoria. Some people from a contrada that did not win actually were in tears or even violent, removing flags from buildings.

We basically tried to get out of the square by shuffling, and being shoved, by the crowd. If this was Singapore, I am sure the authorities would have used cordons and other devices to direct traffic, and systematically mapped out designated routes for designated groups of people. But hey, this is Italy, the chaos is part of the priceless experience!

We decided to go straight home, to avoid being trapped in the congested streets with emotional or violent Senesi. Besides, we were dog-tired, after 5 hours of wait under the merciless sun.

Extra Large

Look at this cute little carton containing 2 ‘’Toscana eggs’’.

They are ‘’extra fresh’’ and are labeled XL too!

Cooking them is another story. I had left one to boil in the kitchen, with the intention of having a hard boiled egg to top my salad.

Two girls actually removed my pot from the stove just minutes after I left the kitchen to attend to something, and chucked my pot in one corner, so that they could use the stoves to cook their dinner!

Yes, living with 36 people in one house and sharing a kitchen is not fun, not especially when you have selfish housemates like these…

A Student’s Life here at the University for Foreigners, Siena

Many friends have asked me to ‘’enjoy myself’. There are those who say how much they envy my ‘’vacations’’.

Sure, I spend my Saturdays visiting other towns or cities, but my weekdays are far from vacation-like.

This is not a complaint, but some of the horrors we tolerate here sure deserve mention and consideration. In fact, a friend back in Singapore commented, ‘’I don’t think I could ever do this again!'' when I told him I had to share a room with 2 other people I have not met.

The heat is scorching; the weather is 34 degree Celsius. The rooms and other parts of the residence have no fan, nor air condition. Imagine staying in your room trying to study or even sleep in this condition. We are literally trapped in this breezeless heat.

This residence that they put me in is the furthest from civilization. If I take the bus from town, it’s literally from the start of the bus journey to the end of the whole journey.

After 9.25 pm, there is no more bus home. Either you walk home, which I often do (45 minutes!) or you wait till 1 am for the last bus. In fact, buses are infrequent, and it sure teaches you to be patient and punctual.

At my residence, there are 2 floors of ‘’work room’’ where there are proper desks to do our homework or to log on to the computer. But the wifi connection is uber slow, unreliable, and breaks often. There are only 2 power points, especially on the lower floor where the connection is slightly better. So if your computer battery runs low, tough! The 2 lucky chaps who have been here earlier than you and who have been hogging the power points will not let you have them. And this place is full of mosquitoes. So, while suffering the slow connection, you get eaten mercilessly everyday. I have lost count of the number of bites or scars on my entire body.

Once I decided to cover myself with jeans. This helped a bit, but it also meant I was dripping with sweat as I worked.

And this lower floor with reasonable wifi connection also happens to house the one and only TV in this entire residence. So, if you want to do your homework but someone else wants to watch TV, tough!

And now the room. The cover of the shower’s tap keeps falling off. The main light to the room keeps flickering.

This morning I discovered ants on the floor. Other days I discovered parts of the bathroom door falling apart. On day one we realized to our horror there is no drainage; so after each shower, the whole bathroom will be flooded, even though we try to shower within the tiny ‘’shower area’’. We decided to mop up after every shower. After each mop in this temperature, we would be so soaked in perspiration we need another shower!

Worse of all, the bathroom emits a stinking odour. We are sure it’s not the product of us 3 girls, who are pretty paranoid about cleanliness. My roommates actually bought disinfectant and all kinds of room freshener to mask the smell. And just imagine 3 of us having to share the bathroom every morning and then sharing the kitchen with 35 others and still trying to make it to school on time every morning. Or imagine what happened the other day when one of my roommates decided to sleep at 9 pm (!) and requested that I turned off all lights!

The kitchen. This is the only place I would be so proud to own. Very well designed and equipped with a full suite of cupboards, microwave, oven, stove and two fridges, cutlery, pots and pans, plates and cups, and a dining area. The only problem is the way students chuck their stuff haphazardly and misplace what you have in the fridge, or sharing the work (cooking area) during dinner. Not everyone has manners. There was a girl who, without even a gesture or sound, moved the tap away towards her so she could wash her apple, while I was in the midst of washing a plate! And the beloved mosquitoes. Just standing there spreading some jam on my bread, or making a coffee, will get me bitten real bad.

Another piece of Italian logic: each room has only one key, even though there are 3 of us. So either you get locked out sometimes (especially when she is having a shower and you have just returned), or you have to wake the other person up if she sleeps early.

We don’t all have the same schedules and obviously do not stick together. We are in different classes and some have classes near the train station, which is nearer the residence, while I have lessons at the historical centre.

It is well noted in all sorts of surveys that the poor spend a large proportion of their money on food. It’s not because we eat a lot, but what money we have, it all goes to feeding ourselves, with little left for anything else. So it is so common to see us lugging heavy supermarket bags of food after school, to bring home for dinner. Some even hurry home to cook a late lunch at 3 pm, to minimize spending on café or canteen food.

For me, I stint on shopping, food, drinks and ‘’going out’’, preferring to use the money to pay for bus or train tickets to go to other cities on weekends. Today I packed a fruit, some bread and biscuits as I spent my afternoon in Pisa. Other European tourists do the same too. It’s usually the Americans (again!) who mindlessly go to the touristy eateries near the sites to indulge and get fleeced.

Many of us are from developing countries – especially Eastern Europe and the newly ‘’democratised’’ countries that were part of the Soviet block. Many of them are very young, barely out of university. Hanging out with them reminds me once again to be thrifty. The occasional times we decided to go out for dinner, we actually walked from one café to another scrutinizing the menu placed outside, and comparing prices, before deciding on the café.

So, to answer the questions of many of you: I have yet to eat at an osteria, let alone a simple trattoria. Once, after a meal, we simply sat at a nearby park to chat (it’s free!), instead of going to a pub. We do like to hang out a Meetlife Café near our school though, because it’s cheap and good, and cosy. It’s full of materials to read and even has a display of dictionaries of various languages, including Chinese. It’s truly a Uni’s café.

During the break, we do not have anywhere within the Uni to go to for a drink, except for this café and a few other eateries nearby. The school canteen is far away and is open only for lunch, not drinks.

Communque (as they say in Italian – a word used to close a conversation), we are all here for one purpose – to learn and enjoy the language. Putting up with some of these horrors is part and parcel of a student’s life here, and perhaps a way to make me realize how spoilt we all are in Singapore, I guess.

When in Rome

Do as the Romans do. So, when in Siena, eat as the Senesi do!

These fresh peaches are crunchy, gorgeous and delicious! Best of all, they are so inexpensive, unlike the criminal prices we pay in Singapore.

Buon appetito!

Simple but Effective

I like the way the Uni communicates with us. Each time there is a message, an announcement, or a piece of news, they would physically enter our class and announce the message verbally.

The news bearer, usually a Uni admin staff, would knock on the door, excuse herself for interrupting class, and tell us the news, or pass on the message. She does this for all the 6 or more classes that we have for this course.

The first few times, it was to inform us about the activities that we could participate, eg, the free movie screening on certain afternoons, the free concerts that we could attend, and the excursion to Pienza and Montepulciano that we could join.

Other times it was to remind us to sign up for the excursion, or to tell us about a poetry contest that we could participate. Sometimes it was some other admin stuff for holders of various scholarships.

I suppose you can view it from different angles. You could say they are ‘’inefficient’’ or too lazy to create a mailing list to send us emails. Or to print out the message and stick them on notice boards.

For me, I think it’s the simplest, fastest, most direct, and face to face way that the modern world has forgotten. Email? Not every one is so equipped with laptops. Not everywhere is so well connected. Not everyone is a slave to emails. Notice boards? Yes, possible. But what can beat a face to face encounter, where students can ask the news bearer questions when clarifications are needed?

I am all for going back to basics. Kudos to the admin people, for remembering that we are humans first, that it is verbal exchange that makes us human!

The Merry Hunt

I met Lynn the friendly girl from Malta at the canteen today. She came over to join me and Deimante for lunch.

She told us that she did not go to class today. She had overslept. She had taken the regular bus that takes us to the Uni but for some strange reasons the bus did not stop where it usually does. She had to wait another half hour for another bus. It took her almost 2 hours to go to the Uni. By the time she got there class was over.

After lunch, on our way home, we wanted to go to the supermarket. She wanted to go to Conad, near the centre; I wanted to go to Pam, near the train station. ‘’Which is better?’’ she asked. “The best is actually Coop, not far from our residence – lowest price and wide choice,’’ I told her. “OK, let’s go there,’’ she said.

The last time I went to Coop, it was by accident. I literally stumbled upon it. I’d wanted to go to Pam, got lost, and was directed to the Coop, all on foot from the city centre. Since then, I realized that I could have taken the bus that takes us home, descend earlier, and walk there. Today, I asked Lynn, ‘’do you know which bus stop to descend?’’ “Si, non tipreoccupare (don’t worry), ‘’ she said. To my surprise, it turned out that the bus stop she knew was the one at our residence!

‘’It’s really near, we can walk there from our residence,’’ she said, as we descended from the bus. So we weaved in and out of the blocks of Uni, as well as other, residences. “I’m not sure of the way, ‘’she said after a while. Before you knew it, we were lost, had to ask a few passersby, and even had to clamber down some steep grassy slope.

‘’It thought you knew, that you’d followed Kaisa and Xiao Peng the other day?’’ I asked. ‘’No, I meant we dropped off at the same bus stop and heard them talking about going to the Coop and saw them walking in that direction,’’ she explained.

Ah! You see, Lynn is so much more proficient in Italian, having studied it at Uni level for many years (in fact, she’s in a higher level than me here in Siena), and when she speaks very fast, I have a tendency to miss what she has said, or have to ask her to repeat.

Most of us (not all though – the other Singaporean who got this scholarship and a girl from Egypt – speak English to everyone even though others reply them in Italian) have this tacit agreement to speak in Italian, no matter how badly or slowly we speak, and even if we all know English. That’s what we came here for – to practise the language. So even though Lynn speaks good English, we never use the language, except for the occasional ‘’desperate’’ situations when we are totally stumped and could not think of a substitute Italian word, and even gestures fail us.

After many flights of steps and a lot more walking in the sweltering heat (it certainly didn’t feel that ‘’near’’!), we finally found some warehouse-looking building and took a peep. It sure looked like parts of a supermarket, the backend operations, so to speak. We circled the area trying to find the entrance, and went up and down some staircase which led to 2 locked doors.

‘’What a day for me! It’s a day of getting lost, first with the bus incident, and now the supermarket!’’ said poor Lynn. From the road where we stood above, we saw a guy below sawing a piece of wood and Lynn shouted ‘’mi scusi, mi scusi’’ many times but he just could not hear us. Lynn asked me to try and I also shouted but could not be heard. So we walked to the other side, nearer him, and Lynn shouted, ‘’scusi, scusi,’’ again, to no avail. ‘’Can you try again,’’ Lynn asked me. This time I tried, ‘’signore, scusi!’’. Again, he totally ignored us, bent on sawing his piece of wood. Finally Lynn and I looked at each other and with some synchronization, screamed, ‘’signore, scusiiiiiiii !!’’

This managed to startle the poor signore so much that he jumped. Luckily he did not drop the saw on his toes. Lynn and I tried our best to hide our chuckle. Lynn asked for directions and the nice chap climbed out of the woods (pun not intended) and walked us to the main road to point us to the right direction.

It was only then that I realized that Lynn and I had been referring to a totally different Coop branch! The one she had heard of is this one, while the one I had chanced upon was another one.

When we finally reached the entrance, Lynn said, ‘’we should have just gone to either Conard or Pam, at least we won’t have to walk all the way back carrying heavy bottles of water!’’ I realized what she meant – she’d bought 2 bottles of soft drinks, cups and cups of yoghurt, food, sausages, snacks, etc. ‘’Are all these for you, or are you sharing with the other Maltese?’’ I asked, somewhat tactlessly. It turned out that they are all for herself, while I only had a bottle of water, a box of tissue, and 2 other items.

While inside the supermarket, I wandered off to the fascinating pasta section to marvel at the gazillion types of pasta they offer. Lynn came to me, saying, ‘’we better stay together and not lose each other, after all this!’’

A Passion for Fusilli

One of our housemates, Xiao Peng, from China, loves to eat pasta. On the first day of class, which began at 2 pm instead of the usual 9 am, a group of us went to a nearby eatery for a quick lunch, after we got our paper work done early in the morning.

Most of us ordered either a slice of pizza or a sandwich. He chose some fusilli. While eating, he asked us, ‘’is this easy to cook?’’

One evening, as I polished off my plate of fruits for dinner, he came to the dining area holding a bag of fusilli, and asked me in Mandarin, ‘’do you know how to cook this?’’

Oh yes, I replied, and proceeded to explain. Somehow I was stumped for so many Mandarin words. Like ‘’boil’’. Another Chinese girl had to contribute the word, as I substituted it with Italian. Then I tried to explain draining – this time even the Italian word escaped me.

Long story short, I managed to explain the boiling, draining and the heating up of the ready made Barilla sauce with a lot of hand gestures, while he nodded his understanding and confirmed it with Chinese phrases. I even helped him get the water boiled and gauge the amount of fusilli he needed.

When I returned to the kitchen much later, I saw him busy stirring the pasta in the frying pan with the sauce. ‘’How come you are still cooking?’’ I asked. It turned out that it was his second batch – he must have enjoyed cooking and eating it so much that he decided to make more for our two other housemates.

‘’Please eat some with us, c’,mon, join us, ‘’ he urged. Though I have already eaten, I decided to try some. ‘’Not bad, considering it’s your first attempt!’’ I told him. He smiled and said, ‘’I wish I had my camera with me, I want to post a photo of me cooking on Facebook!’’

I guess the Chinese love to share food. Just look at the way they usually eat – from a common plate or bowl, and at a round table. It is a simple but strong form of camaraderie. My non Chinese housemates have offered me a piece of whatever they are eating, but never asked me to join them or share their dishes.

But Xiao Peng made me feel very at home, urging so many times, ‘’c’mon, eat some more, eat some more!’’ and even went off to pour me a drink to go with the pasta.

The Chinese girl did the same, urging the Korean guy who joined us at the table to share the extra amount of pasta. Very soon they all started helping themselves to each other’s food. The Korean had made some salad, and fried an immense amount of fat pork to go with it. I gamely tried his salad, and the coleslaw that the Chinese girl brought, but balked at the white greasy layers of blubber which they all seem to relish.

Since then, Xiao Peng has been making fusilli daily for both lunch and dinner. Our exchanges usually go like this, with him beginning, ‘’you’ve had dinner? Bread again?’’ And my reply would be, ‘’Yes, sandwich again. You? Pasta again?’’

I told him, you can buy other types of pasta too, those with other shapes, for variety. ‘’But I somehow prefer fusilli, ‘’ he said.

Today, he saw me at dinner. Have you eaten, he began our ritual. Yes, and you? I continued the ritual. Yes, noodle (ie, pasta) again, he smiled. But I spied some penne the other day, and am glad he has added some variety to his pasta repertoire!

Flesh Parade and Bitches

I used to think many Singapore girls have no taste. Some may be pretty trendy, but they are mere slaves to fashion, and have no sense of style and do not dress appropriately.

Well, it looks like these women will find their kindred spirits here at the Uni. The way many girls dress here is vulgar and akin to soft porn. In addition to micro mini and plunging necklines, you see bra straps (not even properly adjusted but twisted) as part of their tube top ensemble. One obese Indonesian in my class actually revealed her entire bra (together with her rolls of flab stacked one on top of another) the other day with her garb, a frumpy looking floor length dress that swept the floor wherever she wobbles to.

Yesterday, I met a young Hungarian girl dressed like a slut. And her bitchy behaviour matched her attire to a T. Her posturing, gestures, and the way she talked were also perfectly coordinated with her dressing.

She bitched on and on about a girl who had guessed her age wrongly. “Do I look 28?!! Or even 25? Is she mad or what? I could not believe it when she said that, and when I saw her wedding ring, I joked back, ‘you must be even older, signora!’ Yes, I called her signora deliberately, to drive home the point, ‘’she bitched on.

“Excuse me, do I really look 28?’’ she bitched again, her hand flipping back her long hair in disgust. I was tempted to tell her, it’s not the age that counts, it’s your behaviour. No one has any respect for, or even likes, a bitchy slut, whether she is 17 or 28.

While waiting for another girl to arrive at our gathering, she started her drama again. She was in a hurry to move on to our destination, and showed her impatience while the others suggested waiting a while longer. ‘’Maybe she has not received our sms,’’ they said. Her attention grabbing gestures and affectation must have caused some of us grief and one of us decided to send another sms to the girl to tell her that we’d moved on, and that we would meet her at the destination instead.

While waiting for the concert to start, our Hungarian drama queen started to bitch about the reply she had just received. “What does she mean? I don’t understand her confusing sms,’’ the drama queen repeated a few times. ‘’Excuse me, wasn’t my sms very clear?’’ she ranted. The rest of us tried to explain that since the girl is from a different culture, and her Italian is not very good, perhaps she misunderstood the message. ‘’Excuse me, I was very clear, what’s so difficult about my message, you heard what I wrote…’’ and she repeated what she had written, and read aloud what the other girl had replied, ridiculing her bad choice of words.

Barely had she recovered from her rave there was another sms from someone else over the same matter; and we all had to help her interpret the messages, because all she could say was, ‘’excuse me, what kind of reply is this, I don’t get it, my sms was so clear…’’

She spent a good 15 minutes over this sms issue, dramatizing her messages and others’ replies. I watched in amusement this diva and the reactions of her friends who were all trying to help. Finally, I asked point blank, ‘’if it’s so confusing, isn’t it faster and clearer to just give her a call and ask what she means, to avoid miscommunications?’’

She looked at me silently for a second, and then opened her mouth with her favourite words, ‘’excuse me? She was the one with the confusing message, you saw mine – it was so clear!’’ Finally, it was the sensible girl from Finland who took the initiative to call her.

Is it any wonder that, after this episode, most of us chatted among ourselves and ignored her while waiting for the concert to start?

What a pity. She does look good (even if too scantily dressed for school), and has a good figure too. But her behaviour and dressing undid the beauty that God has blessed her with. And she’s still young – obviously way below 28, the number that sparked off her mood that evening. I shudder to think how much bitch-ier she will be by the time she reaches 28 and beyond.

Ferragosto

Saturday, 15 August; it’s Ferragosto in Italy.

What luxury. I woke up at 10.30 am, after 8 solid hours of sleep. Yes, I actually made sure I counted exactly 8 when I set my alarm clock the night before. The last time I slept for 8 or more hours, I must have been a baby.

Well, it’s the famous Ferragosto, the day the whole of Italy is either trapped in chaotic traffic, or frozen into frenzy by local holiday makers. This is an Italian holiday, related to the celebration of the middle of summer and end of hard labour in the fields. Later, Roman Catholicism in Europe adapted this date to commemorate the Assumption.

Today, shops, museums and public facilities are either closed or semi functioning, while harried locals battle impossible traffic as they drive to beaches and resorts for holidays.

I had wanted to go to San Gimignano, a popular Tuscan hill town (‘’Medieval Manhatten of Italy’’), near Siena. But apparently no bus goes there today.

Ah well, I guess I will take the opportunity to sleep in, and recover from the past 2 consecutive late nights.

Last night, we went to Il Campo, the heart of Siena, hoping to catch the prova (trials) of the Palio. But we missed it, and stayed back for a band performance instead. The concert started at 10.15 pm but we ‘’choped’’ seats at the 3rd row (first 2 being reserved for VIPs) since 8.30 pm! By the time the concert ended and we made it back to the bus stop, the last bus available was at 12.30 am. It was a long and winding journey; but at least we made it to a bus stop not too far from our residence and walked back at 1.30 am, exhausted.

And the night before, we had gone to Montepulciano to visit la Cantina di Redi, the cellar of the famous Montepulciano wine. This visit was organized by the University.

It sure feels like back to school days again, with 2 Uni staff herding a huge troop of restless students. What’s more ‘’school-like’’ was the low cost – the15 Euro we paid covered transport, wine and snack tasting, a sandwich and Coke or beer for dinner and a ticket for an open air theatre which already costs 10 Euro. The wine tasting felt like a holy communion, each of us holding a plastic cup waiting patiently in line for a drop of red wine. And the prosciutto sandwich was as hard, dry and spartan as the stones on the paved roads of Europe. Not a leaf of lettuce or a sliver of tomato or dribble of olive oil added to the bone dry bread roll.

The school excursion started at 3 pm after class and we made it back after watching a traditional open air theatre at 1.30 am, again, pooped. The receptionist burst out laughing when she saw a bus load of sleepy-eyed students stumbling into the residence. ‘’Go back to bed immediately and sleep well, Ok,’’ she told us.

The next morning, it was a miracle I managed to wake up in time to have breakfast and rush through my homework before class began punctually at 9 am! Of course, my brain was not functioning properly and I made the exercises look more difficult than necessary. I actually was stumped at a large chunk of the exercises and decided to just wing it during class. It was only when the teacher went over the exercises that I realized all I had to do was convert and conjugate the verbs, and not try and rationalize the arguments.

Today, I am going to do as much of my homework as possible so that I can stake out a good vantage point at Il Campo tomorrow for the Palio. I have two essays to write, a bunch of grammar exercises to complete, and some research to do, in preparation for my oral exam on the 28th. Daunting, (the research and oral), but hey, how can anyone not think of the Palio first?

Il Palio is the most spectacular festival in Italy, which dates back to 1310. It is an intense and colourful bareback horse race, held every 2 July and 16 August. Before that, there are weeks of trial runs, parades, feasts and fever.

People think it’s a festival for the tourists. But for the Sienese, it’s not for visitors; they consider it very much THEIRS. The Sienese are born into each contrade (‘’neighbourhood ward’’); they are baptized within the same contrade and are buried within the same contrade. There are 17 contrade in Siena, of which 10 will be chosen to compete at the race.

The race depends very much on drawing lots – the horse one rides, the order one is lined up, even the jockey chosen to ride for each contrade, all depends on lots. It’s the horse that wins, sometimes with no rider! The jockey’s main job is to hang onto the horse’s bare back and thrash the other horses or riders with the whip. Sometimes the rider, or even the horse, goes flying out of the track.

The prize? The palio – a banner painted with the image of the Virgin Mary, in whose name the race is run – and the honour of the contrade.

The race will start at 7.30 pm but the city centre and surroundings will be closed by 4.30 pm. My friends and I plan to be there by 3 pm to soak in the feverish atmosphere.

But first, it’s back to school work….

A Contented Bird

Here's a happy bird perched on the laundry of my neighbours in our residence. Probably sun-tanning, or just medidating?

What a Sunday

I don’t recall ever having such a lazy, slow, relaxing, do-nothing Sunday. But that’s what I did a few days ago.

I must have been influenced by the inertia of our receptionist at la portineria (concierge). Each time I see her, she would shake her head, pull her top, make a fanning gesture with her hand and say, ‘’fa troppo caldo’’. Sometimes she would just stretch herself out on the sofa and say the same thing, as if the scorching heat has robbed her of any energy or will to move.

So, last Sunday, it was a day of laundry, and fare la belleza (beauty routine), and some writing, all in slow motion, at the residence. Staying at home was also the best way to avoid spending money.

And what luxury – to be able to take care of my face – first I did a scrub, and then a mask, at a leisurely pace too. Not to mention painting my toe nails, unhurriedly and with great care, while chatting with my roommate.

Back home my friends were probably in Bintan, Batam, Phuket, Samui or some nearby resort for the long weekend, or simply watching the National Day Parade on TV.

I was happily trying to improvise. The laundry dried beautifully in the August Tuscan sun. In no time, I had to hunt around for an iron. La portinieria has only one tiny travel iron to lend us. And no ironing board.

So, I had to use my bed instead. Ecco come ho passato la domenica!

Una Passeggiata Bellissima

We have 4 or, on certain days, 5 hours of class for a whole stretch, with 15 minutes break in between. The number of hours per day seem small, but it’s pretty intense and quick-paced.

The stretch from 11 am – 2 pm is the worse of the two sections. By this time, your brain, stomach, and everything else either goes numb, or growls in protest.

It does not help that this section belongs to the ‘’geography-sea and rock formation-architectural terminology-mysterious passages’’ part of the lesson.

We have little time of casual chats in class. Sure, there are lots of discussion opportunities – on the definitions of crypts, apse, navel, presbytery, pulpit, promontory, bay, gulf, valley and peak (gosh – do I even use such words frequently in English?!), but little time else for other exchanges. During lunch at 1 or 2 pm we were so drained and famished, after the class plus the long queue at the canteen that we usually ate in silence!

So, it was nice that Ilker my classmate suggested that we went out for dinner yesterday evening. We went home, hurried through our homework, and then went out again. Actually, I didn’t get to finish our homework before we left, and had to get help from one of my roommates at 1 am when I returned! My roommates are from Serbia – they teach Italian in Belgrade and are here for a teacher’s course. While discussing frescos, oil paintings, still life paintings, water colours and mosaics as part of my homework, she told me the interesting history about the past Yugoslavia, which now has become Serbia, Bosnia, Croatia, Macedonia and Slovenia.

Ilker, Diammente, Efi and I met in town and had a simple meal of tortellini and white wine. As students we obviously were very cost conscious and took care to choose a humble looking eatery far from Il Campo.

It was not food but our conversation that was the highlight. We traded stories of about our countries, our life and why we studied Italian and how much we paid for this whole trip. Efi is a successful dentist in Greece who works 12 hour days and took up Italian lessons and paid a lot for this trip, as a ‘’gift’’ for herself. She is the only one who does not have the scholarship and is actually staying in a three star hotel for one whole month.

Ilker, although working, had to save up for 3 months (for 3 months he lived like a Spartan) just to be able to pay for the air ticket and living expenses here. It is his first trip outside of Turkey. He, like me, was helped by a scholarship (ie, school fees paid for, plus subsidized accommodation). Diammente is from Lithuania, a country smaller than Singapore, with a population of 3 million! What a thrill to find a country smaller than Singapore! She too, is on scholarship, but after this summer course, will have to go back to complete her university degree.

In our class, we all have our motives for this ‘’self torture’’. None of them is for work, more money or business! Except for 3 priests-to-be, from Africa. They have to know Italian, to be able to live and work in Rome.

While waiting for Efi to arrive at the bus stop, and during dinner, we snapped away happily like ‘’Japanese tourists’’ (according to Ilker) with our cameras. Back home I would probably find this rather childish, but hey, we are full time students again, and simple amusement and friendships like this is part of the sum of our carefree life.

Then we walked to Il Campo, and sat at the famous scallop shaped open field, like everyone else. Just chatting, people watching, and soaking in the pre-Palio atmosphere. And snapped more silly photos, of course. We exchanged email and facebook ids, and promised to post them online. We spoke Italian with our individual accents and probably with lots of mistakes too, but heck, we understood each other anyhow, with gestures, and a lot of ‘’er’’, ‘’ah’’ and ‘’urm’’, and correcting one another mutually.

It is the height of summer, and at 9 pm, it was still rather bright. Across the field we heard a chorus of male voices singing. Pause. Then on our side of the field, a chorus of female voices broke out in song too, in reply. This continued throughout the night, all spontaneously, and unrehearsed. Ah, what a nice way to spend an evening.

We heard that after 9.30 pm, there would be no more buses back to our residence, until 1 am. Yet 2 other schoolmates we met in town said there would be one at 10.40 pm. Ilker and I decided to walk back instead. Elfi and Diammente live nearby and walked back without problem. But for us, it was a much longer distance, and the two girls we met looked at us in horror when I suggested walking home. They reluctantly agreed, when they saw my determination not to spend on taxi.

And so, the 4 of us did a 40 minute nocturnal walk home. I am grateful for this little exercise. It can’t replace all the running that I miss so much back home, but it sure can help shed some of the fat I have accumulated from the panini and pasta that I have been eating!

Maddening Texts

Either my teacher has an esoteric taste (loves rocks, islands, mountains and the wilderness), or some Italian writers are just a pain in the rear, (especially when you have to analyse their texts) or they have a strange literary style.

So far I’ve managed to survive the dreary text on mountaineering. On Friday she gave us another text, to be read and analysed in separate sections.

It began as a rather sentimental and flowery description of a cluster of seven islands North of Sicily. The tense used was remote past. Teacher asked, ‘’what kind of book or writing is this taken from – memoir, romance novel, book on gourmet food, tourist guide, newspaper report?’’ Some blond air head in my class, after changing her mind 4 times, actually insisted it was a newspaper report. Not surprising, given that she is a fashion stylist and wanted to study Italian for its fashion.

Then we were told to read more of the text, which gushed on and on, in sappy language, about the location and description of each island, about how her parents sold the house on which the island she had lived, and how her brother moved to another very difficult to live island. Now, we were asked again, do you still think it’s a memoir, a romance novel, or a newspaper report or a tourist guide? Next, we had to guess the outcome/ next section of the text, after the ‘’cliff-hanger’’ last sentence. Worse, we had to start naming the seven islands she described, based on her rambling narrative, on the map.

Most of us still stuck to our guns that it’s either a memoir or a romance novel of some sort, given the tenses used, her suggestive metaphors (‘’extra marital affairs, flirt’’) and nostalgic, maudlin words.

When we finally struggled through the description of the harsh condition of the island that her brother has moved to, the typography, the climatic and geographical conditions, the savage wilderness of the far-flung island, I began to wonder if it was a Geography book gone wrong, or if the author was a Geography writer secretly aspiring to be Charles Dickens.

But wait. There is a surprise. Last section of the passage started with the description of how she managed to clamber up the steep steps in the barren island of Alicudi, nearly collapsing, to see her brother. And it ended with an eulogy of the glorious spaghetti that her brother had prepared for her. It then paid tribute to the wonderful simplicity (‘’semplicissimo’’) and beauty of fresh, simple ingredients like basil, tomatoes and capers in the spaghetti. The whole experience was a gastronomic epiphany (‘’epifanie gastronomiche’’), like a miracle (‘’qualcosa miracoloso’’).

And now, as part of my weekend homework, I have to do two things. First, select the most appropriate sketch of the layout of the secluded and inaccessible island (3 choices were given) based on her rambling description. Second, decide, if this is still memoir, romance novel, book on gourmet food, tourist guide, newspaper report?

I guess we’ll have an interesting philosophical debate tomorrow during class.

Impressions of Firenze

Nora was being encouraging, saying, ‘’give it time, you will get attached to the place’’, when she read my gripes about the chaos in Siena.

Today I traveled alone to Firenze, by train. A solitary traveler in a foreign place gives me an indescribable feeling – anonymous, detached. This appeals to me. There are ‘’no strings attached’’; I try to be a wide-eyed, open-minded, and hopefully, detached observer.

So; Florence – the Renaisance city, home to Michelangelo’s David, Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, and Raphael’s Madonna. Famous sites include the Duomo (Santa Maria Dei Fiori), Campanile di Giotto, Battistero, Ponte Vecchio, and the Uffizi.

The city is so rich in arts, history and culture, it sounded daunting and I felt kind of ‘’inadequate’’ as I started on my trip.

Reality is far from the high faluting Renaisance promise. As I descended from the train, a sea of tourists flooded the huge, gloomy but very summer-busy train station. The tourist information office was closed, long queues, and confused travellers were everywhere.

I descended the stairs towards the underground passage, just behind a huge group of American tourists on a guided tour. No wonder the world likes to joke about American tourists. They are loud. And loud. Both in action and in speech. Period.

The underground passage stank, like most underground passages I have walked in Europe.

I arrived at Santa Maria and saw more queues, more crowds, more herds of tourists with guided tours, and more frazzled tourists joining queues which they probably do not know ‘’for what’’. Besides lines of people there were ugly hoardings and barricades, profiteering and ill tempered train station and café staff.

I guess no matter how ‘’Renaissance’’ or cultured the past has been, modernity and the lucrative business of tourism, has rendered this once-upon a time special city crass, and pretty ugly, both metaphorically and physically.

Statistics and Geography - not my forte

Day three of class. First section is usually interesting, despite its focus on grammar.

After the break, section two, with a focus on ‘’cultural studies’’, so far has been difficult.

This morning, the grammar focus was on comparisons. There are so many ways to make comparisons that after the teacher’s descriptions and her categorization of noun, pronoun, verb, adverb, and direct complement; it made us all so self conscious when we had to make sentences using these.

Students in this class are pretty talkative and vocal, but after all her explanations, it got us kind of confused, and even rather tongue tied each time we started to make sentences.

It does not help that we had to analyze a passage full of numbers and stats at 9 am in the morning – it’s an article elaborating the results of a survey about Italian youths and their values and beliefs.

After the break, it was continuation of yesterday’s tedious text about preparing for mountaineering. We struggled with all the jargons and technical details about equipping and training for the expedition, and the geographical terms used really bored many of us to tears.

As if that wasn’t enough, we had to do another ‘’geography lesson’’, finding the definitions of promontory, bay, gulf, field, plateau, cliff, valley, peak, coast and plain. Gosh, I don’t even use some of these words often in English! And then we had another Geography lesson on the location of Italy – the seas surrounding the peninsula, its 3 largest lakes, the famous rivers in the country, etc.

My good friend Im will smile if I say this – I never enjoyed Geography lessons at RGS, though I managed to get a pretty good O level pass – it must have been my RGS bravery and stoicism!

Every morning we weave in and out of masses of people and the occasional cars, trucks and bikes on the narrow paved streets of Siena as we march hurriedly to class. These people are probably citizens on their way to work.

Every afternoon we do the same as the streets get even more crowded with gawking and camera toting tourists as we march hurriedly, and hungrily, to the canteen. We walk a lot, and some of the streets are pretty steep. There is no luxury of Singapore’s frequent bus stops or MRT stations within the city centre.

Today there was more admin chaos. For those with scholarships from the Foreign Ministry, we were told to get some kind of form to fill and submit. Mine was applied through the Italian Cultural Institute – does it count? Everyone was confused, there are so many types of scholarships even the admin staff sometimes are dumbfounded!

It is pretty common to get lost with the confusing bus system here. I am not the only one. A housemate from Finland, despite her excellent Italian, got lost for more than an hour yesterday for taking the wrong bus.

Today, I had a less traumatic experience. I simply had a tour of the hospital nearby (the bus drove in and out of its car park) and then stopped for 25 minutes at a remote bus stop before moving on to my destination. The driver suggested that I walked to my residence instead of waiting, as it’s ‘’just down below’’.

It did sound simple enough, except that, well, you guessed it, it was not that simple, not when the blazing hot sun (as bad as Singapore’s, in August) had me soaked in perspiration and the whole lonely suburban area looks so unfamiliar. I suppose my ‘’new improved Italian’’ came in useful when I asked for directions…

Now I recall a similar situation when I arrived on Sunday. The bus also stopped at the same place and the sulky driver would not even say why. When I asked him a third time if he would go to via Berlinguer, where my residence is located, he retorted sullenly, ‘’yes, if you have some patience, you would get there’’ and then proceeded to descend for his break, clipping his finger nails and looking like he was made to drive the bus at gun point on a Sunday.

I suppose I should not sound like a typical French or Singapore woman – always complaining. I shall end with one positive thing – the bus is punctual, at least. So, even if you have to wait 45 minutes, be sure it will arrive, according to the time listed on the poster and computerized boards. That, I suppose, is one small comfort I can count on!

My new found friends

Yesterday I met Ilker, from Turkey, at breakfast. He told me he worked in the military. Much later I realized he worked there as an engineer. It all shows. He was superbly organized, and a ‘’natural leader’’ (in the army you either give commands or you follow orders, I suppose).

He moved around with a little pouch, which I found out was his personal documents like passport. During breakfast, he took his drinks, disposable plates, serviettes, bread, Nutella, cheese, etc from his locker in a most methodical manner. I was the one gulping down my bread and forgetting my serviettes and trying to wipe my mouth as discretely as I could with the back of my hand. ‘’You want a piece of serviette?’’ he asked gallantly. I accepted gladly. Would you like some of my food too, he asked again, looking at my spartan few slices of white bread.

Then somehow he managed to organize us informally and led us to the Uni management office to get our paper work done. He suggested a 25 minute walk instead of taking a bus. We went along with two Lebanese girls, one Egyptian and two Chinese.

One of the Lebanese girls, Diana, was so glad I could speak French that she started babbling away rapidly at me. Back home she teaches French. She was so glad she could finally speak her language with someone. I just looked at her, dumb. Very strange, whenever I am stumped for words in Italian, French words would creep in automatically. I guess it’s because French was my first foreign language and I studied it for so many years. But the minute I started to speak French to Diana, I lost all words and started replacing them with Italian instead.

I was placed in Level B2. There are four levels – A, B1, B2 and C (A being the most junior level and C obviously the highest) Diana is typically French (even tho she is Lebanese): indecisive, grumpy, complaining, and aggressive. She was ‘’borderline’’ and the teacher told her she could choose to do A or B1. She would be top of class at the end if she chose A and probably find it a challenge if she took B1. She could not decide. I gave her the same comment. Then she asked if I am in Level B and I said yes. (though initially I was not sure if I was B1 or B2) She started comparing her proficiency with mine and then asked if I knew conditional, subjunctive, conjuntive, remote past and all kinds of tenses. I told her yes and then she said she did too; so she should also be in B.

The next day, she somehow was put in B1 and she was not happy because she ‘’did not want to work so hard’’. Yet she asked to change to B2 (my class). At the end of the first session of my class she told the teacher she wanted to change back to B1 as she found my class too advanced for her. And her pride just would not allow her to take ‘’A’’ even though she finds that she is here not to work so hard but to have a vacation – 9am – 2 pm daily is ‘’too much work’’ for her. She asked if I liked the class I have been placed; I told her yes, there is no perfect class!

There are so many nationalities in my class that I am sure it beats my school's touted ‘’75 nationalities’’. We have Chinese, Japanese, Serbians, Bosnians, Zimbabweans, Ugandans, Germans, Swiss, Indonesian, Cambodian, Estonians, Romanians, Lithuanians, Russians, Polish, Greeks, Koreans, Americans, Maltese, Portuguese, British, Belgians, Hungarians, Argentineans, Spanish, Lebanese, Egyptians, and a few others I have forgotten.

The Japanese and Chinese typically cling to one another in their clique, and especially the women, dress like they were going for a fashion parade. This morning, a Japanese wore a long cheongsam; I could not imagine how she managed to sashay her way through the 15 minutes walk along the paved walkway of this medieval city! The Latin American girls, South and Eastern Europeans look gorgeous, and look and act bitchy. According to Diana, the Europeans typically have their noses in the air and do not bother to talk or make friends with non-whites. (It’s quite true, according to my experience)

Somehow my Chinese got more fluent – it must have been all the chatting with the Chinese students. I feel lucky that I don’t have to clique with them, yet feel comfortable talking to them, at the same time able to get along with the ‘’Westerners’’ and the ‘’in-betweens’’ like Turks and Middle Easterners. What a bonus, to be able to practice French and Chinese while studying Italian here! In fact, I am like a confusion to both all sides – am I Chinese, how come I can speak Chinese, how come I look like them but speak such good English, etc etc? I get asked endlessly.

Strange, we are supposed to be so diverse and therefore respect diversity. But it’s very natural to see all the ‘’stereotypical traits’’ that start kicking in, no matter how you try not to generalize.

As we were looking at a text and analyzing the grammar, our teacher asked, ‘’what do you observe about using percentages in your sentence’’ and without hesitation, Stefan, my German classmate next to me said, ‘’the article – you have to use the article when you use percentages’’. ‘’Exactly, that’s the rule’’ said my teacher, beaming. I could not help smiling – Germans are so good at strict rules and categorization, aren’t they? He is so organized too, unlike me. For example, on our first day, we were supposed to pair up and ask each other questions and then later introduce each other to the class. The way he interviewed me and wrote his notes: What is your first name? Surname? Age? (when it came to age, I hesitated…) Work? From which country? Today, we were given a text to read and then take our own notes and then later ask each other questions/ compare notes, and boy! The way he took and wrote his notes ever so conscientiously and neatly in full sentences frightens me; all I did was scribble my notes in bullet points!

Class started promptly at 9 am this morning, and I barely made it there at 9.03am. Blame the infrequent bus? Or the crowded buses? Or the indecision among us – could we take number 17? Or 33? Or 37? Or 10? Each of us seems to have taken all of these and each has his or her own experience of taking them and arriving (at different stations and walking different routes) without problem, it was all confusion.

From 9 – 11 we covered some texts, discussions, grammar and then a 10 minutes break before the next teacher took over. Some students wolfed down sandwiches and drinks during this break, while I checked my emails and made a phone call back to office.

From 11.10 am – 1 pm it was torture. We had listening comprehension and the topic was something of no interest to me – mountaineering. Worse, we had to listen to a phone interview of an old hermit/ sculptor/ mountaineer/ writer who lives in the mountains. This writer needs some media training indeed. He rambles on and on in circles and never gives his answers directly. It was near impossible to do the exercise at first listen. We had to ‘’listen in between the lines’’, and listened in total 3 times before we could complete the text. By then I was ready to murder the writer and vow never to read his book. Then we had to read another text on mountaineering again and compare notes with a partner (my German classmate). My head was screaming in pain and even my stomach protested.

By then the frustration somehow made me hungry. When class ended, all we could think of was ‘’dov’e la mensa’’? (where is the canteen). ‘’Non lo so, ma So sa, So sa la mensa, ‘’ said Stefan, laughing.

Trust a hungry German to be able to word play and joke. ‘’So’’ is the name of our Cambodian classmate, and he knows (‘’sa’’) where the mensa is. Mensa is canteen, not the association for the genius (‘’MENSA’’)

I am reminded to be grateful for the campus food back home. The canteen food is no where near its standard, and the service no where near as smiling. ‘’You don’t want any meat?’’ the server, and my classmates asked. No, only the pasta, I said. And they made such a fuss about showing the student pass. The Portuguese guy did not bring his and he was given a proper telling off, after having his name and particulars taken down. After collecting my pasta and Coke, I was told to go get a plate of salad and yoghurt, because it’s ‘’part of the cost’’/ set I paid.

And would you believe Janet Loh actually finished up the entire plate of pasta, small dish of salad, a small bread roll and a can of Coke! The stress and full concentration in class must have produced lots of acid and given me a huge appetite!

Linger a little longer

It is said that if you dread going to work every morning, it sure is a sign that you should start looking for a new job.

Yesterday as I was packing up at work, I actually felt a little sad leaving. Hmm, I wonder what does this say about me? Maybe my boss should be reading this?

This morning I decided to wake up early to go jogging. There was still lots to do and pack before my evening flight, but I wanted to do some running before I leave, as I was not sure if I’d ever get a chance to run in Siena.

It was meant to be a ‘’quick run’’ along my usual weekend route but I enjoyed it so much I decided to explore other nooks and corners within the Botanic Gardens too. I wanted to linger a little longer, and savour the uplifting feelings I always have when I run at the Garden.

Yes, I lingered long enough, so much so that I had to rush breathlessly as I sorted out my last minute affairs before I left for the airport.

And here’s what I took to the airport – my one month’s ‘’supplies’’ – books, clothes, toiletries – all nearly packed in one single case…

Oh Siena!

In my desperation to ‘’save’’, I enlisted the help of my good old trustworthy travel agent to get me the cheapest possible tickets to Rome.

She found something from Emirates, ‘’if you don’t mind a transit in Dubai, ‘’ she qualified. KLM was fully booked and others were way above my budget.

I saw the itinerary and somehow, it must have been bravado and stoicism that caused me to agree to the awful flight schedule. That was early July.

I had an ‘’awakening’’ last evening. I finally found some time to check out the train and bus schedules from Rome to Siena and had a rude shock. The train ride from the airport to Tiburtina, Rome’s city centre bus station, plus bus ride from Tiburtina, plus all the waiting and connecting time, will take at least another five hours.

The rude shock further awakened me – my cheap Emirates flight will mean I will leave Singapore at the unearthly hour of 1.40 am and arrive in Dubai at 4.50 am and wait for five hours before I catch the connecting flight to Rome. By the time I arrive in Rome in the afternoon and wait and catch the train and then the bus on Sunday, and then take a taxi from the bus station to my residence, I would have spent at least 35 hours waiting, connecting and traveling before I arrive at night, half dead. How to find my away around the campus (another half an hour from my residence) and sit for a placement test the next morning at 9 am?

Of course, I could have arrived a day or two earlier to ‘’rest’’ and familiarize myself with the city, but heck, that would be incurring more expenses on accommodation.

Another round of desperation. I searched for more flights – Cathay, Air France and Luthansa all fly to Rome, but with again terrible hours and connections. No direct flights. And they are expensive too. The only consolation is you get to transit in a more civilized airport. Singapore Airlines is out of my league obviously.

It was only this morning that my travel agent managed to get me a Thai Airways flight. I flew TG in 2005 when I went to Perugia. I hated the ‘’service’’ and discrimination (the air stewardesses have learnt a lot from their SQ sisters, if you know what I mean!), not to mention the atrocious way they handled my lost luggage (for both on the ground and follow up claims).

Still, the hours are the most decent, and wow, the price is lower too, thanks to some latest promotional gimmicks that came with a host of restrictions! One other catch: I got to fly back one day later. Thank goodness I have one more day of annual leave to spare. Best of all – I get to miss the dreaded video call on 31 August – yahooooooo!

So, hey, things are shaping up – I got my student visa (after some hell with HR about health insurance), my flight schedule is now more decent and as a result I managed to coordinate the train and bus timing.

So, Siena here I come. I can’t wait to savour your lovely pici, baccala, panzanella, ricciarelli and chianti classico !